New Activity #4: Wore a t-shirt over a jumper and under a vest in public.
It didn't work out too well.
Immediate sensations/impressions: Felt like a dick.
0 stars
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wasting Time in New and Innovative Ways
That's it. I spent about twenty mins thinking of this title. I think it says it all really.
Number Three
New Activity Number Three: Got Lost... on my bike...in an unfamiliar suburb...
So I didn't mean to get lost. I don't often intend to get lost. I've just had my bike repaired after having it brokenly clog my hallway for about two years. And on the day I got my bike back my car broke down. And since mechanics require your car to arrive at about 4am I found myself dropping off my car and riding home in the bleak morning sun. And one wrong turn later and I'd added an extra 40mins to my journey as I continued to get loster and loster in the labyrinth of the suburb streets.
On the plus side I saw a whole new side to a suburb I didn't know. And riding is always fun. I had to ask myself why I hadn't bothered to get my bike fixed sooner.
Initial impressions/sensations: Growing wonderment and slowly mounting joy followed by intense confusion and swear words. It's never fun to become completely disorientated. But at least I didn't pansy out and just turn back the way I'd came to make the correct turn. I badassed it through the burbs and it wasn't half bad in the end.
3.5 stars
So I didn't mean to get lost. I don't often intend to get lost. I've just had my bike repaired after having it brokenly clog my hallway for about two years. And on the day I got my bike back my car broke down. And since mechanics require your car to arrive at about 4am I found myself dropping off my car and riding home in the bleak morning sun. And one wrong turn later and I'd added an extra 40mins to my journey as I continued to get loster and loster in the labyrinth of the suburb streets.
On the plus side I saw a whole new side to a suburb I didn't know. And riding is always fun. I had to ask myself why I hadn't bothered to get my bike fixed sooner.
Initial impressions/sensations: Growing wonderment and slowly mounting joy followed by intense confusion and swear words. It's never fun to become completely disorientated. But at least I didn't pansy out and just turn back the way I'd came to make the correct turn. I badassed it through the burbs and it wasn't half bad in the end.
3.5 stars
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Number Two
New Activity Number Two: Getting High
Yes that's right, I got high.. I climbed up high on the roof of the house to clean the gutters for Mum and Dad.
OK so it's not an explosive beginning to the new activities list, but it does have its high points. First of all being high up. Being high up is a high point.
Seriously when was the last time you stood on your roof and had a good look around your neighbourhood? And I don't mean in a creepy bedroom peeper kind of way, but more like the way you probably used to as a kid from either the roof or a monster of a tree.
Secondly cleaning your gutters before it rains is way more convenient than doing it when it rains. I know this because when the thunderstorm hit this morning and rain drops started trickling into the ceiling, I remembered my months of empty promises and ended up cleaning the gutters in the pissing rain. But by the time I was soaked to the sphincter in rain and mud, the clouds passed and I was left standing on the roof overlooking quiet suburbia.
Thirdly it's good to get your hands dirty. Not just like the sweaty grit that is always on your hands after six hours of intense Xbox controller useage, actual squelchy and sodden dirt. It makes you feel like you've achieved something manly. And if you don't scrub under the nails, you can claim to have done a variety of outdoor manly activities for days to come.
Immediate impressions/sensations: Well I'm not hugely fond of heights so that's a downer, but as long as I wasn't right on the edge I didn't feel as though I was risking fatal injury. And when you're a storey higher than everyone else it's like you're in a different world. Okay so it's not an extreme activity, and it is akin to standing on a second story balcony, but it was an old school way of looking at things from a different angle. Just don't stare into someone else's backyard for too long.
3 stars
Yes that's right, I got high.. I climbed up high on the roof of the house to clean the gutters for Mum and Dad.
OK so it's not an explosive beginning to the new activities list, but it does have its high points. First of all being high up. Being high up is a high point.
Seriously when was the last time you stood on your roof and had a good look around your neighbourhood? And I don't mean in a creepy bedroom peeper kind of way, but more like the way you probably used to as a kid from either the roof or a monster of a tree.
Secondly cleaning your gutters before it rains is way more convenient than doing it when it rains. I know this because when the thunderstorm hit this morning and rain drops started trickling into the ceiling, I remembered my months of empty promises and ended up cleaning the gutters in the pissing rain. But by the time I was soaked to the sphincter in rain and mud, the clouds passed and I was left standing on the roof overlooking quiet suburbia.
Thirdly it's good to get your hands dirty. Not just like the sweaty grit that is always on your hands after six hours of intense Xbox controller useage, actual squelchy and sodden dirt. It makes you feel like you've achieved something manly. And if you don't scrub under the nails, you can claim to have done a variety of outdoor manly activities for days to come.
Immediate impressions/sensations: Well I'm not hugely fond of heights so that's a downer, but as long as I wasn't right on the edge I didn't feel as though I was risking fatal injury. And when you're a storey higher than everyone else it's like you're in a different world. Okay so it's not an extreme activity, and it is akin to standing on a second story balcony, but it was an old school way of looking at things from a different angle. Just don't stare into someone else's backyard for too long.
3 stars
Number One
New Activity #1: Got Up Off My Ass...
(and then sat down on it again in order to start this blog).
That's right, my first new activity was to get up off my ass and get started on something new. Don't get me wrong, I have stood up before, I have been thoroughly familiar with this particular action for most of my 25 years (photos to be attached shortly). The actual standing up process is not the sole focus of this entry (I concede the title may confuse that issue) however I consider this act of physical relocation to be somewhat of a milestone as I've been banging on about wanting to write for ages and this is the first step in that direction. Really the new aspect of this activity is self motivation. And believe me when I say it is an entirely new experience for me. Don't get me wrong, I will participate in activities that present themselves, and I will often work hard to complete them well. However I have never been known for my skills in instigating events or activities. This my friends is a bold new era of reinvention.
Immediate sensations/impressions: Excited with a mix of trepidation and a tingling of curiosity. Creating a new sense of self seems pretty fun but can I stick to the goal of writing about 100 new things in 100 days? I'm not sure. I don't have a good track record for keeping myself motivated. Plus I'm easily distrac..
4 stars.
(and then sat down on it again in order to start this blog).
That's right, my first new activity was to get up off my ass and get started on something new. Don't get me wrong, I have stood up before, I have been thoroughly familiar with this particular action for most of my 25 years (photos to be attached shortly). The actual standing up process is not the sole focus of this entry (I concede the title may confuse that issue) however I consider this act of physical relocation to be somewhat of a milestone as I've been banging on about wanting to write for ages and this is the first step in that direction. Really the new aspect of this activity is self motivation. And believe me when I say it is an entirely new experience for me. Don't get me wrong, I will participate in activities that present themselves, and I will often work hard to complete them well. However I have never been known for my skills in instigating events or activities. This my friends is a bold new era of reinvention.
Immediate sensations/impressions: Excited with a mix of trepidation and a tingling of curiosity. Creating a new sense of self seems pretty fun but can I stick to the goal of writing about 100 new things in 100 days? I'm not sure. I don't have a good track record for keeping myself motivated. Plus I'm easily distrac..
4 stars.
one new thing, every day for a hundred days
So I'm four months into my 'sabbatical year'. The whole point of taking this year off was to establish myself as a writer. Since so far all I've done is tell people "yeah I'm a writer", I figured I should actually do some writing to complete that circuit that makes a writer actually employable. So it starts here. Every day for the next one hundred days I will be trying something new and then writing about it. Buckle up and wear protective eye wear as my writing will probably be exploding off the screen and the last thing my fledgling career needs is a lawsuit.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Doing Fine Still
Okay so I'm 25. Quarter of a century. Shit. By this point I should have some idea where my life is headed right? I should have some inkling of where I want to be in ten years or what major achievements I want to share with the world.
It's not like i'm 70 and sweating over relatives gently nudging me towards a retirement home and early bedtimes and all day pyjamas and a gravestone. No my situation isn't that bad. It's just that I figured at this point in my life I would have a vague game plan. Or at least a hail mary shot that I could pull out of my ass if things get really desperate. But all I'm getting is panicked blankness and internal confusion and late night bad TV.
School was great. There were challenges and goals and anything good got you a pat on the back and public recognition. My Arts Degree gave me a feeling of superiority that my classmates and I were sharing an insight into the world that made me an enlightened person... a smart person. And it's nice to feel like this. You can sleep securely knowing the world is slightly better for having you in it and that one day everyone will publically acknowledge this fact.
But plopped out into the real world at the end of my degree there is nothing but thumb twiddling to occupy my time. Turns out the community isn't crying for self-righteous arts students to take up a position of 'Community Advisor' or 'Life Guider' and that's a shame because no doubt my massive intellect could revolutionise the Western World. In fact there's hardly any job related to my skills at all. So mine is now a lifestyle of late breakfasts and Xbox games, blank stares and cynical world views and not a lot of cash while waiting for the world to come to it's senses.
But at 25 I should have figured something out right? It's like nature. If the world won't realise my potential then I should have an inherent drive that sorts this shit out for me shouldn't I? Some sort of survival tactic or internal programming that kicks in when I find myself directionless and spinning my wheels that puts me into a temporary slumber like state so that when I wake up I'm a celebrity and a C.E.O and an all round kick-ass guy ready to stick a finger up to an unenlightened society.
Deep down I know it: that slumber like state I'm wishing for is the period of life called 'hard work'. And it's described to kids as that character building, life defining, most enjoyable phase of your life journey (just to reduce you complaining about working hard I suspect). And to skip this phase of life would be to rob myself of the tears of joy and sorrow that would mould me into a world-wizened warrior. But I'm OK with that. If I'm fast learning one thing about myself it's that I'm lazy.
But it's been about three years of time wasting and it seems this 'hard work' is unavoidable. The lotto ticket I bought didn't win and there are no rich relatives on the brink of leaving me a fortune in their will. So I may as well give it a go. Stick a toe in the pool of 'hard work' (although secretly I suspect it's beneath me).
A writer. I'll be a writer. That's a vague enough title to give the impression I'm working without having to show much for it. "I'm formulating ideas!" I'll say, or, "The ideas are gestating and I can guarantee you'll love them!". Since I've made the decision to tell everyone I'm a writer, I should at least give off the impression I'm making an effort. So that's why I'm here, at a coffeeshop on my laptop.
So far so good. No one here suspects a thing and I'm about to order my fourth flat white..
It's not like i'm 70 and sweating over relatives gently nudging me towards a retirement home and early bedtimes and all day pyjamas and a gravestone. No my situation isn't that bad. It's just that I figured at this point in my life I would have a vague game plan. Or at least a hail mary shot that I could pull out of my ass if things get really desperate. But all I'm getting is panicked blankness and internal confusion and late night bad TV.
School was great. There were challenges and goals and anything good got you a pat on the back and public recognition. My Arts Degree gave me a feeling of superiority that my classmates and I were sharing an insight into the world that made me an enlightened person... a smart person. And it's nice to feel like this. You can sleep securely knowing the world is slightly better for having you in it and that one day everyone will publically acknowledge this fact.
But plopped out into the real world at the end of my degree there is nothing but thumb twiddling to occupy my time. Turns out the community isn't crying for self-righteous arts students to take up a position of 'Community Advisor' or 'Life Guider' and that's a shame because no doubt my massive intellect could revolutionise the Western World. In fact there's hardly any job related to my skills at all. So mine is now a lifestyle of late breakfasts and Xbox games, blank stares and cynical world views and not a lot of cash while waiting for the world to come to it's senses.
But at 25 I should have figured something out right? It's like nature. If the world won't realise my potential then I should have an inherent drive that sorts this shit out for me shouldn't I? Some sort of survival tactic or internal programming that kicks in when I find myself directionless and spinning my wheels that puts me into a temporary slumber like state so that when I wake up I'm a celebrity and a C.E.O and an all round kick-ass guy ready to stick a finger up to an unenlightened society.
Deep down I know it: that slumber like state I'm wishing for is the period of life called 'hard work'. And it's described to kids as that character building, life defining, most enjoyable phase of your life journey (just to reduce you complaining about working hard I suspect). And to skip this phase of life would be to rob myself of the tears of joy and sorrow that would mould me into a world-wizened warrior. But I'm OK with that. If I'm fast learning one thing about myself it's that I'm lazy.
But it's been about three years of time wasting and it seems this 'hard work' is unavoidable. The lotto ticket I bought didn't win and there are no rich relatives on the brink of leaving me a fortune in their will. So I may as well give it a go. Stick a toe in the pool of 'hard work' (although secretly I suspect it's beneath me).
A writer. I'll be a writer. That's a vague enough title to give the impression I'm working without having to show much for it. "I'm formulating ideas!" I'll say, or, "The ideas are gestating and I can guarantee you'll love them!". Since I've made the decision to tell everyone I'm a writer, I should at least give off the impression I'm making an effort. So that's why I'm here, at a coffeeshop on my laptop.
So far so good. No one here suspects a thing and I'm about to order my fourth flat white..
Monday, October 20, 2008
Wiki Contribution
I added a suggestion for a contribution to the collabrative writing page found at http://www.adjute.com/comedy.php
At this stage Fritters is looking through his returned book. Following the line: "What was that... he flicked back... what the hell?! " I submitted:
"The parrot must find his spaceship before the last of his feathers fall. The parrot must find his spaceship before the last of his feathers fall." Each page repeated the same handwritten text. Was the now lifeless parrot an intergalactic traveller?
At this stage Fritters is looking through his returned book. Following the line: "What was that... he flicked back... what the hell?! " I submitted:
"The parrot must find his spaceship before the last of his feathers fall. The parrot must find his spaceship before the last of his feathers fall." Each page repeated the same handwritten text. Was the now lifeless parrot an intergalactic traveller?
Friday, September 19, 2008
My Visit to Sacred Heart Hospital
INT. DAY
Sacred Heart Hospital. Staff Rec Room.
J.D. and TURK are sprawled on the couch. An episode of Sesame Street is on the TV. J.D is holding the remote.
J.D: I don’t know. I want to spend time with Elliot but I need a little J.D time too. I come home from work and she’s there. I come into the hospital and she’s there. We have sex and she’s there…
TURK: Sounds to me like you need some time to think man. Look at things from a different angle.
J.D: I think you’re right chocolate bear. (Looks to the TV) Do you think the other Muppets know that Grover and Super Grover are the same person?
TURK: Nah of course not bro. Super Grover wears a cape and a helmet. Muppets aren’t as smart as they look.
J.D: Surely Big Bird would know..?
TURK: (shakes head sadly)
J.D is devastated. LUKE appears in the doorway
LUKE: ‘Scuse guys where can I find… hey cool, Super Grover.
Luke enters and sits on the couch with J.D and Turk
LUKE: I love it when he flies.
TURK: Flying is the shiz.
LUKE: The shiz niz!
J.D: Amen playa!
J.D and Luke simultaneously attempt a high five and handshake movements that results in an awkward display of uncoordinated movements. Turk shakes his head in mock disgust.
LUKE (diverting attention): I wish I was Super Grover. I could fly anywhere I wanted. Anywhere at all!
J.D looks up and begins to daydream.
EXT. Day
J.D imagines himself flying through the sky with a cape and helmet a la Super Grover. He flies over mountains and salutes to waving mountain climbers. He zooms past a jet and smiles at the impressed passengers. He flies over Sacred Heart and sees Elliot on the roof waving. He flies closer and lands next to her, sweeping her up in a kiss and taking her into the sky.
INT. Day
J.D is sitting on the couch, remote in hand, arms up in a superman flight style, lips pursed into a kiss, body wiggling emulating flight.
TURK: Yo J.D!
J.D realises where he is and sits back sheepishly.
TURK (looks at his watch): Nine minutes. Dude, new daydream record!
J.D: Nice!
Turk and J.D high five. COX storms into the room
COX: Pricilla!
J.D: Doctor Cox!?
COX: Heeerrre’s the deal newbie. Mrs Stevens was just wheeled into the operating room. You know that sweet little old lady who for some reason thinks you’re just about the cutest thing she’s seen since she played dress ups with her daughter and while I’m sure you remind her of a small girl dressed up in a gay sailor costume, for some reason you found it necessary to pro-ho-mise you would be at her bedside before she went into surgery today, which was precisely (looks at watch) oh ten minutes ago, so while you were in here spending time with your better half and your new friend here, I had to listen to your patient cry, “oh where is that sweet little boy? Why isn’t he here? He promised me he’d be here!” All I could say was how much I dislike you, which only made her more upset. So if she sees a tunnel of white light today, chances are she’ll run straight towards it because you ended what little faith she had left in the human race. And now Christina you’re on night shifts for the next two months.
J.D: But Doctor Cox…!
COX (exiting with hand up): Save it newbie. Two months!
J.D (turns to Luke): Damn you and your awesome dreams of flying.
J.D melodramatically turns to leave. Attempts to throw down the TV remote but it stays stuck to his hand. He realises it is glued on.
J.D: Janitor!
J.D exits in a sissy huff clutching the remote.
TURK: (shakes head sadly and looks to the TV) Ooh Elmo!
LUKE: Nice. Now here’s a monster who knows how to deal with the ladies…
TURK: Tell me about it dude.
Sacred Heart Hospital. Staff Rec Room.
J.D. and TURK are sprawled on the couch. An episode of Sesame Street is on the TV. J.D is holding the remote.
J.D: I don’t know. I want to spend time with Elliot but I need a little J.D time too. I come home from work and she’s there. I come into the hospital and she’s there. We have sex and she’s there…
TURK: Sounds to me like you need some time to think man. Look at things from a different angle.
J.D: I think you’re right chocolate bear. (Looks to the TV) Do you think the other Muppets know that Grover and Super Grover are the same person?
TURK: Nah of course not bro. Super Grover wears a cape and a helmet. Muppets aren’t as smart as they look.
J.D: Surely Big Bird would know..?
TURK: (shakes head sadly)
J.D is devastated. LUKE appears in the doorway
LUKE: ‘Scuse guys where can I find… hey cool, Super Grover.
Luke enters and sits on the couch with J.D and Turk
LUKE: I love it when he flies.
TURK: Flying is the shiz.
LUKE: The shiz niz!
J.D: Amen playa!
J.D and Luke simultaneously attempt a high five and handshake movements that results in an awkward display of uncoordinated movements. Turk shakes his head in mock disgust.
LUKE (diverting attention): I wish I was Super Grover. I could fly anywhere I wanted. Anywhere at all!
J.D looks up and begins to daydream.
EXT. Day
J.D imagines himself flying through the sky with a cape and helmet a la Super Grover. He flies over mountains and salutes to waving mountain climbers. He zooms past a jet and smiles at the impressed passengers. He flies over Sacred Heart and sees Elliot on the roof waving. He flies closer and lands next to her, sweeping her up in a kiss and taking her into the sky.
INT. Day
J.D is sitting on the couch, remote in hand, arms up in a superman flight style, lips pursed into a kiss, body wiggling emulating flight.
TURK: Yo J.D!
J.D realises where he is and sits back sheepishly.
TURK (looks at his watch): Nine minutes. Dude, new daydream record!
J.D: Nice!
Turk and J.D high five. COX storms into the room
COX: Pricilla!
J.D: Doctor Cox!?
COX: Heeerrre’s the deal newbie. Mrs Stevens was just wheeled into the operating room. You know that sweet little old lady who for some reason thinks you’re just about the cutest thing she’s seen since she played dress ups with her daughter and while I’m sure you remind her of a small girl dressed up in a gay sailor costume, for some reason you found it necessary to pro-ho-mise you would be at her bedside before she went into surgery today, which was precisely (looks at watch) oh ten minutes ago, so while you were in here spending time with your better half and your new friend here, I had to listen to your patient cry, “oh where is that sweet little boy? Why isn’t he here? He promised me he’d be here!” All I could say was how much I dislike you, which only made her more upset. So if she sees a tunnel of white light today, chances are she’ll run straight towards it because you ended what little faith she had left in the human race. And now Christina you’re on night shifts for the next two months.
J.D: But Doctor Cox…!
COX (exiting with hand up): Save it newbie. Two months!
J.D (turns to Luke): Damn you and your awesome dreams of flying.
J.D melodramatically turns to leave. Attempts to throw down the TV remote but it stays stuck to his hand. He realises it is glued on.
J.D: Janitor!
J.D exits in a sissy huff clutching the remote.
TURK: (shakes head sadly and looks to the TV) Ooh Elmo!
LUKE: Nice. Now here’s a monster who knows how to deal with the ladies…
TURK: Tell me about it dude.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Make It Happen: Commence Boredom.
Does anyone else feel that Hollywood execs thrive on the joy of peddling out the lamest movie possible? I know for a fact that there is a boardroom in the heart of Hollywood used for show-and-tell sessions where middle-aged white guys spend entire meetings giggling over their new candidate for the crappiest movie of all time and boasting about how many people they can dupe into seeing it. There must be. How else would a movie like Make It Happen make it to the cinemas?
Sure Hollywood has belted out some train wrecks (Speed Racer, Son of the Mask, anything starring Steven Seagal except Under Siege) but this recent onslaught of believe-in-yourself-and-conquer-the-world-through-dance films seems as subtle as a phonebook to the face.
Anyone who has seen Step Up, Step Up 2: The Streets, Honey, Save the Last Dance or pretty much any dance movie ever made has pretty much already seen Make It Happen. It recycles all the usual elements:
Sure Hollywood has belted out some train wrecks (Speed Racer, Son of the Mask, anything starring Steven Seagal except Under Siege) but this recent onslaught of believe-in-yourself-and-conquer-the-world-through-dance films seems as subtle as a phonebook to the face.
Anyone who has seen Step Up, Step Up 2: The Streets, Honey, Save the Last Dance or pretty much any dance movie ever made has pretty much already seen Make It Happen. It recycles all the usual elements:
- Girl endures hard times (usually a white girl inexplicably a leader/popular member of a poverty stricken black neighbourhood)
- Girl has irrepressible passion for dancing
- Girl irresponsibly risks everything to dance professionally
- Girl becomes champion of the universe and more popular than Paris Hilton and wins the heart of the cute single guy who is a dancer or DJ (and definitely isn’t gay) who simultaneously achieves his greatest dream and they have the best life together ever and all because she wasn’t afraid to dance
And I got all this from watching the trailer for the movie.
"But Make It Happen is totally different to Step Up. It’s not about street dancing, it’s about burlesque dancing! "
- The hordes of misguided teenagers watching this movie
Yeah good point. It’s a slightly different style of dance, so it must be a completely different sort of movie right? Wrong. That’s what they said when they brought out Teen Wolf Too. Hollywood is particularly savvy at this practice. It’s called marketing. Why write a new movie when you can just alter an old one? Change the actors, change the setting and hey bingo you have a brand new movie with a fraction of the effort or skill required of the original.
Also notice how in these dance movies the main actors are white and nearly everyone else is black. This is another marketing strategy from our white friends in the Hollywood boardroom. You’re in the cinema and you say to yourself “this movie feels really edgy” and “hey I can relate to these white characters even though they’re way cooler than me!” but you don’t know why. It’s because they’re surrounded by black people. Hollywood has been doing it for years. Rigid white guys become cooler after spending time with black people. This is textbook Hollywood. White characters leach the cool factor from their black co-stars and make it seem as if they were the cool one all along. See virtually any Eddie Murphy buddy-cop movie for proof.
Q: But why not just have an entirely black cast in dance movies and amp up the cool factor?
A: Because then you wouldn’t get white middle class America/Australia buying oversized tracksuits and getting hooked on So You Think You Can Dance?
Not only are dance movies a blatant marketing exercise, they’re just plain irresponsible. There are some major flaws with promoting dance as a saviour of the downtrodden:
- No one gives you props for breaking into dance in the street
- Dancing will not afford you a ticket on the Hot Tamale Train*
- Not all of life’s hurdles can be overcome with a well-executed pirouette. Try dancing your way out of tax evasion smart ass.
*The Hot Tamale Train is not an actual train. Mary Murphy is a liar.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
How to be a Superhero in Real Life - Part Two
Advice on How to Become a Superhero in Real Life.
Pad your clothing.
Muscles give the impression of strength. Plus everyone likes checking out a muscular bod.
Once completed, engage in a feat of strength.
Feats of strength
Break Things
Make common household items out of cardboard or plywood and routinely break them in front of others, clumsily explaining you don’t know your own strength.
Lift a car or a school bus.
Nothing says power like holding a heavy object over your head. See Superman. Find a crowded car park (shopping centres are a good choice) and scout out a suitable vehicle. If lifting a vehicle proves difficult attempt to push one forward. If you are unable to do so, crouch behind a car and wait until the shopper returns. When the driver releases the handbrake push the car into forward motion and celebrate your victory in front of impressed onlookers. Note: Watch for reversing lights when crouched in the push position.
Alternatively you can spread positive rumours about your superhero-ness through the use of a civilian identity (see below).
Heroic Activities
Run down the street with someone unconscious in your arms.
If you can’t find anyone unconscious, someone sleeping will do but you will have to move quickly so as not to wake them in front of witnesses. If they do wake, claim they have amnesia from the accident you just rescued them from. Practice deploying a sleeper hold for unruly ‘victims’.
Make public declarations
Stand amongst a crowd and stare wistfully into the horizon. Proclaim a little too loudly “the city is safe again…but for how long?” Narrow your eyes as if you are thinking really hard.
Achieve Flight
Nothing says cool like flipping gravity the bird. Employ the following techniques to demonstrate flight.
- Make sure people see you 'land'. Jump out of trees to achieve this effect.
- Hang off of buildings.
- Adjust your tie as you exit alleyways.
- Always enter a building through a window. The higher the floor, the more dramatic the entrance.
- Wear a cape
Civilian Identity
A civilian identity is the perfect way to learn information in an undercover fashion or just get a bit of down time from the stresses of hero-ing. A neat pair of glasses or parting your hair on the other side can work a treat. For those more inclined towards precociousness, hiding in plain sight is also a novel means of diverting attention away from your heroics.
Keep an air of mystery about you civilian identity with the following conversation tactics:
- Always arrive a little late and blame it on there being a “disturbance”.
- React as if an alarm bell has gone off in your ear. Run away mid-conversation while yelling “something’s come up!”
- Accidentally on-purpose mention your homeworld.
Tackle a Villain
A superhero is only as good as the villain he defeats. However unless you are a trained fighter it is not advisable to attempt to pick a fight with a burly opponent. Instead, let your intelligence be a weapon. Tackle the elderly or very young. Explain to witnesses that your villain has the ability to change shape and is actually as powerful as an elephant. This will no doubt impress, as not only have you conveyed strength, but a keen sense of perception.
How to be a Superhero in Real Life - Part One
It is clear that the idea of the superhero not only thrives within society but also serves to benefit it.
We are currently seeing a proliferation of superhero stories at the box office. Comic book heroes are a virtual goldmine for money hungry movie studios – Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, The Dark Knight to name only a few. A well-crafted superhero story draws flocks of nerds out of the shadows and allows them to bask in the glow of mainstream society. For even a brief moment, long held claims that “Batman is cool” are validated by people other than a nerd’s comic book dealer. Thus the nerd is given the opportunity to make a connection with a non-nerd. Furthermore, through the superhero’s explosive infiltration of the public consciousness, the nerd finds himself (fact: 97% of nerd are male) with a sudden wealth of cultural cache. The hours of comic book reading and Internet scouring now function as well executed research to be deployed into intelligent conversation. Knowledge of a superhero is considered cool because it allows people the sensation of feeling closer to the superhero. Therefore we can conclude that the superhero proves to be a cultural unifier.
So why not skip the hard work and transform yourself into the source of cultural coolness? Read the following information for advice on how to become a superhero in real life...
We are currently seeing a proliferation of superhero stories at the box office. Comic book heroes are a virtual goldmine for money hungry movie studios – Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, The Dark Knight to name only a few. A well-crafted superhero story draws flocks of nerds out of the shadows and allows them to bask in the glow of mainstream society. For even a brief moment, long held claims that “Batman is cool” are validated by people other than a nerd’s comic book dealer. Thus the nerd is given the opportunity to make a connection with a non-nerd. Furthermore, through the superhero’s explosive infiltration of the public consciousness, the nerd finds himself (fact: 97% of nerd are male) with a sudden wealth of cultural cache. The hours of comic book reading and Internet scouring now function as well executed research to be deployed into intelligent conversation. Knowledge of a superhero is considered cool because it allows people the sensation of feeling closer to the superhero. Therefore we can conclude that the superhero proves to be a cultural unifier.
So why not skip the hard work and transform yourself into the source of cultural coolness? Read the following information for advice on how to become a superhero in real life...
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Who I am
Who Am I?
I’m Spiderman
I am Jack’s raging bile duct
I am the Walrus
I am a bricolage of pop cultural references. Mostly lame ones. And they burst out of me at inappropriate moments. Like singing to my boss that he’s killing me softly with this workload. Not that there ever really is ever an appropriate moment to do that.
But I honestly get uneasy that I know Paris Hilton has created a new superhero with Stan Lee. I get more concerned that this knowledge sits in the forefront of my mind, ready to spring into conversation; a dirty secret that may unleash itself, like when the person next to you on the bus sees you queuing up Britney Spears on your iPod. And yet for some reason I can’t help but angle the conversation towards a Paris Hilton related topic... which really isn’t too hard these days.
******
I am a product of my parents…
…unfortunately this means I am destined to become as hairy as a wolverine. Thanks Dad. I mean the guy has hair sprouting out from under his collar even when wearing a turtleneck. No doubt I’ll wake up sometime in the next few years to find my teenage years were leading to a seminal teen-wolf moment. And while I still struggle to grow a fashionable beard, I’ll sport a full body pelt the envy of any game hunter. This does not bode well for me in modern society. I mean it was Ok in Dad’s generation. Sean Connery would light a cigarette and the latest Bond girl would twirl his chest hair. Probably even weave some design into it for a sexual thrill. Women would swoon at this. Men would rub their chests with hair-grow lotion. That was cool then.
Daniel Craig doesn’t have chest hair. You see my problem.
In the shower today I noticed burgeoning shoulder hair. I also realised that no one can tell if you’ve been crying in the shower.
Not to worry, I’ll most likely be shot before I reach fifty. Some Good Samaritan will heroically take out the hairy beast-man allegedly mauling some hapless older suburbanite when in reality I was just offering to help an old lady carry her groceries.
*******
But internal anxieties are not all who I am. In fact I’m more so my external anxieties. This is basically defined by the shoes I wear. I own three pairs, each rated from one to three on a scale of casualness to classiness. Most often I wear the pair rated number two – retro Adidas kicks that can be worn to uni and most restaurants, but not nightclubs or weddings (definitely not weddings my Mum has confirmed). This is comfortable mediocrity with neat jeans and shirt to match. In this state, I am expected to be relaxed yet social, approachable and affable; the kind of guy who stops for a conversations and impresses upon others a strong sense of direction in his life. He’s the kind of guy who will one day wear only number three shoes. This puts a lot of pressure on me as I have no real sense of direction and no real interest in full commitment to number three shoes. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to wear number one shoes but then I remember they have holes in them and my feet would get wet if it rained and no one likes wet feet.
I’m Spiderman
I am Jack’s raging bile duct
I am the Walrus
I am a bricolage of pop cultural references. Mostly lame ones. And they burst out of me at inappropriate moments. Like singing to my boss that he’s killing me softly with this workload. Not that there ever really is ever an appropriate moment to do that.
But I honestly get uneasy that I know Paris Hilton has created a new superhero with Stan Lee. I get more concerned that this knowledge sits in the forefront of my mind, ready to spring into conversation; a dirty secret that may unleash itself, like when the person next to you on the bus sees you queuing up Britney Spears on your iPod. And yet for some reason I can’t help but angle the conversation towards a Paris Hilton related topic... which really isn’t too hard these days.
******
I am a product of my parents…
…unfortunately this means I am destined to become as hairy as a wolverine. Thanks Dad. I mean the guy has hair sprouting out from under his collar even when wearing a turtleneck. No doubt I’ll wake up sometime in the next few years to find my teenage years were leading to a seminal teen-wolf moment. And while I still struggle to grow a fashionable beard, I’ll sport a full body pelt the envy of any game hunter. This does not bode well for me in modern society. I mean it was Ok in Dad’s generation. Sean Connery would light a cigarette and the latest Bond girl would twirl his chest hair. Probably even weave some design into it for a sexual thrill. Women would swoon at this. Men would rub their chests with hair-grow lotion. That was cool then.
Daniel Craig doesn’t have chest hair. You see my problem.
In the shower today I noticed burgeoning shoulder hair. I also realised that no one can tell if you’ve been crying in the shower.
Not to worry, I’ll most likely be shot before I reach fifty. Some Good Samaritan will heroically take out the hairy beast-man allegedly mauling some hapless older suburbanite when in reality I was just offering to help an old lady carry her groceries.
*******
But internal anxieties are not all who I am. In fact I’m more so my external anxieties. This is basically defined by the shoes I wear. I own three pairs, each rated from one to three on a scale of casualness to classiness. Most often I wear the pair rated number two – retro Adidas kicks that can be worn to uni and most restaurants, but not nightclubs or weddings (definitely not weddings my Mum has confirmed). This is comfortable mediocrity with neat jeans and shirt to match. In this state, I am expected to be relaxed yet social, approachable and affable; the kind of guy who stops for a conversations and impresses upon others a strong sense of direction in his life. He’s the kind of guy who will one day wear only number three shoes. This puts a lot of pressure on me as I have no real sense of direction and no real interest in full commitment to number three shoes. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to wear number one shoes but then I remember they have holes in them and my feet would get wet if it rained and no one likes wet feet.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Concrete Dialogues
The Applecross Dome Coffee Shop
11:53am. Having rolled out of bed only ten minutes ago, I’ve timed my breakfast escapade perfectly. A civilised sleep-in for a cold morning and access to the best seat in the wood-panelled café; an armchair nestled by the doorway, its leather warmed by the sunlight seeping in through the window. A sullen jazz singer broods over the speakers as a crabby teenager plonks a latte on my table. I sit alone. All my friends have been at their desk since 9am, ticking off their objectives: a job, a house, a wife, a boat. But I don’t regret my late start to the day because these are the waking hours.
Twelve o’clock ticks by. The doors of outside buildings open with increasing regularity as people stumble onto the sidewalks. Risely Street is swollen with more pedestrians than cars and the short skirts bobbing along with the tide to distract me from a now cold drink.
I am a one-man welcome party for the lunch crowd. Business suits and gaggles of Mums steering prams are eager to share a smile. They all pause on the creaky floorboards to scout a table or spot a friend. Customers rise in waves to attract and greet their friends and draw them in with a flurry of handshakes and polite kisses. The air becomes laden with coffee and the growl of the coffee grinder. Conversation bounces off the walls at fever pitch. And I realise someone has changed the music to an excitable flamenco guitarist as heads seemingly bob along with the music. Each table is an island of matching work uniforms or family resemblance. Middle-aged women become immersed in frumpy armed conversation. The suits raise eyebrows over frothy contemplations. An elderly couple study a shared menu. And the crabby teenager spends her lunch break in the corner glued to her mobile phone. I lean into the pool of light flooding my table and the armchair wraps around me.
When I look up again the tables are strewn with the skeletal remains of salads and burgers. The coffee grinder has dulled to a drone. The elderly couple pick over scraps on their plate and there are more cars than people on the street. The teenager closes her phone and switches the music back to the wounded singer. I assume she’s grumpy because she just slept through the waking hours.
11:53am. Having rolled out of bed only ten minutes ago, I’ve timed my breakfast escapade perfectly. A civilised sleep-in for a cold morning and access to the best seat in the wood-panelled café; an armchair nestled by the doorway, its leather warmed by the sunlight seeping in through the window. A sullen jazz singer broods over the speakers as a crabby teenager plonks a latte on my table. I sit alone. All my friends have been at their desk since 9am, ticking off their objectives: a job, a house, a wife, a boat. But I don’t regret my late start to the day because these are the waking hours.
Twelve o’clock ticks by. The doors of outside buildings open with increasing regularity as people stumble onto the sidewalks. Risely Street is swollen with more pedestrians than cars and the short skirts bobbing along with the tide to distract me from a now cold drink.
I am a one-man welcome party for the lunch crowd. Business suits and gaggles of Mums steering prams are eager to share a smile. They all pause on the creaky floorboards to scout a table or spot a friend. Customers rise in waves to attract and greet their friends and draw them in with a flurry of handshakes and polite kisses. The air becomes laden with coffee and the growl of the coffee grinder. Conversation bounces off the walls at fever pitch. And I realise someone has changed the music to an excitable flamenco guitarist as heads seemingly bob along with the music. Each table is an island of matching work uniforms or family resemblance. Middle-aged women become immersed in frumpy armed conversation. The suits raise eyebrows over frothy contemplations. An elderly couple study a shared menu. And the crabby teenager spends her lunch break in the corner glued to her mobile phone. I lean into the pool of light flooding my table and the armchair wraps around me.
When I look up again the tables are strewn with the skeletal remains of salads and burgers. The coffee grinder has dulled to a drone. The elderly couple pick over scraps on their plate and there are more cars than people on the street. The teenager closes her phone and switches the music back to the wounded singer. I assume she’s grumpy because she just slept through the waking hours.
New Territory!
Excellent. So I'm online now. Maybe that drawer full of random ideas I have on scraps of paper can now become random ideas in digital bytes.
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