If you're into puzzles, you'll understand.

It's like getting up every morning knowing you're facing the day with two or three crosswords, jigsaw puzzles or soduku squares to do. But you don't mind, because you really love puzzles and each one is a fresh challenge.
Sometimes the puzzles are really hard and the pieces don't fit and you have to complete them over a couple of days, or a week, or longer.
Other times the pieces slip into place or the puzzles runs at you begging you to put it together.
Then, when you're finished - and all your mates have finished their puzzles as well - you bundle them all up together and let everyone else have a look: Satisfying your both your ego and your sense of achievement.
This is the best analogy I can come up with for what it is like to be a journalist.
It popped into my head this morning when, as I bounded out of bed I thought "I wonder what puzzle awaits me today?".
Today I love my job.
But then... I haven't arrived at the office yet.

Genuinely weird thoughts.

I challenge you to come up with a genuinely weird thought. Something frighteningly bizarre. Like so odd that it worries you a bit that you thought of it. I want to compile a list.
Here is my weird idea:
I am unlikely to ever have sex with someone who hasn't already been born.
By which I don't mean I'm unlikely to ever sleep with a foetus. What I mean is, I'm 28. If I was to enter into relations with someone who is about to be born say next week, for example... well the decent thing to do is wait until they're at least 18. Which means I'll be 46. Which is too old for an 18 year old to contemplate, surely?
And yes, it's true, I had that weird thought and then thought I'd ask you all for weird thoughts to make me feel less weird about the weird thought I had.
It actually stemmed from me realising I'm really not attracted to 18 year olds. I think it had something to do with the under cooked and weirdly dressed twinky gay boy who was adjusting his clothes in the mirror of the Belmont Cinema bogs this afternoon.
Ultimately dude, you might think you look hot but you're in the Belmont Cinema bogs... seriously... put the tickets you've got on yourself down before you get hurt.
Or it might have been the blog on whether not having kids is selfish (thanks Observer) which I read this afternoon.
Something has put me in a weird place mentally, anyway. So make me feel better by proving you're weird too.

Fancy making yourself angry?

Then go here. Seriously, this is why the rest of the world hates America.
If the slogan on the banner doesn't tell you enough, read on. There's hardly a minority not insulted. Particularly interesting is God's Hitlist on the sidebar.

Oh ok... here's an example for those too lazy to look.

=============Wrong Choices
God’s lifestyle choices hitlist : God hates people that belong to one of the groups below because they harm America!

Gays
Liberals
Abortionists
Animal Rights People
Environmentalists
Muzlims
Vegetarians/Vegans
Pedophiles
“Global Warming/Cooling” Believers
Linux users
“Purpose Driven” churches
Mormons
Germans
Government school teachers
The anti-smoking lobby
College Professors
Poets
Hybrid Cars

Well that's just dandy

I had no idea it was being made but apparently the new version of Brideshead Revisited is already showing in cinemas overseas.
I really enjoyed the first half of this book, but I couldn't say I loved the book overall. Charles is a bore and we're forced to see the world through his eyes. Of course, film can treat it differently as the medium is more omniscient than the firsthand style of the book.
I'm not sure if anyone truly loves this story. The opening chapters appeal to the hoyay in me and Sebastian Flyte is one of the great character inventions English literature. I will never forgive Evelyn Waugh for what he did to his own creation, this delicious Wildian character.
And it is because of Sebastian's demise and how integral it is to the story that leads me to feel this film will be a deeply unsatisfying experience.
But I'm willing to give it a shot.
It can't possibly be more bland than the X Files movie.
And it does have Emma Thompson in it... which is always a good sign.
So... fingers crossed.

Wow. People really do that, huh?

This morning I walked into a door.
Who the fuck knew people really did that?

I'm off sick today because my old war wound is playing up. I've just finishing watching season two of Torchwood, thanks to my darling friend Andrew, who not only knows how to show a boy a good time in Brisbane but all knows how to pirate DVDs in order to make the love linger for a month or two later.

Reasonably uneventful day. I managed to file a story despite being in a considerable amount of pain and not actually being in the office. I had an exclusive yesterday - that still hasn't run and nor has the thing I filed today. Which makes me wonder, why fucking bother?

Sorry I haven't posted for a while. I haven't really felt like I had anything interesting to say. And clearly, judging by this post, I still don't. LOL.

I have worked every Sunday this month and haven't had two days off together for four weeks. I'm exhausted. So on that thunderous anti-climax, I'm going to disappear back into cyberspace for bit.........

My first love

I met my first love on a Saturday afternoon.
I know it was a Saturday afternoon, because that was when they used to show Get Smart on Channel Seven when I was a kid.
My first love was Barbara Feldon. She must have been in her 30s when she played agent 99, which meant she was probably in her 50s and 60s by the time I was watching the re-runs in the 80s. But, oh! How I loved her.
Bob hair cut. Awesome 60s clothes. Knee-high boots. Go-go dancing... long eyelashes... and that sexy, husky voice drawling "Oh Max!".

I mean really... what more could a kid want?
Except, perhaps, to actually be her... which I realise now was probably more to the point.
(Just to share a birthday with her is a thrill... I only just discovered that as I was digging up photos for this post).

I absolutely loved this show. When I first sat down and caught an episode - or a bit of an episode - I was transfixed. I became a life long fan, much as I had with Dad's Army, The Good Life, Are You Being Served, I Love Lucy and a few other old classics they'd repeat from time to time.
So it was with great trepidation I went along to see the new Get Smart movie this afternoon, especially (as Thom says) "Anne Hathaway flatlines in beige". Also... not a huge fan of Steve Carrell. But this was actually an enjoyable film.
Unlike Indiana Jones, they didn't bring in stupid aliens or anything that totally ruined the franchise. They stayed very true to the feel of the original films. It wasn't filled with belly laughs, but all the lines you wanted to hear were in there, they didn't over play them, and they had the right levels of spoof, homage, and actual plot.
It won't win an Oscar or set the world ablaze... but I want to thank those involved for not ruining my childhood memories. Which is, let's face it, a rarity for these kinds of films.

Sweet Lord, I pray I live to see this film

Dear God,
This afternoon I watched the teaser for the new James Bond film. I post it here for your perusal.

No doubt, as a red-blooded man yourself, this trailer did exactly for you what it did for me.
Never in all my born days have I been so excited, so titilated, so heart-poundingly desperately spastically excited, to see a film.
So I ask of you just one thing: Please don't let me die before I get to see this film.
Take me in the car on the way home, drown me in the shower later that night, pick me off over dodgy mcmuffin at breakfast, but for fucksake, please do not let me die BEFORE I see this film!
Thanks for listening.
Yours, etc.
Amen.

Ferdinand the Bull

Something occurred to me yesterday. I'm not sure why it popped into my head - actually it could have been because I'm going through an ABBA phase and was listening to Fernando - but I suddenly remembered an old Disney cartoon which delighted me as a child. Ferdinand the Bull.

And I suddenly realised that this character was high camp.
A bull which doesn't want to bullfight but would rather sniff flowers.
There was a book as well, I recall, with a red cover which they had at the Mount Helena Primary School library. I didn't like that as much... I guess, in hindsight, because the drawing wasn't camp enough.
Ferdinand was delicious high camp. I would love to see it again, or even read the book. If anyone happens to know where to lay my hands on one, do let me know.
I realise now he's something of symbol for me. I want to get some t-shirts made up. Or a tattoo.
Okay, not a tattoo.
But I am so thrilled that Ferdinand popped into my head. And I wonder if my parents already had their suspicions about me when they let me watch this cartoon all all the time?

EDIT: Good old YouTube! Why didn't I head there earlier? For all those who fancy a magnificent trip down memory lane... here it is... Disney's 1938 cartoon of Ferdinand the Bull.

I love these guys

Busily watching so much Wimbledon that I've barely done anything else except work and Wimble for a week. Love it.
I'm starting to hone down a bit on who I like and who I don't. I'm not loyal to a country, let alone my country (Lleyton, you're a fuckwit and your every success is a dagger in my heart. The way to hog the limelight and the Channel 9 coverage fucks me off completely. You're also getting fat and your wife can't act) but I do love that lovely Casey Dellacqua.
My favourite players are:
NOVAK DJOKOVIC
He's Serbian, hilarious, cute and talented. Dipped out of Wimbledon surprisingly early but anyone who puts superglue on the French Open cup for a joke is okay by me.

SIMONE BOLELLI
He gave Lleyton a hard time last night and he's bloody gorgeous. Hottest Italian I can name, after Michaelangelo's David... and I don't think he counts.

MARAT SAFIN
He's the same age as me and going through "the thickening", but he was very cute when he was younger. Took out Novak the other night in stupendous fashion, is deliciously Russian, lives in Monaco and with US$13million in career money, he's a bit fantastically loaded as well.

RAFAEL NADAL
His eyes might be a bit close together, and he does have a tendency to bite things, but he also has fantastic arms and has a tendency to wear really tight shorts... which is something generally missing from tennis.

ROGER FEDERER
There is no disputing his title as the current king of tennis. He is beautiful and his game is spectacular.

I haven't forgotten the women, I'm not being a typical homo... I'll do them later in the day.

Spot of tennis?

It all started with a few free tickets to the Hopman Cup through work earlier this year and now I am in love with tennis.
I watched the Australian Open compulsively. I was enthralled by the rise of Casey Dellacqua.
I tried to catch what of the French Open I could - from a hotel room in Coffs Harbour.
Right now I am listening to Wimbledon Live online. I can't watch it because I'm on a Mac. You have to pay, but I don't mind that... but it says it won't work on a Mac. Fuck them.
I am taping the tennis every night so I can watch it later.
God I love it. I finally understand how people feel about football and cricket. Only the advantage (no pun intended) with tennis is that by and large it is an individual sport, and that more appeals to me than team sports. My favourite is Novak Djokovic because he is such a larrikin but generally I go for the Russians when I'm being serious and the Aussies when I'm being patriotic. Mostly Alicia Molik and that nice Miss Dellacqua. I don't like Little Lleyton. Also love Marat Safin.
The men's games are so fast, they're awesome.
I can't believe I missed out on nearly 28 years worth of good tennis before I became obsessed. Robbed.
Anyway, if you need me until July 6, you'll know where to find me.

Judge Judy, I will miss you

As my holidays come to an end, I can honestly say, one thing above all has proven an inspiration these last couple of weeks:

Such simple, delicious, voyeuristic television. And what a personality. So respectable. So no-nonsense. You can't imagine Judge Judy doing a fat line of coke off the Kodak Theatre's marble bathroom vanity at the Oscars then busting a move on the dance floor before hooking up with two busty blondes and their pimp for an after-after-party private soiree in her Mulholland Drive 16-seater spa.
Or can you?


Ok, I'm not sure who did the truly terrible photoshop jobs... but I found them while I was googling for the image above and thought them somewhat amusing. Not as amusing as I find the things computer geeks clearly choose to fill their days with.

New hair cut

I go to these crazy Japanese hairdressers in Northbridge because they always give me crazy punk rock hair. My usual woman, Van, is on holidays, so the owner of the salon did my hair. He informed me my natural colour was "dull" and proceeded to put in a splash of colour - I think just to satisfy himself.

You can't really see it in this pic... but you can see I have yet again got crazy Asian punk rock hair.
I don't know WHY that is so satisfying... but it is.

There is nothing this man does not have

Last night I went to see Michael Buble.
Best concert ever.
He is such an incredible showman. He engaged the audience, came across as a genuine down-to-Earth Canadian with a big heart and a huge voice. He is hilariously funny. He is a dag. Your Mum's daggy bachelor younger brother. Lad about town. Heart of gold.
So many fucking cliches. So true.
He spent at least as much time flirting with the audience, cracking jokes and having a great time as he did singing.
It was a slick, enthralling, organic, dynamic concert.
And the music was just incredible.
He is doing four concerts in Perth - all sold out, I imagine - at Challenge Stadium. If he can fill the venue four times over, he could easily have done one concert at the Dome instead and saved on overheads. But no, Challenge Stadium - in Buble's hands - becomes as intimate as a small jazz club. A larger venue would not allow him to engage the audience in the way he does... and does so incredibly well.
He's your typical goofball-done-good and the delivery of his music, the way he entertains, right down to the size and kind of venue he choses to play, all go to show that he's still that ordinary goofball... done good.
I had the most thoroughly enjoyable night out. And I am now spastically in love with the Buble.

How do you loo?

Further to Kato's post about bizarro I-don't-want-anyone-to-see-me-coming-out-of-the-stalls toileting behaviour, I thought I'd add my own recent tale of horror.
First things first. I too do not like to be seen coming out of the stalls in the work bogs. The toilets are a bizarre place and I don't want to engage anyone in conversation in there - although I have a good friend who I love dearly who delves headlong into a deep and meaningful with you the second you swing open the door. I don't want to look anyone in the eye in there. I don't want to see them in their ablutions and I certainly don't want to be able to attribute smells and sounds to individual colleagues.
I am a private pisser.
There are a lot of us, especially in the gay community, who gag at the idea of the trough and prefer the privacy of the stalls. This is a trap for young players as people wander in and out, proudly rattling out a thunderous fart at the piswah - perhaps because they don't care, perhaps because it snuck out, perhaps because they didn't notice one of the stall doors was closed... who can say? I don't need to know who is responsible for this kind of act.
I wait until everyone is gone before I leave the stall. I also don't like being seen leaving the toilet. I don't mind being seen going in... I can conduct a conversation at the door... but I don't want to be seen leaving. I don't know why. If someone has come in to the toilet while I've been in there, I'll go to great lengths to make sure they don't think it was me who was in the stall... as if they're going back through the news floor working out who isn't at their desk and might be calculating who it might have been behind the locked door.
Which all leads me to the horrifying experience I had at Perth Airport the other week as I prepared to jet off on holidays.
My flight had been delayed several times and I'd amused myself in the waiting lounge variously by reading and people watching - including checking out a reasonably cute boy. Unfortunately, he caught me looking a couple of times and I got a bit shocked and stopped looking.
I had a coffee and a bottle of water and then, as you might expect, my bladder demanded some relief. So I trotted off to the loo. To my horror the stalls were full. There are extra bathrooms at the airport so I swung back out the door, nearly collecting the cute boy coming in as I went out, and marched around the corner to the other loos.
To my continued horror, the stalls were full here too. So I thought "fuck it, let's brave it". I stood at one of the porcelain bowls on the wall and did my thing. No sooner had I built up a steady stream than someone stood at the one beside me.
I was mortified enough as it was but when I realised it was the cute boy... who had pulled his boy bits out and was intently studying mine... all my vital organs stopped functioning at once and I was consumed by a fight-or-flight-cardiac-arrest-with-triple-pike-and-nuclear-fission-blast-of-terror.
I was peeing. I couldn't run. I couldn't do anything. I was peeing and he was judging my performance. Or my equipment. I'm not sure. I didn't care. I felt like I was being raped.
He didn't pee... just put it away and walked away.
28 years of dedicated stall attendance and the one time I venture out into the big man's world and that happens! I'm still mortified just thinking about it.
I didn't go to the loo the whole flight. Apart from the fact I hate being seen lining up for the toilet and then seeing the face of the person about to inherit the post-pee space after you as you leave, I didn't want to risk his attention again.

Excuse me, WTF?

Um, I've just had a 15minute phone conversation with a woman from the company who delivers my paper every morning.
For three weeks the paper wasn't delivered. Then we discovered it was being delivered out the front. For another three weeks Dad and I have been calling asking for it to be delivered to the back... where we actually live. It's not hard.
They've been filled with apologies and said yes yes yes, no problems. They actually went out with him one Saturday morning to show him exactly where it needs to go.
Well this morning I get a phone call from the company saying they're very sorry but the delivery man will not deliver the paper to our door. He'll lob it in the alley way 50m from our house, behind two locked doors, a gate an up a sandy passage, but he won't lob it at our door.
"I'm sorry we've tried but he won't do it".
Excuse me? Are you fucking serious? He's a paper delivery person. His sole job is delivering the fucking paper? How can he not deliver it to my door? How can he tell his boss he's not going to do it? How can his boss not force him to do it? He says our house is "off the round" and we should pay more.
Um, it's fine with the boss... who the fuck do you think you are?
Apparently it makes no difference that I work for the paper he's delivering.
He's also told his boss that she can't take on any extra clients because the round is too big as it is.
And it's taken them two months to convince him not to drive into a particular block of flats every morning because he wakes up a man who is dying of cancer with his headlights.
Compassion plus.
I'm so confounded. There is nothing I can do. The company don't want to sack him because "labour is hard to come by and apart from a few situations like this, he's actually doing a good job".
Umm... he's dictating terms to his employer in a ludicrous way. I don't see why the customers or customers-to-be have to suffer because of this man's misplaced egomania.