In Tune With the Sound

Roni Size with Dynamite MC was tremendous. He didn’t just play music, he played a set. It was like what I would do with Virtual DJ if I was good at Virtual DJ. Whereas I usually run out of steam after 20 minutes his set went for over 3 hours and it was really good, especially at the end. Then again if I had someone good to MC for me when I was using Virtual DJ I might last longer.

I swear I attract an unusually high amount of traffic no matter where I am on a dance floor. I watch other parts and there were no ant-like streams of people constantly pushing past them. I think part of it is everyone just telling each other 'meet me at the tall guy'. I saw at least one chick write that message with her phone and send it.

Some people in the crowd are pretty stupid. Like the guy who blamed me for the fact that he couldn't stop getting knocked as he tried to roll a smoke in the middle of the dance floor. But it was still a good night, got home at 6:30 and ears stopped ringing around midday.

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If you met yourself from the future, what would you ask your future self?
What if they wont tell you anything?

Is there anything it can't do?

Waiting seems to be my number one occupation these days: Waiting for my back to get better; waiting for Summer; waiting for the weekend; and waiting for the Big Day Out line-up announcement are all tables that I seem to be checking on constantly and metaphorically delivering meals to. In the past one thing I did when I was waiting was to play basketball in my driveway, which was good because it would take up time as well as make me not care about whatever it was I was waiting for. I can't do that anymore because my basketball ring is about as busted as my back is. So these days that's been replaced with Minesweeper.

It's a sordid past I have with the Windows Games collection. They got me through high school and they continue to get me through uni as the greatest source of procrastination available to mankind. Minesweeper is in excellent favour at the moment because it keeps your mind sharp and because each round lasts less than 2 minutes as that is the time I'm trying to beat. However mindless entertainment and time-wasting isn't the extent of Minesweeper's portfolio, it actually has a plethora of real world uses:

Blood-Alcohol Level Indicator
There is actually a totally scientific correlation between your blood alcohol concentration and the time it takes you to complete Minesweeper on intermediate. If you can't pull it off in less than 100 seconds you're going to blow over the limit. If you can pull Expert off in the same time you should be fine to pilot a small aircraft or drive a road train. If you can't pull off beginner in 100 seconds I'm guessing you've already passed out.

Pad out work
All work, whether it is school, personal, private or public sector orientated, will have phases where your input will comfortably reach the required level of output with time to spare. It's in this scenario that you can find work boring, job satisfaction can drop and counter-productive behaviour can be bred. The solution? Minesweeper. Padding out work with intense games of Minesweeper against the clock will increase levels of adrenalin and improve concentration. Even if your entire day is padded out there is no way you can spend 8 hours trying to beat Minesweeper and not leave feeling like you've toiled solidly and effectively.

Girlfriend Filter
When it comes to meeting the right girl it can be difficult and time consuming to work out whether the lass you just took out for dinner is a completely daft or was just nervous. Minesweeper can cut the whole first month of dating down to several minutes. They don't have to be really good at it, but anyone who can't beat beginner is probably not a good long term prospect. A good time in expert, though and you should lock that down.

Practice for sweeping an actual minefield
One day when North Korea or Iran or New Zealand eventually declares war on the free nations and World War 3 erupts there will be minefields. As stated in the Geneva Convention all minefields must be labelled with numbers on the ground to indicate the number of mines nearby in each direction. One day there will be a big minefield, too big for any normal team to effectively map a path through. It will be the time for a hero. I am that man.

I Decided to give Chiropractic Treatment a Crack

The time it takes for me to get from sitting in the waiting room to being embraced and snapped by a large man with a shaved head is probably about fifty seconds. Oh sure, he asks me how I’m going and if anything’s improving but there’s no genuine pleasantries prior to my ass being in the air and crazy alien chiropractic equipment is let loose all about my spine. I mean normally I’d have to at least buy a dinner for someone before I got to do that kind of thing. Seconds later I’ve been rushed out the door and the next person is wafting past me.

The chiropractor is a strange and exciting place which I both dread and anticipate. There is a part of me that loves the chiropractor. It’s the part of me that says ‘that was fucking awesome’ every time I crack my knuckles so loud that the people watching TV in the next room come in to see what’s going on. There is a part of me that hates the chiropractor. It’s the part in me that knows what a skeleton looks like and knows what cracking sounds like and can’t find the equation that results in both these things equalling something positive.

Today I took my back X-rays in for his perusal. He wasn’t able to give me a solid diagnosis, other than to reaffirm my need for a CT scan but he did finally take a few extra seconds during one of my appointments to step back and admire my spine in all its radiographed glory. A wave of silence suddenly ebbed over him and I saw a mist in his eyes as he admired its perfect, restored straightness with the sense of pride that a new father would have for his first son. Shortly after, when he was bending my legs in different directions on the platform my knee brushed his crotch and I swear I felt he had a half wood.

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The only part of this entry I truly take seriously is my joke about a sandwich

'I still say it's an interesting question. I will talk to Kevin and provide further clarification next tutorial.' Despite the upper-class English accent, this response provided no justification to support the currently debated theory.

'The fact is the book says "Diversification" is the act of expanding corporate interests into other areas of business.' I believed and argued simultaneously. The air was full of tension as the dozen economic students deliberated on whether or not a business that employed a strategy of selling their same, existing product for a cheaper price with a different label somehow qualified as 'corporate diversification'. It clearly didn't. Even Wiggles would know that. The only way this scenario should have even come up is if the tutorial question had asked 'please come up with the only possible business level competitive strategy that does not involve corporate diversification in any way, shape or form.'

Unfortunately it seems the nature of all social science/humanity topics is that any answer is correct assuming you can write a paragraph explaining why using, although not necessarily semantically correctly, the appropriate buzz-words. My IT based humanities compiler was having none of it though. There was no way I could casually accept the accurate definition of corporate diversification being knocked around like a volley ball on a Brazilian river mouth. Especially since the tutorial was a quarter done (three quarters complete chronologically) and I hadn't even prepared for the last two questions. So when it was suggested that the concept of selling your baked beans with different labelling at a cheaper price could be in any way defined as corporate diversification I put my foot down. Did even the simple concept of 'industry' escape these people? Or were they simply just asking shit, spontaneous questions as if to provide a fuel to my fire for debating economics with people who, unlike me, had probably actually even read the lecture notes for this week?

Nevertheless adrenaline flooded me with the force of a sixteen year old football player having a wet dream after not getting laid for six weeks because of so much goddamn training. I eventually managed to convince a classroom full of people who completely did not care that diversification required resources being applied in two or more separate areas that could, although did not require, a synergy that ensured both areas of effort resulted in increased value for the organisation/entity. If a company produces two types of baked beans and sells them with different labelling for different prices that is NOT diversification. I learnt this in the 10 minutes I spent organising for the tutorial right before it started. During this time I also ate a peanut butter and jam sandwich. For anyone who knows corporate strategy economics: Studying and eating a sandwich at the same time, now that's true corporate diversification.

Fake it 'til you Make It

Becoming a wealthy philanthropist is more challenging than I initially expected. Having begun my marketing and economic post grad degree this year I predicted by late spring to at least be in charge of a couple of franchises as well as planning a few strategic sales of previously acquired small businesses. OK, that's not technically true. But I did expect to be able to work out the 'own business' section of my tax return quicker than 3 months after the end of financial year.

The problem is coming up with innovative ideas to market is really hard. The best I've come up with so far is to create a business plan where people invest in me to come up with good business plans. The main drivers were something about how I needed more "free time" but that time wasn't free it was expensive. However then I shouted that if other people paid for my free time it would be cheap and I could then somehow make them money. It all collapsed when I sobered up the next morning and I couldn't even read half the stuff on the napkin but I did convince the taxi driver to invest two 1000 Rupee notes which I still have pinned up on my wall for motivation.

My latest business idea is to navigate a hot air balloon around the earth. It doesn't sound very profitable but successful philanthropists do it all the time. I figure I've got it all wrong, if I do crazy rich guy stuff now the cash and accolades will simply follow automatically. Hot air balloon rides are probably the best place in the world for coming up with good, creative shit. They at least have to be better than the place I'm sitting at right now writing this.

Riding Shotgun

The first day of the week had ended. There I was, sitting on one of the last express trains I would ever catch with my sunglasses on and my headphones aloud to possibly be the best 'staring straight ahead, not acknowledging the existence of anyone else' on the train.

Then a guy sat next to me. This happens in tales of comfort zones and forbidden love. He took his jacket off and rested it across his knees. It flirted with my thigh but I ignored it, playing it cool. The doors chimed and air was herded in as the train set off. It billowed softly towards my face, taking in the scenes of knee-coat next to me on its way. That is when it hit me, the urine. Not literally, because this is the Adelaide metro system not New York. But the dude next to me totally smelled like piss. This was far from charming but I didn’t immediately think ‘Hot damn, here’s my journal entry for today.’

Instead my course of action was to wrinkle my nose and look uncomfortable. This was partly because of the disgusting smell and partly because I was sure the smell was greeting other people simultaneously and social transport logic dictates that if you look like you’re offended by a smell then you can’t be blamed for it. Also having headphones on and being wrapped in sunglasses makes your nose the most potent communication device at your disposal.

What makes this whole epic so noteworthy, though, is that within ten minutes of departure as well as not having yet reached a single stop the urine smell was slowly replaced with the scent of fresh yet manufactured lavender. As far as I could tell no one had moved at all, except lap-coat now had a wry smile. One stop, two less passenger and another ten minutes later that lavender smell now was the more pungent, sour smell of urinal cakes and there was no doubt the semi-professional guy reading a ‘New Energy’ report next to me was the only one emanating smells with extroversion in the entire carriage.

This is my Angry Entry

Are you shit? This is a warning.

According to my Chiropractor my physio doesn't know anything about fixing a back.
According to my Physiotherapist a good way to avoid further back injuries is to lie on my back and tighten my sphincter about 45 times while breathing steadily.
According to my GP I shouldn't be getting my spine violently snapped by a large man because it could be bad for it in the future.

All three don't rate each other, yet all three have delivered the same verdict for recovery: Time. Three months later and what the fuck is achieved? I've bought a new bed and sat in a spa every day for the last fortnight and my own treatment has already got me feeling almost normal again. I've also got an appointment with a neurosurgeon in the apparently minimum waiting time of three weeks. October 31st forces me to wait beyond what I normally would before I get back to life. He will tell me that I'm officially allowed to smash shit up. As long as his opinion is that I'm back to normal I will make him say those exact words. Hey, for $190 per half hour appointment you may as well get your moneys worth.

So as of October 31 I am going to be on a mission to smash as much shit as possible. There will also be some yelling, maybe a bit of swearing and then drink some Up&Go’s and sleep like a baby.

Still Talking Shit

I don't know why, but, for some reason David Jones have an independent radio channel that they stream into their restrooms. I went there during my break at uni to purchase a pretty sweet new shirt and some new shorts. This was due to being uncomfortable at uni already due to it being too hot today and my summer wardrobe was somewhat lacking.

While I was there nature yelled.

I also don't know why, but, for some reason David Jones were playing John William's Jurassic Park's 'T-Rex, Rescue and Finale' - otherwise known as 'that Jurassic Park song' - on that channel while I was doing my thing. The end result was the most over-dramatised crap I have taken in some time.

When I get my dream home I am going to program my toilet to play crescendo building classical movements every time I have a crescendo building classical movement.

Friday the 13th

Today was bad luck. I went out for a schnitzel and while I was waiting for it to come I got these stomach cramps which sitting, breathing and walking couldn't get rid of. Fortunately I was educated enough to work out that my stomach couldn't possibly cramp if it was bulging with schnitzel.

I also almost accidently attended a Kate Cebrano concert. But I heard she didn't play her cover of SexyBack so it wouldn't have sealed the day much anyway.

An Entry From the Land Before I go to Bed

Having spent a lot of nights in recent times being drunk and doing stupid things I approached tonights cocktail party with a sense of trepidation. Trepidation was then processed into journalistic opportunity as I realised that the obscurity of each drink I would consume to much would allow me to benchmark exactly how alcohol affects my body and its desires.

Drink 1:

I wanted my cocktail drinking image to be one of extreme class, but also one of extreme homosexuality. The mirage delivered.

Drink 2:

The Mojito was next. It was easy to drink. It reminded me of a time I was running through the garden and fell into a bush - I think it might of been a repressed memory. Coincidently I think that happened when I was drunk.

Drink 3:

The Jelly Bean was my favourite drink of the night. It met requirements in the camp stakes as well as the upper-class image stakes. It's the kind of drink you see kids drinking at their 8pm board meetings on Tuesdays. In the background is Angus drinking his attempt at the same drink. His version was later renamed "Shameful Gus version 2".

Drink 4:

This White Russian is photographed with bonus cocktail-party-effort-attempt jacket in mirror. Also a butterfly.

Drink 5:

This was at the stage where Chow had stopped making me drinks and I just had another White Russian. This one has a parasol though.

Drink 6:

This is a Traffic Light. Chow was back but he'd gotten rusty. There was supposed to be a green, yellow, red layering in the glass and then, later on, in my stomach. Unfortunately substituting Galliano for Banana Liquer only resulted in this traffic light being set to 'Don't Go'.

Drink 7:

This is a Jaffa. It has some orange stuff in it. I think it's orange.

Drink 8:

This is a Screaming Orgasm. I only drank the front one. I also at the strawberry.

The Results
Drinking affects the mind and body in different ways. This experiment has taught me that it is after 6 drinks that I begin to think that an Up&Go should be consumed soon.

Massive Props to Chow for bartending duties!

Drink 9:

My Best Screw-Up Yet

I'm behind schedule on the integration testing for some database stuff at work. This is totally my fault. There's a problem with my work that has set me back at least a week. Now I'm under pressure to finish everything by Wednesday night. On top of that, I also have entered uni assignmentpalooza for 2006.

I think I will sleep well tonight. This week is going to be great! I've found if there's anything that makes me feel more real, it's pressure.

I Want to be a Journalist

.. Eh, too hard.

This is Terrible

A hangover is the world where my mind lives between 6 and 15 seconds behind my body (depending on consumption). You can tell I was drinking heavily the night before if you're in a car with me and I suddenly exclaim "NO MAN! THAT CHICK WAS FUGLY!" about 170 metres past a girl on the side of the road that looked fit from a distance but up close might have some apes in her recent ancestry. Because I've also usually slept very little on these days I get lazy and just let my body guide me around the world with contempt for taking anything seriously.

This is why it's bad for me to go shopping when I'm hungover. I make bad decisions and I only realise they're bad decisions when things are being scanned at the checkout. Today: poor choices in oily food and ridiculous brands of energy drinks.

I have taken Arnott's Shapes and turned them into my own delicious pizza snacks!"
This is what it says on the box, this is also what I was singing in a deluded Italian accent as I drove home from the supermarket, about 10 minutes before I realised that it said that on the box or in fact that I had this box. Papa Giuseppi! *shakes fist*

You see I like pizza and I have for a long time. In my year 7 graduation book my quote was “I like pizza. I like cows. Here is a picture of a pizza cow" and then there was this picture of a pizza cow. It was pretty cool.

But I don't like pizza shapes and I don't like tiny pizzas. I knew they were going to be tiny pizzas because it says on the box “ACTUAL SIZE" next to the picture and the actual picture size is tiny.

But wait! They're not even pizza shapes, they're all stuck together and you have to break them apart for yourself. It's also not even lunch time, what the fuck am I doing? I swear I was taking these photos and I thought this had mad potential for a journal entry but I think I knew even then that the entertainment value would be that I had no idea where I was going with any of this.

This is why it's also bad for me to cook what I get when I go shopping when I'm hungover. I also didn't get one of those cardboard chef hats to put some string in and wear for the rest of the afternoon.

That weren't that bad though. They broke into the proper shapes pretty easily later on, and tasted ok. I'd eat them again, although that's more of a testament to the likeliness of me getting intoxicated again rather than any appraisal of their actual quality.

Swimming is Terrible

Which is what makes it so awesome. I went for my first adult swimming lesson today to learn some technique for my summer of aqua-cardio. $10 for 30 minutes of tuiton in a class of 3 old birds and myself. Today I learnt you can make old ladies blush just by saying their full name and winking.

Swimming is supposed to be some great way of recovering from a back injury. I suppose that's why I found it hilarious that after the swimming not only did my back hurt, but all that underwater kicking highlighted the weakness/caused soreness in my leg where I broke it 4 years ago.

But that didn't matter, because at the end of all that swimming I was rooted and it's been a very long time since I've been rooted. Who knows why being physical makes me feel so good. It's probably nothing to do with satisfaction because I was quite unimpressed that having strong, heavy legs just makes me feel more spastic when I'm trying to use my legs and a kickboard to get to the other end of the pool as fast as I can and I'm travelling about 20 metres a minute.

Maybe it's just that endorphins taste nice?

I'm a special kind of genius

The kind who knows there's 1000's of words to write on an assignment that's due on Thursday and still decides that tonight should be the night I learn how to play Sudoku.

Sudoku is really easy. I don't get it. What are these people spending so much time on the train doing?

I still managed to get 1000 more words done too. Looking forward to the all nighter tomorrow. I swear if these assignments didn't say "Assignments done at the last minute generally receive only 3 to 4 marks" I wouldn't feel so required to take up the challenge.

Best Dream Ever

Fell asleep last night after watching South Africa vs Sri Lanka in the Champions Trophy.

Woke up this morning dreaming of a cricket match between South Africa and the Western Bulldogs. Bulldogs were bowling second and Brad Johnson had just got Graeme Smith caught and bowled, the commentator said something about who truly was the greatest captain on the field. We were killing them, they were like 6/80 when I woke up. They could never win.

Why was this the best dream ever? No injuries >_<

I live for Pressure (aka 1 big paragraph)

Playing basketball against a team of spastic midgets. That's what this assignment felt like. The whole time I knew I could beat it, there wasn't much I really had to do after all. But where's the satisfaction in finishing an assignment and handing it in more than 30 seconds before it's due after streaming down the hill via Tim's house after he prints your assignment for you? Nowhere, I assure you. The only reason I'm possibly feeling still awake now at 3am on Friday morning after sleeping 9 hours of the past 48 is because of the sheer amount of adrenaline and sugar-free Red Bull that i've consumed during it. That and the drinking and drama at Shennanigans after (watching ) basketball this evening. Basically living only seems fun when there's pressure from some aspect of your life that makes everything else seem more critical. In tomorrows case it will probably be a hangover. Whether that's a phyiscal condition or a social condition remains to be seen, but it will be interesting. And also not as exciting as I make it seem. I realise now after finally internalising it that of everything that happens in my life I ignore the most important thing 95% of the time to ensure everything else succeeds. Either that or I'm lazy and I procrastinate when I'm doing work, assignments or in long term relationships. I guess a new shirt will help me take control of everything.

I've found a niche

Thursday night and it's time to go out, so I enjoy the popular tradition of pre-game beer in the shower. This actually helps cut down the time between finishing sport and being drunk.

Friday morning and I'm late for work. I drink an Up&Go in the shower as some sort of ironic bookend to the past 12 hours. I can go from asleep and stinky to clean and on a train in under 23 minutes.

I just play basketball socially

"Well that's good, because I don't think you'll have much of a career."

This is how the neurosurgeon breaks it to me that I have degenerative disc disease. Apparently for $190 per half hour appointment they really will say anything, but it's mainly asshole comments like that one.

I probably could of taken being told that I will have to manage back pain and reduce physical activity for the rest of my life a little easier if he'd been a bit nicer. If you ask a stupid question like 'Are you looking for a quick fix?' of course I'm going to say yes. Don't treat me like an idiot when I'm really there trying to find a timetable. Although I've now got the kind of timetable I really could do without.

I suppose I have my asshole neurosurgeon to thank for pissing me off enough to be motivated to do whatever I can to conquer this.

So shorterm at least it's no basketball or smashing shit for at least another month, probably more. Maybe a jog will be my Christmas present and I'll join all the other unfit bastards on the roads at the start of a new year. Until then I'll keep up my pilates and walking whilst avoiding the urge to self-destruct.

I went for one of those walks this evening, meandering throughout the hills leaving a trail of steam behind me. Along the way I saw a chick walking a dog with three legs. The 3 legged dog was bounding around ahead of her and looked blissfully goofy as he loped up the hill. It kind of inspired me. If nothing else cures me, I will resort to stupidity.

Coming Straight Outta Psychology Textbook

Before this goes much further I should say I don't need any sympathy for being a cripple. I'm still better than who you are.

Also, Photos of the Month are up.