Full of Ideas

The speed at which this pen ran out of ink, which I bought only two months ago, is testament to the increased prolificness of my writing lately. Or perhaps the decreased prolificness of the biro manufacturing industry.

The speed at which this pen ran out of ink, which I bought only two months ago, is testament to the increased prolificness of my writing lately. Or perhaps the decreased prolificness of the biro manufacturing industry.

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Scramble with Friends is ridiculously addictive. It’s a game that’s played “With Friends”, but when people take more than an hour to respond to my last turn I want to cut them. Every time I poop, this game consumes me. The other day I glanced at my keyboard and my brain instantly began tracing paths between the keys to make words. This game should be an olympic sport.

Annual Curse Myself to be Rained On Entry

For most people the skin is their body’s largest organ.
These past few days, Spring has been flirting with me. My skin has been telling me all about it. Warm breezes have been like suggestive smiles from my wife. Time without a jumper has been like the indulgence of a naughty taboo. The outdoors has been full of double entendres and innuendo. It has been like: Brad, it seems like I’m saying something about winter, but you could also interpret these words to mean summer.
Oh, behave, Sydney weather! Take your hand off my leg and out from under the table cloth while we’re still waiting for the dessert at winter’s dinner party. Stop parting your clouds and giving us a peek at the sun. It’s still August! You’re not ready! This is a forbidden love.
Oh god, It’s not fair, I’m so horny for Spring.

Gold Medals

China has won a lot of gold medals in the 2012 Olympics.

My phone's headphones died recently. I really liked them, mainly because they had a headset microphone and buttons to control the phone. This meant I could answer my giant ass phone without looking like I was holding an iPad up to my face.

I found on eBay a seller who had replacement Galaxy Note headphones for only $3 a pair. Bargain. I ordered four pairs, figuring that if these ones also died after less than two months I would have enough backups to last me until the end of the year.

China does not win the gold medal for making headphones. Unless there's a "rhythmic gymnastics" equivalent of outlying headphone making events where the challenge is to make headphones that zap me with tiny electric shocks whenever I'm walking. I will probably only put up with this for another few weeks, maximum.

Side Note: Is capitalising the second letter of a word going to become more prominent as the English language is continually pilfered for words that are locked into trademarks? It's like when they changed the grammar of number plates. I don't see any other solution. Removing vowels from words only works so long as the word is never spoken aloud. That's why you never see any of those brands achieving a Facebook or Twitter like level of recognition, so rethink your business models people.

Like my words? Want to buy one of my books? I think you'll like this one:

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

Chase: A Tomorrow Technologies Novella. Available Now for Less than a dollar!

Opening Ceremony

The thing I like most about the Olympics—like with most things in life—relates to me. I like that the Olympics happens every fourth winter, because like New Years Eve it provides a nice, even beat for taking snapshots of your life. As I sat on the couch last week and watched Usain Bolt win gold in the Men’s 100 Metres instead of reflecting on the pinnacle of human athleticism I’d just observed I instead dwelled on what had happened to me since the moment in 2008 when I was sitting on the couch watching Usain Bolt win gold in the Men’s 100 Metres.

A lot has transpired in the past one Olympic, it’s been one of my busiest Olympics of my life. I moved out, moved in, moved states, moved jobs and moved very little. I fell in love, got engaged, got married, got read. I was operated on three times. I took about 10,000 photos, wrote about 100 reviews for Rip it Up and wrote several terrible short stories. I doubled my income and halved my muscle mass.

It’s hard not to be prolific between Olympics, though. Two Olympics ago I was a Nightfill and Internet superstar, driving a VK commodore and I hadn’t even traded for a Credit Card yet. The events of the Olympic before that are even more life changing and long ago.

Most people think it’s silly to come up with New Olympic Resolutions, but I’m going to oblige. By this time next Olympic I want to have my name on some real estate, publish something in somewhere, walk my dog, visit Europe, be less self-obsessed and climb Mount Kosciuszko.

Happy Opening Ceremony!

Never Entries

As life speeds up I struggle to find the time to update my journal as daily as I would like. Part of the cause is a lack of time, not only to write the entries and insert them into the internet, but also time to think of things to write about now that I’ve fully covered the low hanging fruits of cereal, music and sources of protein. The other factor in the decline in posting output is my increased focus on quality over the years. I mean, a lot has changed since the lazy days of yore when I pumped out shit like this. I focus on quality more than quantity nowadays, and it takes extra time to add value to everything.

That said, there have been entries both lately and historically which I have thought about posting one day, but as time passes it becomes obvious to me that I never will publish them. These are ideas that kick around in my head or in half finished word documents, but have never made it any further. To commemorate posting and not posting, I’ll now share a list of some of the entries that never were.

At one point I had the idea to create a series of photos taken in the New South Wales suburb of Engadine, with each photo named and inspired by a track title from Enya’s 1995 album The Memory of Trees. Upon the brainwave I thought it was brilliant, but I never took a single photo for this project. My sequel phocumentary, Hurstvillage People, also never got any traction.

My New Galaxy Note
The process of upgrading to a Galaxy Note earlier this year was not smooth thanks to issues with both Australia Post and Optus. I wrote a very long rant about it, got sidetracked while justifying that the Galaxy Note was just like a normal sized phone for tall people, and then somehow got onto another tangent rant about Holden Dealers.

Name that Weed
I have a horrified fascination with the sheer variety of weeds currently growing in my landlord’s garden. I considered doing a photo series of all the different weeds, and asking for people to ID which ones were which. Instead I put the lawn mower on its lowest setting.

Blackout Part 2
There was a blackout at work when I was on the toilet. Finally, justification for never going in there without my phone. Plus some poop jokes.

House Penises
I was going to do a whole photo series of houses in different suburbs of Sydney who all have adornments like this.

Cheese and Mars Bars
A long time ago I went to a birthday dinner in Adelaide one Saturday night. I ate a schnitzel with about a kilogram of cheese on top of it, which was oddly enough the catalyst for a long and amusing adventure that led me to the Mars Bar for the first time. The adventure, which I started to write up a few days afterwards, had a lot of cheese puns and I gave up on it after the third “it doesn’t sound funny now, but if you were there.”

Other Stuff

  • An analysis of Kanye West’s 2007 album Graduation where I quoted him saying “All the songs are inspirational; every single word means something.” and then pasted in the lyrics to the album’s song Drunk and Hot Girls.
  • A rant about Scramble with Friends.
  • A depressing recount of saying goodbye to someone who was about to die
  • A study into the different ways that city people walk when they’re in a hurry but don’t want to look like they’re running.
  • An entry where I list all the entries I’ve thought about writing, but given up on ever finishing.

BBall Buddies

One of the good things about being married to Vanessa is that she loves basketball, and she will never complain if I want to watch an NBA game because she will watch it with me. It's great having a wife who you can talk sports with.

Steve Nash was recently traded to the Lakers, and the other day we were talking about the upcoming season and player moves. I don't recall exactly how the subject came up, but we were talking about good players who are white, of which Vanessa said there are zero. We then had a sports debate about her assertion, during which I raised several names of Caucasian NBA players and asked her if they qualified as being good, white NBA players. These were her responses:

Larry Bird? He's actually a golfer.
Dirk? He's black
Nash? He's blacker than Dirk
John Stockton? He doesn't exist.
Dan Majerle? Mark Price? Jerry West? Kevin McHale? All golfers.

I'm looking forward to watching our first Minnesota game this year.

Almost Never

George Street, Sydney is the commercial heart of Australia. All its connecting streets — major roads with names that were given before Australia was even official — are host to countless department stores and shopping arcades. If anything can be bought on the island, you can find it near George Street.

Towering above the microcosm of the Australian retail industry are the skyscrapers. The head office of every major Australian company and brand. The banks are all accounted for, competing office towers that eye each other guardedly. The mining companies are there too, plus there’s the Vegemite Building, Hahn Square, Bonds Plaza. Anyone who does business in Australia is on George Street, and last Sunday I was there too.

This didn’t actually happen, but I was walking down the street with my wife, touching butts, when a woman with too much makeup and dressed in the most precise of grey suits approached us. She introduced herself as Leslie.
“I represent the head of research for a big five cereal company,” she said. “You’re Brad, right? Of bradism.com”
I nodded.
“Brad, you’ve been identified by our marketing department and our breakfast engineers as a highly commended candidate. How would you like to design your own cereal?”
“What kind of cereal?” I asked, not questioning the legitimacy, only thinking of the combinations.
“This is a greenfields project. You can come up with anything you desire. We want you to come up with the perfect cereal, the next iconic brand.”

As always, Vanessa encouraged me. That afternoon we sat in a workshop at a table lined with executives, engineers and scientists all in expensive suits adorned with silk ties or scarves. I was intimidated, but Vanessa’s reassuring look gave me the self belief I needed.

We began to speak cereal. We covered flakes, oats, bran and fibre. Dried fruit versus protein pieces. Different kind of nuts. The balance of healthiness versus flavour. We went late into the night, refining, revising, drinking coffee after coffee. Vanessa fell asleep on the couch and still we persisted. The city around us, all George Street’s institutional skyscrapers blinked out and went dark as the Earth beneath us blocked the sun’s light. On Monday morning, when the birds were chirping in Hyde Park and the breakfast show hosts began arriving at Martin Place we finally had a design. I called it, “Brad Cereal.” The artists from marketing started sketching drafts of the box. The new recipe was taken to the kitchen-lab where the first ever test batch of Brad Cereal was to be made. It was only appropriate that it was served to us at breakfast time.
Thirty-something executive lined up along a boardroom table, many of the men with their ties flipped over their shoulder. The bowls were presented, covered. The jugs of milk brought in. All waiting to experience the perfect, ultimate cereal.
The CEO was the first to unveil the contents of his bowl, the rest of us waiting politely. His eyes widened. The rest couldn’t handle their suspense. They scrambled to open their bowls, to behold the cereal inside. Some gasped, some cursed. Leslie looked at me, speechless, unblinking. The CEO stood, his wrinkled face pink-red under his thinning silver hair. He huffed in air, preparing for a rage. When he’d sucked in enough oxygen he bellowed, “You idiot! You’ve designed Weet Bix.”

I roused Vanessa and she smiled at me. We held hands as the lift traversed down the fifty-four floors and we walked out of the lobby of the Uncle Tobys Tower and into the near-spring morning sunlight.

Bodysurfing all the way to Spring

image 1132 from bradism.com

Last week I was walking through a car park in Hurstville around sunset and I thought to myself, "weeks are a lot like waves." Sometimes you have big weeks, sometimes you have little ones. Sometimes a week will knock you over and try to drown you, and sometimes you'll barely notice a week has passed. Often you can see an important week coming the way you can see a large wave building on the horizon. The only constant is the rhythm, weeks come, they pass, the rush into shore and fade into nothing.

I guess this makes years like beaches. Every year has the same characteristics, just like all beaches share the same basic template. Every beach has a horizon and a shore. Every beach has waves. Sometimes it's pebbly and overcast and far from the city, sometimes the sparkle of the blue waters reflects on the glass facades of the hotels and resorts that tower over the shoreline.

Which I reckon, makes tides like seasons. Predictable and powerful, temperature goes up, temperature goes down, sun comes out, sun stays away. Water-level rises, water-level falls.

That, I believe, makes me like a starfish, because when I was fourteen I wrote a poem in Year 8 English about how I was like a starfish.

image 1133 from bradism.com

If weeks are waves and years are beaches and I'm a starfish then that must mean that birthdays are like the dioecious reproduction of non-asexual asteroidea, because its only once a year that we release gametes through gonoducts to fertilise the buoyant eggs.
If similes are like metaphors.

Today's Weather from Forster, NSW

Forster Birthday

It would be nice if every work day was like this at 5pm

image 1758 from bradism.com


image 1759 from bradism.com

I tried to take a photo of beach feet. This is instead a photo of beach feet plus head.

image 1760 from bradism.com

It's a simple place

image 1761 from bradism.com


image 1762 from bradism.com

We went on many walks over the weekend. The longest was also the most visually dull, because, I didn’t read the map well enough and sent us on a 14km walk down a fire track that went nowhere, every metre of which looked like this.

image 1763 from bradism.com

Full of Ice Cream

image 1764 from bradism.com

Coffee at Sunset with our good friend

image 1765 from bradism.com

Birthday Cupcake Making

image 1766 from bradism.com

Delicious Aging

image 1767 from bradism.com

Forster Nightfall

image 1768 from bradism.com

99 Days - New Record!

For those who don't know, I celebrated an important milestone this week. That is, I finished the last flake in the final box of the full series of Uncle Tobys Plus that I started eating on June 1st. It has been a winter of pluses. The final box to fall was, predictably, Essentials for Women. It's not that I feel girly eating it, I just don't really dig the dried berries clusters. Also it makes me cry during sad parts of Cougar Town.

To make up for eating a big bowl of Essentials for Women this morning I commenced my new habit of blow drying my hair before work. Wait, that's also girly. I didn't blow dry my hair because of the cereal. I used the hair drier because I've started using Vanessa's shampoo and the heat activates the chemicals in the conditioner. Ah, shit. This is spiralling badly. I did go to the office today with close to 48 hour beard growth, which in terms of boundaries is the equivalent of the West Bank of acceptable stubble. I last shaved on Sunday night... so that I would have stubble for eating Essentials for Women on Tuesday.

Man, cereal, stubble... this entry is a Lego Phocumentary reference away from being a killer entry for anyone playing the Bradism.com drinking game.


What's the most spring about this photo? Is it the first green shoots of life, budding on the tips of this previously skeletal tree? Or is it the lingering sunset in the west that provided the light for this photo taken after five o'clock? Or was it the massive erection I sported while taking it?

What's the most spring about this photo? Is it the first green shoots of life, budding on the tips of this previously skeletal tree? Or is it the lingering sunset in the west that provided the light for this photo taken after five o'clock? Or was it the massive erection I sported while taking it?