There are days when the plethora of information that constantly revolves around my addled brain seems to require one of those futuristic virtual computers where gesticulating in the air induces some sort of pseudo-psychic interface that manages to translate the verbal maze in your brain into a neat typewritten sheet.
Unfortunately, reality tends to dictate otherwise.

Consider this. Your behaviour is a result of your immediate musical environment, and your iPod is indirectly responsible for the bizarre discourse that confronts you when you least expect it.

For example, let's say your initial intention is to perhaps write a paragraph or two about your friend's new partner, or why you decided to get a tattoo on the weekend (and why you're going to cut back on drinking Tequila with strangers), or maybe how anyone could ever enjoy eating those black jellybeans that taste suspiciously like roll-on deodorant.
However, despite all best intentions, what usually results is 15 paragraphs about the girl you met in Bali that fateful summer, or alternatively, a heartfelt confessional about the ongoing destruction of our planet or the epic futility of existence.

Here's why. Don't listen to emotive music while you write.

Don't believe me? Here's a simple experiment. Try writing anything that's intended to be light and humourous whilst listening to 'The Scientist'.
Finished?
Ok, now kill the iPod for a sec and re-read what you just wrote.

Staring back at you will be a tear-stained diatribe on why your last relationship should never have ended (Oh God, it was so wrong but it was so right..), all those wonderful things you used to do together (that thing we used to do at that cafe we both loved), and why you ever let them go in the first place (they cheated on you with your flatmate, dumb ass).
Congratulations, you've just been emotionally hijacked by Chris Martin.

Oh, and while you're at it, quit staring at your mobile. You know they stopped returning your calls months ago.

You get a similar result listening to Marilyn Manson. Ten seconds into the opening strains "If I Was Your Vampire", and your writing has probably stopped altogether because you're now Googling 'Euthanasia for Young Adults', or possibly carving the words 'kill me' into your forearm with a letter opener.
Interestingly enough, research has shown that a similar 'Google' search response occurs when listening to Frente, but this appears to be motivated more by the extreme desire to never have to listen to that shit again.

However, on the flipside (to use the vernacular), there are tracks out there that consistently uplift the soul, cause light to shine through the darkest of moods, and conjure images worthy of a hastily-scribbled letter to Penthouse Forum.

From a DJ's perspective, here are my own personal selections.

If you've never heard them, go buy them.

Sunworshipper - Milo
You..a sun-drenched beach, glistening bodies recline on the white sand...the sun reflecting off the the waves of the limpid, turquoise water. A salt encrusted cocktail in your hand...

Lovin' You More (Mosquito Chill Remix) - Steve Mac
Lazy Sundays in bed on a warm summer day, french doors open to the ocean, white sheets, croissants, coffee....

Blue Monday - Nouvelle Vague
A dimly lit secluded club, a glance across a room, eyes communicating more than words could ever express.
A mental snapshot that will never ever fade.

Boogie 2Nite (Big Love Remix) - Bootyluv
Don't think.
Don't talk.
Take their hand.
Never look back.

Fly Away - Jean Claude Ades
It's 2AM. Everyone looks incredible...hands are raised to the ceiling...you are transported.
This track always gives me goosebumps.
Listen to it loud.

At Night (Afterlife Remix) - Shakedown
Recumbent on a couch in a dark corner. There is no one else in the world at this moment. A single touch takes my breath away...
Latin atmosphere perfected.

I was chatting with a mate of mine who's recently single about dates we'd been on, and it reminded me of a horror encounter I had a few years ago. So I thought I'd share.

DJ'ing in a bar in Paddington a few years back, this rather attractive girl that had been making eye contact and doing a little flirting throughout the course of the night finally comes up at the end of the evening and asks if she can call me sometime.

She initially came across as a rather nice girl, so I gave her my number and we agreed to meet for a coffee somewhere.
Anyway, she calls me the next morning (some may say this is a little too eager, but I'm not that judgemental), and we arranged that she would pick me up at 5pm at my place in Surry Hills and go to a cafe at Fox Studios the following night.

The next day, she arrives at my place half an hour late with no explanation or apology, but I don't bother saying anything as I had no other plans so technically it hasn't really inconvenienced me that much. Also, I didn't really want to start the date off on a bad note.

So anyway, I'm now sitting in her car. She guns the motor of this poor little Holden Astra like a rally driver with ADD, and we leave the kerb doing about 90kph. Shooting out of a side road into Crown St. without so much as a sideways glance, we proceed to weave in and out of traffic like a couple of extras in a Dukes of Hazzard episode.

At this point, I'm seriously starting to wonder whether she chose a sunroof over the more luxurious (and obviously pointless), options such as 'brakes' when she bought the vehicle.

After proceeding to almost tear a hole in the very fabric of space and time, we screech into Fox Studios (I was half expecting her to slide sideways into a parking space, but disappointingly it didn't happen).

The whole ride there, all I could think of was that old line from 'Shitscared' off the Late Show on ABC..

"Were you scared Rob?"
"I'm not wearing the brown underpants for nothing Tommy".

So I finally make it to the cafe/bar alive, and order a coffee. The waiter then asks madam what she would like.
"A toblerone", she replies.
For those that haven't had one of these particular conconctions before, they're a heady mixture of Frangelico, Baileys, Kahlua and cream.
Oh, and they're also $15 a pop.

During the next 90 minutes of her berating me about how 'high maintenance she is' (yes, she actually told me that), how she 'doesn't sleep with guys until she's known them for at least six months', that she's 'looking for someone that "ticks all the boxes"', she proceeds to drink six of these cocktails, whilst yours truly has two lattes.
In hindsight I probably should have consumed some form of hard liquor to stop my hands from shaking, but nevertheless..

As we were sitting on a couch in front of the open fire, the conversation eventually degenerated into me staring into the flames pondering possible escape routes while she waffled on about her perfect man, her nail art and various other riveting topics.
Eventually my ears start to bleed, so I decide to tell her I have to work that night so we might need to get going.

So now the bill arrives, and it's close to $100.

She's now sitting there staring at her nails (with half-glazed eyes), at this point, obviously expecting me to pay, so I do the chivalrous thing and put a ten dollar note on the bill tray, tell her I'm going to the bathroom and I'll see her outside.
In the bathroom, I call my best mate to come and get me as there's no way I'm getting a lift home from this (now extremely inebriated), lunatic. Before I know it, I start telling him about the whole horror scenario, and after he's stopped laughing hysterically, I realise I've been on the phone for about 20 minutes.

I walk out of the bathroom after this extended delay to find my 'date' (and I do use the term loosely), now asleep on the couch in front of the fire.

Being the gentleman that I am, I hurriedly retrieve a post-it note from one of the bar staff, scribble "THANKS FOR THE COFFEE", and gently place it on her forehead, before hightailing it to my friend's waiting car.

All fun and games.

Let me just say, Ben is a friend of mine, and a really great guy. I like him.

But on the weekend, he made what I would term a 'slight error in judgement'.

You see, Ben went out on Saturday with his friends, but made the mistake of falling asleep before anyone else did.

Poor Ben.

..I am so fucking normal it's not funny.

http://grouphug.us/

This is the most weird/scary/funny/disturbing/unusual stuff I've read in a long time.


You have been warned.

Boy, am I tired. I hate starting off Mondays like this. The kids stayed over last night, and Pip (my 2yr. old), decided at 2:20 in the morning that she wasn't really interested in sleeping any more and would prefer to wake up the entire apartment by repeatedly kicking the wall next to the bed whilst requesting various flavours of cordial in an increasingly whiny voice.

*thump*
"Can I have some Strawberry?"........"Go to sleep Pippa"
*thump*
"Straaawwwwwbeerrrrreeeeeeeee!"........"We don't have any Strawberry Pip"
*thump*
*thump*
*thump*
"Raspberry!"........"GO. TO. SLEEP!"
"Oran.."........"NO!"
*thump*
*thump*
*thump*
*thump*
*thump*

This assailment lasted for 45 minutes before she fell asleep exhausted.

Lucky for me I managed to stay awake for the next half hour thinking about what I had to do today.

Somehow, Connor managed to sleep through the whole thing. What a gift.

Being the absolute trooper that I am, even in this sleep-deprived state I will soldier on regardless. Therefore (inkeeping with the true spirit of the Australian public service work ethic), I have read my emails, drunk 2 cups of coffee and surfed numerous pages on the Interweb trying to find a new set of tail lights for my car. I think I want the LED ones.

---

B-Bar was fun on Saturday. Went a bit hard after 2AM and dragged out stuff like Sander Kleinenberg's Remix of 'Muscle Car', and the Axwell & Ingrosso version of Hi-Tack's 'SOS'. Seemed to go down pretty well 'cos we didn't close till about half 3. Was Timmy's birthday and also his last weekend in the 'Berra, so I'm glad it all turned out nice 'n that. Apparently he was last seen running naked down the main street of Kingston yelling something about "hating Rolf Harris and his fucking jukebox"..

I've also promised myself I'm going to put together a new CD this week with all the dirtiest tracks I've got (think along the lines of 'Club Therapy' by Peace Division if you know it). This should keep seb happy for a while at least.

Keep on truckin'.

I don't normally post about what I've been up to on a day-to-day basis due to past meanderings through other people's journals. The main reason I choose not to go down this particular path is that the dangerously high adrenalin levels resulting from a painfully detailed explanation of How To Apply Conditional Formatting in Excel, or the best way to cook a Turducken may prove fatal to individuals with a weak disposition. And quite frankly, I can't afford to take that chance.
I'm keeping it real.
Foshizzle.

However, just for today (hurry, stocks are limited), I will forgo my usual rather awkward observations on stuff and stray briefly, as it would appear that the majority of readers of this journal are drawn together by a mutual love of house music and clubbery. Alternatively, if you were to enjoy this particular pastime dressed in fetish gear, it would be rubbery clubbery. Or if you were out on a Saturday evening dressed in nothing but leaves and twigs, it would be shrubbery clubbery....And so on and so forth.
But I digress.

This weekend was incredibly enjoyable from a DJ'ing perspective. I know people like Seb, Troy and Richie will understand exactly what I mean when I say that 'everything just came together'. There were times on Saturday when I felt I could do no wrong. A tweaked acapella of 'Bust A Move' over the top of a looped intro to 'Bimbo Nation' really worked, that new Sarah Mcleod track absolutely rocked it, and a remix of 'Somebody Told Me' by the Killers just tore it up (with a shout out to Timmy here). Even threw in the acapella of 'Pump Up the Jam' over 'No More Conversations' and that went down a treat.

And if that wasn't enough, I had a fantastic Sunday with my kids where we dressed up as superhoeroes, played many many rounds of 'Stax On!" and generally acted like idiots. How could you not love that.

Oh, and I finally caved in and bought one of these.

And a King size bed and mattress.

I love weekends.
And by all accounts, Seb does as well.

Being the overly critical creature that I am, I've never really held my own writing in very high regard. I tend to look at other people's work and get the impression that (comparatively speaking), what I produce resembles the textual version of takeaway food.
However, after quite an interesting (and rather cathartic), chat with some close friends of mine on the weekend, my grammatical self-confidence has been boosted quite significantly.
Again, thank you to those responsible. You know who you are.

Buoyed by this intrepidity, I have therefore decided to take the plunge and embark on something I've been promising to do for a number of years. A journalism course. Granted I will have to do it online, as my current schedule of trying to complete a project management diploma whilst working full time five days a week plus DJ'ing Fri and Sat night leaves me just about enough time to shower in the mornings, give myself a nasty case of indigestion, then drive like to work like a P-plater on crystal meth. The other consequence of this situation is that if I spend too long in the shower, the time required to put on pants becomes a luxury I can ill afford.
Oh well, you can't say I'm not making friends.
*fade to black*

*fade in*
....It's one week later, where I'm now in the process of perusing the mountain of glossy correspondence that has arrived on my doorstep. Having only applied to five schools, I am staggered by the sheer volume of  propaganda that stands between me and literary greatness. Somewhere an Amazonian pygmy silently weeps.

Nevertheless, I pick up a pamphlet, and pore over the various benefits and life-changing opportunities afforded within. The phrase "hurry, numbers are limited!", leaps off the page at me. I resist the almost Pavlovian response to crash-tackle my phone and immediately start dialling the toll-free number before the millions of others clamouring for the course snap up the few remaining available spots.
I also fail to 'hurry while stocks last!!', get in the slightest bit upset that I will 'never see deals like this again!!", or lose any sleep at all over the fact that 'my business is their priority'.

In the process of marvelling at the testimony of 'Andrew from Adelaide', who recently completed the course and landed a job with a newspaper almost immediately, I am also awestruck by the attestations included by 'Lindsay of Albury', who is about to have her first work published in a nationally syndicated magazine.
Of course, I do have a sneaking suspicion that Andrew is probably working as a dishwasher in the Fairfax cafe, and Lindsay will be forced to go to ground after the majority of her friends realise she's written a piece on 'the joys of erotic asphyxiation' for Zoo magazine.
Nevertheless, I shall persevere.

At this point, I feel it only pertinent to ask the readers of this sporadically updated journal to offer their own opinions, suggestions or criticisms regarding this idea.
Please, be blunt, be frank, but most of all, be honest.  I'm a big boy, and I can take it.

And besides, anti-depressants are only a doctor's visit away.

<sup>So anyway...I was reading the morally thought-provoking scribblings of my journalistic ally daria_33ski, as doing this seems to facilitate my living the "Extreeeeeeeeeeeeeeme!!!*" side of life vicariously through her, what with all the talk of snowboarding, partying and general shenaniganery.

Unfortunately, said adrenalin-charged compositions seem to only further highlight the rather pathetic fact that the closest I've been to "Extreeeeeeeeeeeeeeme!!!" lately is running down a slippery driveway in Havaianas.

....which leads smoothly (or if you're wearing said Havaianas, skids awkwardly, lurches into a wheely bin and ends up face down in a pot plant), down the path of my next point.


Why is it when certain people (okay, I'll put it out there....Americans), travel overseas on holiday and need to ask for directions, they firmly believe that if any habitant of another nation does not speak their language, the best solution is to speak louder and slower, and address them as if they're now dealing with someone that's slightly mentally retarded.
As I've already stated, this only applies if you were born in the U.S., but the above method apparently allows these people to communicate in any language, and hence the foreigner who has been staring blankly whilst the short hairy man in Bermuda shorts furiously gesticulates and makes (what they consider to be), rather lifelike train noises for the past five minutes will now miraculously understand every word. Hence the following verbal exchange..

Bermuda Guy : (Whilst making 'woowoo' noises and rotating their forearm in a circular motion), "Hey, where's the train station?"

Foreigner : "Estoy apesadumbrado, yo no hablo inglés"

Bermuda Guy's Wife : "Sweetie, I don't think he understood you.."

Bermuda Guy : "That's ok honey, I got it covered"

Foreigner : ¿Puedo ahora ir?

Bermuda Guy : DO...YOU....KNOW......WHERE....IS.....EL.....TRAINO.....STATIONO...?"

Foreigner : "Oh right yes, it's about four blocks down, turn right and it's the first on your left"

Bermuda Guy : "THANK....YOU"...

Foreigner : *cough* "Fuck you very much" *cough*

Bermuda Guy : "I'm sorry?"

Foreigner : "Va a casa, usted hombre estúpido.."

Bermuda Guy's Wife : "Oh he's so cute honey...can we keep him?.."


Dumb yanks.

Here endeth my anti-american diatribe.


Oh, an on a more sombre note, Steve Irwin, even with his quirkiness, self aggrandisement and in-your-face personality was still a champion for the cause of all animals, and for that he will forever have my ultimate respect. He is an irreplaceable character, and my deepest sympathies go out to his family.

We'll miss you Steve, you were (to use the Australian vernacular), a bloody legend.





* This phrase must be shrieked in conjunction with the following hand gesture (see below):</sup>

<sub>Hmmm...apparently I resemble Charlize Theron....could be worse I guess..

By the way..that's me trying to look windswept and interesting.</sub>

A WebChat with Stevie Wonder

_{MODERATOR: We'll begin. All questions and responses are moderated, mind you! First question is from RuggaTug22.}

_{RuggaTug22: OMG!}

_{MODERATOR: Go ahead RugaTug22.}

_{RugaTug22: First of all, let me just say that I am honored to chat with you! Your music has been so inspirational and a major part of my}

_{STEVIE: dwf}

_{RugaTug22: life for as long}

_{STEVIE: weq23}

_{RugaTug22: as I can remember. In fact, when I married my}

_{STEVIE: awdfk sc dsadd}

_{RugaTug22: wife}

_{STEVIE: ZXqasd=oge\]p}

_{STEVIE: x}

_{RugaTug22: Uh??????}

_{MODERATOR: Go ahead RugaTug22.}

_{RugaTug22: When I married my wife, the song we chose to start the reception}

_{STEVIE: krgqe}

_{STEVIE: f}

_{STEVIE: ;'}

_{RugaTug22: ?????????????????????}

_{MODERATOR: Hold on RugaTug22.}

_{RugaTug22: What's the deal?}

_{MODERATOR: Hold on.}

_{STEVIE: c, .v}

_{MODERATOR: Hold on...}

_{RugaTug22: ?}

_{MODERATOR: I'm sending him an IM, hold on.}

_{STEVIE: ,mm=}

_STEVIE:

_{STEVIE: jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj}

_{STEVIE has left the chat.}

_{MODERATOR: We have Kevin Federline next week.}

_{***THIS CHAT HAS BEEN TERMINATED BY THE MODERATOR***}

_{Okay. Here's one thing that's always defied explanation for me.}

_{Why is it that girls that have, shall I say, 'amply proportioned gluteii' and yet choose to wear those skin-tight black gym pants honestly believe that by tying a bulky jumper around their waist this will effectively camouflage the body part in question?}

_{Now call me a a bit of a realist here, but I'm fairly sure that coating your bum in something that looks like it started it's life as a black proctologists glove with some of the fingers missing is not going to be the most flattering fashion scenario for any female self-conscious about her own figure.}

_{Given the already tenuously sartorial situation above, why on earth would you combine that with the unwanted attention of a midriff-secured 'Daryl Somers special'?}

<sub>Monday is here again.
Only this time it's a little...different.

The past weeks have found me to be quite disaffected by my current role. Now (with a nod in Will Shakespeare's direction), here's the rub; this was ironically due to my having done a middle management course, and from said learning crystallised my own ideas of what should form the basis of effective management. The end result was that I started to question my own immediate superior's ethics and methods.
One doesn't really need to don a cloth cap and wander around peering at things with an oversized magnifying glass to realise I didn't much like the results.

Initially I did have my own tentative ideas, but these were later clarified by what I learned during the course, that a chasm roughly the size of (this should keep the male readership of my journal interested), Jessica Alba's cleavage exists between what comprises a 'Manager', and a 'Leader'.
And unfortunately I want to be led...and inspired...and motivated, not just managed.

My initial solution to all this was just to sit idly by until my productivity curve resembled one of those water slides that are capable of inducing a few seconds of freefall, but culminate in you trying to retrieve your board shorts/bikini bottoms from the crack of your bum in front of a crowd of complete strangers. However, instead of this, I decided to clasp destiny firmly by its Morrissey lapels (my destiny has its own stylist), and wandered into the office of another director on the flimsy pretext of saying hello and commenting on what a lovely view of the construction site he had. End result; I commence in his team in around 4 weeks.
Yes, dear reader, there is now light at the end of the corporate tunnel for yours truly.

And contrary to popular belief, it's not an approaching locomotive.</sub>

<sub>I was looking at Dar's car. Which is way cool.

And then I realised I'd banged on a bit about mine.

So i'm taking a leaf out of her book.

Here's 2 pics of what I bought with my hard-earned beans. I hope you like it.</sub>

It's a rather disgruntled form that greets you this morning. I feel a little like 'lumpy' (my human beanbag representative), down there.

Perhaps it's the fact that I'm listening to 'Premiers Symptomes' by Air at the moment.
It's a well-known fact that 9 out of 10 doctors advise against listening to French house music if your mood can be classed as anything but ecstatic (or 'enthousiaste', if you prefer to use the Gallian vernacular). I'm tempted to wonder if that last disagreeable Doctor knows something we don't. My guess is he's probably got some deep-seated French patriotism that needs to be worked through. Or possibly a penchant for vanilla Yoplait.

Even thought I may have inadvertently explained the mood differential of one unfortunate garlic snail-eating GP, none of the above musical (and perhaps slightly philosophical), verbal meanderings shed any light on explaining my rather bland state of mind.
However, I shall try and rise above it for a brief time (what am I, manic depressive?!), and regale you with positive things that have happened recently.

I bought a car. It's quite a nice car. A car that doesn't have an oversized playboy symbol on the rear window, a bumper sticker proclaiming that any girl with a prodigious body mass would unfortunately be precluded entry, or a baseless claim that I do in fact 'own the road'.
No, this car just sits there at the traffic lights and in it's own understated way quietly lets you know that it feels real empathy for you and your Barina and wishes there was something it could to help but unfortunately it's hands are tied.
In fact, I'm sure if it did have hands it would put them around your car and give it one of those hugs that someone gives you after you've just hurt yourself rather badly whilst attempting to show off in front of your friends.
Oh, and it has leather seats. Which raises yet another thought-provoking question.
Why is it people strive to buy a car with the above luxury option, but given the much more cost effective alternative of driving around whilst wearing a pair of leather pants (which I'm told is rather similar), would rather take as job as Anna-Nicole Smith's interpreter than suffer that particular indignity?.
I think there's something in that for all of us.

Last weekend was also my little guy's 4th birthday. This incredibly exclusive (black diaper only), social event was held last Sunday at KidCity (much better than the originally slated name 'Juvenile Hall', which unfortunately didn't have quite the same ring to it).
A grand total of 18 children gained access to the party. Security was extremely tight on the day, with a number of children being refused entry due to them failing the ID requirements. Unfortunately, a signed crayon drawing of a dog standing next to a house with the sun shining over it cannot be classed as adequate.
There was also some initial confusion with the security team when one of the Fisher Price walkie talkies failed, but this was quickly resolved when fresh batteries arrived shortly after.
Naturally the paparazzi made their presence felt, with the main question being who Connor was bringing to the event. After speaking with his publicist the day before, he decided to play it safe and come with his parents. In hindsight, a very wise move from a publicity standpoint.
Lunch was held in the 'Space' room, and the view of the the entire galaxy during the meal was spectacular.
Even though the context is extremely tempting, I shall refrain from doing the usual 'Uranus' joke here, due to the age group involved.
Connor received a number of extremely thoughtful and fun presents, all of which have now been reduced to wires, bits of plastic and tiny lego blocks and stacked in completely irrelevant piles in his room.
I'm assuming at some point I will need to reconstitute these items.
Maybe I'll build a Lego time machine.

Well, my blood sugar level is dropping rapidly, so I'm off. I hope (dear reader), that this has given you another insight into the inner workings of my mind. Or possibly amused you for a few minutes.

Hmm...wonder if the cafe sells Yoplait...

This is a cold, cold town. It seems the more glacial Canberra gets, the more lethargic I become.
Alternatively, my mind is also a little overcast today, so that could explain these feelings of malcontent. I'm sure a tropical climate would be far more conducive to productivity.
Well, mine anyway.

More often these days, I sit and contemplate whilst staring out of the window (yes, it's a well known fact that these two activities go hand-in-hand), the fact that I could be home in bed. Or better yet, piggybacking my kids around the beach of some far-flung Hawaiian atoll with my only worries being which pool will be warmer today (usually the one with the highest concentration of small children - to be avoided), or where to have our lunch delivered; the beach or the Cabana.
Unfortunately at this point, someone normally arrives at my desk and brings me back from this reverie with an inane question about budget projections or software packaging.
Thankyou so much, kind stranger.

It could also be a 'grass is always greener' scenario.
Perhaps people in Rio De Janeiro fantasise about living somewhere overcast and grey?
Are their residents sick of having sand and coconut tanning oil covering everything, and long to pull a chunky knitted jumper out of the bottom drawer of the tallboy?
Do their buttocks yearn to be swathed in a pair of grandma-style passion killers instead of something resembling cotton dental floss that occasionally need to be removed surgically?
Who knows.

Speaking of knitted jumpers (seems like a good segway to me); what in the name of all things holy is Daryl Somers doing back on television? I thought he was dead.
Admittedly his complexion does bear a striking resemblance to someone that has been frozen and thawed out recently.
Perhaps Channel Nine have their own secret cryogenics lab, and intend to roll out Graham Kennedy in the near future for an "Hilarious Family-Orientated Variety Show"'.
I can hardly wait.

Nick and I nearly got a chance to play at being idiots in front of a large crowd this weekend, but unfortunately it didn't eventuate as the siren song of B-Bar beckoned. Would have been kinda cool though. Especially when he realises I'm not actually a real DJ, and only own three vinyl records and a CD that I found on the front of a Dolly magazine.
Still, it's surprising how far the 'Ghostbusters' soundtrack, 'Best of Cold Chisel' and 'Summer Sampler '2003' will get you in this town.



Hey, don't forget to remember our diggers on Anzac Day either.
They died to make our country what it is today. In my humble opinion, one of the best places in the world to live.
So spare them a thought.

K, that's my patriotic diatribe over. Now go enjoy yourselves.

Well, after much cajoling and prodding, I have decided to revisit my journal.
Much has happened since my last entry, so I shall attempt to plumb the psychological innards of my very being and display them before you like some bizarre human smorgasbord. I imagine it would look something like a Haggis turned inside out.

Lately, I have been in two minds as to whether I'm still enjoying this job. On the one hand, their confidence in my abilities is ever-present and bolstered by an undaunted desire to plug me into any training course that seems vaguely representative of my current role.
However, (and this is the annoying part), I am really starting to doubt whether I'm cut out to be a public servant. I realise this may make me sound extremely elitist (and possibly a little superficial), but I really don't feel like I fit in with the Henrietta Highpants's or Craig Chainsmoker's that seem to make up the general population of this organisation.
"Am I wasting myself?", is the current million-dollar question.

To add weight to the negative, I have daily dealings with people in positions of moderate power that have no clue as to what their role entails, yet harbour little or no desire to increase their knowledge base or skill-set for fear (and here I am assuming), it may entail a higher level of responsibility. Perhaps I am the product of a different mindset, and was born after that 'lifetime of service' generation where people stayed in the same role their entire life. Nothing would make me consider suicide faster should I have to suffer the same fate.
Process of attrition scares me. On the upside, if I stay here long enough I may end up as commissioner.

I'm sure the news that I quit North at the beginning of the year has filtered down to most people in my circle of influence. New Years eve was the icing on the cake for me. I consider myself to be an ok DJ, but don't believe I should have to suffer the slings and arrows (read 'spilt beer and dickheads'), of outrageous fortune. I had been at North for over 2 years, and figured it was time for a change. Fortunately I ran into Nick who gave me a call a few days later and told me they were looking for someone to play at B-Bar on Saturdays. Why is it some things just seem to be predestined. Weird.
So I now do Saturdays at B-Bar. What a venue. What a sound system. People dance! *shakes reader furiously by the shoulders* They dance, do you hear me!. I'm sorry, it's just been a while since I felt like people appreciated what I play.

On a rather melancholy note, my grandfather passed away a couple of weeks ago. He was 93, but even so, it was still unexpected as he was in excellent health for a man his age. Nevertheless, my grandmother is an absolute rock, and has been carrying on with her life with the same degree of voracity. What a trooper.
Not meaning to sound preachy here, but don't put off today what you may not be able to do tomorrow. I'm kicking myself that he never got to see my daughter before he passed away.
Learn from another's mistakes.
Err...I think I hear gospel music coming from somewhere, so I'd better stop.

For those who know me on a personal level, my little girl turns 2 on Sunday. We're having a birthday party, where I believe she will attempt to whack the hell out of a 'Dora the Explorer' piñata until it rains down lollies on her paper-hatted head. Pictures shall hopefully be posted.
Connor started pre-pre school (that's not a typo), about 5 weeks ago. He goes 2 days a week and already has a girlfriend. Apparently her name is Erin and she talks a lot. I'm not sure whether I should be concerned at this point, so I'll play it by ear.

Look at me playing at being a parent. :o)


ok, I think you've had enuff now.

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net