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>