on the way home from a gruelling day at class and work
It saddens me to realise that we live in a world where the average person no longer feels safe in their community and in their daily lives. We lived in the Stone Ages, then the Middle Ages, the Industrial Age, the Information Age and now, the Terrorism Age. We are confronted by images of terrorism each day and do what we can to put it away in the *don't bother me* section of the brain; but not anymore. It is time that we, as a society face up to this terrible and harsh reality that is terrorism fuelled by who else than terrorists, people that strike terror into everyday living.
I finished class one night and waited, as always, for a late running train. Fed up of standing around and hoping for the best, I geared myself up for a bit of train station hopping. This only further delays the inevitable of standing around waiting for the above mentioned late running train. Anyway, it was a cool night and what would happen will continue to haunt me until I get my Platinum Visa. It was a terrible and shocking experience. I waited fourty minutes for a train. Wait, there is more. After standing for that amount of time, I walked into a carriage and was curious as to why everyone was looking up the stairs towards the top section of the train. I looked too and noticed empty seats and thought everyone was a fool for standing up. So I climbed the stairs and sat down on an empty chair. When the doors started to close on the train, someone fat, hairy and kinda smelly person got up from behind me, walked past and stood at the top of the stairs. He turned around, closed his eyes and brought his hands together and......oh the terrible memories.....started to pray.
I had caught the cult train.
Everyone looked like those people who belong in cults; ugly with unwashed hair, unkept clothes and that empty look in their eyes that said all the answers in the world were with their leader. People who would wear white socks with black shoes if the leader ordered them.
I looked on in shock as everyone else around me started to pray along with him and started to realise why there where empty seats. Not one to endure another fifteen minutes on my feet, I decided it was my right to sit on the train and but not my decision to suffer this batant act of terrorism and believe, I was in a paralysed state of terror.
Not being an overly religious person and not wanting to be raped into their cult, I instintively pulled the most viceful thing I had, esquire magazine. This brought a sense of comfort for a few minutes and then the singing started. It wasn't hymms or anything remotely pop; it was something like that Hilsong cult; all happy and twisted and...it makes me sick thinking about it. It was disgusting and I sat petrified. I had never experienced such fear in my life. I frozed and looked on in horror as that fat ugly guy at the front of the carriage started to walk down the aisle and handing out pamplets to people. I had no where to go and unlike those whimpy mormons, I wasn't looking for a confrontation.
The noise they were generating not only made me fearful, but more importantly, embarrassed. Embrassed that others on the train might have thought I was part of their cult, regardless of how well I dressed and looked. So what could I have done? Not much, except that I pulled out my new mobile phone, plugged in the earphones and listened to "Hey Miss Hilton, you must be worth a trillion bucks, get the feeling you don't really give a fuck" and yes, I didn't give a fuck. I felt protected by the music that was coming from my phone. This gave me strength and confidence so when that fat guy arrived at my seat, I looked up him and retuned my gaze back to esquire. Not getting the message, he thrusted the pamplet in front of me and placed it on my esquire, my precious magazine. So I tilted my trust magazine up to ensure the pamplet will slide away. It did.
Those terrorist should be arrested and sent to Tasmania. How dare they force their religon on me. How dare he force me to take that pamplet. How dare he didn't give me the choice of saying no; that is the precise reason why I have different credit cards, choice. To deny one of choice is an act of terrorism. But don't ask me who they were or what they believed in, because like Mis Hilton, I don't give a fuck.
on the way to see if I can get a subscription to esquire
A few years ago, we were inundated with really bad television. Think of cheaply made sitcoms, soapies and talkies. We then fell into the charms and dare I say, realism of reality TV with most tv shows full of survivor-esq themes. And for a very long prolonged period, we endured the torture and consequence of Sydney's astronomical housing bubble - the home renovation show. Along with that, shows to teach Australians how to cook and eat well with people like Jamie Oliver no longer belonging to the indie network that is the ABC.
And now, it is talent shows that have captivated the imagination and ratings of viewers. Not the one-dimensional contestants on those singing shows, but the numerous talents of the stars of The Simple Life - Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. Through them, their talent has shown us how not to drive, how not to fish, how not to dress, how not to cook and how not to pay for food.
And now, their talents has given us a new skill - how to take criticism.
Overhead in a L.A. cafe: -
"She called me a slut?" asks Paris Hilton, more curious than incredulous.
So don't take criticism as criticism, try and interpret them as compliments, albeit quasi-compliments.
on the way to buy some baked goods for morning tea
Someone once famously said "I have a dream," and I'm pretty sure that the person was some sort of celebrity because of the frankness and clarity of the phrase, probably a pop star. Anyway, I have a dream, rather, I had a dream, albeit it was more of a nightmare than a dream. It is not very often that I remember what I have dreamt, but this one particularly left me in a fickled state of shock and desperation. I can still feel the fear and horror I had subconsciously experienced.
What was the dream? Well, I was at a petrol station, filling up my new shiny black car thinking about whether I should use those supermarket petrol discount vouchers when the pump broke down and I overfilled the car with the excess petrol splashing out.
To truly understand the dream, let me explain some quirks about me. First, I never put my wallet in the back pocket, rather, I hold it my right hand because I have never felt comfortable sitting on something so expensive and I also do it to elicit those priceless looks of "Is that real?" from wannabes. Furthermore, I also try to balance the value of the accessories that I wear. Naturally, I wear my watch on the left hand so I need to balance it on my right hand with the wallet and bracelet and soon, the Cartier ring. This is called equilibrium, it exists in chemistry, accounting and the in economy and it also exists in what I wear.
Another thing that I hold in my hand is my new mobile phone. For some reason, I have never appreciated the concept of wearing a radiation transmitting device so close to your private bits. Call it prudence or call it perculiarity, that is me. Also, I have never got use to the idea of using vouchers, whether it be for food, discounts or fragrance, the idea of getting something for free for nothing is too complex to comprehend. Surely there is a catch...
And the last vital piece of information is that I absolutely hate and try to avoid public embarrassment, much like how I avoid the original inhabitants of Australia. If given the chance, I will try to prevent a PDE, Public Display of Embarrassment. And that incident of the petrol overflowing, it qualifies as a PDE. Oh the shame!
So that was the dream. And the nightmare? Petrol splashed over my wallet, damaging the monogram, which, naturally, I was holding in my hand. The horror! The shock! The pain! The despair! The tragedy! Oh, it hurt so much. It was the perfect storm - a scenario combining the things that I fear - embarrassment and damage to my treasured acquisitions. Throw in a robbery and an original inhabitant of Australia and it will then be called suicide.
But an after thought came me, I can afford to buy another one and for that matter, I can afford to buy another one in Paris. Truly uplifting. So, believe when I say this, whenever you have a dream, don't live it, don't believe it and above all, don't go to someone who has the ability to interpret it.
On the way to buy cheap post moon festival moon cake
I was at work the other day when a song started to play on the radio. It is not very often I am distracted by the music, especially when I’m doing something important such as stats analysis or ebay’ing or reading this blog – but this song definitely caught my attention and even now, I’m trying to download it illegally so I can put it on my iPod (mini or regular), which I want for my birthday, the silver colour of course. So I sat there, in my cubicle, entranced by the lyrics with all the words holding meaning and depth in my otherwise lack of depthness (a term I coined as euphemism for shallowness) existence.
Again, it is not very often I’m touched by words and I really want to share this song with you, so I’ll reproduce it verbatim for you:
“I’ve got a plan to make me rich and famous,
Lucky for me, for you it’s a bitch you ain’t in,
My plans are slowing changing,
Fame is so contagious.
I’m willing to sleep my way to the top,
I wanna be popular,
I don’t wanna keep my feet on the ground,
I wanna be popular.
I must confess,
I’ve been a very bad boy,
Been sleeping around,
Talk of the town,
My name is….
tyarrhea”
Darren Hayes – Popular
And again, I’ve showed a side of my persona that I am not proud of – my lack of commitment to ensuring that this blog stays up to date with the inflows and outflows of my life. Not much has occurred over the previous fortnight – I am still cruising through life as always. I have been wining and dining at flashy places and not so flashy places and am ever more falling in love with myself, call me the embodiment of narcissism if you will. For example:
I had a beebeeque the other night as well. It had been a while since I had a serious charcoal induced indigestion so I decided to conduct a beebeeque at the most inappropriate time, just before sitting down to dinner. You see, I have this bad habit of thinking about what I want to eat the next night, which usually centres on establishments such as establishment, longrain and kwongs, right before I eat dinner for the day. My therapist calls this a survival mechanism because without food, there is nothing else to live for (accepting the fact that food is luxury and luxury is anything designer and expensive, in other words, food and luxury is mutually inclusive.) And it also just happened that I was having dinner with friends after my initial plans fell through because some people feel sick of a serious illness called tight-arsedness. Anyway, not wanting to be rude to the people at the table, I had to invite those sitting with me and some others. Apologises to those who didn’t get invite – the consolation, next time. Anyway, like all my dinners, my beebeeque was no exception to the rule of quality and good taste. Congrats to those who came, who experienced something special, my cooking.
So I leave you again, ever more perplexed and confused. But one thing is for sure, I need a holiday.
