Spare Change: Part 1.

I was just standing around thinking about awesome stuff the other day and this thought popped into my head pertaining to baddies. I'm not talking about villains or people you know and hate for reasons legitimate, I'm talking about REAL baddies.

REAL baddies: A grown or growing adult permitted by the state and it's various laws and sanctions to stop me at any point in time during my travels and ask me for money, blood, semen, more money, my soul or participation in a survey. REAL baddies are unlike homeless people in both appearance and the way that they are sponsored by a collective and given actual incentives to pester me for my income or bodily fluids instead of working purely on commission, like homeless people. REAL baddies are professional beggars for hire who will stop at nothing to strip you of your right to walk anywhere for their own financial gain. They are the real life manifestation of Lucifer himself. They do not care about the cause they are promoting.

You've all encountered one at one or more stages of your lives. Blood donations, deaf appreciation societies, disability recognition, war widow organisations, heart foundations, seeing eye dog chew toy sponsorship, chew toy repair monthly installment plans, World Vision. If it exists, there is someone out there asking you to come out of pocket for it and if you aren't quick enough you'll soon find that your entire weekly wage is paying for new hearing aids for disabled war widows with bad hearts and unsatisfied seeing eye dogs that live in third world countries. Not that there's anything wrong with that. There is so much wrong with that.

Having dealt with real baddies for most of my life (I recall being stripped of my first ever pocket money by a clown with balloons disguised as a member of Telethon, the distribution of balloons a noticeable absence from the transaction) and have gained what some mortals would refer to as a 'seventh sense' for dealing with these snakes in the grass. You can't just walk past them, they'll follow you to the ends of the earth. You can't iDeny them with your headphones, they'll shout, knowing damn well that you can hear them and making you feel like a human stain for not hearing them out. Cross the road? Congratulations, there's more on the other side. I once tried to cross the road after seeing a band of Greenpeace beggars in my path and one of them signaled to a female one and she actually crossed the road and followed me. She was stocky in appearance, her bulging leg muscles a testament to how long she'd been in the begging business.

"Trying to avoid me were you?"

I threw everything I had at her, my kids were in the car, I only had a five minute lunch break, i'm on my way to visit a dying relative, i already work for Greenpeace, i'm deaf and can't hear you. My words bounced off her like Nerf darts on a Challenger 2 battle tank.

"Do you know about Greenpeace?" she casually queried.

I spun quickly and directed a roundhouse sweep towards her shins, she jumped as it rushed past her lower body, leaving me open for a response of the left jab nature. Greenpeace had trained her well, this was not going to be a simple transaction. As i repositioned myself in wake of the roundhouse, I saw a split second window to dodge the fierce left, it's slipstream brushing the right of my face with the speed of an endangered Asiatic Cheetah. In the midst of her attempt I took advantage of her vulnerability, not to launch a second attack, but to locate a point of weakness. As I scanned her short, generous figure I noticed a small cylindrical object cradled under her right arm akin to an emptied out Golden Circle peach slice tin, only covered in pious Greenpeace paraphernalia and slogans in place of Golden Circle's usually approachable imagery. Atop this tin was a small slot fashioned for the deposit of currency no larger than a $2 coin but no smaller than a 10c piece. If i could somehow distract her for long enough i'd have clear view of the tin and a direct shot at her life force.

We were both facing each-other in the middle of the road now, the scene set for our final showdown. A crack of thunder announced an impromptu forecast of rain, lightning and an epic metal soundtrack that was completely necessary. As tumbleweeds rushed past us through fear of becoming caught in the onslaught, Greenpeace lady casually asked me "Do you know the story of the endangered white collared lemur?". Before i could even muster up a thought-provoking response, our swords clashed in an explosion of sparks and sharp sound effects. We had swords now and it was epic. We both jumped back, separated now by two metres of cold, wet tarmac and endless sheets of face-melting sideways rain. We were now strafing to our respective rights and lefts in a circle of instinct and longing for upper hand as I serenaded her with a riddle of my own.

"Do you know the story of not stopping me in the street and asking me for money?".

A powerful wail of the guitar punctuated my statement more than any exclamation mark could ever hope. My words of truth penetrated her shield of denial, sparking blind rage and the fury of a thousand Peter Garretts. Another clap of thunder triggered what would be her final attempt at my demise, her vision clouded by the A-game i had brought to the table on this particular day. As she viciously and carelessly swiped at my being I timed a perfect left roll and before she could even say "dreadlocks" i was on one knee ducking, directing a barrage of currency missiles towards the silo that was her coin tin with unfathomable accuracy. As the coins penetrated the sharp metal mouth of the stronghold, her gun fell to the floor (she had a gun as well), the skies cleared, the guitars faded and the eternal struggle between extinct animals and my weekly income had been dissolved for the time being.

Don't you hate it when people ask you for money?

I love the smell of scandal in the morning.

As i stepped out into the morning's cool embrace like i had done so many times before, an indescribable feeling of loss and unfamiliarity swept over me as a broom would an autumn leaf collage. After a quick examination of my surroundings and a light scan of my memory bank, i realised this sensation was coming from a foreign, yet suddenly life-threatening variable. It was as if i was still the same person, but something terrible had occurred on a universal scale, something that not only affected me on a personal level, but an event of such immense proportion that it had momentarily paused space and time and threatened to send the human race into a downward spiral of conflict and eternal damnation. I felt sick to my stomach as the contents from last night's meal threatened to flee my digestive tract, somehow excusing itself of the moral implications i soon found myself contemplating. I slumped against the cold brick wall of the carport in a sweaty, trembling mess and in one fell swoop the truth hit me like a tonne of the very bricks that were supporting me.

Michael Clarke and Lara Bingle are no longer together.

I awoke to the sounds of chaos and human suffering, the rushed drumming of high heels and leather oxfords on a background of assorted cries for help. Most of the surrounding buildings were now ablaze, the light downpour of unsent faxes a ghastly reminder of human reflex in the face of danger, abandonment of all hope and a single, overpowering instinct for survival. Smoke entered my lungs and nostrils with no remorse as it reduced the once almighty sun to a faint downlight in the black noon sky. My visibility was minimal, an ironic benefit as i was blinded to the omnipresent desperation and fear that had attacked the peace so stealthily, so ruthlessly. The faint scratching of an abandoned car's stereo carved it's way through the surrounding ruckus and pierced my ear as if to deliver a message constructed only for my awareness. It was an Australian accent, not unlike the rambling, truth-dodging rhetoric of our Prime Minister.

"...in the wake of this tragedy.....imperative...remain calm....do not leave your.....once again...confirmed......Bingle.....Clarke have......separated"

The pieces, while broken, formed a crystal clear picture of the truth. Cricket star Michael Clarke and supposed model Lara Bingle had divorced, bringing with them the apocalypse and the most historically significant event ever to occur during our time on this planet. The thought of tribes gathered around campfires and telling the story of this fateful day brushed my conscience, the concept of future generations existing after this providing some relief in the face of impending doom and the collapse of our society. Voices broke my daydream, they were frantic, yet somewhat assertive and echoed reason amongst overwhelming surrender.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, BRENDON FEVOLA TOOK A PHOTO OF HER IN THE SHOWER AND IT SURFACED JUST THE OTHER DAY" a middle aged man announced.

"WAS SHE NUDE?" another, younger voice bellowed.

"APPARENTLY. AS IT SEEMS, MICHAEL CLARKE CAN'T PLAY CRICKET ANYMORE, HIS CAPTAINCY WAS QUESTIONED AND HE ACTED OUT OF ANGER!" the middle aged man replied.

"SO THEY'RE NOT TOGETHER ANYMORE? WHY DIDN'T SHE JUST DELETE THE PHOTO?" queried the young man.

"LOOK AROUND YOU MAN! DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A WORLD WHERE MICHAEL CLARKE AND LARA BINGLE ARE TOGETHER!? IT'S THE END OF EXISTENCE, THE PALE HORSE HAS STRUCK HUMANITY WITH THE SHARP SCYTHE OF THE APOCALYPSE. FORGET THE PHOTO AND LARA BINGLE, OUR MAIN CONCERN NOW IS SCRAMBLING TOGETHER WHAT LITTLE BIT OF LIFE WE ALL HAVE LEFT!! WE MUST TAKE TO THE OCEAN AND BIDE OUR TIME UNTIL THIS ALL BLOWS OVER!!" the middle aged man concluded.

The two men brushed past me, their intention to preserve life an almost selfish ambition amidst the scores perishing around them. The ocean i pondered. When all else fails, look to the ocean. With my last ounce of strength, i wiped the dust from my face with blood-soaked hands. I stared at them for a moment, the focus leaving my sight in waves of blurriness and nausea, the fatigue becoming almost too much to bear. Life or death, the decision a man should never had to make was now the only certainty in my thought process. As i scanned the once bustling metropolis that was our city for one last time, taking in what i could withstand through the thick smoke, i became aware of my destiny.

It's one thing to prosper in the face of death and destruction, but a world where Michael Clarke and Lara Bingle are separated is a world not worth rebuilding.

Thought for the day.

Liking stuff that is cool, but unnecessarily hyped = Conformist.

Something you're into is being hyped up with millions of dollars worth of advertising, explosions and morning show banter? Stop liking it. Because of all that advertising reaching out to the general public whom were once unaware of this particular thing, you're only conforming by enjoying it as well. Time to move on and start liking something that is cool, but still underground.

Liking stuff that is cool, but still underground = Conformist.

Think you're killing it by being aware of something that others aren't aware of? Fill out your membership and join the club, conformer. If you aren't responsible for it's conception or not directly related to it, there's a high probability that you aren't the first person to ever like it. You're the guy that listens to a pop group, reads their biography, finds out who their inspirations are, reads their biography, and evenentually tunnels so deep into the background of said pop group that you end up back at world music, which is the most conformist brand of music of all time. May as well go back to hating everything that you and everyone else used to like.

Hating stuff that everyone likes = Conformist.

It's a little known fact that if you enjoy something, you'll tell five people, but if you hate something, you'll tell ten people. Way to advertise that thing you don't like, conformist douche. Take the easy way out and stick to what you know, hating stuff that begs to be hated on.

Hating stuff that sucks = Conformist.

You know what's more original than hating something that is shit? Not being a conformist chimney sweep butt cleaner.

Liking stuff that sucks because no one else will like it because it sucks = Conformist.

Damn, you almost had it. In your journey to become a non-conformist supremist shitdick, you made one elementary mistake. Liking ANYTHING is conformist, even if it sucks and no one else likes it. You know why it sucks? Because there is a hatred collective that has made it so. You're part of that collective and conforming harder than the kind of conformists that claim non-conformism to appear non-conformist.

Hating everything/Emo = Conformist.

By associating yourself with the Emo lifestyle, you're admitting that you have emotions to begin with, or enjoy music that celebrates and/or shows disdain for emotion. Associating yourself with something that everyone else experiences makes you a conformist sheep asshole. Ps. Emo's aren't even around anymore so not being an Emo is also really conformist.

With all that said, i thought Alice in Wonderland was really good. Johnny Depp is a great actor who is really versatile.

Countdown to sadness.

Who doesn't love a good countdown? Initially invented by NASA as a means of bringing an element of anticipation to their otherwise unbearable shuttle launches, countdowns have evolved into an essential part of every day life, so much so that some people actually stop breathing while they watch them. Top 5 plays of the week. Ten things i hate about you. Triple J's hottest 100. It's a timeless method of sorting the weak from the strong, bringing instant embarassment to whoever is mentioned first and unlimited spoils for the final contestant announced, much like a reverse running race where the competitors have to run backwards from finish to start. There's something really magical about sitting on your ass, relishing in the fact that whoever compiled the list is even more of a time waster than you are, having sifted through a vast collection of songs, videos, reasons to hate something or viral youtube clips and then compiling them in an orderly fashion from the ones that suck the hardest but still somehow made the list, to the ones that are responsible for the list's existence. Once the holy grail is announced, you can walk away satisfied thanks to information that you know you didn't need, or knew already anyway. If the number one isn't what you expected it to be, you've got a conversational cache that'll last as long as the attention spans of you and your friends, which is about as long as an episode of 20 to 1.

Speaking of 20 to 1, i watched it this one time. Supposedly it was an Adults Only special edition because it was a countdown of the scariest movie villains from the horror genre of film. Excited at the prospect of free gore, i willingly sat through the entire episode as Bert Newton and his perfectly round face announced the entrants in a horrifically un-entertaining fashion. What i didn't realise at the time is that the episode in question would feature zero to no gore and i'd have been way more terrified if they just filmed Bert Newton walking around the stage reciting old monologues from his morning show. Then he looks at the camera with that sinister grin like "you know i could eat the world if i wanted to, don't you?". Bert Newton is scary and hilarious, that's why he's been on television for so long.

It's a shame i can't say the same for the long list of forgotten or currently unpopular celebs that throw in their two cents in between every clip. Celebrities whose careers are like that of a freshly caught salmon, jumping around on the cold wet ground as they breathe their last breath and cling on to their final moments in the spotlight. What sane commercial television producer would take something as serious as a countdown and let a bunch of nobodies run rampant through the proceedings, flapping their cake-holes about that one time they hid behind a blanket during that one scary scene they saw that one time? Douchebags, that's who in case you were wondering. There's no comic relief or insightful trivia to be found here, just litres and litres of rage.

Bert Newton: "Swimming in at number 16 is the most feared creature of the deep, on steroids, and i'm not talking about -insert extremely homosexual innuendo.....-"

*Plays JAWS footage, leaves out best bits*

Over-opinionated and crabby ex-news reporter - "Oooohhh, a shark, i'm really scared. Worst movie ever".

Some senior from Woman's Weekly - "After i watched JAWS, i never wanted to go to the beach again! Come to think of it, I went to the beach yesterday, so glad i didn't see JAWS!"

Blonde radio presenter and/or ZOO weekly model - "I was like, oh my god that shark is so plastic. Not back then, back then i was like omg so realisitc! But when i watch it now i'm like, get out of town, that shark is so plastic! Did you know i've been in RALPH magazine?"

Zany host from canned music video program - "That music killed me every time man! How did it go again? *Attempts rendition of JAWS theme, gets notes wrong*.

Some guy i have NEVER seen before - *Attempts rendition of JAWS theme, gets first note correct, bombs on second*

Big Brother contestant - "You're just sitting there and then BLAARRRRRGGGHHHH, something happens! *makes voluntary arm movements towards camera, generalizes disabled people*"

And then you've got the hacks that reveal the end of every movie in between the clips, which is a real shame if you haven't seen every movie ever made and are a general fan of cliffhangers, twists, plots, conclusions and the reasons why you watch movies in the first place.

Bert Newton - "Oh dear, slicing his way into number 8 this week on 20 to 1 is Jason Vorhees, the hockey player from hell, or is he?" *Homoerotic glance at cameraman*.

*Plays footage from Friday the 13th with really bad music over the top that doesn't even suit the theme of the footage or the theme of anything*.

Staff hairdresser from Home and Away - "I didn't even watch this movie. I heard there was a really big twist at the end or something?"

Someone that was famous in the 1970's - "You know what i loved about this flick? The fact that it was his MOTHER THE WHOLE TIME! I can't believe it was his MOTHER THE WHOLE TIME!"

Cue 20, 000 people sighing collectively knowing they'll never be able to watch Friday the 13th for the first time. Thanks mysterious actor that was on a Hills Hoist commercial that one time! Ruining things for people is fun, but only if you're completely aware of it and you do it with precision and tact. It's not fun when some guy that knows this will probably be the last time he's on television decides to spoil a work of art to show the population that he 'knows heaps of stuff' and should be getting more work than the occasional appearance on a countdown show hosted by Bert Newton.

Here's a 10 to 1 of entertainers that would not only make better commentators, but are also much more worthy of a comeback, if not their own programs all together.

10. Duke Nukem. This womanising, rocket-launcher abusing diplomat for sex and violence has been in the lurch for a while now and with the official announcement of his comeback game being canned for good comes a chance for default stardom on a countdown show.

9. Dil from Stickin Around.
One of the most deserving characters for a spin-off series, Dil never really got a chance to shine. With his loud voice and obvious mental handicaps, Dil would run laps around 20 to 1's current list of interruptions.

8. The Great Deku tree.
Old, wise and never actually dead, this giver of life to all things Hyrule needs to know that he's wanted. What better way than to let people know that you still exist than to appear on an episode of 20 to 1?

7. Inanimate Carbon Rod.
Not since since episode 96-1f13 of The Simpsons has Inanimate Carbon Rod been given the screen time it deserves. Having become a social networking sensation through it's numerous fan pages and versatile casting range, this seemingly pointless entity may just have a use yet.

6. Agro.
Troubled by gambling and alcohol addiction since his early retirement, Agro's deep-seeded little man issues and permanent psychotic grin have limited him to brief Telethon guest appearances and the odd lowly blog post. His aggressive nature could definitely bring a zingy, controversial edge to the current roster, particularly in regards to any women that should find themselves in his radius.

5. Gazerbeam from The Incredibles.
Another career that ended before it took off. Aside from a brief stint on The Incredibles as a soothsaying superhero incapable of adjusting to the civilian life, Gazerbeam hasn't had much in the way of actual work, possibly because he doesn't actually exist and only got a place on this list because of his hilarious name.

4. Shawn Bradley.
Not just because he's a 7"6 mormon ex-nba center who has six daughters and listens to country music, also because i haven't seen him on t.v. since the mid 90's. Subs indeed.

3. A Stegosaurus.
I've never seen one before so i guess you can't call it a comeback or a guest appearance. Regardless, i think out of all the dinosaurs that a Stegosaurus would have the most charming disposition and is definitely worthy of an audience. His plates say "i'm pretty much defenseless for the most part", but the spiked tail proclaims "say something about my plates, i double dare you". Dinosaurs also have bigger brains than most 20 to 1 contributors.

2. The fish from the SAFCOL tuna logo.
Completely ridiculous and utterly irrelevant, the fish from the SAFCOL tuna logo still has a better understanding of film and literature than anyone i've seen on the two episodes of 20 to 1 that i've seen. Because it is incapable of anything but sitting there and being a logo, it avoids awkward faux pas like annoying me on national television and spoiling successful film franchises by revealing the endings.

1. Petri Hawkins-byrd.
His real name might be Petri, but we'll always remember him as the bailiff from Judge Judy, or if you want to get technical, 'Jesus Christ in the Flesh'. If a wrecking ball and a Centaur had sex, they'd both be cheating on Petri Hawkins-Byrd. His ability to resist head-butting Judge Judy whilst standing next to her for hours on end is only equaled by his penchant for standing so still and upright that he would eventually camouflage into whatever background the cameras had in frame, only to re-appear if any plaintiff's acted out of line or to say the funniest thing you've ever heard. He's the reason you are here right now reading about him, he is the enforcer of all things fair and just and he is a secret grandmaster in the realm of trivial pursuit, which makes him the grandmaster of everything.

If he ever does decide to come back to television, i've already started putting together a pilot episode called 'Black belt rebuttal' and it basically features him walking around and answering people's questions with unprovoked suplexes.

Shutter Island.

Being someone that viciously judges any form of media on the strength/weakness of it's front cover and advertising campaign, i can say that seeing Shutter Island as soon as it came out had been a matter of the utmost importance since i first laid eyes on that billboard. It contained all the necessary imagery for a successful apprehension of my interest and was only made more convincing by the fact that it was everywhere i turned. How am i not going to see a movie advertised in multiple convenient locations with an image of an extremely sinister island asylum for the criminally insane spotlighted only by a lit match and a concerned Leonardo DiCaprio at it's header? It also helps that it's directed by one Martin Scorcese, who's last venture with Dicaprio resides at the top of my all time favourite films list, which is subject to change any time i bring it up.

I haven't seen Casablanca. This isn't for any particular reason aside from it's lack of awesome billboard advertisements and the fact that it was made before all of the stuff i currently enjoy even existed. I've seen stills for it though, stills and so many parodies and references to it that it takes no effort at all to have a general understanding of it's premise and why people talk about it like it's their first born child or something. For some reason, Shutter Island's opening scene reminded me of a parody scene from Casablanca that i'd seen on the Simpsons and several other cartoon sitcoms and not of a scene from the actual movie because i haven't seen it yet. It's 1954 and two detectives are standing at the bow of a ferry, smoking cigarettes and generally remaining invisible due to an impeding fog that helps set an unsettling foundation for the rest of the film. As our protagonists, U.S. Marshals Teddy Daniels (DiCaprio) and Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) first lay eyes on the dock of the otherwise impenetrable island asylum, dramatic, overbearing strings slowly build as the viewer is introduced to this mysterious stronghold and it's disturbed patients. The haunting and scarcely present score for Shutter Island seems to drift in and out between the more intense scenes and also serves it's purpose as a spine-tingling backdrop for the dark and desolate island scenery Scorcese seems so intent on portraying to his audience.

From the beginning, the plot is a seemingly one way street. Teddy, an ex-army official haunted by memories of Nazi concentration camps and Chuck, a mostly unknown detective from Boston, are partnered up to investigate a missing patient/prisoner on the island asylum/prison. For the most part Shutter Island never announces it's true cause and could just as easily be defined as a prison for the criminally insane as it could a therapy centre for the mentally unstable. As soon as they dock at the port the detectives soon realize that this will be no walk in the park, made evident by the obviously edgy local law enforcement that begrudgingly greet them at the foot of the ominous island. As they are guided to the main quarters by the head of security and eventually introduced to the patients and staff, the threads of an elaborate joke begin to show and Teddy begins to question the sincerity of his investigation and eventually, his own story. Their entire plan begins to fall apart quite early in the film due to the lack of co-operation from the passionate head psychiatrist, Dr. Cawley (Ben Kingsley) and his staff, who seem to have other agendas unbeknownst to the detectives. Without a means of exit from the island as a wild storm approaches, Teddy and Chuck soon become wise to what they feel is a conspiracy against them, straying from their orders in an attempt to uncover the truth behind the facility's purpose. In classic Scorcese fashion though, expect some surprises as the story progresses.

One of the primary attractions of this movie aside from the story is the mysterious island and it's surrounding scenery. The story is played out during the course of a violent storm that threatens the facility that the detectives have been sent to investigate, allowing for plenty of frights and a constant feeling that things could go pear-shaped at any moment. The asylum/prison is divided into three sectors, the lesser women's and men's blocks and the 'C' block, where all the most violent, irreconcilable patients are kept. Surrounding the facility are jagged mountain edges, endless forrest, open fields and a mysterious cliff-side lighthouse that only comes into play towards the film's conclusion. It's dark, it's atmospheric and the plot gives each set piece just the right amount of shine, keeping things fresh whilst still providing a thorough insight into the establishment and it's surroundings.

Unfortunately, this film may not be for everyone. If you're a pussy or someone's girlfriend, you'll be spending a-lot of time behind your hands during the plentiful flashback sequences and there's an overall feeling of doom throughout the film that some might not be able to deal with. Beyond the scares though, you'll discover an engaging story exploring personal loss, identity and the intricacies of the human mind, played out by an exceptional cast lead by a director that clearly knows what he is doing. Don't go and see this movie at Event Cinemas Innaloo, their candy bar is undergoing refurbishments and i had to drink coke out of a bottle, the lousy 600ml inconvenience lingering in the corner of my eye for the entirety of the film and it's lack of storage almost soured the experience for me.

Now i need to read the book that it's based on so i can tell people that "the book is sooo much better than the movie".

Snakes on a train.

Remember how whenever you suggest public transport to people they piss and moan like you're asking them to crucify themselves and not resurrect afterwards? They aren't opposed to public transport as a whole, they're opposed to Perth's brand of public transport/livestock shipment. I haven't really experienced any other public transport systems as consistently as i have Perth's and therefore have absolutely nothing else to compare it to or any solid foundation for my conclusion aside from some loose statistics gathered by myself and shitloads of personal experience. With that said, i can confidently state it as the worst in the world, if not the entire country. It's so bad that asian students fall into comatose as soon as they sit down and the train starts moving.

Unfortunately for me, It's not even the trip itself that i find so offensive. Well, it is, but that's not the only thing. How come when people are complaining about something they go "that's not even the worst thing about it!". If it's the first thing you mentioned and you go on to mention something else about it, shouldn't you list your grievances in order from the ones that upset you the most to the least upsetting? It's like ripping on a restaurant and saying "oh dear, the pasta was so dry but that's not even the worst thing! My wife actually choked on a Ciabatta crust and died".

An essential part of all train rides is the ticket purchasing process. Normally you walk to the ticket machine, insert the correct change and a ticket comes out, granting you access to the second level of the train station and a wealth of new benefits like a metal seat with no empty spots and crying babies. But what if i'm a little off my game one morning? What if i woke up thirty seconds later than usual and carrying an extra 50 cents over the price of my ticket? I'll tell you what! As i'm cautiously and effortlessly sprinting down the steps, dodging homeless people and school kids, i see a 20,000km line at the ticket machine. However, the line isn't full of people that are as keen to get their tickets as i am, it's full of war vets and other snooze button victims who can't seem to grasp the concept of the fucking train is coming and i'm going to kick the shins out of whoever is in front of me at the ticket machine if i miss my train. As the screeching of the train's brakes near the station, i'm standing at the ticket machine, fumbling awkwardly for my change as beads of sweat begin to congregate around my forehead. Here's the clincher though. Once i've paid my dues, the ticket machine takes on the form of a fucking prehistoric Epson dot matrix printer and every second of the thirty it takes to print is another pin in the loosely threaded cushion that is my patience. As i hear my train take off with me not on it i contemplate two scenarios. A). Breaking down in tears as the camera slowly spirals away in birds eye view or B). decimating 12 separate shin bones to the point of decimation.

After five of the most inconvenient minutes of my entire life i alight the next train and the platform turns into a multicultural bloodbath. My personal space was invaded by every country on the map. I didn't even have to walk onto the train, i just stood there and allowed the tide of jerk to sweep me into the mobile sardine tin full of more jerk. When you are on a packed train, the worst traits of humanity are laid out in front of you. Bad breath, gingivitis, protruding nose hair follicles, embarassingly oversized briefcases, backpackers, the clinically obese and school children all form together in a gelatinous glob of skin and leather and i'm trapped in it for the next 15 minutes. There's a human male standing next to me, sweating it out in his business attire and reading some lame book about even lamer issues by an author with a full degree in lameology. He drops his book once and as he bends down to pick it up, his backside rubs against my male, heterosexual human leg. It's uncomfortable the first time but then he does it again for reasons unknown and it reaches a completely different level of discomfort and all of a sudden i feel like i'm in one of those club videos where the rapper is yelling "DROP THAT ASS TO THE FLOOR BITCH, NOW PICK THAT MOTHERFUCKER UP etc etc", except it's not a girl dropping her ass and picking it up all over me in the club, it's a fat businessman and his bible of lame on a train full of other sweaty businessman.

It's not all bad i guess. I did get to listen in on an enthralling conversation between some Scotch College alumni about the size of their school bags and the contents of their lunch boxes. They were quite articulate considering their age and how stupid they were but what really blew my mind was that the token Asian friend's nickname was 'Short Stack'. Seriously, how pleased would you be during the ceremonial nickname delegation at the start of the year and you got 'Short Stack'. The kid had his nickname proudly displayed on the front pocket of his medium sized school bag in permanent white-out accompanied by a totally sweet checkerboard print in the bottom left corner, which was also composed with white-out and some black artline 70. Stack was also rocking a PSP slim on a heavy duty Yu-gi-oh key chain and had it carelessly dangling out the side pocket like he didn't even care, like a PSP ain't shit. It was the greatest thing i have ever seen on a train.

If you tried mugging a guy named 'Short Stack' all your homies would probably be like "yo, i don't think you know who that is, duke. That's motherfucking 'Short Stack".

Go away for now.

Been gaming a-lot lately. As much as i'd love to blog about gaming all day, that's my special time and is really none of your business except for when i post about it and make it your business. My blog/real life friend Jimmy hats on the other hand, has been leading a relatively tumbleweed-free existence this week, particularly on one Wednesday night/morning during the week in which i'm posting this post in.

He was just maxing at his house like "whatevs, this is pretty chill i guess. Maybe i'll get a phone call from Gracey and go play chess with a founding member of Hip-hop's most iconic group who is just as well known for his production and rapping skills as he is for his chess-playing skills. I'll just act like it was another day for me because it was and i'll let him win because i'm a nice guy and then i'll make him read my journal and write raps in it while blonde-haired peasants orally pleasure his entourage in the hallways of the hotel i played chess with him in".

Jimmy plays chess with RZA.

When i heard about this, i shat so many bricks that i could have built an entire brick shithouse with brickshits to spare. The remaining shitbricks could've been deposited in the brick shithouse i'd constructed from said shitbricks.

Shit.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

It's a sad day for styrofoam cup manufacturers and rap bloggers alike. Forever the trend-setter, Lil Wayne took advantage of current technology this evening and live blogged his final hours before a 10 month reputation building holiday at the well-known Riker's Island resort. It was an emotional and heart-warming address, hosted by Weezy's protege 'Lil Twist', as Wayne touched on important issues like Lil Twist's sex life, the lack of women in the studio and his hair. Almost as entertaining was the live commentary box on the side which allowed Weezy's semi-literate, completely delusional legion of fans spew all sorts of entertaining rhetoric that had me looking left and right throughout the entire video.

Wayne will be sadly missed in particular by myself as it's another month or so before his next mixtape drops and i'm running low on rap metaphors to apply to daily life and females in particular. In between wiping the tears from my eyes and blowing my nose, I took the liberty of copy and pasting a large portion of the broadcast to tide myself over until he is released.

"We at 20,000 baby, we at 20,000".

"If you out there lil baby, hey lil baby".

"Shout out to the girl in the club the other night with my name in her mouth.....i forgot her name".

"Shout out to the other white girls, .....colour.....you gotta be specific in this world".

"This is the last time you gon' see me for a long time. This is history actually".

"This lil wayne featuring my hair".

"I'm really feelin' my hair".

"Sheena say, when i do my hair like this, i look like Sha-nay-nay. It's not a good thing to look like".

"Look at my shit sticking to one side like Milli Vanilli though."

This is Lil' Twist, he was pretty cool for the most part and was wearing a 'Matix' hat. Matix is a popular skateboarding brand, which i'm sure is more a tribute to Terry Kennedy's brand of skate-rapping than say, Alex Olson's brand of actual skateboarding. Not sure why i picked Alex Olson, he's probably the whitest actual skateboarder i can think of right now.

Wayne knows fuck all about computers, but he managed to find the camera to give his viewers a glimpse of that shiny, $100,000 smile we've become accustomed to.

I think he was reading the comments here. He's probably amazed that his computer-savvy fanbase are able to even create an AIM account with all the horrendous spelling mistakes and abbreviations they were advertising to him and the other 20,000 people watching the live feed.

'Soldrboyy' here actually believes that crashing a car and possibly dying will do his career more justice than going to jail. What else do you expect from someone that spells 'boy' with two y's?
Parker felt it necessary to comment on the lack of females in the video. Video vixens don't normally appear in pre-jail blog announcements but what's more amusing is the lack of females in Parker's profile picture. I found this pretty amusing. CAPS LOCK ALWAYS LOOKS FUNNY BECAUSE IT LOOKS LIKE THE PERSON IS SCREAMING AND LAUGHING AND HAVING A GREAT TIME AT THEIR COMPUTER.No you don't. You don't even have a face or clothes on.Of course it's residing. What else does hair do? Recede, perhaps?No comment. Your name is juicy.You have to give it to this guy. He's currently under the impression that Lil Twist is going to see the comment and be all "holy shit, Wayne come look at this guy! I think he's for real, let's get him in the studio even though you're about to go to jail for a year!"
Fat Joe made an appearance to promote his music and also hug Lil Wayne twice. Fat Joe looks like a really nice guy in real life.

Only Lil Wayne can get away with departing for jail in a fucking Bugatti. This freeze frame alone pretty much justifies my love for the Cash Money paper machine.

:(

Tender moments.

It's a known fact that if you ever plan anything, your mind sends invisible shockwaves through the time/space continuum and immediately alters your future to the opposite effect of your initial idea. Much like the time travel bible, Back to the Future, if you try and manipulate a present that doesn't exist yet you're guaranteed to get your shit ruined in the future for messing with something that seems pretty content on running at it's own pace. Take a look at where planning got Johnny during his weekend.

Friday night: "Fuck yeah. I'm going to drink 80 beers tonight, go to the club and take home a female will proceed to willingly have sex with me without the application of money or begging. She will then leave before i wake up tomorrow morning and message me later that night when i'm back in my comfort zone."

Big mistake Johnny. Now that you've sent those shockwaves out your night isn't quite going to pan out as you'd planned.

Saturday morning: "Wow, i really should have made some dinner before i drank all that beer. Probably should've gone home and changed the shirt that i vomited on while i was in the taxi as a result of all the beer i drunk, then i might've woken up with that girl i like instead of two of my best friends (who are both dudes and also covered in vomit).

The best times are the ones that aren't planned. Everybody loves ninjas because they rely on the element of surprise and are completely unpredictable and undeniably precise at the same time. Spontaneity is like chilli sauce, you're not sure where it's going to take you, but you know you'll be satisfied later on in one way or another. It was this age-old axiom that saw me unexpectedly partaking in the best concert i've ever been to during the weekend just passed. Aside from not being pre-meditated, this throwdown made all other attempts at festivals look like attempts for a wide range of reasons, which also weren't planned.

1. It was free.
Before i turned 24, i was blind to the unadulterated pointlessness of spending upwards of $150 to go to an un-furnished block of land, wait in a bunch of lines and have my ears blown out by poorly engineered speakers and free spirits dripping in sweat, bourbon and urine. Leaving a venue with a full wallet is only bettered by leaving with a venue with two full wallets.

2. I was drinking for the event's entirety and it cost me $12.
Of all the concerts i've been to, my favourite type would have to be the ones that have a single alcohol stand in a really convenient position at the back of the venue. Nothing gets me more excited about being outdoors than waiting in a line full of paralytic assholes for 3 hours to be met with another less paralytic but more deaf asshole who can only give me two light beers if i pay the equivalent of a carton of full strength beers and submit a piece of my soul upon exit. I definitely don't hate it and never wish bad things on everyone there.

3. I got to climb up and sit in a tree without feeling like one of those assholes that tries to climb a tree to recapture his youth.
I never see climbable trees anymore. Maybe as i've aged my eye for sturdy branches and level up potential has faded, or maybe i just don't care anymore. Regardless, i can't describe the convenience that the tree i climbed yesterday provided. The branch that myself and the tree climbing collective were perched on was not only extremely comfortable, perhaps even moreso than the ground we were previously seated on, but it also gave us a perfect view of the peasants on ground level and just enough distance for us to pass judgement on them without being heard.

4. At any given moment, there was about 13-15 attendees max, perfect weather and a that whole sunlight through the green canopy thing going on.
It's pretty simple really. Because there was less than 50, 000 people there, the odds of me encountering any assholes was cut considerably and i made two successful toilet breaks within record time. There was also no wind. This was especially convenient because wind ruins everything, including windsurfing, which will never look stylish.

5. There was no bad music.
For some reason, people like to cry about potential clashes of artists during their concert exploits. I didn't have to worry about this because while there were multiple DJ's present, they all got along and shared the equipment provided. There was no one running around stressing like "OMG if i go and see DJ fuckshit now then i'm going to miss MC Buttface and his totally irrelevant lyrics that i can totally relate to!" The only clashes i've ever dealt with are calendar clashes. If i'm at point A when music festival B is proceeding, i will be this many kilometres away from it, with my satisfaction determined by how many kills i get on whichever game i choose to play.

All in all, it was one of the better Sundays in recent memory. I chilled so hard that i almost reverse stressed myself out and no-one annoyed me. Here are some photos.
Not a punter in sight.