Looking through an old notebook I just found a poem I wrote when I was about 20. I'm not exactly sure who it's about, certainly not about the person I was having a relationship with at the time. I think it was more of a general attack on a certain brand of people I was friends with. It made me laugh.

Poem.

You know we had a blast

but our love would never last

if you continued to quote Donnie Darko

to prove you were so deep

and worth listening to.

You're really not.

I hate that dye in your hair

baby, it's just too much to bare

and I tried to ignore stories about your childhood

I mean really,

you had it pretty good.

Oh yeah, and your myspace page is fucking ridiculous.

Vera Bermuda, amusing herself since '86.

I think one of my biggest fears is that one day I will accidentally steal a strangers chips.

If a friend of mine was eating some chips and the chips looked good I would more than likely reach into the bag without asking them and take a chip. I'm sure it's an incredibly irritating habit but I like to believe that sharing, even sharing without consent, brings people closer together. Leaning near, reaching out; it establishes intimacy and trust. And it gets me chips. If I think the person isn't quite close enough I will usually eyeball the chips until they feel uncomfortable enough to offer me some, but this is rare, I usually just go for it.

The problem is, I feel so comfortable taking people's chips that I'm afraid one day I might lapse into this relaxed state of mind and help myself to the chips of a stranger. On the bus, in the movies; people eat chips in all sorts of places and I must remain constantly vigilant in my efforts not to thrust my grimy mitt into their bags. It's tiresome but it is my cross to bare alone.

The French have a phrase, 'L’appel du vide', which means the 'call of the void'. Essentially, this phrase means the instinctive urge to jump from high places. For many it's that feeling in the pit of your stomach that scares you when you stand on top of a cliff - the very specific feeling that it would be incredibly easy and achievable to simply launch yourself off the edge and fall to the ground. For me it's the terror I feel when I realise just how easy it would be to steal a stranger's salty chips.

It's Movember! This entire month men across Australia will unite to fight for the better health of blokes everywhere, showing their solidarity by growing their mustaches. An attractive indulgence for a worthy cause, but this charitable event can be somewhat exclusive.

There are some men who, try as they might, cannot muster the growth to join the fight, but one man is doing his part through innovative means.

My friend Seal, who's name is actually Alex Washer, although no one calls him that, not even his mum, has the kind of good looks that might be described as 'boyish', that is, he hasn't got a decent whisker to his name. Despite Seal's deficiency; his distinct inability to grow facial hair, he is digging deep to help his brethren, with the aid of a texta.

One man, one pen, 30 mos. That's right, throughout the month of November, Seal (Alex) will be drawing a different mo under his nose every day.

Inside sources (ie me, bombarding Seal with constant jpegs) attest we can look forward to a variety of comic, suave, sexy, and even a few celebrity mustaches on Seal's face.

To watch the progress and donate to Seal's sterling effort, visit:

http://au.movember.com/mospace/841712/

Seal is a pretty good bloke. You may remember his name from a post I wrote a few months ago, detailing his method of making microwave brownies. MICROWAVE BROWNIES! If you can believe that one man can contribute YET ANOTHER amazing thing to our society, please, dig deep and donate to see Seal, every day of November, look like he's woken up from an out-of-control buck's night.

Things I did when I was little that made me a bit of a dickhead

A few forgotten bits and pieces came to me this morning; floated to the top of my murky, trashy mind-river. Once refuse of memory that may very well have been lost forever, these elements of my childhood identity came to the fore of my mind without warning. Please allow me to share them with you.

1. Some people's mums and dads, mums and dads that wore suits and worked further afield than Penrith, were "business men" and "business women". This occurred to me watching the suits get onto my bus this morning. As a child, some of my friend's parents had tangible jobs. They were teachers, or builders, or gardeners, or nurses, but if they were something slightly obscure to the 5 year-old mind like an accountant or marketing liaison, or human resources manager, they were a business man or woman which, it should be noted, was a lot less impressive than my friend Christie's dad who painted houses for a living. Being a business man didn't hold much sway with me.

2. I was fucking mad for tangrams. Tangrams are a set of Chinese puzzle pieces that you could make a fish or a rabbit or a tree out of, an we were occasionally allowed to play with them in maths if we had done all our other work. After the dreary division was over and done with we couldn't WAIT to get the fucking tangrams out and shuffle them into something barely recognisable as an elephant or a bird. Fights would occasionally brake out over the tangrams. Tangrams were the most exciting thing to us in school.

I have started a new job and left my old one. I won't tell you of the details of either. How and where I earn my coin are by the by. The tasks I engage in, the people I work with, the orgainisation I am associated with - these things are inconsequential.

I am writing this today to talk about the totally sweet sensor taps my new work place has.

Using a bathroom of the future has opened my world. I am an improved and streamlined hands-free being now. I no longer mash my dirty digits haphazardly against surfaces in order to procure change in my surroundings. Merely an ethereal wave and I command the elements. It's neat.

It does make me, however, a little misty-eyed when I reminisce about my old work bathroom. It had doors that shook the entire cubicle structure when I closed them, a leaking single tap, and the paper dispensers were a little dysfunctional but one of my colleagues had taken in upon herself to lend a "woman's touch" to the room. Fake flowers, scented candles, fluffy pink towels, and bath bombs (for Christ's sake) were scattered about the utilitarian tiles for the enjoyment of others. God bless her, she was an idiot.

There was also a delightfully passive aggressive note on the back of every door entitled "Bathroom Etiquette". Apparently some ladies couldn't keep it in the bowl so protocol was outlined in the notice and colleagues were implored to follow suit. The "etiquette" was less of a June Dally-Watkins affair and more of a "keep it in the loo" affair but I was always tempted to add a few underneath like "Always say please and thank you to the toilet" and "A lady never poos with her mouth open".

Pitch to the Television Stations #5

"Santa of Gravity"

The young Isaac "Zak" Newton drives his father crazy! He's young, smart, and good looking but is lazy and refuses to take on responsibilities. Zak would rather relax under the apple tree all day than study physics like his stuffy old father insists.

Young Santa is quiet and keeps to himself. All he wants to do is make toys but he never gets a moments peace from Zak and the other high school bullies who torment him for being a 'nerd'.

Fed up Santa decides to take action and confront his tormenter. Hiding in the apple tree he attacks the cocksure Zak from above, which leads to the most famous physics discovery of all, gravity! Suddenly Zak is famous, rich and has the world at his feet but Santa insists the discovery wouldn't have been made without him, and does everything he can to make sure it's his name in the papers! A hilarious sit-com.

Love

The other day I bought a Filmink magazine from a concession stand at central station. On the cover was Danny Trejo, star of Machete, in all his bare chested, weaponed-up glory, flanked by the pouting Jessica Alba and Michel Rodriguez.

I pushed the magazine across the counter to the clerk who gazed down at it and softly said "ahhhh, she's cute isn't she" as he delicately stroked Danny Trejo's face with his index finger.

"Wh- ... pardon?" I said. His finger gently caressed Danny Trejo's pock marked face. stroke, stroke, stroke.

"she's cute." He placidly muttered. He was almost in a trance.

I looked down at the magazine cover. He was clearly gazing upon Danny Trejo. Alba and Rodriguez may as well have been two pet dogs on leashes- they didn't even register with him. It was all about Trejo.

"ummm, gorgeous." I offered uncertainly.

At once, he looked up at me, as if he'd forgotten I was there. He looked back down at the cover again. "Oooooohhhh. She looks like a man, I see".

At this point I was lost for words. I had no idea what his game was. Trejo was clearly twice as big as the other women on the cover. Bulky, tanned, scarred- a walking definition of masculinity. Plus he has a most enormous mustache on his face.

"Isn't it amazing what they can do with makeup these days?" he marveled.

I still don't know who he thought he was talking about.