As the sun rises over the henhouse, the early rising chickens stretch and blink, slowly easing into their busy day. Violet is already at work; she is always busy in the henhouse before everyone else. She likes all the other chickens to think she is diligent, and has a good work ethic. She often tells the other chickens about how hard she works.

A short time later, Matilda arrives and bids Violet good morning. She complains about some of the other chickens who walk slowly and hold her up on her way to work. Why can’t they get a move on? she asks impatiently. Matilda takes up her place opposite Violet, and fluffs up her feathers to look important. Matilda is higher in the pecking order than Violet, and knows the Roosters like looking at her chest feathers. Violet is a very large chicken, and she can’t seem to stop eating! But her and Violet get along just fine.

Violet and Matilda have settled into a nice chat by the time Phoebe arrives. They are gossping about one of the roosters named Arnold. Arnold is married to a hen named Alice, but he keeps sneaking off at night with another hen named Dixie. Poor Alice, they say… she doesn’t suspect anything. Phoebe joins in, because she loves to gossip and spends much of the day reading about celebrity birds while she should be working. All the roosters notice Phoebe, she is a pretty young hen with perfect chest feathers and long, toned thighs. Sometimes Matilda gets jealous, because whenever Phoebe’s around none of the roosters notice her. She gives Phoebe menial, boring jobs to do as revenge.

Finally, after everyone has settled down, Cassandra arrives. Cassandra is at the top of the pecking order, the team leader, who has recently come back to work after having a chick. Matilda was the leader while Cassandra was away, and she thinks she did the job better. Violet and Phoebe agree. Cassandra greets the other hens, then has to dash off to an important meeting with the roosters. As soon as she has left the henhouse, the other hens begin to gossip. “She is always late” says Matilda, “I have three chicks and I still manage to do my job” complains Violet. Phoebe looks up from her magazine. “Sorry… I wasn’t paying attention!” she giggles. They all complain about Cassandra.

By 10:30 the hens are quiet and busily working when they hear a sound from across the yard. Cockadoodle doo! Cockadoodle doo! They all look up from their work, because they know Rocky is on his way. Cockadoodle doo! he cries, getting louder as he gets closer to them. Rocky bids all the hens good morning. “Gooood morning ladies!” he says cheerfully. “Good morning Rocky!” they all reply. Rocky loves visiting the henhouse, he likes to come in and stir up all the hens. Rocky thinks he is the best looking and the funniest rooster in the yard, but nobody else does! He tells them all stories about all the other hens he meets, and how great they think he is.

Cassandra returns from her meeting and says hello to Rocky, and he smiles. Rocky likes Cassandra, but he wonders why she married such a jerk Rooster. Maybe one day she’ll leave him and Rocky could have her all to himself. He keeps hoping. After about a quarter of an hour Rocky has to go, and he yells a final “Cockadoodle doo!” before strutting off. The hens laugh about him once he’s gone, but they still like the attention.

At lunchtime Cassandra wanders off and is gone for almost two hours. Matilda knows Cassandra is off fossicking for herself, but she’s told the roosters she is at work. “She has run off on her own again when she should be here”, Matilda complains to Violet. Matilda has had enough and tells one of the roosters, and when Cassandra returns, the rooster takes her aside and tells her off. Cassandra knows Violet or Matilda must have complained. She knows they team up against her. Meanwhile Phoebe has still done very little work, but the roosters don’t complain. It’s nice to have Phoebe to look at, even if she isn’t all that smart!

Early in the afternoon Violet finishes for the day. She hasn’t done much work, but she has made sure everyone knows what an early starter she is. Matilda and Phoebe say goodbye as she picks up her things and leaves. Cassandra is glad Violet is leaving, because she plans to go soon as well. She spends the next 45 minutes talking through the chicken wire to her rooster husband. They have plans for the weekend they need to sort out. Matilda wonders why they have to talk about it during work time. Soon after, Cassandra packs up her things and leaves. “Goodnight” she says cheerily, before trotting off across the yard.

As the sun gets low Matilda is still hard at work, as Phoebe says goodbye and leaves for the day. One of the Roosters walks by and asks Matilda where Cassandra is. “She’s gone home”, Matilda answers. A short time later another Rooster asks the same thing. Matilda frowns to herself. She wonders why the roosters brought Cassandra back to the henhouse to take over. She doesn’t think Cassandra has earnt the right to tell her what to do, when she does all the hard work and Cassandra takes the credit.

When all is quiet, she opens up her notebook and scratches some more notes about Cassandra. One day she’ll give the notebook to the head rooster. And things will be different after that…

Tags: TOS, general by generalboy
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You could put that bottom on any other girl… and not give it a second look. You could come across that smile from a cleaning lady, or a granny out walking her overweight labrador, or your own mother. You could see those eyes from the other side of a bar, but in the abscence of any other visual cues, quickly forget them. There are more ample bosomed, more taughter thighed, more bronzed, blonde and buffed girls meandering about the city of a lunch hour. There are, by the standards tabloids, soap operas and glossy magazines set, more beautiful women. She should be, by these measurements at least, very unnoticeable.

For some reason though, when all these attributes that seem so very, very average, so un-unique, so un-stunning, are all applied to a particular person, something happens. She somehow becomes more than the sum of these parts. There’s something else, something more subtle, perhaps something less obvious, and yet something that appeals at a very basic and fundamental level.

Is it because she seems more realistic, and not manufactured? Is it because she seems almost mundane, unlikely to stand out in crowd, and therefore possibly more attainable? Is it because she laughs at your jokes, or that the timbre of her voice when she speaks to you and smiles triggers something primal? Is it because the covert, harmless flirting is quite obviuosly mutual, and enjoyed?

What is it about her that draws your eye… down… and back up… tracing a curve? Why can you not resist smiling as you pass her in the corridor, or share a joke in the lift?

She is not hot. She is not glamourous. She is not spectaular in any way whatsoever.

You simply should not find her attractive and sexy. Yet you do.

Irresistably so.

Tags: TOS, general by admin
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I can remember in my early teens hearing tales of couples forming up, or “hooking up” while they were away on school camps and holidays. While I am sure the stories were largely exaggerated ( and what went on between teachers was probably far more interesting! ) the evidence was there on their return - and all that hand holding and lap sitting rubbed it in the faces of people like me who never went on such camps. When I finally did, I remember being utterly mystified how anyone hooked up. Apart from the environment being so controlled and artificial, I just could never imagine having the front to just going up to some girl and saying “so… how about it?”. It all just seemed so complicated and risky to me, and I wasn’t about to throw away the tiny bit of approval I had worked so hard to forge. Suffice to say, on the two camps I went on, I never even got close to “scoring”.

Sometime later, mum and dad took me and my is on a family ski trip - a flying 4 day bus jaunt to the Victorian alps. I remember looking around at the group that had assembled at the bus terminal, as most teenagers do, looking for kids my age ( and not spotting many ). On the bus me and sis rode shotgun behind mum and dad, with a friendly young couple behind us. A short way into the journey we got talking to some kids across the aisle, and mum and dad struck up a conversation with their mother, a gesticulating large Italian woman with a volumous laugh. The son, named Michael, was a bit younger than my sis and super keen on motorbikes. So we got locked onto talking about that, while the girl who was older than me alternated between talking to my mum and dad, and my sis.

A few hours and several hundred km later we all were playing musical chairs as kids on bus trips tend to do, and somehow I got talking to the older girl, who’s name was Gianetta ( I remember thinking it sounded like one of those sweet icecream deserts ). She was nice, and we swapped music cassettes and talked about music for a good 2 hours, before the gentle rocking of the bus and the darkness lulled us off to sleep. I remember waking up with a start a few hours later at some truckstop in Northern Victoria, looking across to see Gianetta asleep on my shoulder, with a sleepy smile on her face. I suddenly felt very, very awkward, as I got the distinct feeling she was maybe digging me just a little more than I was digging her. As pleasant as she was, Gianetta just wasn’t my type.

My balance helped me get the hang of skiing pretty quickly, and by lunchtime on the first day all I wanted to get to the top of the chairlift and ski to the bottom with my skis together… not in the snowplough like the instructor told us. The second and third days were at Falls Creek, and upon arriving I bolted up the Gully… hopped onto the Eagle, then up and over to the backside of the mountain to discover all the mythical ski runs I’d only heard of - Ruin Castle, Panorama, and The Big Dipper. I don’t recall seeing many, if any people from the bus, but I was happy on my own. I soon got the hang of calling out “single!” in the lift queues, and talked to anyone and everyone on the way up. I even got the odd ride up with one or two cute girls of similar age to me, which made it all the more fun!

On the third night we stayed at a guest house in Bright, and a small group of us kids had banded together to play Uno and compilation tapes on Gianetta’s cassette deck. There was a about 8 of us by this stage, including another girl named Diana ( pronounced dee-anna ) who I got talking to. I then remembered she was the one on the bus everyone had started calling “Lady Di”, due to the way she looked. She was a year younger than me, but I was amazed when she pulled a Devo tape out of her bag. I grabbed it, then ran over and ripped the boring tape out of the player and shoved it in. I remember dad walking through the large open area where we were and laughing that “dad laugh” that dads do, “Oh, and you’ve got your flower pot men on the radio!”, and all us kids just groaning and rolling our eyes.

Day four was the last day, and we headed to Mt. Buffalo - which due to the bumper season, actually had plenty of snow. But I was blistered and sore and skied out by that stage, and after an hour ski in the morning called it a day. I had lunch, and bumped into Diana at the overpriced kiosk and we started talking again. Soon after, she suggested we head over the other side of the road to the toboggan run, which seemed like a good idea. We spent the afternoon running up the hill in our giant boots, sliding down separately and racing each other. After a while we threw the other toboggan to one side and shared one. I lost count of how many times we hit the big bump at the bottom of the hill and got launched into the air, often landing on top of one another in the soft snow. We must have laughed continuously for about three hours.

After a long day the bus wound back down the mountain, alternating “prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!” and “phssssssssssh!” sounds from the engine and air brakes. There was a quick stop at Bright, then we were on our way - home. I sat sleepily with my sis, sharing my earphones and a Eurythmics cassette she’d bought at the petrol station. As is turned out, Diana and her dad, a jovial man with a Russian accent and a belly laugh, ended up in the seat in front of us. We all got talking again, but soon my sis got sick of leaning over the back of the seat talking to Gianetta - so we all swapped around. Diana hopped in next to me, and sis squeezed around behind to sit with Gianatta. As darkness fell we carried on talking, and I remember losing track of time, and just being so absorbed by everything she said. At some stage we shuffled around and I stretched out across the two seats, and Diana climbed up onto my lap. It was strange, but I just didn’t think that hard about it… everything just seemed so easy and natural with her. In my naievity, I actually took her physical proximity as a sort of mateship - a product of convinience - a predictable yet ultimately insignificant follow on from the pleasant day.

After a few hours we fell into an easy silence, not feeling the need to say anything to one another and just enjoying the closeness. I remember a feeling of utter contentment, and warmth, and I am sure I must have been quite obviously grinning as I nodded off to sleep. I remember waking up somewhere with her head on my chest, and the smell of her hair as it brushed my nose. In my sleep she had moved my hand into the center of her chest, and had placed both hands on top of it to keep it there. And I remember wishing that we could just stay right there like that, forever and ever.

Somewhere on the outskirts of the city, the first rays of sun blasted through the bus windows. I studied her through one eye, and remember thinking, “this can’t be real” as I brushed a few wisps of blonde hair from her face. She slowly opened her eyes and let out a tiny, adorable yawn, and looked up at me trying to focus her eyes. I suddenly became worried about my parents or her dad being awake and seeing us - lest they make some cringeworthy remark. But Diana stayed exactly where she was. Perhaps she was in denial, like me.

All of a sudden the door of the bus flung open with a hiss, and the warm air began to flow out. We had stopped for the last time. Diana’s dad called to her and she suddenly got up, searching for her bag under the seat. I found it and pulled it out, and spied mum and dad rustling about in the overhead storage a few rows back. Moments later we were outside in the cold winter air, luggage piling up on the pavement next to the bus’s open cargo hold. Diana’s Dad joked with the Bus driver, and I caught a glimpse of her as she found her suitcase among the others. Then there were so many people in between us, all over the luggage now, and my parents gathering up all their gear. All of a sudden, the reality hit me… that this was the last time I’d ever see her. It had all happened to fast. I just wasn’t ready. Suddenly I felt the overwhelming urge to just barge through all the others and run up to her, and say something… do something… do anything. But it was too late - a taxi pulled up and I saw the driver get out and put Diana’s and her dad’s luggage in the boot. I stood on my tip toes to try and see her over the crowd, but it was impossible. A second later the taxi pulled out from the curb, and drove away. That was the last time I ever saw her.

Over the days and weeks that followed I tried desperately to find her - I knew she went to a well known private college - but I knew no-one else from that school. I went to the Royal Show on the day she said she might go, and my heart raced at every petite blonde girl with a short haircut I caught amongst the crowd - but none of them were her. I tried to find the passenger list from the bus to get her last name, but I couldn’t. After while I knew it was hopeless, and I gave up.

I was a little sad and mopey for a while, but over time that was replaced with a lovely, warm fuzzy feeling whenever I remembered her. In later years I wondered if that was how it was meant to be, that she should just fly in and out of my life. We’d never get bored with each other, argue, or outgrow one another.

Most importantly, I learnt how people get together - starting out as friends, and becoming comfortable in each other’s company.

I have her to thank for that.

Tags: TOS, general by admin
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Walking past the training room I catch a glimpse of someone I have’t seen before. I quickly backtrack to peek through the unfrosted gap in the frosted glass and see what was going on. The projector is going, showing the familliar admin pages on the screen. I only see her half behind, half side-on seated at the large table… but I suddenly feel the blood drain from the upper half of my body.

Louise is a girl, I know her well

Fixated, I return to my cublicle and quickly grab a coffee mug, then stroll around to the kitchen area. Surely not? I ponder, spooning out a teaspoon of revolting instant coffee. I never drink instant coffee. Such is the power she wielded over me… even without actually seeing me. I step across to the fridge and get out some milk, and as I close the door I sneek another peek. If it was her she had become frozen in time. I know this is impossible. Or is it?

And I’m staying up here so I may be undone

The jolly project manager saunters in, and in his usual rambunctuos way, greets me. How are you my boy? He enquires, remaining focused on his tea bag and mug. I reply in kind, and make small talk. I try my hardest to sound laid back, relaxed, amiable. I want her to hear this. I want to catch her out of the corner of my eye, looking up to see who’s speaking. But she doesn’t. She is talking to the trainer. She seems relaxed… business like… professional. She would be. She always was.

When she smiles my way, my eyes go out in vain

I try to switch on my mind ray, and in my mind I begin to chant “look up…. look up!”. But still her blue eyes remain glued to the projection screen. I can’t quite hear her voice, but I can see more of her face now. It’s still too hard to tell. If only she’d look at me. I stare into the training room from the kitchen, willing it to happen.

She’s got cheekbones like geometry and eyes like sin

I flip the newspaper over and rustle the first few pages. My eyes are cast down, pretending to read. I slurp my awful instant coffee. Someone behind me rattles a spoon against the rim of their mug. The water cooler goes “glowurp glowurp”. I drum my fingers against the desktop. Suddenly she spins around, bending down to get something from her bag. “Look up”. “Loooooooook uuuuuuuuupppp” the voice in my mind whispers. I lock onto her, again willing it to happen. Suddenly she looks up. Straight at me. Her actions slow for a second. I don’t flinch. I know I may not get another chance to study her. Another chance to study her and leave no doubt she’s being studied. Yes. That’s it. That’s the moment. Right there.

She’s got perfect skin

But it’s not her. Perhaps I knew that from the first glimpse. There’s a strong likeness, so many features are the same - well, the same as the picture in my memory at least. I wanted to bask in that, just for a short while. In a way, I wanted it so badly to be her - yet at the same time, I so badly wanted it not to be her.

Today it was not to be, but one day I will stumble across the girl with the perfect skin again.

And I’ll come undone.

Tags: TOS, general by admin
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“She looks nice, don’t you think honey?”

Such a seemingly inconsequential remark, but the thin covering of idle, non-challenging conversation is akin the palm leaves hiding a sharpened bamboo spike filled hole in the ground.

A mantrap.

Guys never ask this question of partners or spouses, and I am often given pause to wonder why. Is it about reassurance? Is it about keeping him on his toes? Is it a genuine desire to discover his hidden desires and lusts for other women, or a genuine interest in what he finds attractive?

One thing is certain… there simply is no correct answer.

I have learnt over many years, certain “types” that will meet with approval, and others that will most certainly meet with a reaction ranging from moderate scorn, to outright disgust.

Let us consider for a moment, Paris Hilton.

I would wager that the vast percentage of women would absolutely fume at the mere mention of her by their beloved, in any non-derogatory context . “I like Paris in that outfit” he might say in a moment of semi-drunken, lowered guard. He will pay for expressing this opinion with the pain of 1000 dentist drills, sans local anaesthesia.

I have learnt to gauge if the “type” is unnaceptable, and adjust my response accordingly. You see, to just automatically dismiss all comparisons out of hand is utterly unconvincing. “No, she’s a dog sweetheart” just won’t wash… and even the slightest delay in establishing this fact, and relaying it in a manner even remotely convincing, will arouse suspiscion. It is complex, but there are some basic rules the modern metrosensual man in a stable relationship can apply.

Generally speaking, assume the following:

Supermodels: shallow self absorbed bitches (bad), Motorsport Promo Girls: failed skanky model sluts (bad), Strippers: sluts, Swimsuit models: sluts (bad), Current affairs presenters: drunken sluts (bad), that really hot French news presenter: coke snorting, tit flashing slut (bad), anyone blonde from Home and Away or Neigbours wearing a bikini: vaccuous, vapid fame whore… and slut (bad), surfing magazine calendar model: slut (bad), Jennifer Hawkins: arse flashing slut (bad… apparently).

So, now that we have established the no-go zone, we can start to build up a picture of the “sort” that might meet with some level of approval.

For starters, anyone a bit dumpy looking in politics is probably a safe bet - but again, it’s unlikely you’ll be taken seriously when you bite your lip, raise one eyebrow and gesture toward the telly at NZ Prime Minister Helen Clarke. On the other hand, it was OK for about 6 months in 1998 to say you had a “bit of a thing” for Senator Natasha Stott Despoja, and the smoldering Kate Lundy. This also applies more recently to Member for Adelaide, Kate Ellis. Similarly elite performers or “edgy” artists are acceptable - operatic diva Ali McGregor for example, Tori Amos, or the lovely and talented Claire Bowditch. Intellectuals and sciency types rate well too - Dr Clare Wright or Dr Maryanne Demasi ( PhD’s AND sexay = good ) will almost definitely meet with approval, but be careful: Kari Byron from MythBusters might not ( not a real scientist and appeared in FHM (bad) ). The dads are also pretty safe with Charli Delaney from Hi-5, or Justine Clark from Play School ( both like kids, and never got their tits out for FHM (good) ).

Finally, we can apply this knowledge to real life situations when asked that awful question, and hopefully, emerge with testicles still firmly attached.

By recognising certain characteristics and commenting appropriately, we dan deflect attention from the obvious fact we have been caught perving.

With training, men can learn to spot the thin covering of palm leaves in the jungle, and carefully tip-toe around the mantrap…

Tags: TOS, general by admin
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I don’t know what I expected… you get an impression from a voice, and it’s not always right. I have to confess a pang of guilt when I met her face to face for the first time, she was so down to earth and, well, lovely. I, on the other hand, must have at times sounded off-hand or busy - that’s when I actually bothered to take the call and not leave it to voicemail.

And I wondered… was she confident, sure of herself, happy with how she thought people saw her? I studied her again as she spoke, her great smile, green almond shaped eyes, honey blonde hair, and a 5′10″ frame designers the world over seek to hang their creations off. Perfect.

And she said, looking slightly awkward for the first time, “… because I haven’t got a lot up here” and she patted her bust.

And right there I thought of the botox injected, the nip and tucked, the saline breasted, the ones who had given in to this notion of perfection - or the hype that made them wonder exactly what it meant.

I felt her doubt herself, and apologise to me for falling to measure up somehow, and I wondered how often she did it. And I wondered how often, while someone might have looked at her with envy, how brittle she really was.

I wanted to tell her not to change a thing. Ever.

Tags: TOS, general by admin
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Tony was a good mate, and over the winter I subsidised my “full time” study by rennovating his classic 60’s car - along with a couple of others owned by freinds. I’d pop in after a lecture and do a few hours work during the day, a few times a week. Abby had recently moved in with Tony, and often while I was around there working she would be leaving for, or arriving home from, work. She’d always stop by and have a quick chat while my head was buried in an engine bay, and she always seemed upbeat and happy - genuinely interested in other people.

There was plenty to like about her.

Abby’s maternal Dutch heritage had afforded her honey blonde hair and smooth, blemish free skin that always looked lightly tanned. Her small frame and attractive curves came from the women on her father’s side, with the unexpected addition of a thick and surprisingly endeering Yorkshire accent. It sounded so oldy-worldy and quaint coming from someone that looked like her, especially when she peppered lively conversation with words you’re more used to hearing from your mum.

Some months later Tony was telling me how his lease was soon up and him and Abby would have to find a new place. As it so happened, the other half of the maisonette I was sharing with C, my girlfreind at the time, had just become available. A few weeks later we’d talked the landlord ’round to the idea, and Tony and Abby moved in next door. Over that summer we all went out quite a bit together and I got to know Abby better, and I came to know her remarkable abilities in the area of flirting.

It wasn’t unusual for guys to come up to her when we were out, and this often happened if Tony turned his back even for a minute. But far from brushing them off and sending “get lost” vibes, Abby had this way of pulling them in and pushing them away at the same time. After observing it many times I concluded that she liked the game - it was a bit of harmless fun for her. She was confident and funny, and extremely quick with a comeback or put-down if required - always delivered with a cheeky smile. It was fun to watch.

Into spring I continued working on Tony’s car during the day, while he was out at work. By this stage Abby was working as a concierge for one of the ritzy hotels in town - a near perfect job given her looks, personality and people skills. Her shifts were all over the place, and sometimes she’d come home around the same time as I would following a morning lecture. She’d often ask me in for a cup of tea, offering “coopa cha, loove?” if she caught me outside. Over those warm, sunny days, we’d sip Earl Grey and chat about everything and nothing - but always maintaining a respectable distance. Abby and C had now become freinds too, and often went to Gym together on Sunday mornings. Sometimes the four of us - C, Abby, Tony and me would spend the afternoon on the couch watching Black Adder, Ripping Yarns, or The Comic Strip videos - the girls swilling bubbly while Tony and I chugged mugs of cider. We were fast becoming a suburban Freinds rip off.

That summer we all hatched plans for a big New Year’s bash at ours. By that stage we had a large overlapping circle of freinds, as well as our own seperate groups - who all expressed enthusiasm for the idea. By the time the last hot balmy evening of the year finally came ’round, we were in a party mood, and a 70 strong crowd descended on the two seperately open sides of the large 1930’s bungalow we all shared. The music pumped, the alcohol flowed, and the hijinks ensued.

At the stroke of midnight, couples established recently and not so recently entwined and celebrated, and then the polite hugs and pecks on the cheek that follow commenced. It was during this interlude that I suddenly was met by a smiling Abby, who had sidled up to me as I opened a fresh beer.

“Don’t I get a kiss then?” she asked, mock pouting as she did so.

“Of course Abby! Happy new year!” I smiled, giving her a big bearhug and a cousin-like kiss on the lips.

I unwrapped my arms from her, and she put her hands on her hips.

“that’s not a proper kiss” she complained.

I suddenly became a bit confused, and obviously looked it.

“Now give me a proper one this time” she asked, like you’d ask a little kid.

I looked around awkwardly.

“I think C is just over there… maybe she needs a hand”. Abby turned and looked off to her left, then quickly turned back.

“She’s not even looking. Coom on! A proper woon!”.

So I half heartedly moved toward her expecting to get away with maybe just opening my mouth a bit further, or perhaps maintaining contact for one second more than I did before. It didn’t work. Abby opened her mouth wider and brushed her toungue past my upper lip, then sucked it for a moment as I tried to part in the most polite way I could - like a stuttering vicar might in one of those dreadful english movies from the 1960’s. I took a step back and she just looked at me, maintaining a smug girly grin. “That’s better” she giggled. And with that she turned and floated off into the crowd.

I was left feeling a bit weirded out for the rest of the night, but I took care of that with several shots of Tequila. I didn’t talk to Abby again that night, and also didn’t see her in the dry mouthed, red eyed haze of the day that followed. It turned out a week would pass before I’d bump into her again. In the meantime I had thought about it quite a bit… and I put it down to a bit of drunken over exuberance. I didn’t read anymore into it, and I convinced myself that Abby was probably terribly embarrased and regretful in hindsight. I looked forward to telling her it was OK… that I found it pretty funny if a tad embarassing. That I didn’t think less of her for it.

But in the weeks that followed she barely spoke a word to me. If I heard her come home from work during the day she’d either quickly go back out again, or put on music and disappear inside. The first time we all went out togther in the new year, she was polite - but avoided any conversation that didn’t involve anyone else - and then she would focus on them. After a couple of months I realised the four of us had not been togther on the couch once since. Tony and I were still great mates and carried on the same as we always had, but Abby would never speak directly to me again.

By winter Abby had moved out, and I remember Tony relating how they just seemed to fight all the time. She soon severed ties with most of the people in our shared circle. He blamed their split on his lack of commitment - that he wasn’t yet ready to talk about anything as serious as getting engaged.

Years later I never told Tony about what happened, or at the time, C either. It bothered me that I perhaps I made an error of judgment, and that they’d see me as somehow inviting Abby’s drunken advance. And I never figured out what to make of that either… whether she did it purely out of mischief, or a ploy to make Tony jealous and perhaps offer her some more serious form of commitment. Had she laughed it off and things slowly gone back to normal, I would have soon dismissed it. But to never speak to me again, well, that was just weird.

It still bugs me. One day I’ll get drunk with Tony and tell him.

Yep. One day.

Maybe…

Tags: TOS, general by admin
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Back in the dark, cro-magnon days of the World Wide Web, circa 1996, a primative online community emerged. Geekwise, Firefly.net had some cool, cutting edge technology behind it - including a nifty way of categorising and browsing music recommendations. You could either hunt down like minded souls, or find music that had a similar “feel” - e.g. “other bands that you might like”. Among other things, it also had a sort of streaming chat that you logged into via a thing called a passport. If you thought that sounded just a little like Windows Instant Messenger, then you wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that Microsoft actually bought Firefly - lock, stock and barrel in 1997. But I digress…

I came across one such like minded soul, and you might say she became my first ever online buddy. I began chatting with Kittylady sometime around Christmas 1996, after she initiated a conversation centered around bands Tonic and The Tragically Hip, which we were both into at the time. If Kittylady was to be believed, she was a vivacious, young, moderately hot and available second year uni ( college undergrad ) student living in Columbus, Ohio.

Before long we were scheduling chats on certain days at certain times - essential not just due to the time difference, but also because I was paying about $5.00 a second for my 33kb/s dialup internet connection. We never got below the waistline, but we did rabbit on about all manner of stuff - from what sort of a day we had, to who sucked and who didn’t and why, to TV, movies, and of course music. You might say that over that period of time, I established a close bond - a connection - a sense of feeling her about me - despite the thousands of miles and 14 hours seperating us. Yes, you might say this… and it would be a filthy lie.

Truth be told, Kittylady was flighty and unreliable. We’d arrange a time to chat online and she wouldn’t show up, then when quizzed later would say she just forgot. She’d tell me something, then next week have a diametrically opposite view and defend it strenuously. She’d act like you were her bestest buddy one day, then be monosyllabic and off hand the next. Kittylady gave me the shits.

I’m not sure at what point I got fed up with Kittylady and her fair weather friendship, but after a while I stopped trying. Over the next few months I came across several others like her - people who you seemed to click with, only to find you’d been dropped like a shit filled nappy the next week. By the end of 1997 I concluded that this was how things worked in cyberspace - that people simply didn’t have time or commitment to forge meaningful relationships: that such  things were in a state of permanent transience. I withdrew all participation, and enthusiasm, forthwith.

It would be almost a decade before I’d take my first trepidatious steps back into what you might call an online community. Even then, I was wary, guarded - expecting more of the same. I discovered blogs and lurked on them, and started to imagine what the people who wrote them were really like - and if they just made it all up. Along the way I found a few who definately couldn’t seem to get their story straight, and I quickly wrote them off for the phonies they were.

But along the way, something unexpected happened.

I came across a few people who actually seemed genuine, real, but moreso, seemingly prepared to invest something of themselves in forging relationships with people like them. It seemed too good to be true, and for quite a while I expected all of them to just disappear without a word. I stood back, and continued to dismiss them as needy, or attention seeking, or therapy seeking. It was easier than accepting they might be just like me.

Over the last two years my whole view of this thing… whatever it is… has been repeatedly and relentlessly challenged. There’s still a little voice in my head saying “there’s something fundamentally wrong with them… there must be for them to take such an interest in you”. Then I look at myself, and again I say, why do I take such an interest? Why do these people’s lives and how they describe them matter to me at all? How can I possibly feel some sort of connection with someone I have never, and in all likelyhood will probably never, ever, meet in real life?

I still can’t answer that, but I do know it’s changed the way I think. You people have done this, the wonderful people who have let me peer into those quiet little corners of your mind - that maybe others will never know.

Yes, Kittylady is lost and gone forever - but I like to think that with her went my fear, my uncertainty, my distrust of the very real people out there that inhabit this netherworld. You all proved her… and me… wrong.

I was lost… but you found me. I’m so glad you did.

Tags: TOS, general by admin
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It’s just a piece of cardboard.

The edges are frayed and the corners dog-eared, the black and blue coloured ink smudged and scuffed. Years of compression have fused all the layers of paper, to the point that it is as narrow and tranlucent as a blade of grass. The hand written correction to the phone number on the card while faded, remains clear.

This tiny, seemingly insignificant piece of plastic coated paper has been with me for over ten years. It has travelled around the world with me. It has stood on the edge of a molten lava flow in Hawaii, and whitewater rafted in Indonesia. It has seen me change jobs countless times, lose friends, and find new ones. It was with me when I got married.

I have probably owned half a dozen wallets since I placed it inside its first home. As each wallet wore out and fell to pieces, and was replaced by a shiny new one, much was discarded in the transfer. Old reciepts, credit cards, expired train tickets, and business cards of people I no longer have any association with. But I kept a small number of items… items that represent things that don’t change. I kept the card.

The street address on it means nothing now, the business has long since moved on. The phone would now be answered by a stranger. They would have never known the person that gave me the card, and even if they had, they wouldn’t have known them like I did. The number I would never call - could never call -  was written in her hand. It reflects her style, her personality, her elegance.

It’s a memory I keep to myself, and for myself.

*This post was inspired by a great piece on Chickybabe’s blog, that touched a nerve, and left me in a relfective state.  I feel some guilt for carrying around something like this for so long, like I should be able to discard these reminders of times past and never look back. But I also believe we all inevitably end up as just memories. None of us know how long they will survive, and who will carry them…

Tags: TOS, general by admin
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