I grew up on the outskirts of a country town, and for my formative years spanning age 6 to age 12, this was my universe. We went into town fairly often, and probably went to “BIG town”, around once a month. For the most part, the immediate circle of people I knew , and all the things that existed on or near our property, were all there was to keep me amused.

When I got to the latter part of primary school, everything changed. I was forced to rethink the bounds of my universe, and formed the notion that other people had their own little universes, some like mine - but many vastly different. Then there were people who seemed to all inhabit the same universe - in their minds at least. I couldn’t fathom this. Why did these people all talk the same? Why did they all answer any given question identically - despite being some distance apart? Why did their clothes all look similar… but so unlike mine?

On Mondays at school, there was one topic… and one topic only - football. I pretended to be interested - I even learnt the names of some of the players, and eventually was forced to swear allegiance to a team. I even started watching it on TV, just so I had something to talk about on Monday.

But in reality, I was utterly ambivalent.

While they’d spent the weekend, glued to the TV, or down at the oval watching their heroes, I’d been away at some distant town racing motocross. That was my world, my reality - but there was not one other soul I knew at school who was interested. There was no point coming to school and bragging about how I’d won three motos and mono’d the length of the straight, and mastered “no hands” jumps. No one gave a shit. And in a weird way, that was just the way I liked it. In this other world, my world, I was completely at home. This was where the people I truly considered my kin dwelt.

Where they had the smell of Decorub, I had the strawberry scent of Wear Pruf chain lube. Where they had Adidas sprigs, ankle straps and guernsies, I had Alpinestars, kidney belts and racing nylons. Where they had the roar of the crowd as their team ran out, I had the roar of 25 two stroke engines as the starting gate dropped.

To train for race fitness, I began to run a lot. It was somewhat ironic that, toward the end of school, I became a very good sprinter. In fact, I became unbeatable. After acing every football jock in the 100m semi on sportsday, and eventually the final, wearing no shoes and an old pair of moth-holed shorts, I was declared the fastest kid in my school. It wasn’t long before this got the attention of the footy kid’s dads. They’d all come up to me, and pat me on the back after a race. “Great run, Geeb”, they’d say, quickly followed by, “Say, have you ever though of joining a footy team?” Then the full sales pitch would follow - about how I’d be put on the wing, and how the other guys would carry me. As far as they were concerened, about all I had to do was learn how to bounce the ball, and run it down to the other end - no-one would be able to catch me because I was so fast they said.

And I thought about it, and they were right - no one in the league would catch me. Yep, I could learn to bounce the ball - maybe even take a mark, maybe even drop a punt through goal now and then. I could be one of them.

And I looked at the dads with their scarves, and Holden Statesmans, and wide screen TV’s, and beer guts, and pavlova baking wives named Barb, and Labradors, and Port stubbie holders, and blackened barbecue steak, and concrete garden ornaments, and sunburnt noses, and Mr Comfort slacks, and six packs of XXXX.

And I thought some more. Sure, I could cut it… maybe even make it - but I’d be faking the whole deal. I couldn’t speak their language. I couldn’t wear what they wore. I couldn’t think like them. I eventually came to the conclusion that I had no place in their world, and to pretend I did was not being true to my self. The fact of the matter was that I just wasn’t a team player. I liked to win… but not with any help. I hated losing - but deep down knew if I did there was only one person to blame.

Every September the football frenzy grips this country, as the hype machine draws us ever closer to the holy grail - the Grand Final. Every September I’m taken back to that place where I was all those years ago - where everyone knows everything about who’s in, and who’s out, and no-one talks about anything but football. It’s a time when people get highly emotional when their team gets cruelly cheated out of victory - or snatches it from the jaws of defeat.

But do I care?

Nup… 

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Please tell me how to make $10,000 a minute tax free for 3 minutes work every third day! And please be my freind… I don’t have any others left!

Don’t make me set up a MySpace. I’ll do it, I will. I swear… 

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So I’m sitting in the service station today, as it’s time wastin’ tuesday and lets face it, I have fist all else to do, waiting to fill up. You see, due to collusion market forces, petrol is always cheapest on Tuesdays, the day before it typically goes up by 15 cents a litre on Wednesdays. This works out OK for me since I’m usually consult in Tiny Town from Wednesday - Friday, so I fill up with fuel ( because I kill rainforests and drive to the city on those three days, rather than have vicious myopic menopausal old women embarass me out of my bus or train seat ) on Tuesday. So, like I said, I’m sitting there, waiting.

And I look around and notice that like me, everyone seems to be clutching a shopping docket discount thingy, that gets them 4 cents per litre off their fuel. So while I’m waiting I do the maths ( veeeeery slowly ). If my classic 80’s rustbucket with faded paint is near empty, and I fill it ’till the fuel nozzle goes “clunk” and shuts off, then pull it out a bit, then squeeze the trigger till it goes “clunk” again, then pull it out almost all the way and go “squeeze-clunk” again, or until fuel is running down the side of the wheel arch, it takes about 65 litres. I figure that most other people sitting there, queued up, that don’t have gigantic gas guzzling Toorak Tractors with 120 litre fuel tanks, are putting in about the same amount of fuel. So at that discount, they are all saving ( I’m doing this in my head people… bear with me ) sixty times 4 cents equals two dollars forty plus five times 4 cents equals 20 cents equals a total of two dollars and sixty five cents. Ok, good.

Now, bearing in mind that the average Australian wage is $27.81 ( based on Australian Bureau of Statistics figures for May 2006, seasonally adjusted EBIT ) an hour, and the average person is sitting in the queue for 5 minutes, they’ve lost $2.31 of income just sitting there. Had they gone to the service station up the road, where there’s no queue, they would have been in and out by now. But also bear in mind that they got their little discount dockets, for a whole 4 cents off a litre, by shopping at a particular supermarket chain, and spending a minimum amount of $30. Now let’s suppose they are doing a “mini shop”, as many busy people do these days, and the total looks like it might not quite be $30. What do they do? Throw in a chockie bar or three at the checkout, grab an extra Papa Guiseppie’s Super Supreme frozen Pizza, or any other superfluous grocery item just to make sure. Let’s suppose, for argument’s sake, that item is worth $2.

Now, as they sit there waiting in line to get “cheap” fuel, they are already $4.31 worse off than the people that went “bugger this” and drove to the next service station. But if you thought the stupidity ended there, you’d be sadly mistaken. As I sit and look around, I realise that nearly everyone sitting there has left their engine running! Yes, that’s right - they’re queued up, sitting and burning up even more of their discount voucher.
By the time they actually go in and pay ( because EVERYONE has to go in to the cashier, don’t they!? ) I reckon their discount is actually closer to -$3.00. To that end, I call bullshit on fuel discount vouchers, and everyone who sits in a queue at a service station with their engine running a total cretin.

How completely and utterly in the spirit of Time wastin’ Tuesday is that!

footnote: Just experienced some fantastic TWT action from Blogger, 25 login attempts and repeated server errors on the login page. That’s 35 minutes of my life I’ll never get back. And what was Blogger status the whole time? Tickety Boo! BTW blogger police, I know when the server is the problem and not my connection, ISP, proxy server, Chi, Karma, or whatever the hell other bullshit excuse you might use to defer blame! To think everyone said when Google bought out Blogger they’d fuck it up! Nooooooooooooooo! It’s still good! It’s still good! It’s just  a little bit… rooted…
 

Tags: general by admin
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Back in the early noughties there was a guy who became mildly famous on breakfast radio, known as Maynard F# Crabbs.

To his legions of fans ( and the ultra cool and dull fashionista who loathed him ) he became known as Australia’s leading exponent of anti-fashion, and the self appointed spokesperson for an uber-culture he described as “dag”.

Maynard certainly didn’t invent the dag movement, nor did he discover it - he just encouraged dags around the world to wear their dagginess with pride. What Maynard actually revealed to the world was not so much an anti-fashion movement, but a complete philosophy. Your propensity for Dagginess didn’t just explain your poor choice of attire - it also went a fair way to explaining why you secretly still listened to the Electric Light Orchestra record you got for your 11th birthday. But the river of dagginess went deeper, way deeper, than that.

Like any form of non-conformity, it soon was evident that a culture of denial and shame existed. Just like the gay community, many dags denied their dagginess just so that they could fit in and be accepted by normal society. Closet dags arrived at the office dressed smartly and fashionably, and tried their best to merge with the sensible, fashion enslaved folk - but were never comfortable. Many lied to themselves, convincing themselves that they really were happier wearing Armani suits than Target tracky dacks. Others struggled to hide their inner dag, living in constant fear of being outed.

Whilst hiding one’s daginess through avoiding fashion crimes is reasonably easy, hiding the thought crime remains a challenge. A Dag may well miss normal conversational cues of sarcasm and satire, and in company, suddenly become embarrassingly enthusiastic about a decidedly uncool topic. Similarly, a Dag may find themselves dancing around the room to Spandau Ballet, secure in their own company, but secretly observed by the Dag police. These transgressions often return to haunt the Dag at a later time and place, and can be most awkward.

If you are a true dag you will relate to what I’m saying. At some stage, you will have suddenly blurted out something without thinking, and then felt the weight of 8 pairs of eyes scrutinising your uncoolness. You’ve left a new friend rifling through your music collection, only to return and find them rolling around on the floor, choking with laughter at your hopelessly uncool taste. You’ve crackled jokes that you found utterly hilarious… that were met with stunned silence. You’ve turned up at parties you thought were fancy dress… to find you are the only one in fancy dress.

You might think there is a fine line between a nerd and a dag, and while there is often a large overlap, there are distinct differences. Dags for example, may harbour little or no interest in science or technology. A nerd might stridently argue the relevance of episode 4, series 2 of Buffy to 9-11 - a Dag couldn’t care less. Moreover, Dags can come from all walks of life, all socioeconomic groups, and all ethnicities.

I know a good many dags, some self confessed, some still living in denial. I’d go further, and say that a very large proportion of the people I call friends, are certified dags - not that you’d ever know. The particle physicist footballer, the other PhD physicist footy fanatic, the Engineer that designed part of next year’s Commadore, the Lady Lawyer, the Entrepreneur, the Air Force pilot, the sexy Bio Chemist, the Trainer, the blonde, tanned surfer girl and her boyfriend, the School Teacher, the submariner and the miner, all look cool and accomplished while sharing the common thread of dag. I have also met numerous dags that I’ve shared a quiet daggy moment with, including, a catwalk model, 2 moderately famous bikini models, a used car saleschick, 2 TV presenters and one Sports commentator, an internationally famous racing driver, a professional footballer, and one world famous, cross dressing Australian cultural icon.

If your friends reflect you as a person, then I guess my friends probably reflect the fact that I too am a dag at heart. Most of the time I don’t act it, I fit in, I do what’s expected of me - but just beneath the surface lurks the dag. I not only do and say daggy things, or own daggy things, or wear daggy clothes in the comfort of my own home - I think daggy thoughts. I also look for the inner dag in others, and what’s more, I find it extremely attractive in the opposite sex. Not so much overt dagginess or sloppy attire - more a willingness to not take one’s self too seriously, and not be utterly consumed by what one looks like all the time.

For me that’s what embodies the spirit of the dag - the acceptance of one’s self and the reluctance to accept what’s widely regarded as cool by everyone else. It’s not about being a slob, or ditzy, or a klutz that lacks even the most basic social skills. It’s not about being at odds with everyone else just for the sake of it, or out of sheer pretentiousness.

It’s about keeping those little uncool things about you hidden from people who are too dull, uptight, or self conscious to understand - and saving them for people who maybe, just maybe, are just a little but like you. It’s about the sheer joy of discovering the inner dag in someone you never ever thought was that way inclined, and the shared experience in revealing your inner dag to them.

Your dag quest will lead you to a better acceptance of your fellow dag, and the dag within you, and it you are truly blessed, it may lead you to your true dag soul mate.

When that happens you will truly come to understand that dag, like groove, as they say, is in the heart.

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 I’ve sqandered a disproportionate amount of time today trying to figure out if Daize Shayne is cool or not.

Don’t ask me what started me on this path, it’s a long story, but anyway…

Here’s what is immediately cool about Daize:

• World women’s longboard surfing champion… twice
  

• Looks awsome in a bikini
  

• Is in hot demand for product endorsements because of bubbly personality and positive can-do attitude
  

• Has toured all over the world with her band and just released her debut CD
  

• Sings and can play guitar reasonably well
  

Soooo, on the face of it you’d be saying, “man, this chick is amazing”, and plenty of people do. At this point I should tell you what I reckon is not so cool about Daize:

• Avid and vocal George W. Bush supporter




• Avid Republican supporter ( played benefit in 2004 )




• Avid supporter of Governator Schwartzenegger




• Is on the record as saying “you’ll always be able to find clean (sea) water”




• Goes on about god and jebus a lot, and how much she loves him ( them )




• Too many songs have that Christian undercurrent that I find all a bit creepy

I’m really torn on this. I mean a couple of her songs are reasonably catchy, but uuhhhhhgh, I dunno, something’s missing. But maybe it’s me? She can sing, she really rocks, she looks awsome on stage but… there’s just something slightly weird I can’t put my finger on. It’s sort of like Amy Grant in ripped hotpants. You sort of think “whoaaaa, she’s hot”, and then in the next breath, “… and she’ll never… ever put out”. It kinda messes with a bloke’s mind, the tease of it all. Is it wrong for me to think that? Hmmm… maybe it is. I Just. Don’t. Know.

So tell me… do you think Daize cool or not? I throw the timewasting tuesday comment forum open to your thoughts!

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It took almost 3 minutes to get over the start line after the gun went off, and I took a quick peek at my $5 disposable sports watch as I crossed the sensing loop that sets your start time. What followed was organised chaos, as faster, fitter runners ducked and weaved to get around slower less fit ones for the first kilometer. It’s all a blur, as you pass under cameramen in cherry pickers, jump nature strips to snatch a few meters of clear air, and try to visualize the unimaginably huge, surging wave of humans behind you. Running through the closed off city streets has a surreal feel to it, with the normal sounds of beeping horns and truck brakes replaced the sound of heavy breaths and thousands of thumping feet. You don’t just hear them… you can actually feel them through the road.

At the city perimeter I cut the corner as the hordes veered to the right like a giant serpent, passing beneath the morning shadow of the building I did my first contract job in. Now, for the first time, we were heading toward the coast, and the runners ever so slightly began to spread out. It was still close though - I was jostled several times, almost always by balding, hairy shouldered, forty-something men who seemed to have something to prove. Up ahead I saw 4 guys running in bright costumes, and as I got closer came upon Batman, The Joker, The Riddler, and Superman all sweating heavily through their rented lycra costumes. I considered making several wise cracks as I passed, but a newspaper cameraman flagged them down and the opportunity passed. I thought about the next person who might hire those costumes for a moment… and quickly tried to think about something else…

As we left the city I tried to settle into my rhythm, but it wasn’t easy. The air was stuffy and I still had to keep an eye out for kids who went off with the leaders and sprinted the first kilometer, but were staggering all over the road and gasping for air by the end of the second. Around this time I really started to notice how dry my mouth had become, and by the time I hit the first water stop at 3km my tongue was firmly glued to the roof of my mouth. I left the trestle table and waded into a sea of discarded white plastic cups strewn all over the wet road, trying desperately not to slip over on them. As the crunching sound of 500 feet crushing them faded off behind me I snuck a look at my watch - 8:17… which meant I was still on target to do the run in an hour.

We hit a long, slow uphill drag around 4km, and I came up on a panting little beardy weirdy man who looked like a troll. I slowly eased past him, but two minutes later he came back past me again… ever so slightly looking to his right as he did. I let him go, and just tried to keep my pace - it was too early for me to be squandering energy on races within the race. But with no change in pace I came up on him again about 1km later… and again I saw him sneak a look to his right and try to pick up the pace. Again, beardy weirdy troll man eased ahead and I let him go. At 6km we hit the half way drink stop, and this time as I poured two cups of water over my head I swear beardy weirdy was eyeballing me from the opposite side of the road. I set off slowly and he seemed to do the same, so I took another quick peek at my watch - 8:33 just after the half way point. The thought of making the magical hour fired me up, and I deliberately drifted over toward the gutter where beardy weirdy was running. I pulled up next to him for a moment - just long enough for him to notice me - then exploded into a sprint for the next 120m. I never saw him again.

The last km before the 9k drink stop was hard going, and it was here I started to suffer. There was still very little air and the road had started radiating heat upward on yet another uphill drag. I could feel myself slowing down, and opted for a running gulp at the drinkstop to try and lose less time. I didn’t look at my watch but hoped to do a timecheck at the 10km mark - praying it would be somewhere around 8:53. I was really feeling the heat and my left hip flexor was starting to ache - but I felt slightly uplifted at the sight of a huge plume of spray about 200m ahead. As I veered toward the large fan with a jet of water behind it I slowed down, instantly feeling my temperature drop and my strength return. As I hit the 10km mark I looked at my $5 disposable sports watch… to find the display read L9-S. I frantically brushed the water droplets off and blew on it a few times hoping to revive it, but my efforts were in vain.

As we neared the end of the main highway to the coast I fell into a sort of trance like state, before realising I had been utterly transfixed by the girl running just in front of me for quite some time. I tried to shut the pain out, tracing the thin bead of sweat following the finest of hairs down from beneath her blonde ponytail, under the little bridge between the strap of her tight little crop top and the bumps of her vertebra, down, down, past her tiny waist and between two tiny dimples in her lower back, all the way to her… oh god where the hell is the 1km to go mark! Why the hell is this taking sooooo long?????

Sexy croptop girl floated off ahead of me as I started to feel each and every millimeter of each foot as it pounded the pavement. But the heat was starting to get to everyone, and as I rounded the corner before entering the main street I watched 2 ambos administering oxygen to an unconscious guy right there on the pavement. As far back as 8km I noticed people suddenly veering off to vomit by the side of the road, and imagined there’d be plenty more by the end of the day.

Under the 1km banner I thought to myself, “from this point onwards is the furthest I have run in 20 years”, having only managed 11km in the hour for the first time last weekend. I kidded myself that I could put up with anything for 1km, but as it was I just had no more speed in me. It was impossible to tell how close the finish line was, and as time began to slow down it just seemed to recede off into the distance. My feet just kept on pounding, pounding, as my progress descended into what could only be described as a controlled stagger for the finish. As we rounded the last corner we suddenly came upon marshals, and I knew that the line must be less than 100m ahead. I ducked out from behind a tall lady and accelerated, catching a glimpse of the banner and large clock for the first time. As I got closer I could make out the time, watching in horror as the seconds ticked toward 1:12:00. I looked down and sprinted, then looked up… 1:11:41… then put my head down again and shut out the pain… and looked up one last time as I ducked under. 1:11:47. I subtracted the generous 2 minutes from my start time, giving me a finish time somewhere around 1:10:00… hopefully just under when the official results are posted tomorrow.

So all up, while a little disappointed that I wasn’t as close to the hour as I would have liked to be, I did OK under what were fairly arduous conditions. I figure the heat probably sapped me of a good 2 minutes over the distance, but the two weeks screwed up by my dicky knee and the orthotic fuck up also meant I was unable to test myself over race distance prior to the event - and made me fall short of the target. Still, plenty of lessons learnt, and a quiet sense of achievement ( and soreness… owwww! ). Miss R pranced across the line 12 minutes later - a pretty fine effort given how much time she’s devoted to Uni assignments over and above training these last few weeks.

But what of the jogerettes, I hear you ask? Well, I must say, the sight of sooooo much beautifully toned, tanned, wrinkle free flesh almost brought a tear to my eye. It was overwhelming, and I times I felt I was in danger of losing the power of speech. 24,000 people showed up, of which more than half were women - so I can honestly say that I have never beheld such an awe inspiring perve in my entire life.

The perve alone is enough to inspire me to do the event again next year…

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How was yours?

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Yes, suffice to say I have been a tad peeved about more than a few things of late, and I need to try and focus on what’s good in my life. But first, I am gonna whine like a little biyatch about what’s shitting me, so feel free to skim this rant and move straight to the touchy feely bit I am saving for the end. Right then.

The distance

As most of you know I have been training for a major upcoming event. On the Sunday 3 weeks ago my knee went wobbly, and I went to see the physio the week after. I had a heap of stuff done to alleviate the pain, but the upshot of it was I needed Orthotics to correct my over-pronation ( my feet roll in ). I expressed concern that it was too close to the event, and I’d be better off leaving them till after - but they assured me it would be a temporary setback in my training. 1km into the first run with them ( gentle, 5k ) my feet are on fire, and huge, painful blisters have formed on my arches. That “temporary setback” might have just torpedoed the 6 months of training to run the 12km event in an hour… the goal and raison d’etre I had for keeping at it over the cold winter. Oh, did I mention the event is next weekend? Pissed off. Much.

The Snub

The snub has lifted, but to my amazement, completely on the snubber’s terms. He now pulls me up on MSN to tell me about who he’s schmoozed with this week, and the press he’s getting, and which pro said what to him when they were out having a drink. I mean hey, I don’t begrudge the guy success in any way - he’s worked bloody hard to get there and deserves to have his mug in movie documentaries. I used to get a kick out of hearing about that stuff, because it came from someone I considered a friend. A friend who’s success I helped along considerably and never asked for a cent, but a friendship I now feel is permanently tainted. Things can ever go back to the way they were. Maybe this is what fame does to people.

The retainer

As I watch the project I am involved in spiral out of control at the hands of people who consider meetings “a waste of time when we could be working”, and timelines “the customer’s problem”, I can only feel a sense of dread. I know that the whole thing is poised to come unstuck in spectacular fashion, and when it inevitably does, blame and shit will be flung in all directions. I don’t trust these people as far as I could spit a rat, and I know they’ll point the spotlight of blame at anyone just to avoid it themselves. So now I spend my days documenting conversations, and noting recommendations I have made that have been ignored, and covering my arse for when that time comes. I walk by and see them spending hours on forums, or trawling ebay, or watching funny videos on YouTube. The rest of the time they are downstairs smoking.

The top of the list

My most hated person on the planet continues his unethical, malicious campaign to ruin us, last month targeting our last remaining supplier with lies and innuendo. It burns me up to see him with customers whom I know he holds in utter contempt, because he has told me himself. How is it that arseholes not only manage to stay in business, but thrive?

The biz

When my business partner is focused, he’s a dynamo - and pulls things off I could never even hope to. But now he is just spread too thin, and with a 6 month old baby that situation is unlikely to improve. As things are we look unlikely to be geared up for the lucrative Xmas season, for the second year in a row. We won’t stay afloat long enough to make it to the next one… this is our last chance. Having poured 18 months work into the business it pisses me off that he no longer seems to have the time to develop it. What’s worse, is that someone else will come along and copy us ( we were the first to do this in Australia ) and make a shitload of money out of it - once we have thrown in the towel. Seeing the whole things slowly sink and knowing that we’ve blown a once in a lifetime shot burns me up. I feel powerless to stop it.

The sting

As I look at the fruits on the last 12 month’s labour, a balance of $5000, I know that it will be $2000 short when I hand both it, and the fine, over to the Tax Office. It’s already 2 years overdue, but as long as the money is in the bank I can kid myself the last year hasn’t been a complete waste of time.

The trap

I know I am going to lose when I argue my case in court next week, and I’ll get fined, and charged court fees - my lawyer friend has assured me of this fact. The legal documents I seek in my defence under Freedom of Information will arrive too late to save me. Well, it’s only right they should - they come from the same department that seeks to prosecute me. That’s how justice works.

What’s good?

I’m lucky that in the midst of all this unsettling, demoralising, pointless bullshit, there are things that keep me afloat. I’m healthy, I’m fit(ish), I live in a beautiful part of the world and I never tire of just looking at it. My family are all happy and healthy, and the time I spend with them gets more precious as we all get older. I have great friends, who remind me of who I am and where I came from at times when I might just forget. I have all the joy the ocean brings me, and the unbelievable sense of well being, camaraderie and one-ness that surfing it brings. I have a beautiful wife who loves me unconditionally, and understands me like no-one else ever can… or ever will.

And I have a handful of very kind people who are prepared to read this crap, and offer a word of encouragement or sympathy, and at times, a reality check.

You are the nicest people I’ve never met. Thanks for putting up with me.

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On the set of Love Story 2050

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I am fucking right, and everyone I pay money to for things I can figure out or do myself if I have the time is fucking wrong.

When will I fucking learn…

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