Josh Dare: This blog will eat you

I ran out

Josh Dare — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 19:01:20 GMT

I ran out of excuses. I'd been stalling because of stuff like, it's winter, my sister's wedding is coming up, work probably wouldn't like it.

I ran out of hair product. I used a whole tub overseas and it's hard to buy anything decent if you don't know the brands.

And I ran out of patience. My hair was shitting me the whole time I was away; it just wouldn't behave.

So I did it. Finally.

I shaved my head.

Check it out:

S'alright?

When boredom and complaint letters combine

Josh Dare — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 09:10:07 GMT

To whom it may concern,

We are the “proud” owners of a Lemair fridge which is still under warranty.

Earlier this year, the fridge developed a fault. The refrigeration section was not cooling. These things happen, and were swiftly dealt with by your company at the time. After contacting Paul, the then service coordinator, we were referred to a technician, who promptly came out and fixed the fault. That is, once your company was able to dispatch the correct part after the third attempt. On the bright side, that’s under four tries, so stiff upper lip and you may almost have a reputable company etc.

All was well in the land of perishable food to be stored at 4 degrees or below for a time. Unfortunately, the fault has reoccurred.

We knew the drill. Once again, we contacted your service coordination area and Zarina emailed on the details of three businesses to contact who may be able to fix the fridge:

The Ultimate Appliance
A & I Appliance
ICE Age Refrig

We’ve contacted all three, and have not had any success. The Ultimate Appliance has either folded or chooses not to man the phones, as there is never an answer and messages left on voicemail go unreturned. A&I Appliance flat out refuse to service the area. And Ice Age are adverse to entering the wild and dangerous boundaries of Melbourne’s inner south east suburbs.

However, I been able to speak with the technician at Ice Age, David, who informs me that the problem is in fact the low rate paid by your company, making it unfeasible for him to travel to St Kilda East from the northern suburbs. The refrigeration business must be cool in more ways than one, as I asked what the ‘gap’ would be. He told me it was $40.

So, as it stands, a measly $40 stands in the way of our household being able to purchase perishable items. And $40 is, coincidentally, the exact amount required to stop us using the phrase “Tecma Lemair is the world’s shittest company” at any opportune moment. We are skilled in the ways of bitching. The conversation doesn’t even need to be about fridges. We will make it so. We are that good.

The alternative, as you are probably aware, is to return the fridge to the point of purchase for a refund. As that’s about 30km away, and we’d need to hire transportation for the retarded coolbox, this would absolutely cost us more than $40. And although we can’t claim to rub shoulders with the fridge buying set in order to spread anecdotal negativity, I have been known to loiter at Retravision spouting incriminating hearsay to potential customers in order to defer sales to brands that have not yet attracted in-store crazies. Although this method attracts an impressive success rate of purchase avoidance, a special case such as the one that has been unceremoniously shat on us requires special attention.

I promise to set up camp inside a prominently-displayed Tecma Lemair fridge for the day, waiting for the door to open to scream “Tecma Lemair killed my baby” whilst whilst madly clutching a cunningly-disguised roasted turkey lovingly wrapped in a saran with grotesque splashings of tomato ketchup dolled wildly, indicating to now ex-potential sale that the purveyors of said fridge were indeed directly responsible for the slaughter of a child. How, they will not ask. As an artist, I will leave the execution to the imagination of the viewer. It will be riveting.

Depending on the audience feedback, I may decide to take this one-man show to the Melbourne Fringe Festival, where a provocative name such as “A Tecmair Lemair took my baby” which would surely draw crowds due to controversial comments from Lindy Chamberlain, practically guaranteeing a worldwide tour culminating in a widely-seen showcase spot in an Off Broadway revue. The American audience may have never heard of Tecma Lemair before, and after my razzle dazzle expose, they will never want to.

$40, or gratuitous slander against your company when, in all honesty, it’s not really your fault. More to the point, it’s absolutely not our fault way more than it isn’t your fault, so I'm chucking this your way to sort out.

So, please, just pay the man his $40 more.

Cheers,

Josh

Ping pongs and belonging in Bangkok

Josh Dare — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 14:29:31 GMT

Greetings from Bangkok!

It’s good to be back in Bangkok, a city I have fond memories of. Y’see, my family came on a holiday here a few years ago, on the way to Phuket. Beyond the floating market and the Golden Palace, there’s not a lot to the place. Except sex tourism. So, naturally, we went down to Patpong Road, the seedy strip, found an establishment called Pussy Galore and watched Thai women pull a variety of objects out of their vaginas in various ways.

This is how we enjoy spending our time together as a family.

Having done the tourist thing last time I was here, I thought Bangkok would be a good stop over destination to spend a few days on my way back to Australia. I’ve never one to sneeze at a life experience opportunity, however, so I have tried something new.

I’m staying at a gay resort. Well, I say resort: it’s a bed and breakfast attached to a sauna. Reportedly the biggest in the world. And it is freaking massive. Beyond what you’d usually expect to find in a sauna, they have a disco, two bars, pool, fully-equipped gym, and a sit down restaurant that appears to be black tie, but that would be impossible as the diners would be in little more than a towel.

Above the sauna complex, they have what they call the barracks: simple rooms with two beds and a TV. There’s no bathroom, as there are shared facilities – including shower – in the hall. I did my research on Google and found that these rooms are “cruisy” at all hours.

So I paid double to stay in the garden suites next door. I have my own bathroom. I need not be cruised when I’m going to drop the kids off at the pool of a morning.

Now, I’m not a gay tourist or a sex tourist – I’m down with saunas, but ordinarily I wouldn’t elect to live in one. But now ‘gay holiday’ is one thing I can check off the list of Things To Try. So now, in the off chance somebody queries if I’ve stayed at gay resort, I can raise my head high and say, yes – yes I have. And boy it was fucked up.

It shouldn’t surprise me in the slightest, but the average age of the other tourists staying here appears to be in the late 50s. The average aesthetic age of the Thai boys they’re trying to attract appears to be about 12. And there’s me in the middle, wondering, what the fuck am I doing here?

I went to dinner last night, and the restaurant was packed with twosomes: old, lonely Caucasian guys sitting next to young, disinterested Thai guys. Both staring straight ahead, not really engaging. Assumedly both are involved in a transaction that appeases both parties.

Rank.

As I filed in for breakfast this morning, I realised how out of place I am. Old seedy men heaped toast and cereal onto their trays, making small chit chat that I was sure masked their true conversational desire of swapping the best tactic for enslaving a poor population of Asian people as their modern sex slaves. All the while, the locals sat round and did their best pretty impression.

I half expected someone to approach me, grab my arm and whisper, you don’t belong here.

I say expected, but I actually wanted someone to approach me and tell me that. I check out in a matter of hours anyway, so I suppose it’s inconsequential. But I know, if I had the choice, I would house a whole array of comical items up my clacker before engaging in this seedy decrepit world of Western tourism gone wrong.

Six hours to kill in Copenhagen

Josh Dare — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 05:02:46 GMT

I’ve picked up the airport tour where I left off: Copenhagen International Airport. My flight got in at 4:50pm. My connecting flight to Bangkok departs at 10:50pm. This leaves me with six excruciating hours to wile away at the airport.

That wasn’t the plan, mind. I actually know a couple of great Danes (chortle, chortle), and when I was here last I checked I could get out of the airport to visit them. I could. I messaged them both on Facebook. They’re out of town.

So here I am again in the transfer centre lounge, killing time. Anyone who’s caught a lot of connecting flights knows the drill. Each activity is drawn out to its most painful limit. For example: when I landed, I felt like getting a coffee and maybe doing a crossword. Casually strolled to the closest coffee bar, idly window shopping on the way. Inspected coffee prices and variety in stall one. Continued to coffee bar two. Compared prices. Returned to the first to double check. Decide on one. On the ‘outside’, it would be a frustrating and fruitless endeavour, but stuck in the terminal, each moments’ deliberation occupies time that you’d otherwise spend staring into space.

Even consuming said coffee can be stretched out to a full hour if you have your procrastination cap on. I ended up getting a cheesecake as well, spending the last of my Euros in the process. A novice’s error would be to eat the cheesecake while drinking the coffee. No. You eat the cheesecake, slowly, deliberately, until done. Then and only then may you start sipping the coffee.

You are, however, permitted to sip coffee and do crosswords. Flicking through my Lovatt’s Puzzler, I bought some more time by paying an inordinate – and undeserved – amount of time to the editor’s letter. This month, it’s dedicated to thanking the readers who took the time to answer their recent survey. Turns out the number one other activity for those who enjoy crosswords, according to their survey, is walking. Followed by watching movies. If you need a party starter, you need look no further than a Lovatt’s puzzler.

She even chucked in a few jokes about the feedback. Diane of Warwick wrote into say that whenever the month’s Lovatt’s comes out, she never gets any housework done. “Sorry about that, Diane!” the editor giggles, the exclamation point punctuating how very crazy and whacky that anecdote would obviously parlay in a household full of walking, movie-watching crossword enthusiasts. Fancy forgetting your housework! Etc.

Barb of Newcastle writes that she loves Lovatt’s because it makes her feel smart because she learns new words “all the time”. I don’t know if Barb has ventured far from the puzzles section of the newsagents, because when the most challenging of clues in the crossword book is “He, …, it” (the answer being “she”, for the people up the back), it doesn’t sound as though she gets out of her literary house a lot, so to speak.

Couple of puzzles knocked back, decided it was time to get out of my literary house, so I wandered to the airport’s book seller and browsed the English titles – easily buying me a half an hour’s reprise. I’ve picked up James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces. Y’know, the Oprah fraud. Figure it can’t be too bad if Oprah recommended it initially, and I’m already re-reading the two Augusten Burroughs novels I brought away with me.

Getting on to the internet and blogging is an activity I’ve put off for as long as possible, because I know it’s a good decent solid hour that I won’t even notice. I’m even typing this up in Word before I connect to juice every last minute out of it.

May be repeating myself here, but OMG Copenhagen airport is a fucking decent perv. After the disappointment of Greece, coming here is the equivalent of the coffee beans you sniff in perfume shops – it’s totally cleared away that Mediterranean whiff so I’m free to soak up the Scandinavian scent.

There’s just something about the Scandinavians though, isn’t there? Even the ones that have let themselves go a bit are altogether not that bad. Is it good skin, diet? In-breeding? There’s at least a couple of hours airport investigationing there, so I’ll fill you in when I find out.

It’s my fucking birthday

Josh Dare — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 00:54:47 GMT

I’m 27. Today. It’s my birthday.

I’m 27 today, and I woke up in a cot bed next to my sleeping parents. Like toddler.

We left Kalamata for Athens the day after my sister’s wedding. My parents have been MIA for the past five birthdays; every one since my 21st. For the first couple of years it was my fault for living in London. The following three were missed because the parents leave Melbourne for winter. This year, though, considering my sister was getting married in Greece on July 13, we figured we could spend my birthday together for the first time in six years.

Coz, you know, who parties harder than your 60 year old parents?

After I awoke from my cot, I checked my phone. Because the time difference, birthday messages had been coming through from Australia since midnight; so it was good to wake up to my phone saying I had an abnormally high amount of SMSs waiting. I thought that was an effort until I logged on to Facebook, and felt like an absolute celebrity: around 25 notifications telling me I had about an equal number of wall posts, and five new messages in my inbox. Score.

So yeah, thanks if you posted something or sent a text message! For now, though, I’m gonna get out in the thick of it for the day. Mum “cutely” hinted that there’s a gay bar in the area, though my family is definitely not Queer As Folk-ish enough to go together. Thank God. My Dad would not be able to deal.

It’s my last night in Greece as well – tomorrow I take off for Thailand, which is my last stop before I come home. I’m not planning anything in Bangkok – like, literally nothing except for maybe a couple of massages – so will no doubt have time for a few more blog posts before I fade back into literary apathy.

Missed the reference in the title? Check out the photos of my surprise early birthday party in London on Facebook on this public link

My sister’s big fat Greek wedding

Josh Dare — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 00:47:52 GMT

Isn’t it lucky there’s some crappy Hollywood movie I can rip off for the title of this post? Pop culture reference, how very clever etc.

I think I mentioned it earlier, but I’m over in Greece for my sister’s wedding. Her fiancé, Angelo, is of Greek descent (is that the PC way to say it?), and they were naturally looking for something special to do for their wedding, so the obvious conclusion was to fly half way across the world. That could sound bitchy; it’s not. Good excuse for a holiday, and the way I see it is that when you’ve lived together for years like Bangelo (Bec and Angelo – clever again, eh?), getting married at home would be kinda like playing dress ups. Nothing would really be different from any ordinary day, ‘cept you have to burl round to church for a bit and see way more family than you’d probably care to. And you’d have a fuck-off sized bill at the end of the day.

So we came, and now it’s done. My sister’s gone down the aisle. Well, there wasn’t so much an aisle per se – the chapel she was married in was this ancient church on a winding mountain street in Kalamata. It was tiny. Even smaller than those Asian bait apartments in the city. No wider than one lane of a road, and probably about ten meters deep. And they managed to squeeze 70 people in there.

67 of which were Greek, leaving myself, my Mum and my Dad looking like quizzical aliens in the corner.

Ever been at a party where you don’t know anyone? How about a party where you don’t know anyone and no one speaks your language? I win. Despite a few bilinguals that I hung around like a bad smell, everything was Greek, Greek, Greek. The ceremony was entirely in Greek, but I have an inkling it was ancient Greek, so even the locals had trouble following it. The music at the reception was Greek, except for – curiously – the new couple’s first dance, which was an acoustic version of Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters. Don’t go thinking they’re bogans; Bangelo didn’t ask for it. The band probably had no idea what it was either.

Besides the language, it wasn’t that different from a wedding at home. Angelo met Bec at the door, and handed her the bouquet (which, disappointingly, wasn’t thrown to a ravenous crowd of desperate women later). They entered the church, and the dude in the robe did his thing, before placing a crown on each of their heads. The crown was connected by string, which no doubt represents their togetherness or whatevs. Couple of sips of communion wine, and then a couple of laps around the ceremony table while being pelted with rice.

I knew they were handing out rice, but kinda figured they’d throw it, y’know, outside of the church. Nope. A million little white pellets were unceremoniously chucked at the bride and groom while they ducked and ran for cover. Bec tells me her sole concentration from that point on was to not slip.

Once the Indy 500 Asian edition was complete, it was the final part of the ceremony. The bride stomps on the groom’s foot, signifying she’ll be the leader of the household. The foot, I suppose, represents his balls.

I’d heard a story about this: there’s a Greek locality – I can’t remember the name of it – where the men have a reputation for manly pride. A couple was getting married, and the groom warned the bride not to stomp on his foot. She ignored him, and gleefully stomped down on his Hush Puppies. Calmy and quietly, he took off the crown, tossed it at the priest and walked out of the church. It’s serious business.

Angelo told Bec not to stomp. She stomped. Sucked in.

The reception was at a nearby taverna, and was probably everything you’d expect at a Greek wedding: meat on a spit, Greek salad, and Greek dancing. Featuring yours truly. Turns out dance is the international language. And I can talk all night.

The night wound down at about 2am, and I was sitting chatting with my Dad and “reflecting” about the wedding. I’d like to think I summed up the experience entirely. “Don’t think of it as losing a daughter,” I told him. “Think of it as gaining a son.”

Pause.

“One that isn’t gay.”

Bonus: the pics are on Facebook - anyone can access them at the public link

Impressions of Greece

Josh Dare — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 23:06:28 GMT

As a touro it feels like I’m obliged to talk about the weather.

It’s hot.

Bit of a given considering it’s the Mediterranean summer; but it’s ‘feel your skin cooking’ hot, which is both awesome and burny.

Although most travel guides bang on about how easy it is for an English-speaking tourist to get around Athens, when you get to a distant seaside suburb like Kalamata, yeah not so much. We’re being routinely ignored by waiters who can’t be arsed speaking English. Most of the time we have our secret weapon, Angelo (my sister’s fiancé), to get us by; but the rest of the time – like when we’re sitting on the beach chairs, which you’re meant to pay for – we’re left alone. We may as well being signs that say IGNORANT WESTERN TOURISTS. In Greek, obviously, otherwise it’d compound the problem.

The alienation is a bit of a blessing and a curse, because I find conversation with them a bit painful. Most learnt English in school, but they don’t practice it often. You know it’s bad news when you say something to the hotel receptionist, like “Is there a problem with the wifi?”, and their eyes just gloss right over. Or you both play the repetition game to see if echoing each other will help any, which it never does. As such, there’s a limited amount of places you can take the conversation, so you find yourself constantly referring to the weather. It’s an easy out. The parents, meanwhile, prefix almost everything with, “In Australia…”

And all the Greeks sound like Borat. Seriously. “It is verrrry niiiice,” etc. One of them said “August” with the same rounded vowels as ‘anous’ the other day and I almost lost my shit.

Speaking of the locals, the talent isn’t as impressive as I would’ve thought considering that whole ‘Greek Adonis’ thing. But you know what it’s like when the climate gets a bit warmer… You see a bit of skin and you’re basically anyone’s. Well, I am at least.

The lifestyle here is fantastic though. Everyone seems to get up late, say 9am or so, then potter round until lunchtime, which is 3pm. They then go for a nap, waking at about 6pm to go the beach. Most of the beach is covered in cafés and bars that extend out in a mess of deck chairs and umbrellas, and everyone sits around drinking freddos – basically an ice coffee. But not coffee flavouring and milk; these are proper espressos tipped into a glass with ice. They’re like coffee that’s gone cold, but by that’s selling them short. If you want actual coffee that’s gone cold, Nescafé sells a feral canned version.

Dinner comes at around 10pm, which is terrible for the carb-conscious eater. And probably goes some length to explain why there’s no Adoni. (I assume that’s the plural of Adonis. If not, it is now.)

The food is great, and eating with the locals reveals something about the Greek attitude: they are fiercely patriotic. Everything from the fetta to the tomatoes to the olives to the meat is “the best in the world”. It’s admirable they think so highly of their produce (and it is pretty good), but as an Australian who’s used to conceding most of the country’s wares are average, it’s not something I’m used to. Like, when I worked at Sensis on Yellow Pages Online, if a restaurant wanted to place an ad saying that they were the best eatery in the suburb, they would have to back it up with an award that certified as such. And they never could, that’s why you see so many Yellow Pages ads that say “one of the best” – they don’t have to verify that because it’s so vague. Anyway, my point is, it’s all conjecture from the Greeks, but in their eyes, their trophy case is overflowing.

One thing that isn’t ‘the best in the world’, though, is their plumbing. There’s a sign outside my bathroom door that reminds me to “do not drop toilet paper in toilet seat”. Because the pipes are so old, they can’t withstand toilet paper. There’s a bin next to the toilet specifically for this purpose. Use your imagination to figure out the motions you would have to go through to wipe your ass and dispose of the tissue. I’ve never been one to check my own stool before but it’s kind of unavoidable here.

You never know, it could be like reading tea leaves. The story of my whole future may be smeered right under my nose. My destiny could be revealed on a scrunched up bit of bog roll.

You know, it’s probably best for me to just keep talking about the weather.

το ομιλούν δέντρο

Josh Dare — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 20:27:42 GMT

I always find it comforting when a country other than Australia has a little bit of crap about it. It’s like I’m conditioned to believe that certain aspects of Australia represent the pinnacle of tacky.

Which is why I was overjoyed to see an English newspaper full of terribly-designed ads for businesses like, oh I dunno, Pimlico Plumbing. With spelling errors. And ClipArt. With the glossy sheen that movies and TV shows present to an overseas audience, you expect somewhere like the UK to be so much more advanced and civilized than Australia – so when you see that they, too, are shithouse in most day-to-day regards, it makes you realise that maybe we’re not so bad at home.

I don’t think that’s what most people think the benefit of travel is (it’s probably something a lot more holistic, like experiencing another country’s culture firsthand), but it seems to be the main thing I take away. Would you call it inverse patriotism?

Have moved on from the sunny (read: miserable) shores of the UK now though, and am beaching it up big time in Greece. I’m in Kalamata, which seems to where the Greeks take their beach holidays (kinda like Sorrento in Melbourne, or Brighton in London).

Now, Greece – I had this expectation of massive granite buildings and sunshine. Kind of like a sunnier Italy. Oh, and a lot of stray dogs, because someone told me they just wander the streets. And it’s actually no where near as developed as that. It’s like Bali with the Greek alphabet. Sellers wandering the beach with pirated DVDs and CDs and all. Totally In a good way, though, coz I was after a resort holiday – but once again, just ties in with the whole ‘Oh, Australia’s not as shit as I think’ theme.

As I’m over here for my sister’s wedding, have now hooked up with the whole family (sans my brother Ben, who couldn’t come). Bec, my sister, is marrying a Greek guy, so speaks the language, Dad hardly speaks anyway, and Mum is delightfully out of her depth.

You know when people are so consumed with the feeling of being in a foreign country and push their sense of rational to the side while their imagination takes them somewhere else? We went out for dinner last night with my sister’s fiancé’s family, which was lovely, and afterwards we were walking to the car and trying to decide where to go for ice cream. Our group was on a raised bit of the car park, and the other group were in lower area which was apparently out of Mum’s view because she earnestly asked, why are they talking to that tree?

Ah Mum… You did your country proud.

Polly wants a cracker

Josh Dare — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 14:38:30 GMT

I noticed it the first night I was here. Was happily chatting away to Cara, when I heard a distinct something in my voice.

That something being the world's quickest onslaught of a faux British accent.

Now, last time I was here - for a year and a half - it was positively charming to have picked up the dulcet tones of the natives. Calls back home were peppered with a much more colourful voice, etc. The words said whatever my mouth mouthed, but the accent said "Aren't I marvellously international and don't you miss me so much?"

Wore of on its own accord as soon as I was back home, so I was a little surprised to hear it return.

Realised I must be parroting. A new low: copying other people's accents to make myself better understood.

This is the verbal equivilant of wearing a bowler cap because your friends are.

And I am THERE.

Don't I know you?

Josh Dare — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 05:36:41 GMT

I was slightly disenfranchised to encounter Boost Juice handing out free samples at Bank tube the other day. Almost as disenfranchised as I was to go to Nando's and discover the menu is pretty much identical to the menu at home, expect they have 'lime and mango' as well as 'lemon and herb' in their non-spicey selection.

It's ironic though, really, that I'm disenfranchised, as it's franchises that's making me feel this way.

It ties together quite nicely with my overwhelming feeling of London: everything is so vaguely familiar but odd and foreign at the same time.

Buggers me no end that the main culture differences to be observed - by an Australian, at least - are nuances on fast food menus. Still, I suppose it's like a cultural rock; there's a sheen of familiarity that allows you to look and see the tiny things that set you apart. However I doubt you learn as much about a country's people by the fact they serve mayonnaise with their chips as a traveller in the 70s would have learnt when they stumbled across their first spotted dick.

I suppose it's all hitting home for me at the moment, because I'm living in this duality - I know the sights of London, know my way around, know some people; but at the same time I blatantly don't remember shit about most aspects of the country that I'm visiting, only the stuff that affected me while I was here.

It's altogether too easy to box away all your memories of people and places when you're back at home, filing them under 'London' and not advancing your ideas about them too much, so when you do return and find they too have grown as people, that's the largest shock you can expect to receive.

Insular bullshit with big words aside, I'm having a bang up time here. Working through my list of people to see as best I can, but also taking a bit of time out with Cara and watching DVDs. I'm loving the pace of the holiday, as I don't have any sights or tourist traps to visits - I feel slightly vagabond just schlepping around and meeting up with people. Gives the impression that if I were to move back here, I would have a social calendar to die for; but there's no denying I'm a passing novelty on my way through.

In the meantime, though, I'm just trying to not get underfoot at Cara's house and make the most of my limited time here, because bugger knows when I'll be back.

And heaven knows how much it will have changed-but-not-changed again by then, so I'd best get back out in the thick of it until next time.

I swear I’ve lost a day

Josh Dare — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 01:23:41 GMT

Greetings from sunny England! The weather’s quite pleasantly gangbusters over here, especially after hauling ass from Melbourne where it was becoming a bit monotonously freezing.

Though I had to laugh when reading an article about their apparent “heatwave”, when it blathered on about the weather hitting the extraordinary heights of 27.8C. Really don’t do much to dispel the myths, eh?

It was stuffy, mind – no bugger has air conditioning here, it’s not really a wise investment – which made my wait at customs excruciating. I totally underestimated the amount of time it would take to clear passport control in this post-tube bomb UK. I was in queue for over an hour, shunted into the ‘All other passports’ queue like some kind of refugee. And it didn’t help that I was in the middle of the dodgiest group of Arab-looking people, who were getting the full terror treatment at the front of the line – mainly because they all held multiple passports, didn’t speak any English and would just push in front as they pleased.

Obviously I did finally clear and get out of the airport, and it’s all going well here s’far – am staying with my mate Cara in Notting Hill Gate, which is right around the corner from the pub I used to live in for anyone who’s keeping track.

It’s really highlighted how scant my memories of the place are though – I thought that I had the whole area’s geography licked, had the journey from the tube station to Cara’s entirely mapped in my head. In my head, it went: tube station / Crispin’s / pub / Cara’s. I must have forgotten about the, oh I don’t know, twenty other stores and landmarks on the way.

It’s the same with the tube – I had a grandiose vision of stepping off the plane and on to the tube, and hurtling myself down the Central line to pop up right where I wanted to be. Caught the tube for a year and a half, after all. Must’ve have forgotten that it was, in fact, the Piccadilly line that goes to Heathrow, and not the Central. May sound incredibly minor to you, but when you’re trying to pass yourself off as a bon fide London knowledge base at home (which I’ve sadly done many times), it really does kick you in the balls.

Wifenblogen-finidugen

Josh Dare — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 01:00:37 GMT

The airport tour is going swimmingly.

After the highs of Tullamarine and the lows of Narita, I was looking forward to what Copenhagen might offer. Airport hopping is a game of unknowns; stepping off the flight like you’ve been locked in some sort of time capsule, opening up to a world that doesn’t know you and you don’t know it.

However, thanks to globalisation, a comforting 7-Eleven or McDonald’s is never far away; so your comfort zone shant be rocked too much. It just comes at the cost of raping a country’s culture.

There are some unique traits reserved to each country though, and I have go to say that the transients (that’s not the right word, is it? People in transit?) at Copenhagen Airport at the best looking by a country mile. Though, considering I’ve come from ‘world’s fattest country’ Melbourne and ‘we’re just not attractive’ Japan, it’s not exactly stiff competition.

And they have wifi! Bless ‘em. Though here they probably call it something freaky and Europen, like wifenblogen-finidugen. I love the way they talk, everything sounds like Hagendaaz. Speaking of, I might get off the laptop and mill around a bit.

No, not in the loo.

London’s only a connecting flight and four hours away – stay tuned.

Not to be racist, but they do say "fright" instead of 'flight'

Josh Dare — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 00:50:37 GMT

Delayed broadcast. And it was going so well.

Flying long haul is a little bit like moving house: you so long between bouts that when you finally do it again, you remember why you swore off it in the first place.

My flight took off from Melbourne two hours late, with the “maintenance issue” fixed. (Being Qantas, and considering their current climate, I’m guessing the “issue” was their striking workforce.) Settled in to the 30cm cubed space around my seat, and thought, “Well, this isn’t so bad.”

Fast forward ten hours later, totally different tune. The cramps, the cramps, oh my god, the cramps. Well, not so much cramps (that makes me sound like a 70 year old woman), but more a case of ‘I’m so fucking over sitting in this position’. If you normal people may think that aeroplane seats are uncomfortable, amplify yourself to 6’4 and see how that goes. Sleeping’s out of the question, but you can stretch out in the aisle if you don’t mind being unceremoniously and deliberately bumped by every trolley dolly.

I shouldn’t bitch too much though, because it was mostly agreeable. The biggest redeeming factor with long haul flights these days is the little TV in the back of the seat in front. When I get old, and start genuinely cramping, I’m sure I’ll regale the young folk with tales of days of yore when we all had to watch the one pull down projector screen. Remember that? God it was shit. Today, I had video on demand. The fact you can command them at will doesn’t make them any less shit, mind.

Landed in Japan at about 10pm, and the first thing to strike me was that for a country renowned for its technogical innovations, it sure is naff. Not just a little naff, but undeniably covering every aspect naff. My imagination wanted to step off the plane to be greeted by a Jetsons-style uptopia, but what met me instead was 70’s-style wood paneling and dot matrix printers. I’m not making this up. I haven’t seen one of them in years. Technology museum is not the sort of image Japan conjures up, but in all fairness I didn’t leave the airport’s surrounds.

And, without sounding too generation Y here: they didn’t even have wifi. (Hence the delayed broadcast.)

Internet, or at least some communication, would've been handy - the airline was meant to book me a hotel room for my overnight stop over, but I couldn't find any bugger who knew anything about that, so had to find one myself. Hadn't really factored in Japan to my travels, so getting round was an absolute bitch - and I had no idea how the currency converted. When the dude told me my room was going to be 8,000 yen (by writing it down for me - who's the stupid foreigner now, says Asia), I had no idea if that would bankrupt me or not.

Anyways, it's off to bed for another long haul flight in the morning - will post again soon. Gosh this 'almost like real time blogging but not really' is exciting, isn't it? Just hope some buggers are reading.

Stop the presses: blog to be updated in blog-like fashion

Josh Dare — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 10:59:28 GMT

Lock up your sons, Europe.

Today marks the start of my three week jaunt through the UK, Greece and Thailand. My sister is getting married in Greece in July, so I figured I’d burl round a couple of other places while I’m jetsetting - London because I lived there a few years ago, and Thailand coz it's cheap, easy and on the way home. A bit like your mum.

And the holiday couldn’t get off to a better start. I rocked up at Melbourne airport at 7am this morning for my 9:30am flight. Quite a feat considering spent most of yesterday shitting myself about the very real possibility of sleeping in and missing my flight; it’s not often I’m out of bed at 5am. (In fact, I’m not even in bed by that time most weekends.)

Excitedly wheeled my luggage into the terminal while quietly praised my own punctuality, only to be greeted by that fuck-off sized flight information board broadcasting that my flight was now leaving at 11am – generously providing four hours leisure time at Victoria’s second most favouritest transport hub.

Have filled the time quite admirably s’far – read the Herald Sun cover-to-cover while casually sipping a fruit smoothie. Wouldn't ya know it, The Hun contained more pulp than the smoothie. They're brilliant at playing right into the hands of the reactionary right though, aren't they? Choice stories today: an expose on VicRoads' wholly unagreeable $300k bill for fleet car damage (coz OMG THEY WORK WITH CARS WTF); a stern warning about online fraud on "popular internet websites Facebook, MySpace and Bebo"; and a poll that asked if children should be protected from sexy music videos, with 79.2% of respondents hysterically screaming yes (seemingly unaware that parents should be capable of doing the protecting themselves without the interventions that have been spruiked recently).

Checked in when I could, and moseyed into the departures lounge. Still had bugger all to do, mind, but I figured by pacing passport control and perusing the duty free wares in a disinterested manner could provide the feeling of occupation.

Fail.

So right now I’m typing this on my laptop…

while sipping an iced latte vendi…

on a couch at Starbucks.

WHO OR WHAT HAVE I BECOME?

Will have plenty of time to reflect at any rate: they just announced my flight has been delayed again, until 11:30am. Remember that episode of Kath and Kim where Kath and Kel don't leave the terminal for their holiday? My morning.

Quick poll: Should I shave my head?

Josh Dare — Sun, 04 May 2008 13:45:18 GMT

For a while, I've been tossing around the idea of shaving my head - but have never quite had the gumption to pull it across the line (mostly because I'm totally vain and freak about losing "my beautiful hair" - well, not quite, but you get my drift).

The thought's entered my lusciously-hirsuit head again today, because I'm overdue for a cut - and I have a mate who is just gagging to do the deed, so I'm feeling the pressure. Wouldn't mind doing it just to see how it turns out; but, obviously, if it was shit, I'd be stuck with it for a good couple of months. So I did what an self-respecting nerd would do, and photoshopped a picture of me so I could suss out what it might look like (if I'm lucky).

Before:

After:

So! Quick poll: should I shave my head? Your comments/opinions would be appreciated!

Fun fact! The shaved head I used is that of Natalie Portman circa V For Vendetta. I couldn't get a good shot of Britney's.

Five jobs you could totally do at Nintendo Australia

Josh Dare — Sat, 03 May 2008 19:12:50 GMT

Ever wanted to work for Nintendo? With a little bit of pluck (and a lotta luck), these are five jobs any sucker off the street could do at Nintendo Australia. Now all you’ve gotta do is get your foot in the door.

1. Helpline operator
Being a helpline operator – one of the phone monkeys that answers calls to the 1900 helpline – is pretty much the mecca of jobs at Nintendo Australia for any respectable geek. The job is exactly how you’d imagine it: sitting by a phone, waiting for a desperate gamer to call, then helping them. So, all those lonely nights you’ve spent blasting your way through every game ever released will finally come in handy, eh?

Well, yes and no – while first hand experience definitely helps you relate to the hyperactive five year olds that call relentless, you don’t need to be a veritable gaming encyclopaedia to work on the helpline. All operators have access to an internal database of walkthroughs and cheats for pretty much every Nintendo game in existence, because when you’re charging $1.95 a minute – for help that any fool could find with a quick Google search – you’d want to make sure that the solution you’re spouting is actually correct.

You will still be forced to clock any AAA titles on company time before their release. It’s a tough job, etc.. Helpline operators get to do a whole bunch of other cool stuff too, like playing betas of upcoming titles to recommend classifications to the OFLC and helping assess whether games would be suitable for release in Australia.

Skills: A high tolerance to children you would ordinarily want to throttle.

2. Customer service operator
If the gameplay helpline’s not your thing, but talking down to people on the phone while maintaining an air of assisting them is, you could be better suited to the customer service department. Customer service operators are the first port of call for anyone with a gripe with Nintendo, whether it’s someone with a broken DS, a caller who threw their Wii remote through the TV, or yet another retailer bitching about not getting enough stock.

On the plus side, you’re more free to gab Nintendo ‘til the cows come home because people aren’t paying to talk to you, and the callers are generally more receptive to info about the company because they’ve got a problem and they want an explanation. That said, you wouldn’t want to be prone to getting jaded: you’ll hear about every single problem that people have with the company. Repeatedly. Plus you’ll have to be the one to tell little Timmy that he’ll have to pay to get his DS fixed because dirt – or worse, urine corrosion – isn’t covered under warranty.

Skills: A healthy disposition to talking too much, and the ability to spin white lies.

3. Repairer
If you’re the type of kid who spent ages toying with those Dick Smith circuitry boards, then you could find yourself gainfully employed in Nintendo Australia’s repair department. Every Game Boy that’s been dragged through mud or GameCube that’s been pissed on by a cat in Australia ends up at the repair department.

Besides the obvious – something comes in broken, you fix it and send it back – the repairers have a few other tasks that would make geeks salivate. There’s the testing station, a wall of consoles playing themselves uninterrupted to see if a reported problem can be duplicated by leaving it running. And there’s a huge stockpile of old gear just begging to be broken so you can “study” the effects.

Skills: Handy with a soldering iron. Even handier with puke removal.

4. Warehouse packer
Who said you had to aim high to work for your favourite game company? Arguably the most important function of Nintendo Australia is their warehouse and distribution operations – receiving in the shipments of consoles and games from Nintendo’s overseas manufacturers, and sending orders out to stores. And those boxes ain’t gonna pack themselves, so there’s plenty of work going if you’re willing to stand at a conveyor belt putting orders together.

Your job could be done by robots in a few years time, but gosh golly you’re part of the magic – even if it is hard to feel it when you’re in surrounded by cardboard boxes in a freezing warehouse that’s all but disconnected from the rest of the company (and the building).

The good news is there’s plenty of work going – but the bad news is that you’ll be facing stiff competition from non-English speaking migrants who’ll work for peanuts.

Skills: Putting stuff in box-ability.

5. Work experience kid
If you’re a high school student, you’ve no doubt had to face the depressing thought of having to go to your Dad’s crappy workplace for a week to learn the ins and outs of his mediocre job for your compulsory work experience. Of course, it doesn’t have to be that way – all it takes is a little planning and a lotta sucking up.

Nintendo Australia runs one of the comprehensive work experience programs around. Over a week, keen-eyed students are shuffled between all of Nintendo’s departments, touring through marketing, customer service, sales, and to the giddying heights of their accounts receivable area – you’ll do it all. Obviously, though, if Nintendo gave every student who asked a week’s work experience, the company would do little else but – so, get in early (we’re talking a year or more early here) and send letter to the head office asking if you could be part of their work experience program – and suck up like you’ve never sucked before.

Skills: Letter-writing, and an ability to feign interest in accounts receiving.

Call me a geek

Josh Dare — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 19:52:20 GMT

... but I've just started writing for a Nintendo blog. Figured it'd be good to spread my wings a bit and write about something that's not totally gay. At any rate, they've just published my first article - check it out here.

I'll republish it here once I let an embargo period pass. Makes for an easy blog entry after all.

Blog something

Josh Dare — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 20:28:13 GMT

Blog something.

But what to blog about? I don't want to do one of those blogs where people talk about how they've got nothing to talk about. That's fucking sad.

You're getting rusty.

I've totally fallen off the horse. I thought the blog would be a good way to keep my writing skills piqued, but it turns out I do my head in about blog topics most the time rather than, y'know, thinking about work that could get me paid.

I'm typing at about a million miles per hour right now though, so maybe that means I've still got it.

Maybe that means you're so obsessed by not having it, you're gagging to brag about it. What are you now, narcasscistic? You can't even spell it.

Think of something with substance. What's been on your mind lately?

So You Think You Can Dance has been playing on my mind a bit. Like, how did they land on that as the best title? It's a mouthful. Totally not catchy. Did they sit around in a board room meeting and go, "C'mon guys, we need something. Bailey suggested 'Dance Off'; any other ideas?". "Oh! Oh! I know! How about Dance Idol!" "That's been done, what else? Just think... it's contestants who think they can dance. Why don't we call it So You Think You Can Dance?"

Lame. Lame lame. Think harder.

That's the thing - I can think of a ton of things to blog about. But the tone of it always feels the same. Raise topic. Become snarky about topic. Close with a joke.

Isn't that what all writing is?

That's what all bad writing is.

Well, I had an accident this week. On my bike. Was riding home from work, and a taxi driver opened his door right in front of me. Stacked it hardcore, spent five hours in emergency only to be told the doctor couldn't really do anything. Got Maccas on the way home.

That's a bit self obsessed, don't you think?

True. But what's a blog if it's not self obsessed?

Meaningful commentary interspersed with personal anecdotes.

Oh. That's pretty concise when you put it like that. I'll get back to you.

Welfare Poem

Josh Dare — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 19:55:52 GMT

This delightful little poem was forwarded to me by two people today. If you ever wondered why Australia has a reputation as a racist backwater hick country, here's a prime example of why:

Welfare Poem

I cross ocean, poor and broke,
Take bus, see employment folk.

Nice man treat me good in there,
Say I need to see welfare.

Welfare say, 'You come no more,
We send cash right to your door.'

Welfare cheques, they make you wealthy,
Medic aid it keep you healthy!

By and by, I got plenty money,
Thanks to you, Australian dummy.

Write to friends in motherland,
Tell them 'come fast as you can.'

They come in turbans and Ford trucks,
I buy big house with welfare bucks

They come here, we live together,
More welfare checks -- it gets better!

Fourteen families, they moving in,
But neighbour's patience wearing thin.

Finally, white guy moves away,
Now I buy his house, and then I say,

'Find more aliens for house to rent.'
And in the yard I put a tent.

Send for family, they just trash,
But they, too, draw the welfare cash!

Everything is very good,
And soon we own the neighbourhood.

We have hobby, it's called breeding,
Welfare pay for baby feeding.

Kids need dentist? Wife need pills?
We get free! We got no bills!

Australian crazy! He pay all year,
To keep welfare running here.

We think Australia darn good place!
Too darn good for the white man race.

If they no like us, they can scram,
Got lots of room in Pakistan!

It is interesting that the federal government provides a single refugee with a monthly allowance of $1,890.00 and each can also get an additional $580.00 in social assistance for a total of $2,470.00.

This compares very well to a single pensioner who after contributing to the growth and development of Australia for 40 to 50 years only receives a monthly maximum of $1,012.00 in old age pension and Guaranteed Income Supplement.

Maybe our pensioners should apply as refugees!

Let's send this to all Australians so we can all be ticked off and maybe we can get the refugees cut back to $1,012.00 and the pensioners up to $2,470.00 and enjoy some of the money we were forced to submit to the Government over the last 40 or 50 years.

Please forward to every Australian to expose what our elected politicians are doing - to the over-taxed Australian.

Slingshot hero

Josh Dare — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 11:07:59 GMT

Ever wondered what it's like to be flung 80 metres in the air at 100km/h? Check out this video from the Slingshot on our NYE trip to the Gold Coast (Queensland):

(That's me on the left at the start.)

Aren't I just Mister Tough Guy with my grunts 'n' wifebeater?

You learn something new every day*

Josh Dare — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 20:55:20 GMT

* Not for the faint hearted.

From The New Joy Of Gay Sex, which I'm casually flicking through:

Scat
A small minority of gay men like to make feces a part of the sex scene.
...
Rather than using shit to degrade themselves and each other, they use it in a variety of metaphoric, even ritulastic ways, often without touching it: experienced it being produced by another; sometimes adoring it (in almost the same way that infants play with it as a marvellous product of their own body; stuffing it into condoms and using it as a substitute penis.

Emphasis mine. As is the revulsion.

It'll be a sad, sad day when I shit into a condom and use it as a dildo.

Notes from the bike lane

Josh Dare — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 17:33:47 GMT

· You know public transport is bad when ordinary people like me conclude, 'Ride a push bike 9km, mostly uphill? That's totally a better way to get to work!'

· Riding to work will earn you the respect and admiration of every colleague. Seriously. I could have blitzed all of my paperwork, finished everything well ahead of schedule and done the can on the CEO's desk, and the lauding will never come close to the praise being heaped on me peddling to work. Warning though: if you do make the plunge, expect to become a mentor to all others that have - even briefly - considered it in the past.

· Even pedestrians that 'look left, look right' a million times will not give two shits about crossing a bike lane without looking. And they'll be the ones that act the most surprised when you warn them that there's a vehicle hurtling in their direction.

· I'm certain that when you ride to work in the rain, like I did this morning, every single motorist going past thinks, 'That guy is fucking hardcore'.

· Cyclists totally have a secret sect going on. For example, when you're on the bike on a shared pedestrian strip (ie outside Crown), you're constantly making eye contact with other riders and subtly indicating which way you're going to go. Makes you feel like part of a club. 'Push bike club' doesn't have the same ominous ring to it as 'Motorcycle club' though.

· When listening to an iPod while riding, make sure you load a playlist rather than thinking you can pull out the iPod and shuffle tracks with the hand you use for the brakes. Like I did. Which almost killed me.

· Showering at work? Don't stress about nudity! Although you may be shy at first, you'll soon find that older colleagues suffer from some sort of inter-generational nudity defect, and totally flop themselves in your face while you're trying to tie your shoelaces. Seen one penis, seen 'em all - and now I've had them all waved in my face at 8am.

· Bonus showering tip: If your work, like mine, offers two shower areas, one mixed with toilets and one not, do not go the one with toilets, even though it's way less busy. Many people wait until they get to work to drop their rankest stools. This is not pleasant while showering, supposedly 'cleansing' while invisible air-borne particles surely ingrain themselves in your soap.

Bonus post: Spot the difference

Josh Dare — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 20:56:04 GMT

Following on from yesterday's interview with Margaret Cho, here's a fun bonus post - spot the difference between what I submitted and what was published!

Ho called (Margaret) Cho

Josh Dare — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 17:35:39 GMT

JOSH DARE like meets, y’know, that Asian-American queer chick, Margaret Cho.

If you were playing a game of word association and someone said Margaret Cho, you’d be fucked for a singular ‘right’ answer. She’s a comedian, Asian-American, queer, political, Californian, a fag hag and probably about a million other things. Think Will & Grace, West Wing and some Asian show in one package.

Not that she even mentions it during our interview, between all her Californian y’knows, likes and kindas. After 20 years treading the funny planks, she’s honed a stage persona that’s not only original, but wild, sexy, crazy and funny – but just don’t expect the same if you meet her in person. “I’m pretty shy,” she tells me. “I’m a quiet kinda person, I’m not really like crazy or wild [in real life], and I don’t really party a lot.”

Get her behind the mic though, and that bitch is fierce. Nothing is sacred. Especially not the gay community. “I love going to gay bars,” she laughs, “but it’s, like, really horrible if you’re a woman. It’s fun until it hits dick o’clock, which is around 12:15am. At that point, if you don’t have a dick, there is no point for you to be at the bar. You don’t exist any more for gay men – you could be Judy Garland back from the dead, nobody gives a shit. I’m trying to lobby for all gay bars to have a fag hag shuttle that will pick us all up at dick o’clock and take us somewhere where we are wanted.”

Her political aspirations don’t end there. “I’m very political,” she says. “It’s been really great to have my point of view reinforced by audiences, ‘cause I’m very disappointed with the government in America: what we’ve done with the Iraq war, how much homophobia there is in government, and we don’t have gay marriage.”

Ah yeah – did I mention she’s gung ho on queer politics? A Margaret Cho show wouldn’t be complete without a political discussion of her community. “I think it’s pretty exciting to talk about gay issues and gay concerns and to have fun with it,” she says. “When you bring all of these issues into entertainment, there’s a really strong feeling of visibility and of inclusion. I think it really helps us feel stronger as a community.”

She’ll definitely feel a strong sense of community as she descends on this year’s Mardi Gras with her new show, Beautiful. And like the rest of the gay guys who make the journey to Sydney, she’s feeling horny. “This show that I’m doing is really sexually orientated,” she says. “It’s very much about sex. It’s about gay sex, it’s about straight sex, it’s about sex in general, it’s about the body, it’s about women’s bodies and men’s bodies, and how we are political through our bodies.”

“Queers should feel beautiful,” she continues, referring to the show’s title. “It’s very political for a queer community to feel beautiful because it gives us an extra edge in the world, it gives us power. When you’re queer, you have to take on the world every day – so we should have something extra to feel good about to carry us through.”

Kylie admits to stealing music

Josh Dare — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 20:27:23 GMT

Reliably sourced from The Age

Pop singer Kylie Minogue today admitted to stealing music since childhood, confirming the suspicions of many music fans.

In an interview spruiking her new range of bed linen, Ms Minogue, 39, took an unprompted segue in conversation, seemingly breaking down on the spot and confessing to music piracy of the highest degree. Her eyes filling with tears, she described the run-down hideaway where her life of music thievery began.

"As a teen, my room had blue flock wallpaper, which is how it was when my family bought the house," Minogue said. "Twin beds and a side table and mirror."

An addiction - and subsequent life of crime - was soon to follow.

"The most important part was the mono radio/cassette player. I was addicted to the radio and I'd spend hours waiting for my favourite song to come on, fingers poised over 'record'."

Sources close to the case say that suspicion was first aroused upon release of Kylie's latest album, X, which was itself of an earlier Kylie album, Fever.

Following today's confession, police have announced a full investigation into the originality of her entire musical catalogue will be conducted. The works of Madonna and Britney Spears are expected to be audited in relation to the case.

Validation, ice cream and cigarettes

Josh Dare — Sun, 13 Jan 2008 21:18:53 GMT

"I'm going to chat to her," I told Michael as we crossed the street to the local milk bar.

"You're fucked in the head," Michael replied.

Continuing on from my post about my not-so-secret and persistent desire to be on Big Brother, another "thing" I have (I like to think of them as quirky character traits, but I'm good at self-denial) is that I chat to shop assistants. Doubly so when that shop assistant is a local trader that I may see often.

Apparently triply so when it's the sweet old Korean lady at the independent convenience store at the end of our street.

I think it's like a challenge. So often you go in and you're just stonewalled by this blank face that scans your daily bread without a shred of life. So chatting to the sad fuckers - and getting them to laugh at something stupid - I dunno, it makes 'em human to me. But more aptly, I think it makes them remember me and OHMIGOD I'M DESPERATE FOR ATTENTION OF ANY SORT.

We got off to sketchy beginnings, me and sweet old Korean lady. One day I didn't have any cash, so I paid by card. She said, "I charge you three percent." Well, it was more like, "I char yoo tree parcent"; or it would be if I was a tad racist. Had a little moan about it to the flatties when I got home ("Three percent! What an arbitrary number!" etc). Forgot about it entirely until the next time Michael and I went to the shop and he paid by card.

No tree parcent.

I don't know if it's related, but seconds earlier Michael had taken his stuff up to the counter, and she pointed out something he'd picked up. Giggling, she pointed at a chocolate bar called Clix from the kosher section. "That Jew food!" she shrieked. I decided she was a cheeky little minx. So I was determined to impress her with the LOLs.

I got bagged out for whoring out forced conversation to her when it was clear she just wanted to return to her Korean sitcom. (I even made a little joke about that - I went, "Oh! I love this episode." Little giggle, but it was either just humouring me or directed at Korean Joey from Friends.) Then she went on holidays.

It had slipped my mind totally by tonight, when I volunteered to do an ice cream run after dinner. Coinage in hand, I trooped down to the milk bar and gave the old lady, back from her holidays, a little wave as I headed to the ice cream cabinet.

And then...

She called out, "You coloured your hair!"

AT ME. ABOUT MY HAIR.

"Yeah ages ago, keep up!" I called back. "Keep on the ball lady! Geez."

She gave me a giggle and a wink, telling me it looked good. And I floated all the way back home coz not only was I remembered, she totally noticed my killer new do. Double points on the ego-stroking scale, and another trader totally pwned by the power of the LOL.

LiveBlogging my work day

Josh Dare — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 18:21:36 GMT

Definition from Wikipedia: "Real-time commentary is sometimes referred to as 'liveblogging'."

9:16am
Casually strolled into the office, blaming Connex for making me late. Y'see, I was on a Flinders St direct train, so changed at Richmond to a "City Loop" train - which turned out to be a Flinders St direct train anyway. Had to find a City Loop train at Flinders St, which is more convoluted than you'd probably care to realise. However, all this considered, I probably would've been closer to 'on time' had I left home prior to 8:45am.

9:37am
Wrapped up 15 minute internal personal call that was mainly concerned with back pain, coins falling out of pockets and unexpected houseguests. At least to my co-workers, it might sound a little like I'm working. We did set up a meeting for later this afternoon to close off some work we've been doing together, but we'll probably just talk shit for the duration.

9:54am
Classic joke: Is your refrigerator running? Ours isn't! All our food went off and we've had to borrow the parents' bar fridge, which they grumbled about because they're not-so-secret alcoholics and we're stealing their stash hole. Called the fridge manufacturer and got the number of a repairer; emailed it across to my flatmate Michael to make an appointment.

10:12am
Turned my procrastination towards the internet; namely, The Age. Articles that took my interest:

Cop hurt as 500 brawl in Sydney bar
Five hundred people punch on, and only one cop gets hurt? Pretty good innings.

Why 10 is too young for your first Brazilian
Nair has raised ire by releasing hair removal products for girls aged 10-15. My favourite paragraph:
As a cosmetic pharmaceutical company, Nair is obliged to reinvent normal bodily functions as problems with handy product solutions. And the Australian arm of the company has claimed its target audience is slightly older, in an attempt to distance itself from the US campaign, which involves phrases such as "Pretty isn't a look. It's a feeling," "Nair will leave your skin smooth and totally touchable!" and this pearler from Stacey Feldman, vice-president for marketing at Nair's parent company, Church & Dwight: "When a girl removes hair for the first time, it's a life-changing moment."
Plus the fantastic closer:
Encourage them to be children, just for a little while longer. And don't worry. They'll have plenty of time to learn to hate themselves when they get older.

Driverless cars 'on market in 10 years'
Cars that drive themselves - even parking at their destination - could be ready for sale within a decade, General Motors executives say.
But they're still figuring out some pretty serious kinks, as demonstrated in a recent driver-less car contest:
The Defence Department contest, which initially involved 35 teams, showed the technology isn't ready for prime time. One team was eliminated after its vehicle nearly charged into a building, while another vehicle mysteriously pulled into a house's carport and parked itself.

10:22am
Did my first bit of work for the day - two departments have been squabbling over the wording used in one of my letters. Long story short, a client would have died and now we're asking the person who's receiving their money for their tax file number (TFN). The TFN wording ("You do not have to provide your TFN etc") was phrased as if it was their account, but as one department helpfully pointed out in hand-written feedback, "THE PERSON IS DEAD". They've resolved the issue now so I've sent out the document for an internal review. I'm guessing this'll be the "main" piece of work I have to do today, ie. "only".

10:31am
Spent a good five minutes pulling out ingrown hairs from my jawline. Do any other guys have this problem, or am I just gross?

10:43am
Giving an internal instant messenger application (similar to MSN) to employees was always going to be a risky move. Example conversation from a minute ago:
Anonymouse*/M... Do you feel like a coffee?
Josh Dare/MEL... are you buying?
Anonymouse*/... yes coffee whore
Josh Dare/MEL... oh i'm not just a whore for coffee. i whore it for all kinds of things.
Josh Dare/MEL... car parts, drugs - you name it.
Anonymouse*/... I know you would whore it for the saliva off a used envelope
Josh Dare/MEL... HAVE YOU GOT SOME?
Anonymouse*/... sold it already. Used tampon?
Josh Dare/MEL... is it yours?
Anonymouse*/... No bought it in Japan form a vending machine
Josh Dare/MEL... describe its smell and texture
Anonymouse*/... Smells like fish guts that has been sitting in a bucket for a week of 40 degree days. texture is that of rough cotton.

11:23am
Back from that coffee, and thought I'd deal with my emails. In the process, discovered the word "email" is not in (email client) Lotus Notes' dictionary.

12:01pm
Just took myself a little cubicle break - a little time out in the toilets always helps to break up the work day. It's such a dilemma in a polite bathroom though, isn't it? There's seven cubicles or so, and you don't want to go to the toilets at the ends because everybody will go to the toilets at the end (meaning they'll be filthy); and people are scattered in the other cubicles, and you don't want to move in next door. I ended up having to take residence in the end toilet, which was remarkably clean - I figured because it was right in front of the entrance, and people get poo shy. Me - not so much, but I did have to concentrate on not making a noise while fiddling with my mobile. It's the only way to pass the time on the john, as far as I'm concerned.

12:11pm
Now that I've made a little room (haha, gross), I've started chowing down on lunch and reading gaming blog Kotaku. In my head, because I'm eating sandwiches at my desk, it doesn't count as a lunch break - so I'll be taking a full hour shortly. LOVE MY JOB.

1:30pm
Back from my walk - it's my favourite part of the day. Leaving from the Docklands, I walk along the Yarra, kick the Bolte Bridge and then come back. All up it takes about 45 minutes, and I iPod shuffle the whole way. Thinking of upgrading to a jog, which would mean bringing a change of clothes and some jogging shoes. Think about it though: with all the constructionism I have going on around choosing a toilet cubicle, can you imagine what I'd be like showering - naked, in a stall - at work?

1:36pm
Thought the blog entry I put up yesterday was quite interesting, so checked to see if I've had any comments yet. None. Cunts. Time to make some personal calls before a meeting at 2pm.

2:38pm
Out of the meeting - and what do ya know, we actually did a bunch of work. Well, the other two attendees did - I stared at the window at the general Southbank area and decided one round building looked like a breast, complete with a nipple. This is how I generally spend my time in meetings. You would be astounded which genitals buildings can look like with a little imagination. (So many glass penises!)

3:00pm
I'm eating... again. A few months ago, as part of a larger dietary review, I decided to bring in every piece of food I was going to eat throughout the day. In the afternoon, I graze on dried fruit, nuts and sultanas. This supplements the yoghurt, sandwiches, muesli bar, rice crackers and chocolate I bring in for the rest of the day. So, as you can imagine, I spread it out so much, I pretty much eat all day. And the fatties at work hate me for it, coz I'm totally losing heaps of weight. Sucked in, fatties!

3:23pm
Found myself in a bit of a lull, so internet to the rescue again - this time, Digg. Here's what's interesting today:

Giuliani invokes 9/11 when asked about Hillary’s tears
Does Giuliani's campaign remind anyone else of that Family Guy episode where Lois ran for mayor? "9... 11."
On MSNBC’s Morning Joe, Rudy Giuliani discussed Hillary Clinton’s “emotional moment.” “This is not something I would judge anyone on,” Giuliani said. He then quickly slipped in a reference to 9/11, pointing out that it was impossible for him not to feel emotion then.

Top 100 Funny Quotes
"A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on." - Winston Churchill

4:40pm
Well, that's pretty much it for my work day, and this experiment in mediocrity. Tune in next time as I take you on a blow-by-blow of a good night's sleep. I promise there'll be much more action.

Want to be a housemate in '08?

Josh Dare — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 21:12:24 GMT

"Want to be a housemate in '08?" the Big Brother ads on Channel Ten bray. They're the same style of ad Ten has used for the last eight seasons of Big Brother (besides, y'know, the "08" part), and from my spot on the couch each year, I whimper a quiet 'yes'. Then the shame kicks in.

I absolutely do want to be on the show - without a fucking doubt - but the overwhelming desire (with no real basis) that comes over me makes me question: why? I'm sure on one level, it's coming from some deep-seeded psychological trauma that created a voracious appetite for appraisal from any and every source - but on another level, it's because I know I'd be good on it. To borrow some phrasing from the fucktards that usually inhabit the Dreamworld house / sound stage each year, ALL MY FRIENDS TELL ME I'D BE WICKED ON IT SO IT MUST BE TRUE.

It usually plays out in the following way:

Them: Big Brother is full of vapid retards.
Me: I auditioned for Big Brother.
Them: Ohmigod, you'd be awesome on it!

The thing is, I don't think they put two and two together and pay me out as a vapid retard. It's just that being a Big Brother contestant has the same hold on them that it does on me: it's something you can both aspire to be but easily deride in the same breath. It's pathetically sad yet awesome at the same time.

Therein lies the crux of the problem. While I'm pretty sure I'd gun it once in the house, there's no way I could whore myself out enough to earn the attraction of the producers during the audition process. I've heard tales of potential contestants being made to dry hump each other; and the (I spose) to-be-expected 'act like an animal' bullshit.

Could the audition process be the reason for the abysmal offering of housemates each year? Besides the first season, there's been little humanity on the show: concern for their fellow housemates seems non-existent or forced at best, personal drama is wheeled out at chosen times that will earn the most votes, bonding doesn't really happen. Where are the 'next door' people, the ones you could actually imagine, y'know, liking?

And, wouldn't you know it, I have a theory. Hope you're sitting down.

The particular type of whore that is both attracted to the prospect of being a contestant on Big Brother and able to withstand a rigorous audition / demoralising process will end up being the type of person that you're friends with, but no one really likes. They're not fun, they're just loud and, like a tool, they laugh a lot. They're tolerated, but not respected. And they are definitely self-absorbed, attention-seeking douche bags.

Want proof? You will never see a more focused housemate than one that is being spoken about in a 'voice from beyond the grave' (the video the soon-to-be evicted housemates make, to be aired after their departure). The instant their name is mentioned, and the inevitable prospect of shallow ego-inflating compliments sniffed, they are zoned in on that flat screen like their life depended on it.

This, of course, has larger implications than just boring housemates. Due to their fundamental raison d'etre revolving around perception of self, the housemates are more concerned about how they're being perceived outside the house, rather than inside it - inhibiting their interactions with the rest of the group. In recent years, this hasn't been aided by Big Brother's attempts to have the natural state of the housemates to be constantly set at high confusion: adding intruders at random intervals, double evictions, locking them into rooms for arbitrary reasons, laying out surprise after surprise, setting secret missions, nominations that aren't announced - you can almost forgive the housemates for being more focused on the supposed activity happening everywhere but in their living space.

Would I change this from inside the house? I'd like to try. A part of me honestly believes that bringing in the smackdown in the form of much-needed reality checks with earn me some respect. But the thought that scares me the most is that every housemates that has walked the plank into the house before me has had the same thought, and it would soon become apparent to all but me that I'm nothing more than one of the vapid, self-obsessed retards I love to hate on.

And I'd rather discover that on my own in private.

Zero Punctuation on Super Mario Galaxy

Josh Dare — Sat, 05 Jan 2008 06:13:53 GMT

LOL, etc.

Devastating blow

Josh Dare — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 14:16:34 GMT

Dear Josh,

Re: Professional Writing & Editing (RMIT)

I'm sorry to advise you that, unfortunately, we won't be able to offer you a place in the course in 2008.

We have received a large number of applications, many of extraordinarily high calibre. This has meant that people, who would normally be interviewed and offered a place, have had to miss out this time.

I know that this is very disappointing for you, but I would encourage you to apply again the following year.

Thank you for considering our course.

Yours sincerly,

Aspiration Destroyer III*
Selection Officer, Professional Writing & Editing

What's wrong with this picture?

Josh Dare — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 12:36:41 GMT

The weather in my hometown, Melbourne:

Forecast for Sunday
Fine. A mostly sunny day with light to moderate south to southeasterly winds.

Precis:       Fine. Mostly sunny.
City:         Max 32

The weather on the "beautiful one day, perfect the next" Gold Coast (Queensland), where I'm taking a well-earned summer vacation for New Year's:

Warning Summary
A severe weather warning is current for the Sunshine Coast and Gold Coast.

Forecast for Sunday
A few showers, particularly late afternoon and evening. Fresh to strong S to SE
winds, reaching gale force at times on the coast during the afternoon and
evening. Dangerous surf conditions.

Precis:       A few showers, windy                   Max 27

I'm trying to put a positive spin on it by calling the raindrops "God's little wet kisses". But they're being hurtled at like 100km an hour, so God couldn't even kiss my delicate arse in these conditions.

However, if it gets any more windy than it already is, he will quite literally be sucking my dick - along with the rest of me - off the balcony.

Subliminal

Josh Dare — Sat, 22 Dec 2007 09:26:52 GMT

Fellow (and more frequent) blogger eMackinations has nominated Robyn's 'With every heartbeat' as his song of the year.

Which is noteworthy in itself for the fact that our musical preferences have aligned for once, by some stroke of retarded luck. (Mika's 'Relax, take it easy' and Feist's '1, 2, 3, 4' as second and third? WTF?)

I read a review somewhere that called the song "sublime", which is probably the most fitting description for it I've ever heard. It's so fucking beautiful; and I 'spose I've injected a bit of personal meaning into it because of the tumultuous six months I've just been through.

That said, I've played it so much round home, she'll forever be referred to as "fucking Robyn" by my flatmate Michael.

So this one's for Michael:

Ad break:

Going out in style

Josh Dare — Sun, 16 Dec 2007 15:26:57 GMT

This is not exactly how I'd want to be remembered.

Man in women's undies jumps to death

A man parading in women's underwear and a Santa hat jumped to his death in central Melbourne after police used capsicum spray on him.

The man, in his 40s, had been harassing neighbours and acting oddly this afternoon at a block of flats in Nicholson Street, Carlton, witnesses told Victoria Police.

What an awkward, awkward funeral that will be. Still, how very festive. 'Tis the season and all that.

Are you people for real?

Josh Dare — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 20:36:46 GMT

Confession time: it shames me to admit it, but I totally (heart) I CAN HAS CHEEZBURGER?

Even if you haven't been, you'll probably know what I'm talking about - LOLCATS, or cute pictures of cats with a cute little l33t speak caption. It's so innocently adorable; like porn for overweight, single 30+ women - where massive schlongs are replaced by moggies and the money shots are drenched in saccharine instead of cum.

And I can dig that. I mean, isn't there an overweight, single 30+ woman inside of all of us?

Take this pic for example:

C'mon, that's fucking adorable!

So I kinda felt a distant affinity with these LOLCATers... until I stumbled upon their comments section today. Y'know a picture tells a thousand words and all that, but how these pics manage to draw at least 80 comments - each - is a mystery. I wondered what commentary could really add, so had a read.

Here's a selection of comments from the above pic:

Darrkwolff:
I wud hab gawten awai wif it iffin it wuzn’t fur doze meddlen kidz!

iymcool:
Dehm kittehs pawwin’ ower mah lawn!

Darrkwolff:
Bak when I wuz yer aij, we hadz 2 wok 2 skul.
Up hil!
Boaf waiz!
In dah snoe!
Wif no shooz!
In da dark!
Twennee mielz!

Yeah, it was adorable until I realised THEY TALK LIKE THAT THE WHOLE TIME. The images of these people I have in my head are just... fascinating.

Honestly, go get laid.

Fun games for flatmates

Josh Dare — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 14:42:32 GMT

Wash-up wanker
Work solo or in a team to see who can use every dish in the house without washing it up for others! Bonus points if you cake on something that's impossible to get off. Triple points if you manage to use all the cutlery.

Domestic obstacle course challenge
Duck, weave and dive your way around an array of household appliances that haven't quite found their way back to their storage places. Builds stamina, increases agility and maintains laziness.

TP endurance
Who can go the longest without replacing the bog roll?! Test your endurance and see how few wipes it can take when you're avoiding restocking from the cupboard less than a metre away.

Bathroom blindness
A silly game the whole house can enjoy - each player takes a turn in the bathroom, claiming that the shower doesn't need a clean 'cause it looks fine to them. First one to break has to scrub - them's the rules!

The world's most racist post-it note

Josh Dare — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 22:11:10 GMT

What's wrong with this post-it note, sent to us by Optus to help us remember our new service numbers?

From Wikipedia:
Sumatra (also spelled Sumatera) is the sixth largest island in the world (approximately 470,000 km²) and is the largest island entirely in Indonesia (two larger islands, Borneo and New Guinea, are partially in Indonesia).

"Don't ask me, I'm from Sumatra"? How on earth did that pass through any level of proofing?

I get that it's a Sumatran Tiger. I get it. Surely then a better way of expressing that he wouldn't know is, I dunno, "Don't ask me, I'm a tiger"?

So someone in Optus - a Singapore-owned company, if it means anything - has a vendetta against Sumatrans. If it's not entirely clear from their 'cutesy' animal post-it above, I've refashioned it to bring its inherit racism more into focus.

It's all hot air at the end of the day though - we wouldn't ask you anyway, coz WE GREW HERE, YOU FLEW HERE etc.

Crazy John: capable of dying

Josh Dare — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 19:04:24 GMT

Conspiracy theories were abound at our house after Crazy John died on October 23, a little over 12 hours after we saw him pontificate about his "true Aussie battler rags to riches" inspiring sob story / financial porno for povos on Today Tonight. Heart attack while walking on the beach, they say. Passerbys tried to revive him, but no luck. He was deader than Telstra's CDMA network. (Yeah, that's the best I could do.)

Besides the fact that someone is dead, the timing was perfect. On their show the week before, the Chaser boys had performed the now-infamous Eulogy Song, about how celebrities are celebrated posthumously, even if they were a little sucky when they were alive. Perfect opportunity to bang on about how he'll be remembered as 'Sane John'. They left that well alone in the end - indubitably because it's not really that funny, but also because no one knows who "crazy" John is; except as a poorly-drawn logo for a crappy mobile phone dealer.

So it strikes me as odd that, when the police knocked on Mr Ilhan's home to inform his wife of his passing, she reportedly broke down and screamed, "It can't be! Don't you know who he is? He's Crazy John!". I know logic could be suspended when your husband is whisked away from you without notice, but c'mon - it wasn't healthy John. Do you think the secret to immortality is selling all mobiles for $1?

I let it slide (very gracious of me, I'm sure you'll agree). But old widow Ilhan confirmed my shifty suspicions with her speech at the public wake held yesterday.

"I have learnt about the definition of true kindness from two people who tried for such a long time to revive John after he collapsed before the ambulance arrived. They didn't know who John was and performed the ultimate act of kindness - and I thank you both from the bottom of my heart."

They say behind every great man, there's a woman. Clearly, behind every "crazy" man, there's an absolute batshit delusion woman.

But with Crazy John departed and Big Kev long dead and buried, where does that leave Australia's Adjective Noun mascot industry?

Recipe: Josh’s secret nacho abortion

Josh Dare — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 14:39:11 GMT

Step one: Settle in for a bit of TV watching, and realise you’re slightly peckish.

Step two: Race to the cupboard to find your own shelf void of anything snack-worthy, before raiding the other shelves to see what you can steal. Find Doritos.

Step three: Eat half the packet of Doritos. At this point you should feel like you’ve had enough corn chips, but you’re still hungry.

Step four: Race to the fridge to see what other food you can steal. Find some light cheddar.

Step five: Pour the rest of the Doritos on to a plate, and then haphazardly shred some cheese all over it.

Step six: Place in oven at 120 degrees. After five minutes, get bored waiting for the cheese to melt. Increase temperature to 200.

Step seven: After five minutes more, give up on oven and place “nachos” in microwave, watching it spin round to see if the cheese melts.

Step eight: Notice funky smell is being emitted from world's most resilient cheese. Remove nachos.

Step nine: Open kitchen window to air out the stench of melting plastic cheese. Dispose of the abomination you’ve created. Tell yourself it’s OK, it’s not like it’s the first Mexican to be tossed out with garbage.

Big Deal

Josh Dare — Thu, 01 Nov 2007 19:28:40 GMT

Apologies from the woeful cam-off-TV action and the non-existant sound, but I'm just way too self-obsessed to let this video of me on DEAL OR FUCKING NO DEAL go to waste.

Ad break:

Normal transmission resuming

Josh Dare — Thu, 01 Nov 2007 06:32:18 GMT

Let me tell you a little story of how I blog.

I think a blog works best as a stream of consciousness - nothing pisses me off more than reading a diatribe from some random fuckwit about how they went and saw such and such show and oh it was really good and oh Karen was there, you remember Karen, I've talked about Karen, anyways we saw this show and it was really good etc.

As such, I avoid diary-style updates, unless I can take the piss out of the style. Most of the time, I just bang on about what pops into my head; but a lot of the time it stems from me wanting to say something in particular, without actually knowing how I want to express it. So I usually think of a title or a concept and just expand upon that. Some titles I have at the back of my mind for a bit before I do anything about it.

"Normal transmission resuming" was going to be a special one for me. That's been on the backburner for neigh on three months now. Secreted away, waiting for the perfect oppurtinity for me to apply it to a blog entry about how all of a sudden I'm not such a high-strung shitcunt that's still reeling from a broken relationship, so sorry if my entries seemed quietly obsessive with something unspoken, or at the very least appeared to be bragging / I-don't-need-you-anyway'ing via blog, which I blantantly have been. 'Normal transmission resuming,' I was going to excitedly type away, then make some curt little joke about switching to stealthy transmitting HIV instead. Hypothetically.

But then, I moved. And the fucktards at Optus set us up with the world's dodgiest ADSL. We're on our second modem, and have only just got everyone in the house on the internet at the same time. No thanks to those damn BigPond "dem homes, dem homes, dem NETWORK HOMES" ads that just leer at us from the TV, taunting our non-connectivity.

Anyways I'm back on now and should be blogging regularly again. And wouldn't you know it, the only fucking title I could think of is "Normal transmission resuming". Face it, it's the only organic thing to say here. Never mind. Faithful readers, transmission is resuming as normal, etc...

AND I'LL JUST HAVE TO THINK OF ANOTHER FUCKING TITLE IF / WHEN MY HEART HEALS.

Beautiful awkward pitches

Josh Dare — Sun, 21 Oct 2007 19:23:13 GMT

After allowing myself a brief period of slacking off for the move, the time's come for me to pull my finger out and send some pitches along to a couple of magazines I'm interested in writing for.

Pitches are such awkward affairs though - introducing yourself in one breath, then telling them what you think should be in their magazine in another. On top of that, I always lose my head about the pitches themselves: they should be varied, I think; and it's generally best to send three - coz what are the chances all three are shit?

So what I do is set aside a brainstorming night, and write down everything that comes into my head to see if I can expand it into a workable article. I don't flesh it out at this point, just spew my thoughts on to a page and leave the 'thinking it through properly' part til later. Did a bit of a session the other night, and got a few decent ones - but fuck knows how I thought these absolute stinkers could blossom into fruition:

Justify your love toy
Real-life applications for sex toys, ie. with a pair of boogly eyes and cheeky grin, a vibrator can double as a child's toy with soothing rhythm that'll send 'em right to sleep.

The hidden histories of insignificant objects
Uh, y'know - stuff like animal testing, I suppose. This is what happens when you write down ideas without any real knowledge of a subject area of interest - could not think of another thing with a dodgy past. I seriously wrote, "Strawberry jam?" in the midst of a desperate brain squeeze.

I’m with stupid
Little ways in which we all either fake or lack intelligence - prime example being the laboured interpretation of works at an art gallery. Or, y'know... pitching article ideas.

Religi-off
(Geddit? It's the opposite of religi-on.) Can we live in a world without religion? I have my sneaking suspicions that I might have been trying to bite off more then I could chew with this one. Just a hunch.

Pussy-whipping throughout the ages
Historical figures who were acting under vaginal hypnosis. I still think it's a brilliant concept, but where would you take a topic like that? And more to the point, is that sort of thing documented?