Warning: This is about defecting tyres.

Got to my car in my work carpark the other day to find a plastic-covered notice from my local government, alerting me to the fact that my front left tyre was defecting.  I found this all very exciting because how often do your car tyres defect?  One minute you're doing donuts in morning peak hour traffic - which should have been my first red flag - the next minute you find out your tyres actually work for the KGB.

In hindsight, I should have known there was dissent in the ranks when I caught my car engaging in what I suspected was counter-counterintelligence gathering.  This is almost just like the Petrov Affair.

And then I questioned the likelihood of my little car being caught up in an dramatic international spy incident and realised they probably meant my tyre was defective.  It must be from all those left turns I make, and indeed all those anti-clockwise burnouts I do on the Tuggeranong Parkway in Canberra at 2am with my street racing pals.  Yep, that's me.  Can't sleep. You have your hot chocolate, I have my night hobbies.

Our rubber can fly. Or something.

So, fair call, they want my car to be up to scratch.  Can't argue with that logic.  So I contacted a tyre place to organise some new front-end Goodyears.  If they are good enough for blimps then they are good enough for my car.

And here's a practical tip: it's probably best to not wear a pale pink winter coat when visiting the mechanic.  They see you coming.  Oh, here comes Barbie in her little red corolla car; let's rip her off.  She's probably so daft that she'll drive up the ramp on the street out the front that's reserved specifically for cars that are not hers. Yep.

So once these folk attach my new tyres and I'm paying the bill, they advise me they don't do inspections anymore.  That would have been really useful information when I booked and asked them if they did inspections. 

So a few days later I put my car into the same dealership, except one closer to my work, for a roadworthy inspection.  My car is so sick of being judged and criticised but we passed with flying colours and they told me about some things I needed to watch for in the future, which is exactly what I expect from my car servicer.  I find it's always ideal if the people who service your car alert you to any defects before your local government sees them.

Can it be that I have found my dream mechanic? One who isn't going to make out my car has a whole bunch of fake illnesses just to drain my bank balance or accuse me of Car Munchausen syndrome by Proxy?  Kmart Tyre and Auto in Phillip, Canberra.  I rate them.

And this journey isn't over yet, because that would be entirely unbureaucratic.  Before me and the little red four-wheeled fella are roadworthy again we must cut through more red tape and turn up to the house of condemned souls - the A.C.T. Government Shopfront - with our paperwork and beg for a gigantic novelty cardboard tick of approval from our Chief Minister, Katy Gallagher.  She works there, right?  She probably should occasionally.

Calculators - fast relief from adding shit

I’ve been reading up about internet usage in North Korea. We all have our hobbies). I’m thinking of starting a Facebook page called 'Kimmy John-un’s TicToc addiction is ruining people's lives and communism doesn't help either', and I wanted to know whether my disparaging remarks regarding the little sociopathic nutjob would put my life at risk.  Turns out it very possibly could.

According to Wikipedia, which can occasionally be more trustworthy that you think, hardly any communists in North Korea have access to Google but the ones who do spend their days surfing the net are high level government officials.  Henchmen.  And I don't want to be number 8,098 on their torture machine bucket list.

Plus, randomly, do they even have calculators in North Korea? Kimmy J-u is screwed up enough to ban the kiddies from using a contraption to solve math shit.  If Johnny has 6 apples and Susie has 3 apples then they're probably going to jail for stealing from the state-owned orchard anyway.

Would anyone like to know the story of the history of calculators?  I see someone at the back has their hand up.  Here we go then.  Once upon a time, someone invented a calculator.  The End.  This is a blog; I don't got no time for the history of a device that solves basic and complex math shit, friends.

Although I imagine the person who first operated such a machine was a bit like me - hated math.  Lots. When faced with a math equation of considerable proportion, or just an easy one, his brain likely threw up a gigantic anti-algebratic wall, as if to protect itself from the horrors of the apocalyptic nightmare that is any arithmetic problem that has the alphabet in it.  Because that's what menial silver-collar calculators are for.  Calculators live for this shit. 

Soarin' Over Canberra

This time last year I was gearing up to head over to 'sunny side up with extra cheese and a sprinkling of hurricane activity' Florida, so that's a bit depressing.  This time this year I'm gearing up to spend a long cold winter in icy Canberra, the most northern point of Antarctica. 

Soarin' is like crack.

Oh look, I'm writing about weather again.  Did you know that weather is a natural phenomenom created by God to give boring people something to talk about it?  Well this post is fun.  

One of the most entertaining parts of my trip to Orlando last year was the Soarin' Over California ride at DisneyWorld.  I have no idea why I am attracted to Disney, what with its relentlessly upbeat world and endless kilometres of sticky children.  It's a big mystery, for sure.

I went on Soarin' about 14 times, because 13 times is just not enough times.  Soarin' is a simulated attraction that raises you fairly high above the ground via a mechical lift system and takes you on a hang gliding tour around California.  It is spectacular.



It's also 4D, so you smell the orange blossoms of Napa Valley, the evergreens over the mountains, the redwoods, and the sea breeze at Malibu and Monterey, and you feel the jolting vibrations of the fireworks as you end up on Main Street, Disneyland at Christmas time.

And each time you land, your thongs are waiting for you in the exact place you left them, bizarrely enough, which I found endlessly hilarious for some inexplicable reason.  

Which all makes me think - surely we could look into a Canberra version of this thrilling ride.  For example, we could start at Tuggeranong, where an icy ill wind blows off the snowy mountains and gives you a mild case of severe frostbite, then soar on up the backstreets to Chisholm, the Malibu of my hometown, where simulated beer cans are thrown at your head and you whiff the faintest aroma of crown lager and sick. 

Then we head over to Mugga Lane, where you catch the gentle aroma of roadkill and garbage, and then soar over toward Lake Burley Griffin, and suffer mildly severish allergies as pollen dust is blown in your face before the pungent stench of blue-green algae fills your nostrils.  Just like Disney. 



More crack. I just don't need to go into
Disney's candy stores, said me never.



 

Big Mobs of Randomness.

Two things got my goat today.  A supreme jerk on a mobile phone and writer's block.  So my brain's now gone offline and random.  Best to just let it go.

Tackling issue number one.  Flashback to beautiful Waikiki - Summer 2012.  Mobile phones completely ruin everything.  Lively dinner conversations, the patience of shops assistants, lunchtime walks in the sun, my beach ambience. Ruined. By a man with a loud voice and a Samsung. It lasted five minutes, but five minutes too long.  I closed my eyes and swore under my breath.

As he put it down on his towel, I did a dramatic commando roll over to his spot, picked up his precious phone, and hurled it into the ocean, where I heard it pop into the water with a little splash. I strolled back to my spot with a hint of a smile and sat back down to enjoy the sunshine.  Unfortunately when I opened my eyes he was making a new call.  Daydreaming: doesn't get you thrown in the clink.

Tackling issue number two.  Fucking writer's block.  She was laying on the lush grass behind the rusting suspension bridge that was built in the 20s, and should have been torn down in the 30s. Some people write novels - good and bad - in the 24 hours that is their day. She wondered how prolific writers manage their time, their ideas, their energy and their motivation.

Do they ever sit at their laptop, fingers poised over the keys, waiting for the next action of their hero or heroine to emerge in their mind, only to discover that the character is not a real tangible thing they can observe and write about? I doubt it. Real writers have a game plan.

Skank-free Royal Ascot

It's that time of the year when Britain's royals emerge from their medieval castle fortresses in their coordinated pastel shoes and frocks and their hideous Philip Treacy hat creations and jump into their gilded carriages to make one's way into the royal enclosure at the enormously posh and pretentious Royal Ascot horse racing meeting thingy in Berkshire, England.  It doesn't get much snootier than Royal Ascot.

Don't get me wrong - I love the Queen.  I think she's an amazing human being, plus she reminds me very much of my late grandmother in the looks department. It's all the associated privileged hangers-on that are of great annoyance.

No fascinators allowed. This is much
more appropriate.

While one imagines that one wouldn't survive for long without sticking a hot poker in one's eyeball in the company of all those royally-connected twats who have an exalted sense of their own importance, one very much approves of the Royal Ascot dress code, which diplomatically and rather firmly advises that no skanks are allowed.

Some milliner/socialite was thrown out for the crime of skankiness the other day.  The evicted one, presumably a commoner from somewhere in Essex, says she will seek compensation through legal action, init.  Alrightee then, skanky whorebag.

I think the whole entire universe should have to abide by the Royal Ascot dress code, which dictates that young female things must adhere to a 'modest length' for dresess and skirts, midriffs must be covered and fascinators are no longer permitted, I assume because the majority of them are trashy and vulgar.

So that's half of the female population in their mid-20s completely banned.  Big mobs of ticks of approval for all those rules.  What's not to love about Royal Ascot?

Fitness - Plateaus, Walls & Moveable Partitions

New post - click. I'm the Daniel Day-Lewis of method writing.

One seems to have plateaued in one's quest for a lofty fitness goal.  Gosh, that word plateaued is rather vowel greedy, isn't it?  Indulge me while I momentarily become one of those pretentious little twats (Age journalists) who define words for their five readers.  Thanks pretentious twats, but I have a dictionary and half a brain.  One definition of plateau coming up:

In geology and earth science, a plateau (/pləˈtoʊ/ or /ˈplætoʊ/; plural plateaus or rarely plateaux) is an area of highland, usually consisting of relatively flat terrain.  Plateaus can be formed by a number of processes, including upwelling of volcanic magma, extrusion of lava, and erosion by water and glaciers.

Hold up, I dont think that's the plateau I'm looking for; pretty sure I'm reading from the wrong playbook.  Humans haven't secreted lava since 2005.  That's the last time I rely on the crusty old Encyclopedia Britannica.  Pages falling out everywhere.  But I just don't know where else I could find such an extensive range of information resources... Someone needs to invent something to keep all those things in the same place.

I'm turning a certain age this year.  Let's just call it somewhere between two and fifty-eight.  And I've decided that I must be superbly fit and healthy when doomsday hits on 4 October.  It was all going along swimmingly until a few weeks ago when I hit a wall. 

Hello wall, you massive jerk.  I hate walls.  They are so annoying and immovable.  Unless you have a wreaking ball attached to your forehead it's gotta be mind over matter, baby.  So, in order to rid myself of this pesky fictitious solid vertical structure I shall deem it a movable partition and go from there.

This quote might help.  I love a good quote.  Also, trying harder might help.

Just say no to snow.

I've said it before and I imagine I'll bang on about it many times in the future - if I wanted to live in a place where the temperature regularly drops below zero for a bloody long period of time and it can't even be bothered to snow then I'd move to Antarctica.  Minus 3 degrees celsius and no snow?  Piss off. 

Shit just got real.  Tomorrow is the start of the ski season in my country, or at my local snowy mountains, or maybe someone just made that up.  I dont know.  I don't much care, because I don't do snow.  Snow is super pretty, but it's also super cold, and that just doesn't work for me.

Flashback Time.  *cue that zigzaggy pattern they show on Days of Our Lives when Hope has a flashback and laments ever meeting that Bo Brady, what with his cheesy bad boy one liners*  

I was first introduced to snow as a highschooler, and my foremost memory is of us all getting caught in a howling blizzard (as opposed to the calm and serene type of blizzards you usually get) and of me falling into a snow ditch with one ski wrapped around my neck.  That was some good times for sure.  I'm usually more outdoorsy, but snow drives a massive ice-cold wedge between me and nature.

I'm thinking about driving down the alpine way this year and picketing the ski fields.  Say no to snow, say no to snow!  Snow has to go!  Go home snow, go home snow!  The summer, united, will never be defeated!  Snow kills baby ducks!  And stuff like that. No-one ever pickets summer, because everyone likes a bit of warm weather.  Ask everyone.

Snowboarders, I like. I'm okay with snowboarders.  And lots of skiers I have also found to be decent folk, despite their horribly soggy hobby and their endless conversation icebreakers (boom, boom) regarding powder runs and other tedious snow-type lingo.

But over the years I have learnt that the more some people bang on about how great snow is, the more likely they are merely rich, pretentious twats who ride up and down chair lifts by day and toast each other over Bordeaux in their chateau over an open fire by night with a skewer stuck firmly up their marshmellows.

Plush Fluffy Toys Lie

A realistic Great White soft toy

Plush fluffy toys of the cutesy native Australian creature nature are simply a part of a monumental strategy to lure foreign alien people from millions of miles away to come and stare in amazeballs at a curvy, archy bridge in Sydneytown and a giant red rock in the middle of nowhere (it's a big mystery why no-one has asked me to write Australian tourism brochure material).

But plush fluffy toys are big fat liars.  When did you last see a real life koala bear that wore thongs (flip flops if you are of Americana origin), carried a stubby, wore a corked hat or didn't have gigantic protruding claws of death?

And koalas don't smile.  They don't want to be in cute photos cuddling you.    They hate you.  They hate all humans.  They don't need you.  They don't want you around.  Because they're koalas.  Not dogs; koalas.  Wild animals.  Got it?

There is nothing realistic about fluffy toys.  I would like to see stuffed toys that epitomise their country of origin. For example, a toy Great White should be covered in sharky shark slime and have bloodied teeth and terrifying eyes, rather than those comical black and white velcro eyes you can purchase in a pack of ten at Spotlight.

Hunstmenphobia

Dearest e-Diary,

I've just murdered a huntsman and now I hate myself. I just wanted to take the poor little fella outside, but I just can't bring myself to do it. Stupid arachnophobia (huntsmen specific) is a psychological brick wall. My sister advised me to get phobia counselling for the sake of all my future eight-legged victims. That may convince me to go.  Nothing else will.  The problem is that systemic desnsitisation involves touching a spider.

And to think I could become a psychologist after a few more years training. Who wouldn't want me as their counsellor?