New Years' Resolutions

Well, that pesky last digit on the ol' calendar is getting ready to flick over once again.

For me, the year has been a pretty good one. Actually, truth be told, this year has been f-ing AWESOME.

I mean, 2008 was the year that my first child was born. How much f-ing better could it GET?

Aside from that, 2008 has been a year where a lot of things have fallen into place for me. After dithering and wandering down a multitude of dead-end paths over the past couple of decades, I actually have a bead on where I want my career to go. I've taken the steps necessary to get my prodigious girth into line, and have finally started losing some weight. After a couple of decades of burning cash (and LUNGS), I'm finally to the point where I'm confident that I'm off the ciggies.

If I stay on track, it'll be 2009 that really delivers for me. But the achievements that I hope will come in the next twelve months wouldn't be possible without the steps I took in 2008. So I really don't have much to whinge about.

So what are my hopes for the next twelve months? Nothing TOO outrageous, to be honest. First and foremost, I'd like to keep trying to be a good husband and father.

I'm also planning on redoubling my weight loss efforts. With the steep learning curve of fatherhood, I've sort of let my guard down a bit and my slimming has slowed a little too much for my liking. Hopefully I'll find the time (and, more importantly, the motivation) to get my tubby arse down to the local pool a few times per week. Luckily, with the lap band, it shouldn't take too much effort to get myself back on track.

I also want to get back into the habit of writing again. Since Lauren was born, I've been a little lazy with my blog (as well as a couple of other little projects that I started), but I'm going to make sure that I set aside a little more time. Hopefully, I'll also arrest the ever-increasing f-ing DULLNESS that has enveloped my blog, and start knocking out something bordering on entertaining again.

Hopefully...

My other wish for 2009 is probably a little more challenging.


Somehow, some way, I'd like to sell a photo at some point during the year. I don't care whether it's just a few clams from a stock photo agency, but at some stage through the year I'd be stoked if someone looked at a photo that I took, and decided that the right to use it was worth their hard-earned dollars. That would f-ing ROCK.

As long as it isn't one of those micro-stock websites. If my photo is only worth twenty f-ing cents to people, then they can take their cheap arses and f--k right off. Micro-stock is the WORST thing in the world for photographers, and if that's the limit of what my work is commercially worth, then I'd rather just keep doing it as a hobby.

Anyway, they're my goals for the coming year. It'll take a bit of work (and, in the case of the last one, a little luck as well), but everything is certainly achievable.

So to all of you- Luli, Kez, Sue, Cath, Helen, Arna, Linda, Bonnie (who has been MIA for a while, so if she's reading I hope both you and baby are doing great), Derspatz, Epskee, BLL, DCup, Hallie, Zelts and those of you that I've undoubtedly forgotten)- who have been so kind as to make my acquaintance over the past seven months or so, I hope that you have a grand New Year's Eve celebrations, and that all of your hopes and dreams for 2009 come to fruition.

Later.

Six Things About Me

So, did we all have a nice Christmas?

First of all, my humblest apologies to any of you that took the time out to wish us a Merry Christmas, only to be met with deafeningly rude silence in return. In my wisdom, I decided to switch the mobile off and stay away from email and whatnot in order to spend some more quality time with the wife and kid.

But rest assured, you were all in my thoughts, and I certainly reciprocate all of the nice wishes. You'll have to forgive me.

Anyway, a couple of days ago, Sue over at Beggar's Shot Glass tagged me for a meme. So let's get into it.

The Rules:

• Link to the person who tagged you
• Post the rules on your blog
• Write six random things about yourself
• Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them
• Let each person know they are tagged and leave a comment on their blog
• Let the tagger know when your entry is up

Six Things About Me

1. I live my life with the knowledge that my body is breaking down at a frightening pace. My feet have been f-ed since birth, my back has been steadily deteriorating for years, my knees are a ticking time bomb, and my ankles click with every step. My organs, however, are in great condition.

Logically, this would suggest that I am going to live a long life, but that I am going to remain reasonably well-acquainted with pain. Super.

2. People who only know me through the written word generally (and SIGNIFICANTLY) overestimate how entertaining and outgoing I would be in person. The truth is that I have no real interest in meaningless smalltalk, and I am naturally quite reserved around people I don't know well.

Don't get me wrong- I'm no mute, and I'm great at peppering a conversation with wit. But I'm not the type that's going to natter away incessantly to people I've just met.

I'm perfectly content with this, by the way. People tend to underestimate the quiet bloke. And I LOVE being underestimated.

3. When I was in high school, I won an award for ballroom dancing. Call me a homo if you want, but I actually found it enjoyable. F-you.

4. When people write to me (using ANY medium, including text message) using such abbreviations as "ur" or "c u l8r" or any of that SMS bullshit, I silently wish for the opportunity to one day stick a rusty nail in their eye.

Is it REALLY that much of an imposition to spell the f-ing words properly? Have we regressed THAT much as a culture?

5. I habitually second-guess myself. Or maybe I don't.

6. Another thing about me is that I've sat here for a good hour, and I STILL can't come up with a sixth thing about me that I haven't already shared. If you're looking for more facts about me, you might want to check out this or this.

Ugh. I suck.

Anyway, I'm not going to tag anyone. If you want it, then go for it.

Christmas Shopping

So, we decided to make a quick trip to the local supermarket today.

Like anywhere, shopping in the lead up to Christmas is f-ing painful. The place is packed to the rafters with a pack of unwashed douchebags, all scurrying around trying to blow their cash (or, more accurately, their CREDIT CARD COMPANY'S cash) on whatever toy or gizmo they need to complete their meaningless lives.

Woah. Serious case of the Scroogies crept up on me there. I'm not REALLY that cynical about Christmas, I promise. Christmas shopping just gives me the shits, y'know?

But for f--ks sake- is it too much to ask for people to spray on a little deoderant before going to a packed shopping centre?

Anyway, knowing that we'd want to get in and out as rapidly as humanly possible, we made a list of everything we'd need for our Christmas festivities, and tried to get it all out of the way.

This year, we're putting a bit of a twist on the normal Christmas meal. I really can't be f-ed spending a few hours in a hot kitchen on Christmas day, so instead of doing the usual roast turkey and ham and whatnot, I'm going to be making a turkey and ham pie.

That way, I can make the filling a day in advance, and then just roll out the pastry and bung it in the oven. Good deal.

Last year was the first time that we celebrated Christmas by ourselves, and we decided that whilst the main course is my domain, the wife is in charge of dessert. Neither of us particularly cares for Christmas pudding, so she's having a crack at making a Christmas Bombe, replacing the cherries and mixed fruit with white chocolate chips and macadamia nuts.

For the weight conscious reveller, of course...

Anyway, after sorting out our shopping list, the wife went out to put the baby seat back into the car. She needed a hand to tighten up the straps, so I left the kid inside in her bouncer and went out. After getting the seat adjusted, I threw Mary the house keys, so she could go inside and get the baby, while I collapsed the stroller and loaded it into the boot.

I heard the keys jingle, and Mary strode back toward the car.

"OK. Ready to go," she assured me.

I looked at her, realising that she had forgotten something.

Something rather IMPORTANT.

"Umm, aren't you forgetting someone?", I asked. She looked at me puzzled for a few seconds, before a horrified look spread across her face.

While I hooted with laughter, she hurriedly barrelled inside and re-emerged with our baby daughter.

Still laughing, I aimed a few playful jokes in her direction.

"It's not THAT bad," she maintained. "When I went to get the stroller out of the car [when we got out of the car at the shopping centre], I would have noticed that she wasn't there."

You can't argue with that logic.

Questionable Nomenclature

Sooner or later, it had to come to this.

Now, I realise that I might offend some of you with this statement, but I would hereby like to propose the criminalisation of stupid baby names. I suggest that the prescribed penalty be something along the lines of a small fine, a sharp smack in the mouth and possibly a compulsary desexing.

Trust me on this: Nothing... NOTHING... pisses me off more than idiotic baby names. As far as I'm concerned, it's a f-ing stain on our society.

What it all boils down to, of course, is a whole stack of attention-seeking parents. These f-ing nimrods are under the impression that they will overcome their entirely unspectacular lives by burdening their progeny with names more suited to prostitutes and strippers.

I hate to break it to you, but, upon hearing your kiddie's name for the first time, when people gasp and tell you how "original and beautiful" the name is, they're just being polite. Like me, they ALSO think that you're a pathetic berk, and that you should be locked up for child abuse.

They're just too nice to tell you to your face. I'm f-ing NOT.

Only this week, some seppo wanker made the news because his local bakery refused to bake him a birthday cake with his son's name written on the top.

The name he chose to inflict on the little tyke? Adolf Hitler Campbell.

F-ing nutsack...

You know the worst thing about this silliness? I have a young daughter who is likely going to be going to school with the offspring of these c-suckers. It is highly conceivable, therefore, that my daughter is going to make friends with these kids, and bring them home to play.

And then I'M going to have to deal with this shit.

I've already decided what my response will be, by the way. Should Lauren bring home a kid with one of these dopey names, I will immediately rechristen them either "Bob" or "Meg".

And I won't give a flying f--k how much the kids whinge about it. I flatly refuse to condone such retardedness by allowing those stupid f-ing names to pass my lips.

That said, there's nothing I love more than a name that, while seemingly innocent and traditional, turns out to be hilariously misjudged.

The other day, for example, I was watching a news report regarding sexual assault. As part of the story, the reporter interviewed a woman who works as a counsellor for a rape victim's assistance shelter.

Her name? "Heidi Bone".

Jah as my witness, there is a sexual assault counsellor in our country named Heidi Bone.

HAW HAW HAW!

Heh. Good times.

Later.

Running Into Trees

A while ago, I made a reference to a past of drug use.

I am a firm believer in the difference between drug use and drug abuse. I never abused drugs. I always knew that there was a time and a place, and I can't think of a time where my drug use affected my work or personal life. I enjoyed getting pissed, or having a few cones or tabs or whatnot, and I maintained a measure of control whenever I did it.

I mean, I have put myself outside of some serious quantities of grog, but I have never done anything negative whilst pissed that I probably wouldn't have done sober. I never felt like I "needed" to be wasted- I just liked it a whole lot.

I also passed through my phase of drug use pretty easily. I stopped drinking regularly years and years ago, and now only drink occasionally. It just isn't something I feel the need to do anymore. As for the drugs? Well, I still enjoy a joint or two if it's available, but I haven't had much over the past couple of years, and I haven't had anything else in seven or eight years. I never had anything resembling withdrawals, it was just something that I gradually stopped doing.

I'm not an advocate for drug use. My view is that people that are going to f--k themselves up are going to find a way to do it, regardless of what is legal and illegal. People that enjoy the occasional release are going to find a way to achieve it, laws or not. I have a real problem with people being incarcerated or tainted on the back of a minor drug conviction, and resent the communal taxation pool being wasted on locking up people that really shouldn't be there. Choice is a wonderful thing, and what government needs to realise it that people learn more from bad choices than they do from good ones. I'm not going to push drugs on anyone, but I am also not going to condemn them for wanting to do it.

Giving someone the stigma of a criminal conviction (and the limitations on potential travel and career paths that it carries) is a massive overreaction to someone exercising their ability to make an informed judgment. By all means stop the kiddies from getting smashed, but when an adult is faced with a multitude of options, you really just have to accept that they will either make the right choice, or they will learn from the wrong one.

A few years ago, I read the autobiography of US actor and comedian Tim Allen (of Home Improvement fame), who actually spent a few years in prison a long time ago on drug charges. He made a very good point- that with all of the prohibition and "wars" on drugs in the western world, the drug problem had never actually gotten any better. First there was weed, then they came out with acid, then heroin, then coke, (and updating his point) then crack, then X, then speed, and now there is all manner of "newer" drugs of choice. Ketamine, oxycontin, dexamphetamines- all represent a worse drug replacing a more benign one.

His analogy went something like this (and I apolgise to Mr Allen in advance if I f--k it up): It's like we have our head down, running at breakneck speed through a forest. Obviously, if you run through a forest and don't look where you're going, sooner or later you'll hit a tree. Whenever we have hit a tree, all we as a society have ever done is back up a few paces, kept our heads down, started running again, and smacked straight back into the same tree as if the tree's going to get out of the way. If we stop to look around and take a step to the side, we can get past it.

That's not to say we won't hit another tree in the future, but at least we'll be closer to the other side of the forest, rather than being continually stuck at the first tree.

The whole politics of drugs is something that makes me seethe. Politicians know that drugs are one of those trigger issues that they can use to manipulate the feebs of the world, and they do so constantly.

Take a look at the guy who is supposed to be the most powerful man in the world. George Bush had a well documented history of cocaine use, but because of various circumstances he never found himself at the pointy end of the criminal justice system. A few years later, he has made an electoral platform, both as the Governor of Texas and as the President of the US, out of his willingness to sign laws into effect that not only jail people that have done the very same thing as he did, but to also destroy those people's futures (not to mention preclude them from either running for public office or even being eligible to vote) by virtue of that sentence.

Drug dealers are another matter. What is so perverse is that should some of the "lesser" drugs (and yes, there is such a thing as a lesser drug- there is a world of difference between weed and heroin, for example, no matter what the Family Associations and religious douchebags say) be legalised and regulated, the dealers will be out of business in a heartbeat. If you could go to the local deli and pick up a 25-pack of Winfield Extra Sticky, no one would be stupid enough to risk keeping a dealer in business. I mean, how many illicit tobacco dealers do you know?

Not to mention the potential taxation revenue. Tax the shit out of it, and it will become the pokies of the new millennium.

So no, I don't drink much nor use many drugs at the moment. Drugs were never any more than a hobby, and they never got too far up my list of priorities.

The question has to be asked, though: How will I deal with raising kids who, at some stage, may become curious about drugs?

Simple. I will do the same thing I plan on doing throughout their formative years. I will give them information. Not just the patronising, Mr Mackey-like "drugs are bad" crap, but the whole story. The good, the bad and the indifferent.

That's how you reach people, and especially adolescents. You give them access to every bit of information that you can gather, and you teach them to analyse the evidence and form their own conclusion. If you do that, you'll find it very difficult to go wrong. Natural rebelliousness dictates that if you try to just browbeat them with "this is what you must think, and that's all there is to it" you'll not only have little effect, you'll also manage to make sure that you'll never be kept in the loop again.

And in my view, nothing is more dangerous for a parent than not knowing what your kids are thinking. Nothing at all.

Later.

Back Home

Ahhh. The feel of your own bed. Does anything beat it?

After over 5,000 kilometres of driving and Jah-knows how many of flying, the Bullhorn clan are safely ensconced in the comfort of our own home. Not to mention the sad realisation that we won't feel the satisfyingly chilly bite of cool air for a LONG f-ing time.

And wouldn't you know, the day we pull our little wagon back into this land-that-deodourant-forgot, the temperature in town is a somewhat steamy forty degrees.

Ugh. F-ing town.

Depressing locale notwithstanding, we ARE glad to be home. Getting away was nice, the drive was enjoyable, and the climate was sweet, but after three weeks roaming the width of the continent with a three-month-old in tow, we're glad to be able to relax in our own home.


The last part of the trip went fine. We introduced the kid to her family (both by blood and otherwise), did a little shopping, caught up with most of the people we wanted to, and- thanks to the grandparents offering to look after the little monkey for an evening, went out and let our hair down for a night. All, in all, it was a nice end to what was, a few frustrating days and nights of wailing and screaming aside, a pretty good trip.

As always, we didn't end up getting around to many of the things we had hoped. The baby was at her violent best for most of the time we were in Melbourne, so I missed out on seeing most of the sights I had planned, not to mention the people I had wanted to catch up with. Even in Perth, time slipped away from us more than we would have liked.

The trip back was difficult even before we set off. We tried to pack light on the way down, knowing that we would be wise to leave room for whatever we acquired during the trip. Even with this spare room, it took a Tetris-like soultion to fit all of our newfound crap into the confines of the car. But with a little creativity, a shade of lateral thinking and a few hefty shoves, we managed to get the tailgate closed and started the two-day drive home.


We entertained the idea of leaving Perth at about midnight, and driving straight through to Hedland in a single stint of about 16 hours. We eventually thought better of it, and split the trek into two days of travelling the more scenic coastal road, stopping overnight.

So, after heading off at about 4am on Wednesday morning, we fired up the sat-nav and, in the darkness, allowed it to lead the way. Unfortunately, the sat-nav took us 20km down an ungraded limestone track.

In the MIDDLE of the metropolitan area, by the way.

My own fault, of course. I know the area well enough to not really NEED any help navigating.

After giving the Forester a workout in its natural habitat, we came out on the highway and put the hoof down.

I wanted to take things a fair bit easier on the way back. On the outward trip, I sat on some rather silly speeds, which meant that we made great time, but paid for it with some pretty horrifying mileage. On the return leg, I cruised at a much more relaxed (but still on the fun side of the speed limit) clip. I was expecting to see a little difference in fuel consumption, but nowhere near the 30% we ended up with.


Anyway, I'm beat, and should the little shit-demon allow it, I'm off to nap.

I don't post anywhere near enough. I'm going to have to work on that...

Later.

Dicing With Death

I can definitely see why people love living in Melbourne. Just as easily, I can state with the utmost certainty that I could never be one of those people.


See, you have to realise that I am happily unfashionable. Not in that “so unfashionable that I have my own distinct style and therefore AM fashionable” way either. I can go MONTHS without putting on a pair of enclosed shoes, and MY only usual morning style conundrum involves what plain-coloured polo shirt and shorts will make up that day's ensemble.

Case in point: On my wedding day, my wife wore a beautiful white gown. Standing next to her, I wore neither tie or long-sleeved shirt. I've racked my brains for the past hour, and for the life of me I can't recall the last time I wore either. Short of an unexpected court appearance, I can't see myself changing this fact.

Unfortunately, this shit just don't FLY in Melbourne. Every f-er in this town seems to be plucked straight out of the pages of some trendy catalogue, to the point that I geniuinely started to feel about as out-of-place as a gangsta rapper in a KKK meeting.


Well, maybe not EXACTLY like a gangsta rapper in a KKK meeting. I didn't see anyone reaching for their lynchin' rope or anything. But you get the picture.


Hell, I actually felt the need to find the local big'n'tall shop to pick out a new outfit to go to a social gathering. For someone who sees clothes stores less often than he does New Year's celebrations, that's a monumental concession.

But as I said, I can definitely see why people rave about the place. The streetscapes are incredible and the architucture blows anything in Perth away, hands-down.

But I have a question: Why the f—k haven't you people realised the folly of having trains (and don't give me that “they're trams, not trains” crap) running down your streets? Do you not think that there may be a REASON why other cities have their train lines in tunnels, or on bridges, or in their own little strips of land far away from cars and pedestrian traffic?

Ugh. Because of these f-ers, I had to work out that, occasionally, you will be expected to stay in the LEFT hand lane when you want to make a f-ing RIGHT.

Are you f-ing SHITTING me?

Also, I would like to make a suggestion for the Victorian tourism people, if I may...

It may be wise to advise people of a few things when they arrive. Perhaps you could make some sort announcement on when the planes land. You know, along with the “Welcome to Melbourne, the weather is cold and rainy, and we hope you enjoy your stay”.



First and foremost, you should let visitors in on the fact that in Melbourne, traffic lights and stop signs are considered merely an advisory service, and are not intended to be taken seriously. Similarly, painted white lines on the street (elsewhere they are known as “lane markings”) are apparently some manner of urban art, rather than a guide as to where cars should confine themselves. This is something else that visiting drivers should probably be made aware of. But hell, that's just MY opinion.

But hey- what the hell would *I* know. I'm just some douchebag...

Now, far be it from me to get into some “we're better drivers than you are” war. The fact is, Melbournians would have to be retarded, vision-impaired simians (or, in other words, “taxi drivers”) to be worse drivers than Perth residents. It's just that Melbourne drivers all seem to share the same distaste for such trivialities, and drive accordingly. For a visitor, though, it can be a little unnerving.

Until said visitor realises that he has paid for a damage waiver on his rental car, of course. Then said visitor couldn't give a flying f—k about crashing the car, and decides to show these f-ers who's REALLY got a death wish.

Heh.