There’s certain things you just don’t want to deal with in life.
Being forced to endure saccharine Disney movies when you’re minding kids.
The suicidal endeavour that is reformatting Windows.
Moving interstate and all the bullshittery that goes with it.
Since the weekend, I can add another item to this list:
BATHROOM MUSHROOMS.
See, the suburb I’ve recently moved to (St Kilda) has a reasonably bawdy reputation. The fact remains, however: it’s pretty bloody difficult to pass off bathroom funghi as part of your high-art bohemian lifestyle.
Revoltingly, the initial sprout appeared in mere hours while I was out on Saturday night. My housemate Matt swore it wasn’t there when we left. Dimissively, I laughed him off and retreated to slumber.
Upon arising, I realised the disgusting infestation had quadrupled in quantity overnight. Now, few things make me genuinely queasy. Off the top of my head: most horror movies because I’m a lady, coach tours, people with a genuine belief that Sunrise phone polls can rock the nation’s govern, earnest prog-rock vocalists, and omelets (easily the attention-seeking drag queen of the pancake world).
Pretty sure I can safely add mushrooms growing underneath our shower to that list… particularly when they’re growing at a rate that suggests I’ll require a machete to slice through a funghi crop, just to escape my bedroom in the morning.
We had to traverse a particularly dangerous balance between allowing the mushies to flourish to a certain level. While we required thoroughly repulsive evidence for our real estate agent, we also didn’t want to inhale some airborne bathroom mushroom disease.
We’re still waiting on them to do something about it. In the meantime, it’s worth noting that we’ve kept the mushrooms aside in a zip-lock bag. If you think you’ve crossed me and I serve you risotto when you visit, beware.
My new apartment block seemed amazing based on first impressions. We’d barely moved in and our friendly neighbours were racing each other to introduce themselves.
It’s a pretty amazing situation: the entire apartment block frequently hangs out as a group socially. Everyone knows each other, and it sure doesn’t seem like there’s any secrets. Driveway cricket, keg parties, lots of laughs… it seemed like such an ideal social environment.
Unfortunately, over time, my housemate Matt and I came to realise a few home truths.
We are smarter, smell better and are more awesome than everyone else in the building. That’s not being up ourselves, it’s simply the wretched facts. Indulge me as I explain…
We are smarter
At first, we figured everyone just really liked talking about beer, football and hair extensions. Then we came to realise these are the goalposts which govern these peoples’ lives. It’s extremely rare we hear any conversation veer away from these reliable topics (which are usually bellowed from various balconies at 3am in the morning). If someone dared mention someone like Ron Mueck instead of Gary Abblett Jnr, you’d see a few heads splatteringly explode in bafflement.
We smell better
The apartment downstairs has a periodic cooking festival, where they seem to cook a freaking fortnight’s worth of food over the course of 24 hours. By food, I refer exclusively to aromatic curry. At first, that can be quite pleasant; but by the twelfth hour you’re really beginning to understand how the stench of korma paste can infiltrate your clothing.
Matt’s deduced that due to poor building design, the downstairs oven ventilation is generally flowing right into our kitchen cupboards, which recently lead to us sealing up selected doors with masking tape. Although we don’t have easy access to our saucepans anymore, we’d rather get take-out than get smoked out with vindaloo.
We’re more awesome
How do we spend our days? Spontaneously dancing to Andrew W.K. and causing ourselves great injury (I recently gashed open my leg attempting to use a bicycle pump as a baton). Creating ridiculous alternate personas and talking in the most ridiculous voices. Having fun!
How do the neighbours spend their days? Loudly blaring out Shannon Noll and Kings of Leon while they shriekingly dissect how drunk they all were the previous evening (while getting back on the turps all over again). That’s fun now and then, but when it’s exclusively how you spend your days… BORING.
Oh, there’s also the small matter of..
We’re not massive whores
Well, we’re both red-blooded single men, so we’re a tiny bit whore-ish; but that’s nothing compared to the three lasses who live downstairs. Although we’ve definitely confirmed from the other neighbours they’re all exotic dancers, some interesting evidence is coming to light.
Matt recently took a weekday off work, and noticed the consistent flow of hourly visitors to the dancers’ apartment. Hourly, as in, on the hour – every hour. Methinks there’s a little more than mere dancing going on down there…
As excited as we were to move into this building, we’re slowly cottoning on that we’re cut from a different cloth from everyone else who lives here. Unless we lose a few brain cells, begin cooking rancid goat meat every evening and develop a case of gonorrhea, I think we’ll remain on the outer.
It’s time to confess something which I’ve repressed since puberty. A deep, dark secret that only a handful of friends are aware of.
Y’see, as a teenager, I made that eventual transition from loving cheesy top 40 music to angry, alternative music… just like any angsty pubescent kid does. In my case, I began a love affair with the Nine Inch Nails album The Downward Spiral.
Well, it was more than a love affair. After plunging myself into the dire world of all things goffick in the name of NIN, I eventually purchased…
… a cape.
God, I feel so much better for finally having admitted that in public.
There’s no excuse for it. There was no practical use to wearing a cape. This was particularly the case when you’re growing up in Torquay, one of Australia’s most famous surf beaches – not a bleak snow-compounded Nordic landscape.
Perhaps it was the only way I could meekly express my not-so-straight sexuality at the time. All I remember doing was moodily flapping around in it pointlessly while absorbing music which sounded like a pile of saucepans being thrown down the stairs.
The point is, I owned a fucking cape.
It takes a big man to admit that a garment which is primarily supported by your neck was once a primary part of your wardrobe, but… I can do it. Hey, I’ve even realised I can quite happily listen to industrial these days without needing any particular clothing accessories to support me through it.
But most of all, I’m posting this to stop the thinly veiled cape jokes a few of my mates-in-the-know keep posting in comments on here. You can all stop now, guys! Cape pride!
Ever found yourself at a party thinking “Wow, there’s way too much Threadless in here?”
If you’re unfamiliar with Threadless, you’ve doubtlessly stuck to clothing purchases along the lines of a heshen sack in recent times. Threadless is an online clothing store which Twitter periodically vomits itself into euphoria over, usually whenever they hold some dinky sale that saves you a scraping of dollars from the regular pricing.
It’s a clever business idea: convince illustrators to provide your inventory for minimal cost, and get hipsters to vote on which slogan shirts amuse them the most, then get everyone to shit themselves and spam their mates on Twitter whenever the prices drop 5%.
But it’s admittedly cheap, and it’s an easy way to obtain interesting looking t-shirt designs. The problem is that everyone under 30 with an operating credit card seems to use the bloody site, so it’s pretty damn common to walk down the trendier areas of town and spot fifteen people wearing the same Threadless t-shirt as you.
I’ve been as guilty as most of my friends when it comes to excitedly getting caught up in the ridiculous flailing that Threadless’ $9 shirt sales seem to sweep everyone up in. There’s a price to be paid, though – you’re essentially guaranteed to run into some douchebag at a party wearing the same t-shirt as you, and it’ll be the kind of hipster that’s really into La Roux and smoking clove cigarettes while they ride around on their fixed gear bike. That’s a recipe for a self-hatred spiral in anyone’s books.
Y’know, I was going to start listing some similar, less frequented online clothing stores to Threadless here. But fuck it! Go check some local independent clothing stores for some cool t-shirts. There’s way more alternative t-shirt printers around locally than you may figure, just take the time to get out and have a look around on your next pay day.
So let’s all kick the habit together. While you’re all rifling around at your local markets for interesting designs, I’ll be quietly stockpiling Fido Dido t-shirts from eBay in the hope he becomes fashionable again.
Recently I overheard a conversation in some men’s toilets that did me proud (don’t worry, not that kind of conversation).
Some bloke at the urinal had apparently been discovered by another mate of his, who was attempting to strike up a conversation mid-stream.
“So what are you up to this weekend?” his friend enquired. A non-committal grunt was all that was returned.
“Ha, uhh… no, really, what are you planning?” he persisted.
I heard a sharp exhale of breath, then a frustrated hiss: “You’re breaking the man code. NO TALKING AT THE URINAL!” Inwardly, I applauded; I’m not one for conversation in that environment! Someone needs to take a stand.
Now we just need to work out how to handle those masochists who take the middle toilet cubicle when all of them are vacant, and we’ll be sorted.
If you grew up in Australia in the late 80s, you’d remember the bodacious kid’s TV series Pugwall. The premise was that these kids had a badass band, the Orange Organics -- just check out the killer intro!
Growing up, I was constantly ribbed that I had a strange resemblance to the main character, Pugwall. It’s true -- I really was his spitting image.
Recently I was researching the whereabouts of the guy who played Pugwall, and wondering if we still shared a resemblance. Without even seeing a photo of me, I think it’s safe for you to assume -- perhaps not:
Photo: Bugdust.com
Now, I’m sure the poor fella is sick of his children’s TV past following him around, but he unwittingly dragged me into years of “PUGWALL!” name-calling during high school. Deep down, what I’d really love is to wreak my revenge.
See, these days he’s playing with a band named Bugdust -- who are actually really pretty damn good, now that I’ve listened to them. The kind of band I’d go to see regardless of how similar I used to look to their drummer during childhood.
So perhaps it’s time for me to attend a Bugdust gig and simply start drawling a catcall from the back of the room: “PUUUUUUG-WALLLLL. PUUUUUUG-WALLLLL.” I’m sure he’d truly appreciate requests to play Orange Organics hits like “Marmaloid”.
Who’s in for gatecrashing a gig and wreaking some revenge?
My housemate Matt and I have been putting our homosexual superpowers to good use since we moved in together: yes, we’re actually putting some effort into how the place looks.
Antique-y sitting chairs? Check. Tasteful potted plants? Check. Kimonos to wear while we secretly watch Desperate Housewives before we listen to some metal, to balance out our masculinity? Check.
The only real point we’re disagreeing on is a certain beanbag which has appeared in the living room.
If you’ve ever attempted to fill a beanbag with polystyrene beans indoors, you’ll know that it goes something like this:
Step 1: Grossly overestimate the number of beans required.
Step 2: Gallantly fill the beanbag with beans, at such a rate that it looks like the Hoover dam’s sprung a leak.
Step 3: Fearfully realise there’s far more beans than you ever needed and can’t stop the flow.
Step 4: As the overflow begins, cause the entire room to suddenly appear as if it’s in a snowdome.
Step 5: Continue finding stray polystyrene beans everywhere until the End of Days.
As a result of this accidental overflow, a certain housemate’s beanbag is now filled to the absolute brim with far too many beans. Any attempt to sit down on this thing causes you to fly straight off it and rebound, faceplanting into the wall. It’s a feeling akin to jumping off a balcony onto an exercise ball and expecting to land perfectly in a seated position.
Matt’s insistent retort is that “the beans will settle” and we’ll eventually be able to sit in it without feeling like it’s a prop from the Wipeout obstacle course. Two weeks in, and I fail to see any flattening (although I bet he’s started secretly leaking out stray beans into the garbage when I’m not looking).
To prove my point, I’m now printing out an Advent Calendar of Failure so I can document the exact number of days until I’m proven correct. I’m not sure what will be behind each calendar day’s flap – probably some more stray beans, seeing as my dodgy attempt to fill up the beanbag has resulted in them continuing to fly around the loungeroom.
Victory will strike, and my opinion will be proven: beanbags are designed to be filled as loosely as Channel 9′s interpretation of “entertainment”.
Yes, you can now officially call me insane: after only four months of living on my own, I’ve moved house. AGAIN.
Why has this all happened? Well, life was a lot different earlier this year. I’d just broken up, was feeling somewhat sorry for myself, and was convinced living on my own was the best thing to do. INCORRECT! It was too expensive and immensely boring. Just like a Catherine Deveney gig, basically.
After wondering out loud if I should have moved in with a housemate instead, my mate Matt piped up that he’d been looking for a housemate too. Within what seemed like hours, we’d found a new pad in St Kilda, although it had been left in a somewhat interesting interpretation of “clean” by the previous owners.
From the carnage left behind, it was clear the old residents had vaguely attempted cleaning the place up, but instead degenerated into a final farewell party that involved someone kicking the bathroom door in. They also seemed to have valiantly attempted to change the locks on the front door on the cheap, as I swiftly locked myself inside the apartment by accident and had to await my housemate’s rescue. We’re still battling out the cleanup job with our new real estate agent.
What’s so great about living with Matt is that I’ve finally found someone who’s in sync with my accident-prone and clumsy being. Although we berate each other for walking into cupboards and accidentally slicing our fingers open when chopping up vegies, we usually manage to hurt ourselves simultaneously. These types of events aren’t uncommon:
Me: (accidentally spilling drink onto rug) SHIT! Matt: You’re the most accident-prone person I’ve ever met. Atrocious. Me: You’re far worse than I am. Matt: Am not. (sits down and knocks entire tub of dip onto rug)
Oh, that bloody rug. It’s been loaned to us by a friend of Matt’s for the year. Dear reader, can I strongly recommend you never purchase a white rug, ever? Even after we painstakingly attempted to keep the bloody thing clean, it’s already slowly morphing into a dull, muddied grey after mere weeks. My new strategy is to turn the rug completely black by the end of the year and hope the original owner doesn’t remember the colour they originally purchased.
Now that I’m a little more settled after the move, I’m intending on posting a little more often. In the meantime, if you’ll excuse me, I have some Vegemite to “accidentally” smear on our rug.
I’ve been busy moving house and will post more soon, but in the meantime, I guest hosted the Favourite Five podcast this week. Go check it out and listen to me ruining an otherwise very funny podcast!
If you’d told me last week that I’d be trapped in public wearing only a pair of Bonds jocks, I’d have laughed hysterically in your face… but that’s exactly what happened to me on Sunday. Yep, it sounds like the stuff of teen movies, but turns out it’s an actual possible event in real life too. Beware, and learn from my mistake!
On Sunday evening, I was supposed to be catching the Lostprophets gig in the city with my buddy Matt. To neatly avoid the cacophony of Grand Prix traffic near my house, I’d concluded it would be a great deal easier to cycle into the city, and park in the bike cage at work.
WHAT AN INCREDIBLE MISTAKE THAT ENDED UP BEING. You may think this is all a tall story, but I can assure you it’s the truth!
Now, I’m not the fittest bastard around, so tubby needed a shower after his cycle into the city, before he headed into the gig. My work building is part of a shopping complex, which has showers you can access with your security pass. Super handy! Off I trotted into the change rooms for my refreshing shower.
After stripping down to my underwear, I realised I’d forgotten to fetch my toiletry bag from my locker – which was located in a hallway outside the change rooms. What the hell, I thought to myself, it’s 6pm on a Sunday evening – there won’t be any other employees around. I chanced it, and quickly ducked out into the hallway in my undies with my locker key.
As the bathroom door clicked shut behind me, that’s when time shuddered to a stop and it hit me: I’d left my security pass inside the changeroom… and I needed it to get back in the changeroom.
Yes: I was trapped in a hallway wearing only my underwear. No wallet. No keys. No phone, let alone any phone numbers of my mates that I could remember. Ohhhhhh shit!
