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Wearing Pop’s Clothes (Frankie – 2008)

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(This piece appears in the Frankie Anthology ‘Something To Say.’)

After my Pop passed away last year, I found myself wearing his clothes. This was nothing new. Back in 1998 when I first discovered op-shopping, I realised I had an exclusive treasure trove right under my nose. During a regular weekend jaunt to Nan & Pop’s I asked politely if I could inspect their wardrobe, and with the excitement of one passing through the ‘Staff Only’ door at Salvos, initiated a gangly, late-teens version of dress ups.

Whenever a fellow secondhand droog complimented me on my retro jacket, it was with great pride that I said it was my Pop’s. Adorned in a full set of his clothes, I strolled through Melbourne one brisk winter morning like a soldier of nostalgia trying to blend in with the past. Top: safari jacket, dark green, pure wool from New Zealand. Bottom: dark green, flared suit trousers. Shirt: pale lime green Pelaco brand. Singlet: Bonds, athletic. Socks: knee-length bus driver style. Underpants: yes, underpants. They were a pair of cheap generic boxers that Nan had bought but he’d never worn. The clothes made me feel safe, purposeful, loved. He was a quiet man who never said “I love you.” But what an impoverished upbringing and the Second World War had economised in his language, he made up for with a generous smile and patient ear.

There are days when the loneliness really hits me and find myself scuttling through the sand layers of my mind to find my fondest memories of him. I’m six, it’s a breezy, summer’s day and we’re walking along the beach. This was our walk. These were our times. We’d do it regularly. Pop would plod along at a steady pace, watching me sprint ahead and poke around in the sand. I’d run back and find his large, warm hand. The beach was an endless runway of delight where my adventures could take off. The clear salt waves nipped at my senses, while the vibrations of his voice ran through me as I rode high on his shoulders. Constant shiftwork had not allowed him to have this kind of time with his own children. It must have been such a joy.

Today I wear his clothes like a hug. When I first got them they still smelt like the cool linen stillness of his cupboard. It’s a scent I wanted to bury my face into; to curl up like a cat and fall asleep in. I was transported to a time before custom and expectation, when a simple woolen jumper held me safe. Now they’ve been through the wash a few times, but the cloth still connects with my blood. I am reminded of the love for my family, and this man who would be a father figure to me. Wearing his clothes makes me feel strangely complete. Like a traveller returning to the place they were born.

The truth is I’ve been wearing the clothes of the deceased for years. Not everyone is comfortable with this. There are those who scoff and hang cruelly on the edge of secondhand shops, dabbling their toe in the dust-ridden air, daring each other to go in. What twisted expression could I evoke with tales of my grandfather’s undergarments keeping me snug at night? I wouldn’t want them to understand.

My friend in Hobart said his father had just passed away and he too had taken to wearing his underwear and socks. He didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t need to. In this global shop-front/techno-paddock world, sometimes we need to walk like kingdoms and wear our memories like flags.

Hair Today, Gonged Tomorrow (2008)

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There’s never a more vulnerable time in one’s life than when they step outside the door of the hairdresser’s. As a guy, the thought running through my head is almost always the same – ‘TOOOOO SSHHOOOORRRRTTTTT!!!’ Having abruptly cropped hair leaves your big goofy head exposed, like your face’s version of being caught with its pants down. With the central HQ of a fringe and straggly side bits gone, there’s nowhere for your forehead and ears to hide. You are destined to wander the streets, cheekbones freezing, trying to subtly peer at yourself in shop windows and jiggle your hair about like a crazed Mother setting the dinner table for Christmas.

You could be forgiven for thinking that hairdresser’s just like cutting hair. The initial consultation always goes amiably. They ask what I’d like done, while thoughtfully running thumb and forefinger over the back. I answer them with conviction on par with the lawyer from The Castle – including the word ‘vibe.’ They seem to understand. I take my glasses off, and in my short sighted state I miss the split-second glint in their eye as they pick up the scissors, eyes boring into the slice fest that is my plump, ungroomed head; mouth salivating at the thought of sinking their blades into me, like a blackbird arching its toes as it dive-bombs a strawberry patch.

Where does the blueprint go wrong? Part of the problem is the hairdresser’s insistence on multi-tasking. This involves calculating and implementing precise artistic incisions while padding out inane conversation. You wouldn’t expect your doctor to be halfway through surgery before demanding to know how uni’s going. The verbal screensaver also gets in the way of the relaxing, therapeutic element. With silence I can let hormones and imagination take over and pretend there’s something faintly sexual happening. (With me, getting change at MacDonald’s can be faintly sexual; it’s called ‘I’m an art-house film’ syndrome.)
HINT: Get your haircut on Wednesdays as it’s too late for “what did you do on the weekend” and too early for “what are you doing on the weekend?”

The hairdresser’s most important training comes into play in the closing ‘smoke and mirror’ phase. This involves a complex array of blow-drying, poofing and fiddling with all manner of hyper-paste-turbo-wax-grit-putty-factor-fourteen products, which are all made from recycled ghost buster slime. These are used to achieve the painstakingly effortless ‘bed-hair’ look that is guaranteed to last up to three seconds after you leave. (I’ve found better results by being so depressed about my haircut I stayed in bed for a week.) This leads to the barber’s money shot. The moment when you are reminded how powerless you really are, strapped in a black cocoon, hair littering the floor like a balding shagpile. There is no greater false gesture than the ‘showing of the back’ for approval. As you stare from your bowl head – flat as a burnt match – to the gleaming eyes of the hairdresser, you remember this is one luxury you just can’t afford.

For the last two years I’ve attending one of the fanciest hairdressers in Melbourne, who recently put the price up from $65 to $85. ‘Is that because of the drought?’ I quipped, getting nothing from the girl at the counter. We had been on a good wicket, they didn’t talk much and left my hair at an acceptable Graham Garden / Jarvis Cocker type length. But last week I made the mistake of including the word ‘shorter’ in my description. That’s it, next time I’m getting my fringe insured. Just call me the indie Merv Hughes.

Dream Analysis (2008)

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It’s 7:13am Monday morning and I’m sprawled in my warm blue sheets having a dream. My girlfriend and I are sitting outside a beachside café while an aerial battle is going on. Two squadrons of about fifteen planes a piece are locked in frenetic oscillation, their khaki green bodies murky against the pale sky. Like the jerky direction of a Hollywood film, it’s hard to tell who the teams are. I sit entranced as they swoop, spin and somersault around each other, bullets and missiles cannoning in all directions, leaving wisps of grey morning smoke.

I pay attention to one plane in particular who’s underwing has the most foreboding set of weapons. It has been coasting along the skyline, away from the core of the battle, but now ducks its nose into a vacant pocket of airspace, unloading its cache one by one. Planes in the distance continue to perpetually loop, seemingly unaware of the threat. I watch as each missile glides in the slipstream, before arching gracefully skywards and reversing its trajectory. I’m surprised to see heat seeking technology present amongst these world war two era planes. I lose track of them amidst the cross fire, but a few seconds later hear a succession of deep explosions as each rocket meets its target. One pilot has managed to bail out, and his purple and white patterned parachute floats forlornly into the dark blue sea.

A moment later the pilot emerges from the shore, legs trudging through white foam. He’s cradling a guitar, and my instant concern is what the salt water could do to the strings. The pilot walks up the beach towards our table. He is dry now and still wearing a leather helmet and goggles. He proceeds to reach into his pocket and pull out a ten and five dollar note.

‘I need to buy some breakfast, but have no idea where to start. It would really help me out if you could take this and buy me the best thing you can find.’

I am concerned. I don’t particularly want to help this man, I feel like I have other things to do. My girlfriend turns to me and speaks quietly.

‘I’ve really got to be getting home soon, I’ve got a lot of reading to do for uni.’

I would rather just leave as planned with her, but suddenly have a world war two pilot dependent on me. I am not comfortable with this, and the sense of responsibility curdles into deep seeded dread.

I consider for a moment another option, of taking the man’s money, combining it with my own, and offering him a $20 note. While I cannot buy him breakfast, I could at least boost his funds and perhaps give him a tip on a decent cafe.

My dream ends.

ANALYSIS:
War scene: Last night I watched a few minutes of Pearl Harbour on TV.
Heat Seeking Missiles: I’ve been playing a lot of Mario Kart lately.
Pilot with guitar: A metaphor for my relationship with music. This year I have written a number of songs as direct cathartic responses to feelings of distress.
Pilot asking for help: Lately I’ve been finding buying food a monumental chore. My dread in helping the pilot reflects my current inner unrest, and feelings of not having the emotional resources to offer anyone.
Girlfriend needing to do uni work: My girlfriend has recently become a university tutor and is much busier.

Fucking Tinittus (2008)

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By the hammer of Thor! I have tinnitus. The alarm bell of my vulnerability is ringing in my ears. I’ve let the team down. I’ve hurt myself. I’ve quite possibly permanently damaged one of the most precious and valuable parts of my body. I’ve fucked up. (This is me being positive.)

A friend gave me a good analogy of Tinnitus. In some dormant volcanoes there are trees that grow inside. When the volcano blows, the trees are flattened, and never grow again. Inside your ear there are thousands of tiny hair follicles that pick up sound. When you are exposed to loud music, they can be damaged. Sufferers of Tinnitus are left with the ghost of audio haunting their ear cave. A hollow howl-cycle filling up the evening silence like bats blocking the moon.

After examining the clues, detective me is pointing the finger at Ween. I saw their three hour guitar blast-a-thon front and centre stage with naked ears. What was even more intense than the music was the incessant whistling and cheering of rabid fans around me. Having a high pitch whistle in your ear at the end of a concert is like quenching your thirst with vegemite.

What makes this all the more painful is that I knew better. My dear Mother has been going on about tinnitus my whole life. She saw a loud rock band in the 70’s and attributes it to all manner of mental unrest. With blue eyes wide I listened to her warnings, but headed off in my late teens to thrash about in all kinds of sonic muck pits. Naturally, it wasn’t going to happen to me. Since my mid-twenties I’ve found my ears getting a lot more sensitive and have made a real effort to wear ear plugs. Unfortunately, it tends to cut out too much of everything and you have a sense of missing out, like having sex wrapped in bubble wrap.

The reality is, almost all live gigs are too loud, and our hearing is a delicate entity. While we’re smashed over the head about protecting our bodies from the sun, or cigarettes, the concept of hearing damage is still a kind of novelty. Wearing sunglasses at an outdoor festival is cool. Wearing ear plugs is piss weak, or something security do because they must hate the band. It’s all fun and games when your stomach’s full of kickdrum, and the power chords are changing your life, but where’s the pay off when its 2am and you’re still listening to DJ Dickhead’s minimalist German techno hit ‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.’

There’s stacks of stuff on the net about how to manage it and seek support but I’m not even ready for that. I don’t want to manage it because I don’t want to have it! I’m already a short sighted, emotionally fragile insomniac – I don’t need an eerie tone thrown in the mix. I feel like the King who let the trapdoor down for one second too long and now some bandit has busted in and killed his best knight in his sleep. I should have been wearing ear plugs during Ween and because I didn’t I may have signed up for fifty years of the same fucking noise in my ears. I feel hard done by, and I didn’t need any more help in that department either.

Look after your ears! Get custom ‘musicians’ ear plugs that cut out around fifteen decibels. They cost $300 from an audio clinic. You’d spend it on sunnies!

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REQUEST NEW SINGLE ‘WOW WOW’S SONG’ ON JJJ SUPER REQUESTS – PLEASE. wow wow

(Brought to you by Truckie helpline. A new two-way counselling service for those going through the ‘long haul.’ Includes AM radio tip-offs, swear word of the day and conflict resolution to deal with walkie-talkie kids jamming the line with fart noises.)

• My new album Brown & Orange has been mastered (by the power of greyskull), and is theoretically finished. I am currently trying to ‘shop it round’ to prospective record labels and management types. (Faxing the sheet music to cassette manufacturers in Turkey – standing in Sony carpark frisbeeing discs at the receptionist.) I am also considering an album release direct to cash converters which would at least guarantee some instant income and cut out the middle man, (my fanbase.) If anyone has any industry contacts or would like to privately invest approximately $10000 for its release with twenty percent exponential return after gross please sticky tape some credit cards together Scrooge McDuck.

• Brown & Orange was taken to a different producer in its final stages. Chris Scallen at Soft Centre Studios in Northcote did some amazing work and was a joy to work with. He has worked on albums like Cut Copy’s ‘Bright Like Neon Love’ and The Avalanches “Since I Left You.” It was mastered by David Briggs at The Production Workshop. He used to be in Little River Band and wrote the song ‘Lonesome Loser.’ I am very happy with the album and will be doing my utmost to get the freaking thing to you all. I didn’t mean for it to take so long, but on day one I said I didn’t have a timeline and at least I won’t take as long as Portishead.

• I broke up with my darling girlfriend for a while. It was horrible. We are back together now.

• One hour after we ‘cancelled’ our relationship on Facebook an ad appeared with a blonde girl’s face saying “28 and still single? Why not meet singles at blah.com” Thanks Facebook. What a sensitive, caring platform you really are. You even sold off my private information without asking me…awww.

• In conjunction with regular counselling I’ve started taking anti-depressants. They’re called Lexipro and aren’t ‘happy pills’ they just take the bottom edge off my moods. For example, I watched Cool Runnings and at the end when they carry their bobsled over the line I normally bawl, but now just sniff a little. (Their rival claps along too and he doesn’t even like them! sob) Side effect include drowsiness, the inability to finish a crossword and the gift of writing generation defining rock ballads with twenty three augmented chords and choruses that sound like Queen doing Radiohead.

• I’m okay, really

• I’m not okay.

• I’ve parted ways with my manager, and am currently seeking management. Imogen the work experience girl was filling in adequately but despite a proposed pay rise of three tim-tam’s a day has opted to finish year ten. SELFISH!

• I turned 28. I’m in the business end of my twenties.

• I’ve moved house. After four years in Clifton Hill I have relocated to North Fitzroy, living with three awfully nice arty types, including The Big Issue and Frankie’s own ‘Romy Ash.’ It’s a bomby old 70’s house that is sinking to one side and there’s a black rabbit called Coalface. Temperament wise rabbits are a cross between cats and goldfish. I mean no offence to the rabbit community, I’m just getting used to the fluffy little concepts.

• My pieces are still appearing in Frankie, The Big Issue, Canberra and Tasmanian street press and sometimes JMag. The latest Frankie features my 70’s tie collection! It’s my publishing highlight thus far.

• My hairdresser has bumped his prices up enormously. It’s gone from $65 to $85 for existing customers and up to $145 for new customers! There’s got to be some ACCC action. I am most angry at them because they knocked back my ‘Guerillagram.’

Girl: It’s now $85
Me: Is that because of the drought?
Girl:

If anyone knows of a cheaper hairdresser where they’ll make me look like the guy off ‘man about the house’ please let me know.

LapTopping – 65 – “Bananageddon”

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LapTopping – The Bit Long, Official E-zine of The Bedroom Philosopher
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ISSUE 65
Wednesday July 23 2008
Estimated Reading Time: 10:01
**Join the BP’s Facebook page!**

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URGENT! POSITIONS VACANT!

A video editor / animator is desperately required to finish post-production on some background animations in my latest film clip. It’s done in Adobe After-effects. Being based in Melbourne is preferred. Enquire within.

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LT BIRTHDAYS

Happy Birthday Daniel Radcliffe 19 today!
Happy Birthday Monica Lewinsky 35 today!
Happy Birthday Slash 43 today!

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SONG TO GET STUCK IN YOUR HEAD OF THE DAY

Martika – Love thy will be done.

“Love thy will be done
I can no longer hide
I can no longer run.”

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LAPTOPPING INFREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

Q. Why has it taken you so long to do an issue?
A. I did one but lost it in the back of a taxi.

Q. For reals?
A. Reals.

Q. Is that a euphemism?
A. Yes. LapTopping was temporarily suspended by the National Ezine Investigation Scheme (NEIS) who, after monitoring us for several months, ordered that we conduct routine emotional maintenance.

Q. Is that a euphemism?
A. Yes.

Q. For sitting in front of a blank Microsoft Word document eating nutri-grain and crying?
A. On a good day.

Q. Are you okay now?
A. Is any of us really okay?

Q. Um, yes some of us are.
A. Right. Then…yes?

Q. I’ll ask the questions.
A. Ooh feisty, I like that.

Q. You make me ill.
A. In the words of Kermit, “and on with the show!”
*flails hands in air*

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EMAIL OF THE MONTH

“Hey, cool biography, nice web layout, the colours are too contrasting though, maybe tone down the red?” ADRIENNE.

“Dear Adrienne. Hey, nice message, very direct and to the point, a little conservative though, maybe tone down the beige? Booyow!”
JUSTIN.

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THINGS ON E-BAY I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAVE BID ON

9-volt dual motion novelty chin massager . (Still in box).

Rage – The complete first series. 900 VHS set.

Johnny Cash endorsed casserole dish with patented “ring of fire” technology.

Five speed motorised beanbag. (Some damage).

Complete set of ‘great moments in illegal drag racing’ commemorative stamps.

Vintage bag of assorted rocks dated to Jurassic era. Authentic! (Paperwork missing).

Laminated Daryl Somers promotional poster. (Some damage, including signature).

Burnt purple three piece corduroy suit. (Allow three weeks for postage and three decades for fashion).

Set of talking Knight Rider coasters. Put your coffee down and hear KITT say “careful Michael it’s hot.”

Antique Amstrad CPC 464 computer. Comes with joystick, monitor and 50 games – some still loading. (64k memory can be emailed).

Vintage Charles and Diana commemorative dinner set. (Will separate).

Copy of self-help book ‘I’m okay, You’re okay.’ (As is).

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NEW! GUERILLAGRAMS

How it works: You know those moments where you overhear a conversation and you desperately want to add a comment. This section is devoted to those brave souls who stare defiantly into the face of social norms and say “If all the world’s a stage then I’m Rick Moranis.” We want to hear about jokes you made that totally bombed, and pearls of wisdom you offered to dudes on the bus who blanked you.
On the streets it is cold, but here it is warm.

To kick off, here’s some of my recent examples:

In vintage shop, Fitzroy. Sales girl is talking to a friend.
Girl: What is it with guys who think they can have a one night stand and that it means nothing?
Me: (from shirt stand) Sex is always emotional.
Girl: (after ten or so seconds) Hey, thanks for your honesty. Are you Ben?
Me: No.
Girl: It’s just that someone said I’ve got a secret admirer called Ben who comes in here a lot but is too shy to say hello. I just hoped it was you because you’re cute.
Me: Thanks, I’ll certainly take that on board.
(I later get shirt for half price.)

In trendy café, North Fitzroy. Some disastrously long experimental violin based song has been playing for ages. I am paying.
Me: Is this Rage Against The Machine’s new album?
Girl: (blank) Hmm. This, you mean this album? No I’m not sure who it is.
Me:
Girl: $12.50 thanks.

In Bar, Fitzroy. I am buying beers.
Girl: That’ll be $10.80.
Me: Rabbits really hate that price.
Girl:
Me: In Tasmania they lay a poison called 1080 to get rid of rabbits.
Girl: That’ll be $12.80

SEND US YOUR GUERILLAGRAMS!

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INANIMATE OBJECT BEREAVEMENT NOTICES

*****
KIDNAPPED
*****

From Sareh Sangsari, Sydney.

“After failing to run away from my boyfriends pocket in the train station in Tokyo two months ago, my digital camera of three years finally escaped by staging its own kidnapping in Cuba. I think from inside my little bag it telepathically communicated with two guys walking past, who came and pulled my bag from my neck and got away. It probably overheard me saying I was gonna buy a new one and give it to my friend. I hope it enjoys its new life in Cuba.”

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WE PRAY FOR THEIR RECALIBRATION
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WANT TO CONTRIBUTE TO EITHER OF THESE SEGMENTS? EMAIL BEV IN ADMIN, INCLUDING YOUR HOME TOWN.
Laptopping @ bedroomphilosopher.com

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GET A WRIGGLE ON GOOGLET!

Several phrases people have typed into Google to land on my website lately:

“wallaby poems”
“a country practice theme remix”
“australian cordial platypus”
“ladies with harry armpits”
“where to buy modified starch in Brisbane”
“jatz biscuit cake”
“nice thought for a lonely person”
“reviving old blankets”
“what is commonsensically challenged?”
“bernard fanning skydiving”
“value of alf doll”
“unemployment doll”
“im a dog im a working dog im a hard working dog song sesame street”
“how to write dirty emails to your partner”
“gaga the game for the trampoline”
“pretentious Melbourne”
“pull centrelink chick”
“how do i achieve a triple em dash on my home computer?”
“cokie barman in a country practice”
“myspace smithton Tasmania”
“can i get into a club with an expired license”
“ideas to get out of the call centre rut”
“bulgarian squid”
“smock on the water lyrics from deep purple”
“does this awkward guy like me or is it in my head?”

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TIME IS CHEESE AND MOUSE IS HUNGRY!

The best television commercial ever made. Snack packs! (1987)

Arrested Development’s Michael Cera teaching us about confidence (2007)

There are two types of people. One of them finds LOL cats funny. (LapTopping acknowledges this is so 2006)

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A GIGGLE OF GIGS

• Monday July 28. MCing the Local. Melbourne’s best stand-up comedy night. (Justin accepts no responsibility for any damage to your sense of humour sustained during the other acts.) Local Taphouse. Corner Carlisle and Chapel, St Kilda. $12. 8:30pm.

• Wednesday July 30. Northcote Storytellers. This is a marvellous new evening where comedians / performers are encouraged to sit in a big comfy chair with a granny rug and tell stories. The night is free and starts 8:30pm. Willow Bar. 222 High Street, Northcote. I will probably tell the full story of the first time I smoked a joint, or my disastrous 18th birthday.

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STORYTIME

(Brought to you by “Dummies for dummies” a guide to infant teething devices and shop window dressing for perplexed gen-y parents and boutique retail fashionistas.)

I found life much more hilarious after I broke up with my one true love. Yeah. Hard to believe huh? Correct. Such a paradox. An oxymoron if you will. Yes, I just called you an oxymoron. For I have no respect for you. Honest. I’m not just being facetious or overly controversial for the sake of evoking a response. Sometimes I am just so crippled by unease about my own upbringing that I assume the rest of the world has had a better life than me and that you have probably just like, I dunno, paid off a car that you went halves in with your parents who both have full time jobs and planned family barbecues that were hilarious and had cool half-drunk conversations with you when you were sixteen about their past and made you realise how decent these people were and playfully ruffled your hair when you were rabbiting on about some high school crush you had and caught you off guard with their graceful perspective. Dad’s with Steely Dan T-shirts and attractively greying facial hair. Mum’s with beyond their years luscious red locks and room filling laughs. Neat houses in prime inner city locations, but always a underlying sense of modesty and ‘oh this place, we do our best but it’s no paradise.’ When actually you’re living in fucking mansions with trust funds acquiring an extra figure a year which you can access in your gap year and buy $5000 Epitone guitars and take advantage of the childhood of Kinks and Byrds albums that your dad brought you up on and fool about in your twiggy poster adorned rumpus room and come up with some jangly open chords and wail on some nonsense to your painfully side swept fringed friends off their block on pricey gin and accidentally stumble on some easily marketable fortuitously trendy retro psych-rock that your swollen bank accounts can accommodate with a super producer who turns your handful of ideas into some radio friendly pop-smart EP that gets so ‘accidentally’ sent to the most influential indie-website that so effortlessly emblazons it with its gold seal of oh-so-fleeting approval, enough to get some equally ‘now’ kids with parents helping them pay off their Mac G5’s so they can get their underground film movement off the ground to your gigs where your ‘double garage’ rock is spurted out under a safety blanket of reverb and drums riding higher that your ironic 70’s jeans, accruing to such a potentially awesome racket that the artfully aloof crowd for fear of being the only ones not reading between the lines of your genre-defying genius are forced to bang their fifty dollar hair waxed hands together and anoint their shrill lips with over fermented European beers that feel good against their hot little nail bitten hands ‘cos they find life “so stressful like, today I saw a homeless guy on the street and I would have given him money but I was halfway through a McOz and like, y’know?!” Yeah, well, where am I during all this? I’m standing up the back next to the slimy A&R rep who left his wife of twenty years for his teenage daughter’s best friend, who despite an arse to declare war for also has a wicked sense of humour and isn’t laughter so healing when you’re a pseudo paedophile in Italian leather shoes. And he really thinks these kids have got something, and through his chauvinistic, ego smoking poker games knows the bloke who runs some big label and can get these kids hooked into the right ‘mechanics.’ I’m standing next to this guy. I’m not smiling, not frowning not drinking, breathing or blinking. I’m very disappointed and at my best guess it would take at least one lifetime of lending me money and introducing me to your good looking friends so we can fool about on your cousin’s waterbed to prove to me that you’re worthy of being exempted from my A-1 100% counsellor proof cheer destroying scorn.

THE END.

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LAYTOPING IS MISPELLED, AND FREE! WHAT A GREAT GIFT IDEA, AND IT’LL CUT YOUR ENERGY BILLS IN HALF! SEND IT TO A FRIEND!

To subscribe to this Ezine check out the ‘LapTopping’ section of the website.
Last time someone cried: Erica B – “When I laughed so hard that I threw up water all over my bad. this hurt, this made me cry.”
(Have you cried recently and think the occasion noteworthy? Let us know.)

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NOTICE & DISCLAIMER:

This message is detached may not contain perspective or respect for itself. It is intended solely for the gloriously anonymous close friend who may click on it hurriedly while waiting on an important e-mail and tut to themselves ‘gee, if only I could dip my cup into Justin’s never-ending well of self-aggrandisation perhaps I’d publish my memoirs and get to do a literary book tour and give Douglas Coupland a temple massage and drink cocktails on the Thames.’ If you are not the addressee indicated in this message or are just generally over it then you are permitted to scroll angrily like a disappointed teenager butts out a cigarette and flash your eyes around like drunken doves and scowl and swing wildly with judgement, deeming all of the pathetic rhetoric that might have bemused you a while back superfluous with today’s petrol prices out of hand and a million starving in Zimbabwe and you just bought a boost juice and didn’t even finish it and none of us asked for this but what are you supposed to be doing about it, are you really doing enough, and is even being distracted by some obscure comedian’s psychological problems a dull, pale crime in itself, like glaciers melting drop by drop and you steering your yacht off course to a point where the sea drops out and you literally hit the wall like in the Truman show and climb out the door and find a white room that smells of clinical noodles and you are still wet from the sea spray but out here its a fluorescent blue and you see an art-deco red couch and decide to have a little lie down and you dream of bicycle races in school and riding so fast you take off and you ride over your university and there’s a dragon in a classroom below eyeing you off and you catch its eye and it takes off out the window after you and you can feel the heat from its fire behind you but then you wake up and there’s three men in business suits standing around you looking confused and sympathetic and they try to tell you that your real name is actually Helen and you are two years younger than you think and that your whole life has been watched by millions just like the Truman show and the reason that film was made was just to make it seem even more unrealistic that it could actually happen to you and anyway, we’re sorry you found your way out here but the truth is even worse I’m afraid, it seems that they cancelled your show about five years ago due to low ratings. Rival channels have since started up three more lives and well, you were kind of in an awkward, nervous phase of your life. With respect, you were old news – not quite the cute aspiring teenager we all grew up with. So here’s a pamphlet that should act as a guide to getting used to an entire dimension of society you’ve never experienced, and a good psychologist, but also, we should warn you that The Kinks are a made up band that don’t exist on the outside, also, we ran out of real life cheese ten years ago, gin tastes like bourbon, chickens are extinct and Lou Reid is the prime minister.

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DON’T FORGET –

Love thy will be done
I can no longer hide
I can no longer run.