Monday, March 1, 2010

Warning: This Story Is Pretty Depressing

You may have noted that a lot of crazy things seem to happen to me. It might be that crazy things happen to everyone and I'm the only one who notices. I have wondered briefly if my entire life has not just been some kind of long drawn-out acid trip. As you have seen, a lot of my stories are very light and whimsical. But there have been a lot that are much less fun and games, and more of the inevitable eye loss. The story I am going to tell you now is, well, a bit dramatic. Any story that ends with the protagonist sitting alone late on a Friday night in the gutter outside an emergency room, wearing a formal dress and crying really usually only has it's place as the music video for a bad emo song. Yet, I once found myself in this exact position.

It was the night of my oldest friend's 21st birthday party. I went to her house all dolled up with a bottle of wine in my hands, ready for a night of fun and nostalgia. But as the evening went on I found myself more and more depressed. I kept trying to talk to people I had known for years and finding that I had nothing to say to them, or they to me. We'd grown up into very different people. They responded to this by talking around me as if I weren't actually there. I responded by sitting by myself, not having a good time at all. I didn't want to bring everyone down, so I slipped away unnoticed.

There was one friend I had at the time to whom I actually could relate, and who even made the time to see me reasonably often. He may not have been big on talking things over, but when I was upset he was always there with a beer and a guitar hero controller, sometimes even a remote controlled tank that shot actual tiny bullets. That was enough for me.

The codename that my housemates have insisted on for this guy is Binny, due to the fact that a lot of my stories involve him and they are a bit convinced that he doesn't actually exist. For the last year or so I spent in Newcastle, he and I spent most of our time together. We were both social outcasts who needed each other for our minimum daily requirement of human interaction. All of my other friends hated him for the way he jerked me around, but I needed him. My life had reached a point where I didn't really have anyone else that I could rely on, even if he wasn't the most emotionally stable of people.

When I left the party I found myself unsurprisingly heading towards his house. I arrived just in time to see him crash his motorcycle. He had only been wearing shorts and a t-shirt, with no helmet. Apparently he had been drinking alone before I'd arrived. I don't think he hit his head, but his leg was cut up pretty badly. I freaked out and grabbed my phone to call an ambulance, but he yelled me down and told me to leave him alone for just a minute. He didn't want an ambulance. I don't know why, but he didn't. When he went into shock, he conceded to let me call a cab to take us to the hospital.

I paid for the cab and helped him to the ER. I bought him a bottle of coke, thinking he could really stand to keep his fluids up. I sat down next to him, freaking out for the safety of one of the few remaining people in the world that I actually really cared about. It was then that he turned to me and told me he would prefer it if I left. He told me flat out that he didn't want me to be there.

I stormed out of the ER frustrated, alone and trying not to make a scene. Unfortunately the situation was well past the point of not turning into a scene. And, well, if you are going to make a scene an ER is probably a pretty reasonable place for it. They'd be used to it, if nothing else. Once outside, I collapsed in the gutter and started bawling my eyes out. I don't know how long I was there, sobbing, still wearing the cocktail dress from the party. No-one from that party ever asked me where I'd disappeared to that night. I assumed that my absence hadn't really been noticed.

I eventually managed to compose myself enough to arrange for someone to come drive me home. To add insult to injury, when I got home I realised I'd left my wallet on the footpath outside the hospital.

I did get my wallet back, though. And Binny did apologise to me for the way he'd acted. He admitted his pride had got the better of him. Apparently after I left he started bleeding quite profusely and had to be rushed to surgery. He admitted that my actions had saved his leg, maybe even his life. I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't forgive him, not this time, but we somehow found ourselves slipping back into the way things had always been. It was as if the whole thing had never happened.

It wasn't long after that night that I left Newcastle for good. It's now been more than a year since I've been back to my hometown and I'm kind of hoping that I can continue to make excuses to avoid going back for as long as humanly possible. People are always saying that running from your problems is not the best solution, but sometimes it's pretty much the only option.

-Smackie Onassis

From The Desk Of Smackie O: Useful Advice

Re: Sharehouse groceries. Sending your housemate to the shops is a bit like using google. Sometimes when you send them out for milk, they will come back with milk. But every now and then they will return saying "When you said milk did you mean Batman Pez Dispensers?"*. Unfortunately the results aren't always that awesome.

Re: Instant Self-Esteem. Are you feeling a bit down on your self? Here is a handy hint guaranteed to give you the mistaken impression that you are actually quite great. Tell a bad joke to someone in customer service. See, I have worked in this industry and if you don't laugh at your customers' jokes, well, that's BAD SERVICE. People in these jobs are obligated to make you think you are totally funny, regardless of how godawful your joke was. Here's one I like to whip out when I'm feeling a bit low:

Shopkeep: Ok, that comes to $19.20
Me: A good year, that.
Shopkeep: HAHAHAHA.

Re: Pickup Lines. Some women take the time to be offended by pick-up lines. I think this is silly. All you need to do to make sure they don't get away with being a jerk is to openly laugh in their face. Usually this is easier than you might think because most people's pick-up lines are really pretty amusing. The people who use them generally do so because they can't think of any other way to express themselves. They usually have a bit too much confidence about what they are saying. I was once approached by a stranger who asked me if I "had a license for those". Yes, I completed a two year course and as a result I am qualified to have large breasts. Good one, representative for the male gender.

Re: How to have great anecdotes. Vegatrain recently postulated to me that perhaps I sometimes do things just so I can tell the story. He would be wrong. There is no 'sometimes' about it. Most of the things I do are purely so I can tell the story afterwards. Why else would I have gone to Apocalypse Party? I am well aware that I am too introverted for all that jazz. But let's face it, that's a pretty ok story. The only downside is that sometimes this involves making impulse purchases and ending up with a cavalcade of items that I am not sure what to do with. Vegatrain and I are planning on setting up an ebay store very soon ("paying the rent"), but I'm not sure there is anyone out there (apart from myself) who would be remotely interested in a tie that has pictures of ties on it. Anyone? It's very meta.

Re: Don't Listen To Anyone Who Has Studied Journalism. It's an awful shame, but somehow studying media leaves you with an insatiable urge to be unnecessarily, misleadingly terrifying. I remember once a friend of mine was talking about feeling sick after going for a swim. Most people chalked this up to stomach cramps, but I thought it would be best to mention the Dracunculiasis. I told him how it gets into your body while you swim and then grows to a ridiculous size before creating a painful blister from which it will ultimately burst out to go infect others, a la "Alien". I did add the disclaimer that this parasite is now pretty well restricted to bodies of water in Sub-Saharan Africa, but by that time he was substantially terrified. This is what studying journalism does to you. The only reason I am able to prevent myself from doing this all the time is because I dropped out before the end of my degree.

Re: Making Money From Justice. This is not one I can vouch for from a legal standpoint, or from an actually working standpoint, or even from a not getting the crap beaten out of you standpoint. But what I CAN vouch for is that I think it's a great idea and can someone with more balls than me please try it so I know if it works. So, I'm no lawyer. But when I was at uni I did have lunch with people who studied law every now and then. Sometimes they talked about their homework and well, I listened. I took notes. From these notes, I am under the impression that a citizen's arrest is a thing that you can do. So, here's my idea. What about a citizen's on the spot fine? You can't let people just get away with jaywalking, can you? In the name of keeping our streets safe, you should ask them to hand over their $50 on the spot fine directly to you. Some people call this "mugging". I call it "justice".

Re: Selling things on ebay. Here is something I have observed: just about anything will sell if you tag it with the words "PUNK/EMO". I am assuming this is something to do with there being a lot of people out there who don't really understand how to fit in and need an ebay product description to help them out. Of course, this is something you can and should take advantage of. I have seen Hannah Montana products with this tag attached. Sailor Moon as well. Admittedly I am so far removed from popular culture that these things could well be considered some kind of ironic form of hip with the kids, but I don't know. I don't think I can really classify Miley Cyrus as a punk and feel ok with it.

Hopefully these hints will help you a lot in your day to day life as they have helped me.

-Smackie Onassis




*Admittedly, that was me. But come on you guys, Batman Pez Dispensers!

The World's Stupidest Allergies

On some level I guess I have always thought that people with allergies were faking it. As a gut reaction I kind of resent them, but this is only because I used to work in catering. I remember we would be serving up an entree of satay chicken skewers and some awful human would inform the waitresses that she was deathly allergic to peanuts and needed a meal that had never been in the same room as anything that had ever touched a peanut. Hey, here's a thought: if you are that deathly allergic maybe, I don't know, tell someone when you are RSVP-ing to the function? I mean, it's not like we need any notice to prepare a special meal for you. We are wizards, after all.

But over the years I have witnessed some real allergies, and some real bizarre allergies. I have met people with allergies that I did not even know were possible.

My introduction to the world of bizarre allergies came when I was in primary school. Our school was participating in 'Jump Rope For Heart' at the time and as part of this some of the older kids were paired up with the younger kids to teach them how to use a skipping rope. The kid I was paired with was allergic to sunlight.

Sunlight. Light from the sun. And no, Twilight fans, his name was not Edward*. He didn't so much sparkle in the sunlight as break out into large, unattractive sores. Even in the middle of summer he was seen wearing long sleeves, long pants, gloves and a wide-brimmed hat. The parts of his body that weren't wrapped up in a protective cloth barrier were covered with sores. I found it hard to understand why a kid allergic to sunlight was being raised in one of the sunniest places in the world. I mean, I'm sure there were circumstances, but maybe England would have been a better idea? I don't think they even have a sun over there.

So, that was pretty bizarre. Sunlight is not a thing that you would think people would be allergic to. But then again, I also used to know a guy who was briefly allergic to his own sweat. Not just sweat, but specifically HIS OWN sweat. I don't even know how that could happen. This was a guy who was riddled with allergies of all descriptions but this one really took the cake, I thought. Apparently he had been moving furniture one day when he noticed that wherever he sweated, a rash formed. He went to the doctor and yep, sure enough, he was allergic to his own bodily fluids. This only lasted briefly (if I find out it lasted only for the duration of time that his furniture moving skills were needed, I will be suspicious) but still, what?

There is one more I'd like to mention, one of someone who I know reads this blog. I will call her Sally-Tsar as that is the name under which she has commented. I mean, I could have come up with a wacky codename of my own but there is something to be said for continuity. Now, Sally-Tsar is pretty great. She lets me stay with her when I visit Melbourne and we have super special party times together. At some point last year she visited Adelaide and we returned the favour. She crashed on our couch and because I am that much of a crazy party animal, I took her to the art gallery. We had a pretty good time too, until she started coming out in a startling rash.

"It's weird, this always happens when I go to art galleries," she commented.

"Is it just art galleries?" I asked, my limited logical capacities working overtime, "Or is it just old buildings?"

"No, it's specifically art galleries," she explained, "I guess it's the chemicals they use to restore the paintings, or something."

Yes, my friend Sally-Tsar is allergic to art galleries. Which is a shame, because she loves art. But I have seen it with my own eyes, she comes out in a rash when exposed to high culture.

I'm sure there is someone out there who is allergic to just about anything, but those are some of my favourites. If anyone has any more to contribute, I would love to hear them!

-Smackie Onassis



*For the record I attempted to read Twilight when someone left their copy in the cafe where I used to work. I figured that if I was going to bag it out, I should at least have a go at reading it. I got seven pages into it before I could not physically endure it any more. Hey Stephanie Meyer, who told you that you could use 'greenly' as an adverb? Because they were having you on.

McNaughty: All you could ever want in an English teacher

I have been meaning to do an entry about my school days, but I inevitably end up deleting them. I think there is just too much material. But I guess you have to start somewhere, so I will do my best. I will start with my teachers.

Now, unlike most hipster types, I loved high school. I was smart so my teachers liked me but I was also considered funny so I got along with my classmates just fine as well. After awhile I realised that for some reason I could do just about anything and my teachers would let me get away with it. I have no idea why this was. I think it was because I was charming or something, or maybe it was just the fact that no matter how much I acted up in class I would always hand in my work on time and get excellent grades, so there wasn't much they could do to stop me. After awhile I started actively seeing what I could get away with.

The best example of this came one day while I was wandering the halls absentmindedly during class time. I ran into one of my English teachers.

"Shouldn't you be in class, miss?" I said sternly. She got embarrassingly far into a rambling excuse before she realised that I was the student and she was the teacher, and not only did she not have to explain herself to me, but that I should probably have been in class too. I'm not sure how many people could have got away with that, but I did.

That was my favourite teacher, hands down, ever. She was a lady who we will call McNaughty. This was actually what I called her when I was at school, but I figure it's not something she will find by googling herself so I'm safe. She was sensational. Every year when her birthday would come around she would sit at her desk and sigh loudly. With one arm lazily supporting her head, she would say that if anyone was going to buy her anything could it please be a bottle of Jack Daniels? Obviously no-one ever did. In the circumstances that high school students get their hands on full bottles of Jack Daniels, they are not turning it over voluntarily to their teachers.

But me, I'm a social rebel. I defy conventions. I kiss when I have coldsores. Yes, I'm that badass. In year 12, myself and a friend of mine had a free period directly before her class. I had turned 18 by this stage so I decided to actually buy her that bottle of Jack once and for all. I can still remember walking in to class and putting it on her desk. She had this strange way of laughing where she sounded like she thought whatever you did was very funny, but she still hated her job and wanted to kill herself. She would shake her head and roll her eyes, but she would still be laughing.

From there, that friend and I went out in our free period every second Tuesday and bought her some kind of gift, the more bizarre the better. We would trawl the local op-shops and discount stores looking for the ultimate prize. Every fortnight we had the pressure of having to out-weird our previous finds. The last one we found was the only one I really remember, but it really was the best one. It was a cigarette lighter, but when you went to use it a tune would play and lights would flash. There was also a topless man on it who would change position when you adjusted the angle. It was one of the funniest things I'd ever seen. Every time we gave her one of her gifts, she would laugh that same laugh. I like to think that it sounded more sincere every time, but it's hard to tell based on memory alone.

The biggest sign that she appreciated our efforts came on my graduation day. She caught up with the both of us after the ceremony and handed us each a little bag, the type you put birthday gifts in when you can't be bothered with the endless frustrations of wrapping paper. A variety of wonders were contained within. I remember mine included a plastic lei, a small bottle of sparkling wine (which we were on strict orders to not reveal to anybody) and a mix cd of her favourite songs from the 80s. It was the best thing. I also remember her borrowing my phone that day to send a message to one of my friends, masquerading as me. The recipient knew straight away that it was a phony because she had used a lot of text abbreviations and my messages were always completely grammatically correct. I find this ironic, considering the message had been written by my English teacher.

The year after I graduated I ended up going to her house and getting drunk with her. We turned her living room rug into a dance floor and thrashed away to trashy 80s pop. She was a lesbian, but don't worry, it wasn't anything like that. She was just really freakin cool. Every now and then I would text her when I was out drinking, encouraging her to come out but she never would.

Naturally, we lost contact after awhile. I have no idea if she is still teaching at that school, or if she has decided to cut herself off from everyone whose name does not start with 'Jack' and end with 'Daniels'. I don't have her number any more, but I probably have her old email address somewhere on my computer. Maybe I will drop her a line someday.

-Smackie Onassis