This entry now with 50% more POLICE CHASES

I mentioned once that a girl who went to my high school managed to achieve some small degree of tabloid notoriety by getting knocked up by Celebrity Scientologist Jason Lee. Apparently she has now converted to Scientology and they've been married in a secret Hollywood ceremony. Well, kudos to them. I guess.

It leads me to think about where other people that I used to know are these days. To be honest I don't have much to do with many of the people I went to high school with, but I do hear snippets here and there. Mainly, I pick things up from facebook, finding out who's married and who's pregnant and who's just as awful as they were the last time I saw them. I recall a particularly interesting story about two of our regular substitute teachers who ended up getting married, running away to teach at a private school somewhere in the country and probably living an idyllic life. Until she left him for a student. The best part was that her last name was Cummins and his last name was Higginbottom. I can only dream that when they got married they decided to hyphenate that.

But one of the best of these snippets was one I picked up from the local paper, back when I still lived in the region. There was a strange, nerdy yet frightening little guy who went to both my primary school and my high school. After school finished, the extent of my contact with him centred around him serving me at the local Coles every now and then. But then, one morning as I was reading the paper over breakfast, I noticed his name. At first I wasn't sure if it was the same guy but after reading the article there was little doubt left in my mind.

According to this article, he had somehow managed to lead police on a short-lived drunken police chase which ended with him crashing through the front window of a local charity. Don't worry, no-one was hurt. Nor was anyone particularly surprised.

I'm not sure how the situation was resolved. The only other people I talked to who knew much about what happened knew as much as I had already learned from the article in the paper. So you can understand that when I saw him once again at his position at the Coles checkout, I went straight over to ask him about it.

Here's my recollections of how this conversation went:

Me: So I hear you led police on a drunken chase which ended with you crashing through the front of a local charity?

Him: Ha. Yup.

[fini]

He didn't seem to be actively trying to keep any part of it quiet, mind you. I think it was more that he just didn't really know how to answer a question with more than one syllable at a time. I'm not really sure what he's doing these days, apart from the fact that you can apparently become a fan of him on facebook. Why this is, I have no idea.

-Smackie Onassis

A Turnipseed by any other name would probably have a more promising rap career

The other day I found myself reminiscing about one of my favourite shows from when I was a kid. It was an American show called Ghostwriter, and it was about a bunch of inner-city kids who solved mysteries with the aid of a ghost who could only communicate through writing. I remembered it because I was reading about the parts of the brain for my studies and it reminded me of a rap they did on the subject to help one of the kids pass a test.

I checked out the wikipedia page for this show and it was even better than I remembered. The ghost could even time travel. Apparently there was also an episode where it travelled through the internet, which I thought was pretty special for the early 1990s. But the best thing I found out about this show was the story of one of the main actors. A young African-American guy by the truly wonderful name of Sheldon Turnipseed. 

He received a lot of accolades for his work on the show, before going on to pursue a career in rap. From what I saw, it didn't look like he'd been very successful and last year changed his name to Tyrone Gabriel. Which means that for as long as 15 years, there was a rapper going around using the name Sheldon Turnipseed. It made my day.

I've always had an interest in funny names, ever since my father told me about a women he knew by the name of Olive Pitt (she'd married into that one). When I lived in Newcastle my favourite part of the local paper was the birth notices. I would read through them every morning, purely to laugh at the awful things people were naming their children. The only one I really remember (because it was the best one I had ever seen) was a baby boy. For the first name they'd given him something I can't quite remember, something along the lines of Tiger. But the middle name I remember with crystal clarity because it was J7. The letter J, the numeral 7. Nothing else. As if they were in the middle of a game of Battleships and couldn't be bothered stopping to think of a middle name. You may think that surely that's a typo, but it is unfortunately not. My mother worked in paediatrics at the local hospital and she knew that the baby names were the one thing that paper actually seemed to double check.

The best one my mother told me about was one that seemed to get pretty widely circulated afterwards. This was the kid whose parents decided to name him/her Abcde, pronounced 'Absidee'. A lot of people have heard this one, although most seem to discount it as urban legend. Well, I can tell you right now kids, that one is for real because my own mother has seen the birth certificate.

As for others that I knew about in Newcastle, there was certainly no shortage of those. I remember a girl at my primary school who was named Cola, only it was spelled 'Koelah'. I remember that vividly, because there was another girl at the school whose last name was Beveridge and I always secretly hoped that family would adopt her.

There was a rumour when I was in high school of a girl at a neighbouring school whose name was apparently 'Shagina Lamb'. I always dismissed this as a myth fueled by high school rivalry but having thought about it a bit more, it would honestly not surprise me. These days, I could not say I would be surprised if a couple named their daughter solely for a cruel joke. Horrified, sure, but not surprised. 

There was another great one that I never verified. I heard about it from my boyfriend at the time, who apparently had some connection with the family. They had recently had a new baby and were introducing the child to their friends.

"Carosenee?" their friends repeated, "That's a nice sounding name, where does it come from?"

"We saw it on a tin in the garage," they replied casually.

It was then that everybody figured out that while they were pronouncing it 'Carosenee', they had actually named their child Kerosene. That's not begging for your child to grow up to be an arsonist, not at all.

-Smackie Onassis

Why I Can No Longer Listen To Love Shack

People are always surprised when I tell them I can't listen to 'Love Shack' by the B-52's. They'll spit back at me that I should like it, that they would have expected better from me. I always find myself explaining that it's not that I don't like the song. It's a good song. It's just that I physically can't bear to listen to it, due to an unfortunate case of extreme overexposure.

It was a birthday party, not so dissimilar to every other birthday party I went to in high school. All you really needed was a backyard, a barbeque and a few beers handy. If only the hosts of this particular party had kept to that tried and tested formula, I would have no need to write this explanation. But somewhere in the planning stages of this particular event, someone had uttered the immortal words:

"Hey! Why don't we hire a jukebox?"

Apparently everybody else thought this was just a top notch idea. As a result the party's soundtrack would be chosen for the people, by the people. It was all very democratic. Unfortunately, it is a scientifically proven fact that democracy doesn't work if "the people" consists entirely of drunk sixteen year olds.

It was still daylight when the juke was turned on. Those of us who were unfashionably early started tapping our feet to the B-52's most popular jukebox hit, Love Shack. I joined in. I probably even sang along. As I said, it's a good song and at that point I had no particular problem with it.

Then the second song came on. Again, we tapped our feet to Love Shack. After all, hearing the same song twice can be a good thing. Just ask Sublime or the Reel Big Fish*. But the third song was also Love Shack. And the fourth. And the fifth. I was starting to see a pattern and I didn't like the results it forecast.

Apparently some class clown thought this was pretty funny. That, or one of my friends really honestly likes that song to the point where it could be classified as a mental disorder. The song played over and over, more or less constantly for the entire duration of the party. Just thinking about it sends a small shiver down my spine.

I can remember the relief I felt when the jukebox was finally turned off for everybody to sing Happy Birthday. It washed over me like a hot shower. Or a shot of heroin. The song had stopped AND there was cake. Admittedly I've never done heroin and can't say for sure, but I imagine that's basically what it's like.

But then, out of the blissful silence came a sound I would have been happy to never hear again.

"If you see a faded sign at the side of the road that says 15 miles to the looooooove shack!"

The last thing I remember is the anguished cry that escaped from my mouth. I'm not saying that I went briefly insane and murdered everyone within a 10km radius. I'm just saying that I don't think a jury could have found me guilty if I had.

Admittedly, people I went to school with will tell you that I had a jukebox at my own 18th. But that was actually hired against my will, by my parents. Considering that I had already made a lengthy playlist for the party on the family computer, I'm guessing they realised that I was planning on playing music that no-one other than myself and a scattered few of my music nerd friends would enjoy and intervened accordingly. I was a bit disappointed, but the party was probably better for the easily recognisable pop hits.

Love Shack, however, was banned.

-Smackie Onassis

*For the few people who will get this reference, it is worth it.

Could You Put A Name To Someone Else's Sigh?

Apparently, I am a pretty memorable person. It was a large incentive to move out of my hometown when people kept coming up to me in the pub and saying 'Hey! Remember me?' and I would have to try and pretend that I had the slightest clue who they were. The most memorable of these incidents occurred when a young man I didn't recognise came up to me out of the blue. This is what I remember of the conversation that ensued:

Boy: Hey! Remember me? 

Me: Um... well...

Boy: You kicked me in the balls once!

Me: I don't remember that, sorry. Are you sure you have the right person?

Boy: Sarah, right?

Me: Yes. 

Boy: Yeah, you kicked me in the balls when we were fourteen or something. It's okay, I deserved it.

Me: Oh. What do you do these days?

Boy: I'm a nude model.

Me: Oh.

After some prompting, I did remember that kid. I have no recollection of the ball kicking incident though, but apparently I was doing it on behalf of a friend of mine whom he had wronged in some way. I can only hope that the nude modeling wasn't connected.

But people do seem to remember me a lot better than I remember them. There was a particular incident one Valentine's Day a couple of years ago. I had just come out of a long-term relationship and I was planning on doing the whole single girl out on the town thing. Unfortunately, it was a Thursday. Fortunately, it was Newcastle, where every night is an acceptable drinking night. We started off at a club near my apartment which unfortunately didn't have a lot going for it. I was approached by someone though. An innocent looking red-haired guy who told me he knew me. I thought he had me mistaken for someone else, but he insisted that I'd been at the same party as him. When he mentioned the name of the party's host I was surprised that it had indeed been a party I'd attended. I did think it a tad weird, considering that I don't really remember talking to him that much and also for the fact that the party in question had been held halfway through the previous year. I remember thinking it sweet that he remembered me. On his insistence, I gave him my number. His name, he said, was Maxxie.

Later that night I did end up macking on a dreadlocked French backpacker, but it was Maxxie who called me the next day. He seemed nice so I went out to lunch with him. Unfortunately, after that day he very gradually revealed himself as some degree of mentally unstable. His name wasn't actually Max, or anything that could feasibly be shortened to it. That's just what he called himself. Whenever I asked him how he'd arrived at that nickname he simply said that it was just what people called him, or made a joke about the size of his penis. Well, I say joke. To be honest, I'm not sure that he wasn't telling the truth about why he'd appointed himself 'Maxxie'. He did love his penis.

Probably the most blatantly abnormal behaviour Maxxie exhibited during the time we were going out was his "showering habit". I am really not sure how to describe this. I didn't realise it until after I had made the decision to stop seeing him. See, looking back, Maxxie had a sort of strange thing in that he would not have sex with me without washing me first. And when I say washing me, I mean, washing my... lady parts. Thoroughly. With soap. 

When I tell that story, most people have the same reaction, a resounding 'How could you possibly not notice that??'. In my defense, I knew he was doing it, I just didn't realise it was every time. At first I thought it was some weird attempt at foreplay. But at some point I looked back and realised that he had done it every single time we'd had sex.

That wasn't his only little 'quirk'. He had this strange habit of insisting I was Italian, something I really couldn't get my head around. I tried explaining to him that despite my mediterranean features my family tree did not contain a single Italian. But then we would be out and something like this would happen:

Max: Gee, it's cold out here

Me: I feel fine.

Max: Ha, you Italian girls, you don't feel the cold.

Me: I'm not Ital-

Max: Ha, you Italian girls. I don't know.

Among the other things he did were randomly accusing me of being on heroin (more than once) and referring to his ex-girlfriend as his girlfriend, despite the fact that he hadn't seen her in a long time and had been going out with me for a couple of months. Don't get me wrong: he was nice enough. I knew him well enough to know that he had a heart of gold, or at the very least rose quartz. It's just that the crazy kind of overpowered that.

I tried to break up with him so many times, but the boy was very persistant. I would explain to him that I didn't think we should see each other anymore and he would agree to those terms. Then, a few weeks later, I would receive a text from him asking me what I wanted to do that night. At first I thought he was trying to be friends, so I would go see him. But then he would sort of expect us to act like a couple. As if the whole break up had never happened.

I haven't seen or heard from him in some time now. I guess he finally got the picture. I guess moving to the other side of the country probably helped a bit with that. 

-Smackie Onassis

Some of my craziest alcohol-fueled tales

I don't really drink that much these days. I am what most people would refer to as a "two-can Sam" or, alternatively, a "total pussbag". Basically I will have a couple of drinks before I start feeling a bit sick and want to go sit by myself in a dark corner for a while. But this wasn't always the case.

Back in Newcastle there wasn't a lot to do if you weren't drinking. And because none of my living situations were that great I found myself going out a fair amount. As a result, I have some pretty ridiculous drinking stories, most of which I was informed about the day after.

The first one that springs to mind was a house party I went to when I was a teenager. I don't remember the actual event particularly vividly, but I do remember everyone asking me this question the day after:

"Hey Sarah, do you remember how you nearly chased that goat off a cliff?"

No. I don't. That is not the type of thing that you do if you are in any state to remember it the next day. I do remember the goat though. For the record, I have no fucking idea where that goat came from, or what the hell it was doing there. All I remember is walking up the very steep driveway, falling down and rolling all the way to the bottom before getting up and finally making it to the street. And finding myself face to face with a goat, just kicking back in the middle of a suburban street, doing its general goat thing. I think I must have chased it because I was so confused as to why there was a goat unsupervised in the middle of the street and I wanted answers, damnit. And well, yeah, apparently there was a cliff nearby which I nearly found myself plummeting from because that is the direction in which this goat was leading me.

Another one of my favourite drinking stories comes a few years later when I was at Guitarstrings Wilson's 21st. Let's just say: there was an open bar. And then, after the bar had been open for a good few hours, someone decided to bring out the jelly shots. I could not have been any less ready for that jelly, but I consumed more than my share of them. It was my first experience of jelly shots and I was not expecting them to get me quite so blind drunk. I figured that anything that tasted that palatable couldn't contain enough alcohol to have an effect. I was so wrong.

After the party a few of us went to a local club for a spot of music and dancing. Being someone who totally enjoys kissing, I found myself making out with a random boy. I was fairly pleased with my seduction skills when the guy kept coming back to me for more makeouts. We would kiss, split up to go dance, then come back for some more kissing. Or so I thought. I was talking about the night to my designated driver the next day (he was actually present at the goat chasing incident as well, come to think of it) and he stopped to look at me funny when I mentioned this. When I asked him what was wrong, he informed me of this:

"Sarah, that wasn't one guy coming back for more. That was four separate guys."

I don't think I even need to say anything more about that one.

Now, let's flash forward another couple of years. I was at uni and one of the few courses I could be bothered doing was a really great screen-writing course. My teacher for this course was the greatest guy. I don't remember his name, but he was fantastic. For the last class of the semester, when we had our major works all finished and handed in, he put on a bit of a do for us in class. He even provided the cheap wine. And yes, it was four in the afternoon and I was in class but well, I got somewhat drunk. And made out with some guy. In class. In front of my teacher. But that's not the crazy part, believe it or not. From there, I went home. I was expecting to stay in because it was a Monday night and I wasn't really expecting there to be much going on. However, this was Newcastle. Every night is an acceptable drinking night in Newcastle. 

I received a text from a guy I didn't know very well. I remember him because he had the stupidest tattoo I have ever seen in my life. It was a surfboard with wings and it looked like it had been drawn on in crayon by a three year old. But hey, I was kinda drunk. I was feeling adventurous. I went over to his house.

He lived in a big open-plan loft kinda deal in the middle of one of the worst suburbs in Newcastle. I was always surprised that every time I went there I found the house completely open and unlocked, despite its close proximity to the local crackhead population.

Anyway, the last thing I remember that night was sitting in their lounge room, talking to a girl I hadn't seen since high school while a bearded man I knew only by the name of 'Flower' sat in the corner playing the guitar. He didn't say a single word to me, choosing to speak only through the medium of music. That is the last thing I remember before waking up in my own bed with my shoes still on. I have no idea what happened that night. I have even less of an idea how I got home. All I know is that I didn't die and that is enough I guess.

I think I eventually realised that I was probably going out a bit too much when the bouncer from one of the pubs I used to visit added me on facebook. Yeah.

-Smackie Onassis

Disability Pension

So money is a thing, right. Now that I'm going to be studying Psychology I will get youth allowance but to be honest I have always been a bit curious as to whether or not I qualify for a disability pension. Don't worry, I am not going to apply for a hand-out that I don't really need.  But it has made me wonder. See, when most people think of disability pensions their mind is filled with images of people in wheelchairs, people with no face or perhaps those who have hooks for hands. 

However, there are a bunch of things that are apparently classified as a disability that I did not know about. I remember once knowing a girl who was so short she classified for the "midget pension" as she called it. She wasn't actually a dwarf or midget, but apparently the only classification for that one is height and she was so tiny she could have claimed it if she so desired. I have also heard that in some places being unable to use a mobile phone is classified as a disability.*

If those things are disabilities, then my afflictions are DEFINITELY worth claiming benefits for. These are some of my ailments:

Typing Issues. I am not sure what the deal is with this one, but I have noticed since I started writing again that sometimes I will make a strange typographical error. The weird thing is that instead of mistyping something with letters that are placed near to them on the keyboard, I often find myself typing a word that sounds similar to the one I was trying to type. For example, I have caught myself typing "head" for "hand", or "life" for "love". I have no idea why or even how I do this. I don't know if it's my eyesight or what, but it must be a disability. I am sure of it.

Interpreting things the worst possible way. Again, this is some kind of cognitive functioning issue that I have. When information is presented to me I have a habit of interpreting it in the strangest, most unlikely possible way before realising what is going on. It is absurdly early (I am awake because I just drove Meattrain to the airport so he can go do some science) and the best example I can think of right now was not something I myself did, but is along the same lines. I was in a small, independent music store buying an album by the name of 'Dinosaur Sounds'. The guy behind the counter looked at it strangely before laughing.

"For a minute I thought this was one of those relaxation cds and I was wondering how they recorded the sounds of the dinosaurs," he chuckled, shaking his head.

And sure, maybe he was just having a difficult day thought-wise, but that is a classic example of the way I respond to most stimulus material. Although considering his response, I am not sure that this man was not actually Ryan North.

Losing Things Instantly. No-one is better at misplacing anything than I am. If you ever want to dispose of a body or something, just hand it over to me and it will have vanished within the minute. Seriously. It is probably the most frustrating of my disabilities. I cannot understand how I will spend ten minutes looking for something, find it and then turn around to find it missing again. I don't understand how I can even do that.

"Turn Around". This is probably the phenomenon that most inspired this entry and I think it might be an actual mental problem. I'm not sure how to explain this in a way that will make any sense whatsoever. Essentially, I have a complete inability to understand the command "turn around" in ANY context. I am not kidding. I don't do it on purpose, it takes me a while before I realise what has happened. When I hear someone say "turn around", my brain sort of freaks out about which way I am meant to be turning around and I do it wrong every time. It doesn't matter if I am turning my physical person around, or if I am rotating a loaf of bread (this was a big problem when I worked at a bakery). I can never correctly understand this command, to the point where Vegatrain has started substituting more specific instructions ie "rotate to your left please Smackie". He has seen me get too confused too many times.

So are any of those certifiable disabilities? If centrelink doesn't link* them, I can always sit on the street holding up a sign. The only problem that I can foresee with that is if someone can't see my sign properly and they ask me to turn it around, in which case I will be fucked.

-Smackie Onassis

*I can't claim this one as I do know how to use a phone, but I would ask if being so grammatically pedantic you have deleted an entire text message to avoid using a split infinitive is a disability? Because that might be a winner for me.

**I found this typo during editing. It was supposed to say 'like' but I am going to leave it there because it is a perfect illustration of what I am trying to say!

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

"Irrational" fears

Vegatrain has this thing where he loves startling me. See, when I'm startled I make this noise that Vegatrain seems to think is funny, although Meattrain thinks it is the single most annoying sound in the entire world. I would describe it as a cross between Chewbacca and a bad Louis Armstrong impersonation, only louder and more gutteral. It is half involuntary stress reaction and half hammed up for comic effect. But that noise is not the point of this entry. This is more about Vegatrain's efforts to stress me out. Usually these efforts consist of running up to me suddenly making some kind of horrifying sound (good lord our neighbours must love us).

Last night he did something very similar, only wearing sunglasses we have dubbed "The Douchebag Glasses". You know the types. Orange frames, kinda wraparound style. Dr Cox wears a pair exactly like them in Scrubs at some stage. Anyway, Vegatrain jumped out at me from behind a door wearing those glasses. I found myself reacting by covering my face and screaming the following:

"Oh my god you look like Bono!"

Conclusion: I am afraid of Bono.

That brings my sum total of fears up to two: Bono, and birds. And I am aware that most people would probably view the former as the more rational of the two.

When I tell people that I am afraid of birds, they usually respond with one of the following:

1. "Haha, no seriously."
2. "Isn't that a tattoo of a bird on your leg there?"

Yes, I am serious. And also the tattoo is SYMBOLISM YOU GUYS. I will not be afraid of it until the day it flies off my leg and starts flapping all in my face in which case I will be terrified and it won't just be because of the bird thing.

But my fear of birds is not as irrational as most people would guess. I didn't always* have this fear, until the birds near my high school decided to go a little bit insane, Hitchcock-style. The magpies in the surrounding area had always been fairly awful. I remember one swooping me when I was just going for a walk. I tried to run away but it actually chased me down the streets, even around corners and down side streets. It was awful.

But when I was in year 12, the birds at my school went extra hotsauce crazy. During my HSC exams, the quad was roped off due to "bird hazard" as the surrounding signs proclaimed. Apparently something had gone down in the bird world, and as a result they were attacking students at random. One girl got her eye pecked and had to be rushed to hospital. I swear to god, I am not making this up.

After awhile, the "bird hazard" resolved itself. The birds went back to their business as usual. But I have since had something of a fear of the creatures. If they are chillin' in cages I am ok with them, but the minute they start flapping their wings, coming towards me in any way I basically duck and cover. Don't even get me started on geese and swans.

-Smackie Onassis

*While I am writing this Vegatrain is watching the Big Bang Theory and Sheldon just started talking about his fear of birds. MAN.

See My Friend's Show, You Guys

As I have mentioned, the Adelaide Fringe is on. I had my first fringe experience last year, where I tried to cram in as many shows as I could into the short time I was actually here. This year, I have the time but not so much of the money. However, there are a few shows I will go out of my way to see.

A girl I was friends with in high school has her own show this year, a show written specifically for the festival. I am planning on seeing it because well, I want to support her, but also she is one of the funniest people I have ever met in my life. For a time in high school, we were something of an unstoppable comedy team. I seem to recall our year seven maths class being nicknamed 'The Sarah and Steph Show' by our classmates. In the last couple of years I haven't seen her much since we both moved on to bigger and better things. Although, where I dropped off the performance radar, Steph is actually becoming somewhat successful.

So basically, what I am saying is, go see her show you guys. I haven't seen it yet, but from having known her for about ten years, it's going to be totally great. It is called True Stories of Heroism and Adventure, and you should all go see it.

-Smackie Onassis

The Best Thing In The Entire World Ever

The other night, just as it was starting to get dark, I was at the counter at my local IGA supermarket. I was in a world of my own, headphones on, wallet in hand. They were about to close so there wasn't many people in the shop.

However, when I looked over at the next counter there was a clown buying a loaf of bread. An actual clown. Not just a guy who looked a bit clown-like but a clown, with full costume and make-up. He didn't have a wig on, but I could see what he was going for with the whole ensemble. I told my housemates about this and everyone started telling me that I hadn't lived in Adelaide while the Fringe festival was on, and that I should be prepared to see a lot of weird stuff. 

The thing is though, I have seen probably more than my share of weird stuff. I seem to attract it in some kind of wonderful 'Round the Twist'-style way. I could tap out a list of some of the best of them, but I think I can sum it up with the story of what I would say is the single greatest thing I have ever seen.

I used to work in this really huge Leagues Club in NSW. In the one building, there were about eight different restaurants and cafes all owned by the same company (as well as a bunch of different ways to drink and gamble), and I worked in all of them.

One shift I was floating around the food court clearing tables, when I heard a voice from behind me.

"Excuse me," a man said, "Could you bring me a steak knife?"

"Certainly," I answered.

The man had a plate of roast beef and veg in front of him, so asking for a steak knife would not have been that unusual. Except for the small fact that he had hooks for hands.

That's right, he had hooks for hands. Both hands. Hooks. And there he was, eating a plate of roast beef with a knife and fork that he was gripping between his hooks. It was probably the best moment of my entire life.

I have since been thinking of what would happen if I combined the two events, if it had been a clown with hooks for hands. I thought it might be funny, but straight away realised it would be unknowably terrifying. But still, don't anyone go stealing that idea, ok? Mine. I have a copyright symbol on my keyboard and I know how to use it. See look: 

-Smackie Onassis©

Being A Ridiculous Person: A How To Guide

Ok. Anyone who has known me for more than a couple of days will be able to tell you that I am a fairly absurd person. I have been for the majority of my life. There was a time when I suppressed it because I wanted people to take me seriously, but that didn't end well and now I have gone back to full-time amusing myself in stupid ways. Here are some of the things I have done, usually for no reason other than to amuse myself.

Texting Random Numbers: The first time I did this I used the simple 'Don't do it!', sent to a randomly chosen number that I saved in my phone under the name Henry Soundsystem*. Since then, I have taken pleasure in sending messages of a more confusing variety. The other day I sent the message 'All my insides are made of someone else's hands'. Of course, when they ultimately respond with 'Um, who is this?', I respond with silence.

Winning Arguments: Normally, I like to win arguments by conventional means, but sometimes I am just not in the mood. I have found that an easy way to win arguments without really trying is to state your case, wait for the other person to reply and then, no matter how vehemently they disagree with you, say "Yes, that's what I'm saying." At the very least, they will be disoriented and you can kick them in the shin and run away.

Taking a random thing someone has said and implying it is part of their name:

For example:

Harrison: Wow, how about that global warming, huh? It's really hot today.

Me: Harrison "how about that global warming" Smart

For optimum effect this should be the only thing you say. As always, if they question you, deny you ever said anything. It is also worth pointing out that writing this entry allowed me to fulfill my hobby of both starting and ending a sentence with a three letter palindrome.

Being a Walking Sight Gag: This started unintentionally when I was about 14. I was in a suburban shopping mall when I felt a tad peckish. There was a farmer's market there and I noticed a large, tasty-looking mushroom. As it was probably going to be the cheapest edible thing I would find, I bought it and proceeded to wander around the shops eating it raw. I will never forget the looks I got. The most pronounced double takes I have ever seen in my life. It felt fantastic and from there, I never looked back. Currently, I am enjoying buying the teensy tiny apples that the organics shop near me sells. Seriously, they are smaller than an egg. If people see me eating them and ask about it, I say that I buy them because I am so tiny that next to me they look like a normal apple.

Encouraging People To Name Drop: This is not so much an act of encouragement, but I really struggled to find a short, coherant name for this. Basically, what you do is whenever someone starts telling a story, you do the following:

Friend: So I was talking to my friend Steve the other day...

Me: Was it Steve Buscemi?

There is a celebrity for most names, so this is one that hypothetically works for every conversation, but I cannot guarantee that you won't get slapped if you do this all the time. Unfortunately, if you are like me and have no real knowledge of pop culture apart from obscure experimental folk bands and cult indie films starring Clea Duval, this may not work as well as you might expect.

The Emperor's New Slogan: I have only done this once, but oh man was it worth it. Some friends and I were going to a peace protest, back when the Iraq war was a thing that might not happen. For some reason, we decided to make our own slogan shirts, but with a slogan that naturally didn't make any sense whatsoever. The slogan we chose was 'Now THAT'S a big bag of cheese!', inspired by a recent trip to Coles. However, people at protests don't want to look stupid. We saw person after person squinting at our shirts trying to figure it out, but then when we made eye contact with them, they would smile and give us a thumbs up. It was sensational.

Now, you have all the information you need to start a career of your own in the lucrative absurdity field. Good luck with that!

-Smackie Onassis

*When Buglustre and Vegatrain found out about this, they got the number out of my phone and promptly started sending Henry Soundsystem a few messages of their own. Somehow they managed to convince the poor girl whose number it was that they were a friend of hers. She still texts Buglustre sometimes.

Tales from the Year of Four Houses

For the duration of my childhood, I lived mainly in the one house. My parents house was familiar and although none of the doors properly fit the doorframes and the whole place was built on a slant (god help you if you put your pen down on the kitchen table and expected it to stay put), it was fairly stable.

However, I eventually got around to vacating the nest and introduced myself to the wonderful world of share accommodation. Since then, I have lived in a few different rentals with a bunch of different people. Between January and December last year I moved house no less than three times, for a total of four houses in a year. Over the course of all this, I have come to the conclusion that no share house is complete without at least one nutter.

Admittedly, I have been that nutter. My first rental place was lovely, a two-storey, high-ceilinged flat with a balcony overlooking the beach, which I was amazingly only paying $118 a week for. Unfortunately for everyone, my housemate was what you would call "a normal human being". See, I have this habit of saying a great deal of things that don't make a lot of sense. I know they don't make sense, I will be the first to admit that. But I figure if I say enough things then one day something will actually be interpreted as insightful, or at least witty. Example:

Housemate: I found this really great cereal at a shop down the road

Me: One might say that you yourself are a really great cereal from a shop down the road.

Nonsense, obviously. Sometimes I accidentally say something that makes sense and am rewarded. For all the others, I simply get a small kick out of being a walking non-sequitur. I live in a house at the moment where this is almost acceptable, but my first housemate didn't really understand this kind of thing. Eventually, I moved out.

When I first moved to Adelaide, I shared a small suburban house with three other people. For the sake of this entry, we will call them Mama Bear, Papa Bear and Baby Bear. Mama Bear was a down to earth country girl whose family ran a quandong plantation in Broken Hill. She was a vegetarian, and although I ate the occasional piece of chicken, I preferred to avoid meat where possible. At the time it wasn't a moral thing, more just that I thought meat tasted too much like dead animals. Either way, it was something Mama Bear and I bonded over. Baby Bear was inoffensive, a friend of theirs who kept to himself most of the time. Papa Bear, on the other hand, he was something else. He was in a relationship with Mama Bear, and no-one I knew could figure out what on earth a girl as good as her was doing with such an awful human being. Vegatrain refused to come over to my house on the basis that he couldn't stand to be within a ten metre radius of the guy and most people I knew thought this was a fair call. I think the problem is that he couldn't express any kind of opinion without sounding furious. I'm honestly not sure how he accomplished this, but I would hear him screaming and swearing at the tv, even is he actually liked the show he was watching. He was studying quantity surveying at TAFE, but was always coming up with a bunch of ideas about how he was going to get rich. His favourite was his idea for franchising fish farms. He thought this was nothing short of genius, but couldn't get anyone to invest in it. The last time I saw him he and Mama Bear had split for good, he had threatened to beat the crap out of Baby Bear for so much as implying to her that he had cheated on her (even though he had) and he had moved on to studying something else. I am so, so glad I moved out before all of this went down.

I could go on to talk about more share house nutters, past and present, but this entry is probably long enough without it, and also Buglustre is going to be here soon to take me to the optometrist for some new glasses. This is always an exciting occasion.

-Smackie Onassis

My "Twin"

Have you ever met someone who everyone honestly thought was your twin? I'm going to guess that you haven't, because this isn't something that happens to normal people. But there was a girl I used to know with whom I had a very personally conflicting relationship.

We had met at a drama camp and thought nothing of it. We were both short, with darkish curly hair and the same first name, but that wasn't an uncommon description. We were friendly enough to each other, exchanged phone numbers, and went away thinking we were never going to see each other again.

However. I went to the snow with my family that year and, as I was sidling over to my skiing lesson, I saw a familiar face. Well, ok, it wasn't her face I noticed first. It was that girl, only... something was weird. We were both wearing the same pink ski jacket, the same black pants. We both had blue beanies and were both currently growing our hair long. At first I was like, 'Hey, coincidence!', but then things started to get very confusing for everyone. I was placed in the same ski class as her and her father, and so the three of us automatically banded together. Naturally, everyone assumed she and I were sisters at the very least. Most people assumed we were twins who had never outgrown the novelty of dressing alike. It then got more confusing when everyone else in the class struggled to learn our names. This is how the conversation usually went:

Man: So, what was your name again?

Me: Sarah*

Man: Oh, ok. I thought the other one was named Sarah.

Me: She is.

Man: Oh. Wait, so you guys aren't sisters?

Me: No, just friends.

Man: Oh, so you came down here together?

Me: Um, no. We just sort of ran into each other.

Man: Wearing the exact same outfit? Thousands of kilometres away from where you live?

Me: Yes.

At the end of the week, we again exchanged numbers, promising to catch up again. And we did end up texting each other fairly regularly. The messages that followed made up the most politely passive-aggressive assertion of identity I have ever been a part of.

See, it turned out we also had the same nickname. It's not a name I use anymore (there comes a time in a person's life when you are just too old to get away with a nickname that ends in a Z), but at the time it was MY name. Not anyone else's name, my name. My identity, even. Unfortunately, she felt the same way. It was never something we were going to outright bring up with each other - we were far too polite for any of that. What ensued was a series of text messages, where she would address me by our real name, and sign off with the nickname. In response, I would address HER by our real name, reply to what she'd said, and then sign off with the nickname. This continued for entirely too long.

Neither of us ended up coming out ahead. I think we realised that the whole thing was entirely too absurd and ceased all contact.

-Smackie Onassis

*OH NO REAL NAMES

A Brief Musical History

An amazing thing has happened in the world of Smackie Onassis. I have access to a keyboard.

I'm sure I have mentioned that this past year has made up the longest time I have ever gone without having regular access to a musical instrument. Literally, the longest time I have ever gone. My parents have told me that I started singing complete songs (my repertoire consisting mainly of 'twinkle twinkle little star') at the tender age of 18 months. Following that, I was signed up for an Early Childhood Music class at the local conservatorium as soon as I was old enough. I continued with that until, after much begging, my parents decided that I was no longer too young to take piano lessons, at the age of eight.

From there, I never looked back. I just kept adding more instruments until I was drastically overcommitted, but loving every minute of it.

My musical training was a bit weird in some ways. When it came to piano, I was taught in a completely classical style, very rigidly following sheet music. I didn't know a thing about improvisation, I didn't even know that much about chord structures. I just knew how to play whichever song was placed in front of me. This made for a challenge when I started learning jazz saxophone.

In my piano lessons, I was still learning how to play Debussy and Chopin the way they were meant to be played, with strict instructions from a tiny Ukrainian woman. However, afterwards I would wander over to my sax teacher's rooms and the musical world as I knew it would be turned on its head. A man with a goatee and tattoos would play a chord and I was able to play whatever combination of notes sounded right. It wasn't written out for me, not in any way I had previously known. It was the first I learned of improvisation, and I struggled for so long to get my head around it. Even though it was the saxophone that eventually led me to tour the country playing songs, piano was always my first love, the instrument I always thought I was better at.

I was also studying voice for some time, which was the instrument* that I used for enjoyment more than any others. The only thing that bugged me was my apparent inability to accompany myself. Because I was much more used to tapping out elaborate melodies on the piano than playing simple chords, I had a lot of trouble trying to get it right. It was something that confused every other musician I knew, just because of how incredibly counter-intuitive it was. Because I was so busy, it was a while before I took the time to learn how to do it right.

The way it happened is an interesting story. My first serious boyfriend (I'd had short-lived relationships before that, but none that had been that important to me) broke my heart. When my parents saw that I was still upset the day after it had happened, they decided that the best thing for everyone was to have me committed to a psychiatric institution. I mean, I've never been a parent so I'm not sure I have the authority to question their decisions, but I feel like maybe this was a bit drastic. A hug and the reassurance that things would be ok, maybe a bowl of ice-cream, that probably would have done the job. But my parents were never good at those things, so it was the psych ward for me. I don't know, maybe they had listened to one of my songs.

It was a strange experience, waking up every day in a room with four other people, being brought breakfast on a little tray. It was especially weird hearing the things that the other inpatients would say, the stories they would tell. I remember feeling like a total fraud. I knew full well that the only reason they had accepted my admission was because of who my father was, but I didn't want to feel like I was wasting anybody's time. So, I played along, even embellishing some of my own stories out of fear that I would be found out. Even in a psych ward, I didn't want to look like a fraud.

The way that I got through it, week after week of being a (relatively) rational person locked up amongst the type of people who insisted that it didn't matter what anyone said to them, that they were going to throw themselves under a train the moment they got the chance, was through music. It's a total cliché, I know, but it was what happened. There was a common room that had an old, dusty piano in it. I'm not sure how often it was played, but I'm willing to bet it was never played as often as when I was there. I would spend hours poring over any music sheets I could find, playing every song I could remember. The effect it had was very strange. Some of the other patients seemed to think that I had been hired to play music for them, and started making requests. No-one was more surprised than me that I could actually fulfill these requests. An old woman requested Grieg, so I played Anitra's Dance from the Peer Gynt Suite. Someone asked for some Chopin, I played one of my favourite Nocturnes. The general selection was surprisingly high brow.

There was a man who came in every afternoon. I think he was an Occupational Therapist, I'm not sure, but he believed very strongly in the healing power of music. Every afternoon, he would come in with a guitar, hand out lyrics and assorted percussion instruments and encourage as many patients as were capable to sing along with him. At first I stayed quiet and let him do his thing, not wanting to draw attention to myself. But one afternoon, he arrived when I was a world away on the piano. He listened, and encouraged me to accompany him during his regular afternoon slots in the rec room. Self-consciously, I agreed. For the rest of my time there, I played along with him every afternoon. I was lucky enough to be a skilled sight reader, so any music he handed to me I could usually pick up fairly quickly. Sometimes though, the music he gave me consisted just of lyrics and chords. This is pretty standard, but it wasn't something I was used to. It was my musical weakness, I guess. 

But, I had very little else to do at the time, so I worked hard on it. I was glad to have something to actively work on. An afternoon slot in the rec room of a private psych ward isn't the ritziest of gigs, but it was good enough for me. By the time I left, I was able to accompany myself on the piano in a way I'd never previously been able to. I was glad that it hadn't been a completely useless experience. I remember saying goodbye to that OT, whose name I can't remember, as well as all the nurses and doctors. They all joked that they should hire me to come back every afternoon to play the piano, but I have never since been back.

So, here I am, with a keyboard again. I have found it surprisingly easy to get back into. I have been looking up chords on the internet, playing my own ridiculous versions of songs I have loved for a long time. I have said that my life will be complete when I can perform a cover of 'Object' by Ween, and now I am actually able to practice it in the comfort of my own room.

I was reminded of that story when I realised that I probably wouldn't be finding it so easy to play right now if it weren't for my brief rendezvous with our nation's fine psychiatric facilities. It feels like a strange thing to say, but there it is.

-Smackie Onassis

*Man, I know how pretentious it sounds to refer to your voice as an instrument, but it is totally the easiest way of describing it.

Procrastination

I was going to write a proper entry, but then something happened that I thought I better record straight away, in brief.

Vegatrain was shuffling around with papers in the study, trying to build a flimsy barrier so that we could play lexulous against each other without seeing each other's letters. See, Vegatrain is preparing to start a philosophy degree and is trying to get himself a bit more organised. I noticed that he had one piece of paper that had the heading 'Procrastination', but then had nothing else written on it. I laughed and pointed it out to him.

"Oh yeah," he said, "I was going to write a list of ways that I could procrastinate when I needed a break, but I didn't get around to it."

Vegatrain, ladies and gentleman.

Smackie Onassis: Not A Lesbian Since '87

My relationship with my parents was always a little strained. It's not that they were bad people, but rather they had no concept of how to talk about any kind of personal issue. I went through my teenage years with my parents avoiding personal discussions at all costs. Every now and then, they would make something of an attempt, but it was usually a swing and a miss.

I can recall one incident where my mother and I were waiting in a parked car to pick my sister up from the movies. I must have been about fifteen or sixteen at the time. I was happy to listen to the radio, but my mother decided she was going to attempt to engage me in conversation.

"I hear so-and-so's a lesbian," she began. My mother was known for having about as much subtlety as a swift kick in the kneecap.

"Yeah," I muttered in response.

"I get the impression that it's harder for women to come out of the closet than it is for men," she said, avoiding eye contact with me.

"Um, I'm not sure that's true," I replied.

"Well, it seems like it's harder for girls to be open about being lesbians," she persisted.

"Ok."

"It's okay to be gay, you know."

"Yes, it is."

It was fairly clear that she was trying to encourage me, in her own strange way, to come out of the closet. Which would have been all well and good, if I were a lesbian.

I have always thought that sexuality was something our society tends to over-define. It is a commonly accepted psychological opinion that while most people have a preference to one gender over the other, people who are exclusively attracted to one gender are actually in the minority. You will probably find a lot of insecure bogans willing to debate that to the death, but let's face it, this class of people are not known for their expertise in psychological academia.

Regardless, I am not a lesbian. Tomboy, yes. Minor weakness for girls with excellent hair, sure. I will accept that gladly. But lesbian? Not so much.

I remember telling this story to some of my lesbian friends (maybe it was the fact that I was also a social outcast in my hometown, but at one point it seemed that a good majority of my friends were gay). They laughed harder than I thought was necessary.

See, apparently I exude heterosexuality from my every orifice. It isn't something I actively aim for, and to be honest, I really have no idea what it is. I mean, I sometimes wear square-framed glasses, have short hair and listen to Ani Difranco. I could at least pass for a lesbian, right?

Apparently not. I used to go to the local gay bar* reasonably often with the aforementioned lesbian friends, and it wasn't long before we observed a strange phenomenon. Every time we went there, I would be quickly approached and hit on by the one straight guy in the whole place. We ended up making a game of it, taking bets on how long it would be before the straight guy found me. The game ended when it happened less than five minutes after entering the bar. I walked in, went to order some drinks, and was immediately asked to dance. I actually asked this guy how he knew I was straight. We were in a gay bar, after all, and I was there with a group of lesbians. He said he wasn't sure how, but he could tell that I was straight. I did a brief survey of the rest of the bar, and got the same answer from everyone I asked. 

To this day I can't explain it. Maybe I was sub-consciously giving out some kind of body language. Maybe I was wearing my 'Ask Me About: Heterosexuality' badge**. I don't know. I really don't.

-Smackie Onassis

*I kind of thought it strange that a regional town that built its economy on such manly exploits as steelworks and coalmining even had a local gay bar. But, my hometown was not known for making sense. This is a town so stupid that there are buildings there that are PARTIALLY abandoned. As in, first floor: abandoned, second floor: abandoned, third floor: discount sporting goods store. How does that even happen?

**I kind of want a badge like this now. I collect badges, and have spend many a late night on ebay, trawling badge shops like the memorobilia junkie I am. I would love so much to have my own badge press. I want to make a badge that says 'Pancakes Are Flippin' Sweet'.

It Could Have Been A Brilliant Career

Ok, when I was still at uni (before I spectacularly dropped out in the final year of my degree), I was somewhat interested in a career in radio. I ended up not following through with it, due to the fact that I would probably end up a faceless disk jockey in a local commercial station, introducing awful tune after awful tune and probably ultimately hanging myself in a supply closet.

However, I did come very close to doing at least some work at Triple J, which would probably have been pretty excellent. Here is how it happened:

I was at a local bar one night when I spotted a particularly well known personality, who had his own show on 'The J's' at the time. I will give him the code name of 'Chris Taylor from the Chaser'. Admittedly, this is probably the least subtle of my code names so far, being his actual name, but who doesn't love a good name drop.

It was extremely unusual that we would get any even remotely famous people in the pub known as 'The Cambo', famous for its Wednesday night drink specials and propensity towards unbearable screamo bands. After a while of figuring out how I was going to deal with this situation, I approached him.

"Hey, I love your show," I started.

"Thanks very much," he replied, flashing me a grin.

"I'm actually doing some radio journalism courses at uni," I put forward, "I'd love if you could give me some pointers."

So, we started talking. He told me that he could probably get me work experience at Triple J, explaining that they get a lot of applications but that he would make sure to "bump mine through" (to this day I am not sure if he was doing an innuendo. I am absurdly bad at picking up on these things). To make sure this happened, he gave me his home phone number, and later, his mobile number.

I did actually end up speaking to him on the phone a few times, but, sadly, I lost the phone that had his number in it. This was a few years ago, and I never ended up doing that work experience. I am convinced that Scott 'Dools' Dooley has my career, that confusingly attractive bastard*.

I have been considering doing my own show on local community radio, but that depends pretty heavily on me getting my shit together and actually doing something that might benefit my career. We will see what eventuates, I guess.

-Smackie Onassis

*Through questionable science, I have figured out that there are about four categories of people that I sort of automatically develop a crush on. I am not sure if I find Dools attractive because he is actually attractive or because he fits into both the "kinda geeky indie boy" category and the "comedian" category. It's immensely confusing.