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

Smackie Onassis: Ghost, Writer

I recently sent a pitch submission to the fine folks at Kill Your Darlings, a publication Vegatrain linked me to a while back. As part of my pitch I sent them a link to this blog, so I thought I'd very subtly take the chance to detail just how great a writer I am.

As I'm sure I've mentioned, I have been writing for most of my life. Even though it kind of ended up being music that I utilised as my creative outlet after I finished school, I had always wanted to be a writer. When I was in primary school my parents signed me up to a young writer's club. I believe it was called 'Starfish' or something along those lines. They had a magazine that accepted submissions from kids and it was from them that I received my first official rejection letter.

I can remember the first "book" I wrote. I remember being very clear that it was a book, not just a story and that I had the illustrations to prove it. I'm not sure if you know the technical difference between a book and a story but it has something to do with illustrations. I called it 'Sarah and the Mermaid' and it was about a girl named Sarah who goes for a swim and meets a mermaid. The mermaid is also named Sarah. It may seem like I was a bit self-obsessed but I had a reason for giving both of them my name, rather than just one of them. In true Smackie Onassis style, it was purely so I could make a terrible joke at the end.

When the two characters met I had one say "Hi! I'm Sarah" to which the other responded "I'm Sarah too!". When they parted ways at the end I included the exchange of Sarah (the human) saying "Bye Sarah!" and Sarah (the mermaid) replying with "Bye Sarah too!"

I am old enough to know now that this is a very old, very bad joke. But I was five years old when I wrote that. I can recall how excited everyone around me was that a five year old could independently come up with that. What I didn't tell them was that I had outright stolen it from an episode of Nelly the Elephant. No-one ever found out my shameful little secret but if they had I imagine they would have sat me down with a stern look and a copy of "My First Creative Plagiarism"*.

Luckily, my plagiarism phase ended when I hit double digits. I started writing my first serious novel when I was fourteen and completed it when I was sixteen. Unfortunately, I was so absurdly self-conscious that I refused to show it to anyone, not even my closest friends. In fact, scratch that. ESPECIALLY not my closest friends. The fact that I was writing it at all was one of my most closely guarded secrets.

I did show it to one person actually - my little sister. This may seem like a touching gesture of sisterly love but don't be fooled. The only reason I showed it to her was because, out of everyone I knew, she was the one who most represented my target demographic. I am not kidding. Remember: I was fifteen. She actually really loved it and continually pestered me to write more, but she remains to this day the only person apart from me who ever saw it.

I did go on to study a writing degree at uni, which I did mainly because I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life and everyone was telling me that I was good at writing. Unfortunately, I never finished it. I got two and a bit years into it before realising that they had run out of course ideas after first year and everything from then on was useless, monotonous filler. People are always telling me that I should finish it on the basis that I was so close to the end when I dropped out. I'm not going to on the principle that I would rather not have a degree than spend another year of my life wasting my time.

So, there it is. Throw in a handful of short stories and an abundance of blog entries (this was not my first blog. That being said, I will die before revealing the URL of my old one.) and you have the history of Smackie Onassis: Ghost, Writer. Oh, also that joke would make more sense if you knew that my housemates have a running gag that I am actually a Victorian era ghost. The "ghostess with the mostess" as it were. Which I guess you don't have any way of knowing. But let me assure you: if you had known that, you would probably have found it clever.

-Smackie Onassis

*I don't think this is a real thing, but I do know that "My First Sitar" was. My grandparents had it and I played with it every single time I was at their house.

Smackie O's Birthday Wishlist

I have never been a huge fan of birthdays. It is not so much the reminder that I am getting older; I am ok with that. I like getting older. It's more the reminder that anybody who actually even remembers your birthday clearly has no idea who you are as a person. I remember one year in high school where the only gift I received was a bag of miscellaneous, useless items. Although, for the record, I loved that gift. The total cost would probably not have passed the ten dollar mark, but the fact that someone knew me well enough to buy me bread products with funny names and other such items was really nice.

To avoid that, most people I know usually ask me what I want. The problem is that I usually have no idea myself. When I was a little kid I used to be a total smartarse by writing down 'World Peace' every time my parents asked for a birthday wishlist. Every year. I'm pretty sure my parents found it cute at first, but then got very quickly annoyed.

Of course, there was the year that I asked my friends for an axelotl without first informing my parents. That was a good one. This year however, I know what I want. I know EXACTLY what I want. First, a little bit of backstory.

From my previous attempts I can assure you without a spattering of doubt that I fail at 'All You Can Eat'. Miserably. Whenever I attempt it one of two things happens. Either I start with an entree and am instantly full because, well, I am a tiny person and I need room for my organs. This usually leaves me depressed because I don't like coming away from these restaurants without feeling like I have, in my own little way, personally screwed over a small business. The other option is that I don't give up and end up becoming quite physically ill. Neither of these options is attractive to me.

But I would like to change that. For my birthday this year, I would like to not fail at a buffet. I have been reading up, learning the tricks. I am aware now that I need to "avoid non-delicious fillers" (Kavalee 2007). My birthday is in June, and I am ready to start training.

However, that is only half of my birthday wish. The other half is that I get all my friends to attend with me. And that I get to document the whole event in a Marshall Ericsson style photo montage, complete with a song that I get to write, perform and put on the internet. I have started planning this already. If any of my friends object then I would refer you to the legal disclaimer of "Tough Titties It Is My Birthday".

Start getting ready guys. You have until June to prepare yourselves.

-Smackie Onassis

Music Thangs

I am awake early again, waiting for my ipod to charge so i can go for a walk. I ended up falling asleep at my laptop last night, only to be woken up by Vegatrain handing me a soy hot dog because he is concerned I am not eating enough and am turning into skin and bones. Like a vegetarian Jewish mother. The whole scene was pretty darn adorable.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you guys about the musics I have been doing lately. To get myself back into it, I have started with covers of songs I like. Among my favourites are Liz Phair's classic 'H.W.C.', the title track from God Help The Girl, my own acoustic Nina Gordon style cover of 'Straight Outta Compton', well, the list goes on. I even covered a Tom Waits song, which seems kinda bizarre if you know what my singing voice sounds like*. I guess I have been having a bit too much fun. Vegatrain suggested that if I ever record an album it will be called 'Smackie Onassis covers obscure songs and then does some stupid originals'**, which I think would probably be a fairly apt name. 

Yeah, I have written some originals. I am going to try and put them on here, but that involves recording them first and because I have no possessions (just about), I will have to wait until such a time as;

a) I will not be disturbing anyone with my nonsense

b) Vegatrain is not using his computer, which has recording capabilities

But hopefully, soon. If you are interested in the songs I have written here are some descriptions in, oh you guessed it! Bullet points. I hope the guy who invented bullet points is wearing his punctuation medal*** with pride because he totally deserves it.

• Ono! A song based on a drinking game that Vegatrain, Buglustre and I invented. The name came first (inspired by Uno) and we then decided that it would be a game where we write down one unfortunate occurrence on each card. Every round we all pick a card and the person with the worst thing (as agreed on by general consensus) has to drink. We have played it a few times and it is always just the funniest thing in the world, probably because we are so good at coming up with ridiculous scenarios. I have way too much fun singing this song.
• Psychology Cat the Song by Psychology Cat (the band) I had always planned to write the theme to my sitcom idea about a cat who teaches psychology in an underfunded public high school. Now I have. I am pretty proud of it because it is very Eleanor Friedberger, and she is a total idol of mine.
• Nigel My primary school geek ballad to the infamous Nigel No-Friends. There was one of these guys in every school I am pretty sure.

I have a couple of parodies too. I have found now that by some strange circumstance (I'm thinking I had a stroke and didn't realise it) I have found myself basically thinking in song parodies. For real, you guys. I was in the chocolate section of Big W the other day browsing my confectionary options and found myself thinking 'Hey! Kinder Bueno. Hey, Kinder Bueno. Bueno, where you going? Hey Kinder Bueno...' to the tune of Guero by Beck. I felt instantly ashamed. However, I have actually written a few full length parodies, the most notorious being my version of Lady Gaga's Pokerface with lyrics about Pokemon. Harrison very much wants me to put that on the internet but I am a bit shy about it. There is also the fact that I have never actually listened to the original song, and instead based it off an ironic cover. Yes, I am THAT indie.

-Smackie Onassis

*Hint: I am the exact opposite of Tom Waits.

** Vegatrain has actually said that his favourite of the songs I am playing is my version of Hiccups by Darren Hanlon which made me blush and smile coyly because I don't know if you've picked this up guys, but I am pretty into Darren Hanlon.

***I imagine a punctuation medal to be shaped like an exclamation mark.

Oh For Heaven's Namesake

I have a pretty common name. Just today I was picking up my new glasses (you guys have no idea how good it feels to be able to read without straining my eyes again. I look very "Perfection as a Hipster" right now) and the woman informed me that I had the same exact name as a girl her 12-year old son had a crush on. As much as I would like to think of myself as a pre-teen heartthrob, this girl was also 12 and in her son's class.

Like most people, I have googled myself numerous times. I myself have never done anything significant enough to merit being a top google result, but some of my namesakes have. There was a jazz singer with my name and an actress who was on Heartbreak High, apparently.

The best one, however, is possibly among the greatest results anyone has ever received when typing their name into google. I got on Triple J breakfast talking about it once. All the callers before me were pretty boring, things like "Yeah apparently there is a pillow with my name" and "There is a PORNS actress with my name!". Of course there's a porn star with your name. There is a porn star with everybody's name.

But mine, mine was great. I found it in some kind of historical archive recounting old legal documents from centuries past. My namesake lived in Salem, Mass. a couple of centuries ago and, as the documents say, "she would be a burden on the town for many years to come". It seems that after her husband died, this woman decided to spend her time being publicly drunk, having illegitimate children and wasting many of the town's dollars in having her "cared for".

There is one thing I don't quite get though. I mean, this was Salem. And she wasted a lot of the town's money. Do you think there was one guy in all those council meetings who ever spoke up to say:

"Hey! Um, hey guys? I know this is a touchy subject and all, but this is Salem. We could probably get away with just, you know, burning her at the stake? It would save us a lot of money."

But, she ended up dying years later from something alcohol related. One of the many reasons I would count her as my favourite namesake.

-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