A Whole Damn Article Of Name-Dropping

I have noticed over my time on facebook that there are a bunch of very popular groups and applications dedicated to the whole belief that only a few people stand between you and the cream of the celebrity crop. It's a nice idea, the whole "six degrees of separation" thing, but I've never once had one of those applications do anything other than ask me for my personal details. However, I woke up yesterday feeling like balls. Considering that doing anything useful was not high on my priorities, I sat down to work out some of my own celebrity connections.

The first one was pretty easy. You all know Jason Lee, right? From the Kevin Smith films, and the show 'My Name Is Earl'? Well guess what, he knocked up a girl I went to school with. She was in my brother's year so I didn't know her well personally, but I remember her alright. Let's just say: she had a reputation for being a total slut. And I'm not one to believe every high school rumour that I ever heard but the fact that she now has a son named 'Pilot Inspektor', fathered by a celebrity scientologist, is pretty damning evidence. The one thing I remember most vividly about this girl was her yearbook quote, because I laughed at it quite hard. I don't remember the beginning of it but the last sentence was something along the lines of "My favourite things are unicorns and my new leather jacket". I thought it was hilarious, especially considering that it was almost definitely not a joke.

So that gets me to Jason Lee. But that's too easy - I don't want to stop there. I could always just add one more connection and get to Kevin Smith. That's a pretty good one. But then I thought - Jason Lee is a scientologist. Beck, also a scientologist. I bet all celebrity scientologists at least have each other's phone numbers. They probably receive a print-out of them when they join, under the headline "Your New Family". So there you have it, a somewhat tenuous connection to Beck.

Then I thought, well, who is someone I would really want to meet? Stephen Fry was a name that came to mind pretty quickly. See, I have these "awesome fantasies". Not fantasies that are awesome, but fantasies in which I am being just that awesome. I don't really have sex fantasies like most people seem to, so I guess I have to replace that void with something. Anyway, one of my favourites is the fantasy in which I high five Stephen Fry on TV*. As a result, I am the coolest kid on the block forever and ever.

But how do I get to Stephen Fry? It was a lot easier than expected. You see, I remembered that my aunt knows Tony Robinson aka Baldrick from Blackadder. She has done archeological research with him, which you would know that he does if you have seen the show Time Team. That's not even what she does for a living, either, it's just a hobby. She actually does something along the lines of research in the field of veterinary science. But that just means that she is more successful in her hobby than most people are in their actual careers. Something of a humbling thought, that. I remember once a neighbour of hers found a skeleton in their backyard and after confirming that it was old enough to be a historical artifact rather than a gruesome murder, the neighbour simply palmed it off to my aunt. Who kept it under her bed for a ridiculously long time until she got around to dealing with it. I'm not sure if she WANTED to get haunted, but that seems like a pretty good way of going about it.

Anyway, you can see where the connection goes from there. Baldrick -> Stephen Fry. Done and done.

What about any others? I must have some from the old band days. 

I actually managed to (very tentatively) connect myself to Damon Albarn. When I was first in talks to join the band, they had just finished the Australian leg of a tour supporting the Specials, and were about to embark on the NZ part of the tour. As I have mentioned, I was invited on this leg of the tour but turned it down. Some people might get a bit confused that I turned down the opportunity to tour with the motherfucking Specials, but it was for three reasons:

1. I didn't know any of the songs, didn't want to embarrass myself in front of the Specials.
2. They hadn't kicked out their current sax player at the time, and I can't think of anything more awkward than touring with the dude I was replacing, who didn't even know he was being replaced at that point.
3. I was in the middle of a uni semester and couldn't really leave the country at short notice. 

But considering I did go on to be in that band for several years, I still count that as a connection to the Specials. From there, you have a list of all the artists ever connected to the Specials. I chose Damon Albarn, who apparently did something with them at Glastonbury one year. The band I was in also gave me a connection to the Whitlams, as our producer had worked with them. Also, the drummer (the only member of the band I still contact every now and again) knew Terepai Richmond and actually had drum lessons from him. I tried to see if I could get any more impressive connections via Tim Freedman, but just try googling "Tim Freedman's famous friends". Google just stops and stares at you. The only result is the word "Really?".

There were a few more that I'd worked out, but for what it is (an exercise in wishful thinking with zero practical applications) this entry is already way too long. Also: it is too easy to connect oneself with any Australian personality. I got to Paul McDermott, John Safran, Daniel Johns (for this one just put: I am from Newcastle) and John Laws with just two connections each. And that's not bragging, I am just saying that our population is so small I bet anybody could do it. 

-Smackie Onassis

*Other "awesome fantasies" include Tony Martin asking me to do a cult radio show with him a la 'Get This' and being the personal guest of Bill Bailey at the Glastonbury Festival.

"This aint no play on words, my love for him's absurd"

I was out in the courtyard with Vegatrain the other night and I must have said something wacky. I don't remember which particular thing it was that I said, but it made him laugh and shake his head.

"You know," he said, "This is the first relationship I've ever been in where I've been the comparatively normal one."

I conceded that he was probably right, considering the two of us. I admitted that I didn't think I'd ever get to experience being the "comparatively normal" one. But Vegatrain is probably the closest I've ever come to it, although that's probably because we are ludicrously similar as people. His parents have stopped even trying to differentiate between us, insisting that we are actually just the same person.

I have said to him before that we could never break up, on the simple basis that we would never find another relationship where this level of absurdity is acceptable. I have mentioned before that we basically communicate in absurdist song parodies, but I don't think I've really driven the point home that we actually do that. Most of the time. The most common one would probably be me singing "Don't go doing a fart!" whenever Vegatrain passes gas, but it is one of many. Ask Meattrain if you don't believe me. He hates musicals more than anything so it's pretty traumatic for him. 

But Vegatrain does some pretty ridiculous things all of his own. I have told you about the wonderful procrastination incident. There are a few other quirks I would like to bring attention to.

Vegatrain, as you may have guessed from the name, is a vegetarian. He has read a lot of books on the subject and as a result he does not eat meat. Nor do I, for the record. I do want to be clear on one thing though - we are not, as I would refer to them, awful vegetarians. Not to mention any names, PETA. We both hate the fact that PETA are always asserting that they are the voice for every vegetarian in the world, because we do not want to be associated with them in any way. We don't want people to think that if we see them holding a steak, we will just flat out murder them. If you want to know exactly why they are so awful, watch the Penn and Teller episode because it sums it up much more succinctly than I ever could.

Anyway, my point was that Vegatrain has a social conscience. And maybe, sometimes, he might just use his ideology as something of an excuse. But don't think I'm criticising - I think it's fantastic. I noticed that he has a tendency to use paper towels to put food on instead of plates. I asked him if there were no clean plates and this is what he told me.

"Well, I've thought about this. And I figured that there is a bigger shortage of water than paper in this part of the world right now, and paper is a much more renewable resource. So it's much more environmentally sound to use paper towels."

Nothing to do with the fact that you don't want to do any dishes, then? Of course not. That's just a bonus, is it?

The other thing I would probably mention about Vegatrain is his 'Irrational fear of all living sea creatures', as he wrote on his centrelink forms. He actually has this. I once (meanly) made a photoshop swapping Vegatrain's face with that of a stingray just on the basis that he is terrified of the things. He has said to me before that he is happy to go the beach, just as long as I don't expect him to go swimming. It was a bit hard for me to understand, coming from a town where I literally swam in the ocean every morning before school*. But these are Vegatrain's problems with the ocean: it's dirty, fish have sex in it, there's salt and seaweed everywhere, there are heaps of creatures that can hurt you that you can't even see. He has even go so far as to propose a fake ocean, for people like him. A simulated beach where the water is filtered and you can swim with the friendlier fish and actually see them properly because the water is clear and clean.

I don't know if that will ever happen, but a man can dream.

-Smackie Onassis

*My morning routine in high school: up at 5:45, jog to the beach, swim, jog back home, get ready for school. I know, what a jerk. I did it because I loved it though. It also meant that I could occasionally brag about being hit on before 7am on a school day, thanks to surfers.

Smackie Onassis: The Inevitable Future

There were fireworks at the end of our street the other night. We stood out in the road to watch them, Vegatrain, Meattrain, Meattrain's girlfriend who suggested her own codename but it was kind of elaborate and I don't remember it so her name is now Hello Kitty, and myself. Vegatrain and I danced around like idiots. Meattrain and Hello Kitty hugged like normal people. There was this one moment which was pretty amazing. We were all staring up at the fireworks, listening to the song that was playing (Michael Jackson, of course) and not paying attention to each other. Until we all looked around and realised that every single one of us was independently doing the Thriller dance. It was a pretty satisfying moment.

I guess it's kinda cynical that the whole thing felt to me like a scene from a depressing Australian movie where they flash back to 'happier times'. The fireworks, the share-house, the happy relationship moments. If watching movies like Candy has taught me anything, it's all downhill from here. Of course, it could have been more to do with the fact that my glasses were quite dirty and so everything I saw had that frosted edges look that televised flashbacks tend to have. But hey, who knows, right?

It got me thinking - just how is my life likely to take a dramatic downhill turn from this point? I had visions of myself, homeless, wandering the streets, asking passers-by if they could spare a few bucks for some insoles. Following the tradition of a dire future as represented in film and television, I can see future-homeless-me getting some questionable tattoos. I have seen a lot of questionable tattoos in my time so I know what I will be dealing with here. I remember once being in a pub in Newcastle in the middle of the day (the train station was across the road and my friend had missed his train). We somehow began talking to a group of guys who had been in the unfortunate situation of being drunk around tattooing equipment. One guy had a crudely drawn dick and balls on his lower back. Another had the words 'Your Name Here' on his arse. A lifetime of regret for them, but a quiet chuckle for me.

As for the questionable tattoos I would get well, that requires a bit of thought. I do already have a few tattoos, all of which are quite tasteful. The next one I was planning on getting is a few lines from my favourite poem. And I am well aware that this would put me right up in the 'Pretentious Arty Fucks Hall of Fame', but I don't care because it is a beautiful poem that really moved me*. However, if I am going to live up to the reputation of 'crazy homeless lady' I am going to have to get something a bit stranger and altogether more off-putting. I was wondering recently if anyone has ever had other genitals tattooed on their real genitals ie a penis tattooed on the vagina. I was too scared to google it but if it's crazy and off-putting you are going for, I don't think you could really pass that one up. This one also gives you a semi-valid excuse for exposing yourself to strangers, another staple of that particular culture.

So, that's me a few years from now. Crazy, homeless, probably with a menagerie of animals following me wherever I go. Playing a ukulele on the street for spare change. Of course, I would get back on my feet eventually. But how? The most logical answer is that an ad executive hears me singing some kind of insane song parody to myself and hires me to write jingles. I would have my big break with probably either 'O! Valencia!' (an ad for the oranges, to the tune of the Decemberists song) or maybe 'Let's Hear it for the Soy!' (an ad for soy sauce). Oh and if you're wondering, yes I have already written** these jingles so I won't have to rely on my inevitably heroin-addled brain to come up with anything 'clever'. 

And thus, the story ends with me raking in the big bucks in the ad jingle market, selling my story to 'That's Life!' magazine and finally getting my aquarium house.

-Smackie Onassis

*If you are wondering, the poem is 'My Spectre Around Me Night and Day' by William Blake who is for totals my favourite poet.

** "O! Valencia! With your pulp so sweet in my mouth! Valencia! And I swear to the stars, I will eat this whole thing right now...."

"Let's hear it for the soy! Let's give the soy a hand! Maybe it's no vinaigrette, but for your next sushi banquet, whoah, whoah whoah whoah! Let's hear it for the soy!"

Tales From The Op-Shop

Last Tuesday, I did my first volunteer shift at a local op-shop. I did mean to write about it earlier but unfortunately I had a crippling case of the Alien Hand Syndrome and I had no control over what I was writing.

There were a couple of reasons why I decided to volunteer. There was an element of testing my injuries to see whether I was ready to start looking for work again, but there was also a large factor of 'this is a really friggin cool op-shop and I want to be a part of it'.

I walked in nervously and introduced myself to the others. I was led out the back to the fabled 'Staff Only' section. I have never seen these sections in other op-shops, but I can only hope they are all like this one. The entrance was through some big, red, old-west saloon style doors. I breathed through onto the other side, trying to feel like Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future III (conclusion: not cool enough to be Marty McFly). Seeing behind those doors was like seeing inside the chocolate factory for the first time. And with that remark I am referring to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, not goatse. Let's be very clear on that.

But it was great. There were surplus clothes everywhere. Apparently they are always rotating their stock because they have so much. There were boxes piled up - one was labeled 'ties', another 'scarfs' [sic], another simply 'XMAS' - all literally overflowing with figurative gold. I couldn't wait to dig through it all.

My first task was to wander around, cleaning up the displays and arranging things in order of colour. I did this a lot when I worked in a clothes store, and I had forgotten just how much I love it. Retail fashion is basically a job designed for people who have at least some OCD tendencies. You can go up to your boss saying 'I have arranged every single item in the shop from lightest to darkest, made sure every item is facing north on the hanger and that there is the exact same number of items on every rack' and where in most situations you would receive the response 'Seek help,' in retail you get rewarded for it. I was volunteering, so it wasn't a financial reward, but I have decided that I am being paid in human interaction. That is enough reward for me.

After an hour or so of tidying, the boss approached me to ask me if I would like to spend some time reorganising the retro/costume section. No words have ever made me happier.

I found some of the most amazing things. On the racks, the first things I noticed were the strangely plentiful multi-coloured robes. There was also an amazing dog suit, but unfortunately it looked like it had been designed for a child. I felt a bit disappointed, but then after much consideration realised that it would be so much creepier if it were designed for an adult. And in a second hand store. I would probably find myself filing it under 'Mysterious Stains' and moving on as quickly as possible.

Like most op-shop costume sections, it had its fair share of items I simply didn't know how to explain. Such as the item I named 'Musical Jester Sack', because that was the only possible way I could think of to describe it. Also, being a Catholic run store, if anyone ever wants to go to a costume party as an Amish person, I've got your back.

But it was then that the boxes were pointed out to me. A bunch of crates under the shelves that could only have been labeled as 'Misc.'. I began sorting through them, to see what I could put on the shelves. I have never sorted through more rewarding boxes in my life. Here is a list of things I found:

• An actual Darth Vadar helmet
• So many animal ears. First the cat ears, then the bunny ears, then the dalmation ears. Then something I can only describe as 'hand-tennae', a headband that has hands for antennae.
• Some of the most inexplicably terrifying latex masks I have ever seen.
• I found a couple of strange half-shirts with superhero logos on them. It was like, the front of a shirt, but with velcro on the back of it. After much consideration I decided they must be batman/superman bibs, for people who have problems.
• Shoes whose straps were shaped like a male and a female, respectively. Very intriguing.
• So many wonderful hats! So much fodder for Hat Club**

I had a fantastic time sorting it all out, and the other volunteers were all very friendly. I do worry a bit though, working for the Catholic Church. It's not that I'm worried they are going to flip out* and burn me at the stake for one wrong move, it's just the fact that I have no idea what level of non-Catholicism is acceptable. I thought to mention my Christian up-bringing for brownie points, but then remembered that I was raised Protestant and that this could be a problem. I went to take my daily contraceptive pill but then worried that they might be against that. It's hard. Even though I have a pretty detailed knowledge of religion, I still have no idea what is going to offend religious people because it's all so gosh-darn arbitrary.

Unfortunately, after about 4 or 5 hours my injuries started feeling particularly strained. It hurt for days afterwards, purely from pushing myself too hard. The conclusion I have drawn is that I am not ready to go back to the real workforce, but I could probably continue to do once a week shifts at the op-shop. And I will and it's going to be amazing.

-Smackie Onassis





*sensible fun only oh god
**I think I have only very briefly mentioned Hat Club. Basically, the first rule of Hat Club is wear a hat. That is also all the other rules, in various wordings.

Dear Diary,

Today, like most days, was pretty fucked.

I actually made the effort to leave the house, which was a good start. I had an appointment with the employment agency that centrelink wants me to be friends with. So, as I felt like dressing up a bit, I dressed as the most unemployable kind of person I could think of. It turned out to be a time-travelling rockstar. Admittedly this wasn't originally something I was going for, but when I looked in the mirror my first thought was 'time-travelling rockstar' so I did what I do most days and pretended it was intentional. This would also work well as an explanation for why I can only seem to make pop culture references that were topical circa 1985, which was a pretty good bonus. 

In my silver boots (I love these boots because if anyone ever comments on them I get to say 'Well, you know, some people call me a space cowboy' and I love quoting songs in conversation), my ripped jeans (not so much a fashion thing as a 'they were $5 because they were torn' thing) and my totally sweet 70s-style aviators I went out into the world.

I forgot that it was Bogan New Year's ("Clipsal") right outside our house and so oh boy did I get some looks. When it's the suits on their lunch hour, I don't so much mind it. I go 'Yeah! Getting attention for being a weirdo! I bet I am blowing these guy's MINDS!'

But the bogans, they don't like it. And if someone is going to express their distaste with more than a snooty look, it's not the suits. Unless Patrick Bateman is out and about that day in which case I am probably a goner anyway.

Luckily, if anyone so much as said anything about me, I had the music blaring through my big chunky headphones and could deny anything was happening whatsoever. I continued this all the way into the city where it had the unfortunate effect of me accidentally jumping out in front of traffic because apparently I have no road sense whatsoever. 

Unfortunately, the office of the employment agency was some kind of Harry Potter deal. I walked up and down the street for about half an hour until I called them in desperation saying I could not attend the appointment as their office did not exist. The lady asked my whereabouts and I described them. She gave me a quick direction and I discovered that the office was about 10 metres from where I had been standing. Despite the obvious use of magic, I walked in feeling pretty stupid.

It got worse when the chick had me call centrelink to see if I actually needed to be there and after being on hold for some time I found out that yes, everything I did in this appointment would be immediately redundant, but I had to do it anyway.

So I sat down to the huge pile of completely unnecessary paperwork. I started off answering their questions in a half-hearted, but mildly serious manner. Until I remembered that this was all totally redundant and I was going to be super late for coffee. I still answered most of the questions in the same manner, but I throw in a couple of stupid answers for my own amusement. Amongst my 'skills and abilities' I listed 'being a generally pretty ok person'. When asked what industry I would want to work in, I penciled in 'Anything but the circus (due to personal trauma)'. There was one question I didn't quite know how to answer because it made no sense that I could see. It said 'Who is your closed relative or friend?' or something and I had no fucking clue so I just wrote N/A.*

I thrust the forms at the woman and dashed out the door. Had coffee with an old friend who I meant to give a link to this blog already. I guess I'll go do that now. By this stage my boots were not being supportive enough (I wear such fickle clothing) and I had huge blisters on the bottoms of both my heels, making me walk like I had cerebral palsy. I had enough money in my bank account for either a taxi home or something to eat, one or the other. Knowing there was food at home, I opted for calling a cab. Unfortunately Yellow Cabs are the most awful people in the entire world. My call was answered quickly and I was told that because I was on Rundle St I should just hail a cab instead of booking one. I tried to insist that I would really like to book one, but he basically refused**. Excellent customer service, Yellow Cabs, seriously. The best part is that I did try to hail the only cab I could see and was promptly informed that it was booked under the name Maria. Yes, it was the same cab company. I would have claimed that I was Maria, but the woman who very obviously was the actual Maria was standing right in front of us. She was old and frail too.

So I called the Dude Ranch with yet another 'Yellow Cabs have fucked me over' story and Meattrain kindly agreed to pick me up. I started composing an angry letter in my head and went home.

Love,

Smackie Onassis

* Vegatrain was once in a similar situation and I believe there was a question asking any conditions that would prevent you from working certain industries and he wrote 'Irrational fear of all living sea creatures'. To be fair, he does have an irrational fear of all living sea creatures.I see it as the main reason why I can never have my house with aquarium walls.

** On reviewing this story I am now wondering if I had called at a bad time and the real operators were in the process of being tied up.

What's up with all the files?

If you take a look over the desktop of my laptop, you will notice two things. First, I keep my virtual space just as unkempt as my physical space. There's shit everywhere. Second, you will notice that it is plastered with word documents, all of which appear to be pretty stupid. 'JOXE' is one of my favourites, as is 'Is This Appropriate?' which is a file I made recently for when I want to say something but I'm not sure if it is appropriate. I jot it down and then evaluate it objectively later.

The thing is, most of my files are full of nonsense things that I have thought and obsessively recorded. But there is a very good reason for this. A few years ago, I noticed that people kept coming up to me and telling me things I'd said to them that were apparently very witty and insightful. Even though I was allegedly totally sober during most of these incidents, I had zero recollection of any of them.

There was one in particular that made me sit down and think. A friend of mine had apparently been giving a speech but had accidentally drooled a bit, resulting in a spit bubble popping out of her mouth. Apparently, upon hearing this the first thing I had said was, 'Was it a speech bubble, though?'

I have no memory of saying that. The only reason I am able to tell this story is because a while later that girl was talking to me and quoted that line back to me. I laughed and told her that was a good joke and she should keep it up her sleeve for impressing people at parties. She gave me a confused look and confessed that she had been directly quoting me. I was a bit embarrassed.

Another similar incident occurred years previously, when I was in about year 7. It was a long time ago but I still remember it purely because of how awkward it made me feel. We were in class. Something happened to our resident sarcastic jock. I don't remember what it was, but it wasn't a big deal. Casually, I commented on it. I remember thinking that it was a pretty obvious thing to say but thought I'd better say it anyway. I was expecting the class to respond by groaning and saying 'Yeah, you think you're pretty smart, don't you?' which is the reaction I usually got. Instead, my comment was greeted with uproarious laughter. My gut reaction was that they were actually laughing at me (how emotionally secure was I?), but I quickly realised that they were laughing because what I had said had actually been funny. They were laughing at the jock, who was clearly embarrassed and didn't really have anything to say for himself. If Back to the Future has taught me anything (WHICH IT HAS), he was also probably covered in manure at this point.

Now, it was probably due to the fact that I was startled as well as the fact that I hadn't thought it a very important comment when I'd made it, but I instantly and totally forgot what I had said that had been so funny. I accepted the laugh and moved on. The problem was that apparently it was such a good call that people actually came up to me after class to talk about it. I had literally no idea what I'd said, but I didn't want to admit it. I seem to recall the conversations going something like this.

Classmate: Hey, good call against Johnny Football* in maths today!
Me: Thanks very much.
Classmate: The look on his face, it was gold!
Me: Yes, that was quite a look.
Classmate: How did you come up with that line anyway?
Me: Oh well, you know it was just... oh my god, look over there! Is that someone who used to be on TV doing a publicity stunt?
Classmate: What? That's just the weird albino kid eating a twig.
Me: My mistake.

This happened way too often. The best explanation I could come up with was that I was briefly and occasionally possessed by the ghost of a stand-up comedian (did someone say BRILLIANT SITCOM IDEA?). As a result, I now write down everything I say or think that might be funny. I open one of my files at random, pick a spot (No, I can't just add it to the end. For some reason, I always end up adding it to a totally random spot within the file.) and get typing. I later pan through it for any nuggets of comedy gold. While I do occasionally delete things, it's pretty rare and the result is a bunch of files full of ridiculous non-sequitors. Here is an excerpt, unedited:

Victorian Era Ghost'd!: It is like punk'd but instead of Ashton Kutcher, it is a Victorian Era Ghost!

I always lose Creepy Chicken

Creepy Chicken = trying to outcreep each other, last to have a nervous breakdown is the winner. There are no real winners.

Social conventions questions: Is it weird to approach someone you haven't spoken to in years to tell them you had a dream where they died? I'm going to say yes.

Housemates sitcoms:
A nerd and a stripper!
VIG + NC**
A guy who is afraid of cats and a TALKING CAT (studying psychology ;D)

I just realised that to get to certain places in the house you have to walk over a bed, like, just plain old step up there and walk over it. And I had never even noticed that was weird.

What's the time?? Time for a NUMERIC PALINDROME!
12:21
11:11
03:30

I don't like fair fights. Well, it's not that I don't like fair fights, I just really like unfair fights. I like to hit a small bat with my giant rock fist.


So, there you have it. For the record, that was page twenty of a file entitled 'crafty drafties'. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Oh also, to the fine people over at Hell Is Other People, yes those 'housemates sitcom' ideas were inspired by you guys. I am planning on writing for your show, whether you like it or not. You will try to tell me that I am not but I will still submit scripts, regardless of whether you even read them. Seriously.

-Smackie Onassis




*His real name was actually surprisingly similar to this.
** This is supposed to stand for Victorian Era Ghost + Nuclear Chemist, which is an idea I had based on "true" events. It has since been pointed out to me that Era begins with an E, but this is UNEDITED PEOPLE.

EDIT: Guys, everytime I see the phrase 'time for a numeric palindrome' I just lose it. I think it's the funniest thing. Is it just me?

Smackie Onassis: Friendship Origin Stories

Sometimes I become friends with people in pretty amazing ways. You have already heard my origin story for my friend Bones, which is one of my favourites. But I do have a lot of other pretty great ones.

I have mentioned my friend Binny a couple of times. He was one of my best friends back in Newcastle, and his was one of the most important friendships of my life. How did we meet though? I'm glad you ask. I'd be more than willing to discuss it at length. Seeing as you asked and all.

We met when we were both at the housewarming party of a mutual friend of ours. She was the trumpet player of the band I was in, I'm not sure how she knew Binny. I approached him and started talking to him solely on the basis that he was wearing a Decemberists t-shirt. Yeah, that's just what I'm like. We realised that we had a lot of common ground and exchanged phone numbers, promising to hang out sometime soon. We were both in relationships at the time, so it wasn't anything romantic. Unfortunately at the time I was always either at uni, or at work, or riding my bicycle from uni to work. I didn't have a lot of free time and as a result we kept missing each other. Our potential friendship seemed doomed.

Until one Monday morning. I hadn't seen him since the party, so I was a bit surprised to see his name come up on my phone. I answered and he explained that he was pretty cut up because his girlfriend had left him that weekend.

"It's funny you should say that," I replied, "My boyfriend left me on the weekend, and as a result my parents had me put in the psych ward at [name of hospital]"

"You know," he muttered, "That hospital is about 100 metres from my front door."

As a result, we spent a lot of time together over the ensuing weeks. Once I was allowed to go for walks I would head over to his house for beers and guitar hero on a nightly basis, despite the hospital's zero tolerance alcohol policy. I didn't really care, and neither did the nurses who apparently once saw me at the pub with him when I was supposed to be in my room*. They didn't dob on me and I respect that.

From there our friendship was well cemented, to the point that even when I was allowed back into society and started working again, I still spent the majority of my free afternoons at his house.

I think that's a pretty good friendship origin story, but don't think there's not more where that came from.

You may have noticed that the manboy referred to by the name Vegatrain (which is what he insisted on being called, by the way) is a fairly significant part of my life. But how did we actually meet? Well, my origin story for Vegatrain is tied into the origin story for some of the other totally excellent people in my life, namely Buglustre and Harrison.

Imagine this scenario: a lonely 21 year old is bored and on the internet. Her days of playing music to not-always-embarrassingly-small crowds are long over. While she is pretty lonesome, the last thing she is looking for is love. On a whim, she signs up to an internet forum. I'm not going to go into detail about how I announced my presence, but let's just say I entered with a bang. I wasn't taking the whole 'internet' thing at all seriously. But then, on an unimportant thread about Christmas presents, I mentioned that I had got my tiny hands on 'Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers' by the National and I was loving it sick. This got the attention of a young man on the other side of the country. He commented how much he liked the National and replied by quoting a Belle and Sebastian song with reference to my username. I responded by saying that my name had absolutely been inspired by the song in question and that I had actually seen Belle and Sebastian last time they were in Australia, even though it meant leaving a university exam early so I could get to the venue on time. He responded simply by saying 'Let's be friends.' At this point I feel like I should thank every band I listen to for forming so many of my most important relationships.

So, anyway, flash forward a few weeks and under strange circumstances I am spontaneously buying a plane ticket at 1.30am on a Wednesday to fly to the other side of the country solely to meet a guy I have been talking to on the internet for approximately 3 weeks. It sounds exactly like a summary of things you are not supposed to do if you want to be responsible, but it was amazing. We got drunk at midday and had our first kiss to Debaser by the Pixies, which we had put on the pub jukebox. A month later I moved here. I am always of the opinion that this isn't exactly how normal people go about things, but have you even read my blog? I am not normal people.

Buglustre and Harrison are both people I met through that same website, along with Sally-Tsar in Melbourne. I haven't been to the site itself in a long time, but that's probably because I actually see the best people I met there in my day to day existence. Buglustre enjoys telling the story of how she wore her 'killing boots' the night she met me 'just in case'**. Of course, she turned out to be about a foot taller than me so she probably could have crushed me between her thumb and forefinger if she had so desired. Luckily, that wasn't necessary. Harrison tells me that he didn't like me at all at first, but was pretty quickly won over by my breasts. This is despite the fact that the pillar of sexual attractiveness for Harrison is Josh Thomas.


-Smackie Onassis

*why is smackie not in her room she's supposed to be in her room why is she out of her room

**Every time I say these words, I can't help myself from wondering what would happen if Neko Case ever had a brother/son named Justin. I know it's stupid, but I honestly can't help it. Every time.

An Explanation of How Stupid I Am

Some of you may notice that I did not update my blog yesterday. For most people that might not seem like a big deal. However, I don't know if you've noticed but two entries per day is a slow one for me. And it's not that I didn't have any ideas, far from it. It is just... well, let me explain from the beginning.

Remember how I have a fractured sternum? You know, because I am the smartest person alive and all. Anyway, I have been unable to work since the accident, but now my medical certificate has expired and centrelink has been telling me to get a job. Instead of actually throwing myself back into the workforce, I thought I'd test my strength by doing a volunteer shift at a local op-shop. It was fantastic and I will tell you all about it very soon, but when I found myself in a fair amount of pain after just a few hours of light labour, I figured that I was not ready to go back to real work.

Now, yesterday morning I woke up feeling a bit shit. I was aching from pushing myself too hard yesterday and I was in a bad mood. Vegatrain was kind enough to get me a spinach pastry from the bakery down the road, which I ate a bit too quickly. A funny joke was made and I started laughing.

So, this is the combination of factors that are going on here:
a) fractured sternum, meaning my chest was already kinda sore
b) My heart was beating fast from laughing
c) I got heartburn from eating the pastry too fast

The heartburn would not have been a problem except for the fact that, in a comic twist, I have never actually had heartburn before. Naturally, I thought I was dying. I should probably also add to that list that Meattrain has been watching House lately. Now, I don't watch much TV but I watch enough to know that I am going to die and it is going to be awful. I don't think I have ever got around to watching a full episode of House, but this is what I keep hearing amongst the background noise:

"Patient is fine, normal cold and flu symptoms but nothing... we have a code blue, patient is suddenly and inexplicably bleeding from the eyes and fitting."

So, because I now think that the simplest of symptoms means the worst possible thing is about to happen (hypochondria - totally a disease in its own right), this combination of things - the sore chest, the fast heartbeat, the heartburn - I thought I was totally having a heart attack. Never mind the fact that I am a 5' 1", 22 year old vegetarian female who exercises regularly and so not exactly the most likely candidate for heart failure, I was convinced that I was going to die. According to Vegatrain, I was nearly in tears.

Let me explain something else for you. Recently, I read about Paris Syndrome. My interpretation of this phenomena was that it was a disorder that you get when everything around you is too beautiful for you to handle. My reading about this syndrome coincided with the arrival of my amazing lapdesk which is cushioned and has a drink holder and pen holder and a little light and it fits my laptop on it perfectly with room for a mouse. There was a moment when I was trying out my new lapdesk, there was nice music playing and I was eating grapes. Earlier, I had, shall we say, been drinking some tea. Listening to some jazz music. Talking to my friend.*

Naturally, I got a bit overwhelmed. Everything around me was amazing and I could feel my face flushing. I could feel a bit of the Paris Syndrome coming on. Since then, I have started saying this regularly, whenever anything good happens. I now judge how good something is by how likely it is to give me Paris Syndrome. Vegatrain has been getting very annoyed at my repeated insistence that I have a medical condition that I basically made up.

But then the events of yesterday occurred and I was lying on the couch, having a mild anxiety attack. Vegatrain came and sat with me.

"Smackie, you're not dying. You just ate a delicious pastry a bit too fast, laughed too hard at a joke and got a bit overwhelmed. That's all. I guess you could say that in all your insistence that you have this stupid made up Paris Syndrome, you actually kinda gave it to yourself. You just need to learn how to not get so worked up over these things."

It was then that I stopped to evaluate my situation. I had invented a disorder that was based on a joke, gone on to actually get symptoms of the disorder under farcical circumstances and was now being given my daily life lesson. I was in a fucking sitcom. I would wager that this is actually a plot that has been used and if not, why not? I could hear the damn theme music in my head.

When I realised this, I did tell Vegatrain that it was giving me a touch of the Paris Syndrome, but jokes! And we hugged and moved onto the next wacky adventure.

-Smackie Onassis



*Rejected: "burying some bones in the backyard". There is nothing good that can mean.

Children's Books Were So Great When I Was A Kid

There are alot of political posters up around the streets of Adelaide at the moment. There is an election on the way, you see. The problem is that many of the posters somehow manage to be so mind-bogglingly offensive that I find the best way for me to avoid a nervous breakdown is to ignore all of them. But the other day one caught my eye. I was driving Meattrain's car, minding my own business, when suddenly I found myself narrowly avoiding slamming on the breaks.

"Was there just a political candidate named after a Dr Seuss character? Did anyone else see this?"

Of course no-one else saw the poster in question because they never do. It actually turned to be someone whose last name was Lomax, not Lorax and I was pretty disappointed. But it got me thinking about books I read as a child, something I do pretty often. I don't know what children's books are like these days, but when I was a kid they were pretty freaking great.

First, I would like to refer you to a wonderful tome called 'The King, The Mice and The Cheese' by Nancy and Eric Gurney. Now, my housemates will be familiar with this particular work because I regularly use it as an allegory for modern life. See, the story went as follows: There is this king, right. And he loves cheese. Can't get enough cheese. But then all these mice come into his palace and start eating it. Needless to say, the king is not happy with this situation and he orders in a bunch of cats to get rid of the mice. BUT THEN his palace is overrun with cats! Oh no! So, he orders some dogs to get rid of the cats. But then, the same problem only with dogs! I'm not sure how many different animals the poor king went through but he ended up at elephants. The only way he could think of to get rid of the elephants? Mice! And look at that, he is back at square one. What ever will he do? The book ends with the king deciding to share his cheese with the mice, and you see all the little mice eating cheese at little tiny tables. Which is nice from a moral point of view, but probably not the best way to deal with a rodent infestation.

Another book I find myself referencing in day to day conversation is a story that was called 'Little Black Sambo'. Now, when I was older I learned that this was a pretty racist name for a children's book, but I really loved the story. It was about this Indian kid whose name was Little Black Sambo (I feel like this story has since been re-released with a different name for the main character). He was wandering through the jungles of India when he comes across some ferocious tigers. The last thing he wants is to be eaten alive, so he plays a little trick on the tigers. He starts talking to them and slagging them off, but he is hidden in the bushes. The tigers get pretty angry about this. Oh, did I mention the tigers could talk? They could talk okay. Somehow, Little Black Sambo tricks the tigers into chasing each other around a tree so fast that they melt into a big pile of melted butter. Naturally, the kid collects all the melted butter to take home and everyone in the village makes enough pancakes to last them a long time. Bizarre, but heartwarming. Sort of.

Moving on. Perhaps the only book from my childhood that I actually still find myself directly quoting is 'Far Out Brussel Sprout' and all the others in that series. I loved these books. They were made up of a series of very childish rhymes and stories, which, judging by the things I try to pass off as writing, probably shaped the way I think quite a lot. The one I remember the most vividly went something along the lines of "Hasten hasten get the basin! Ker plop, get the mop". I think there were a few lines between those two, but I sadly don't remember them.

There will be a bunch of honourable mentions in this entry, but there is one that I can't get away with not giving it's own paragraph and that is Grug. I wouldn't have included the Grug series because I feel it pretty much goes without saying that I read and loved these books. I was a child in Australia, after all. But I thought I better mention it on the basis that I actually met Ted Prior. He came to my primary school when I was in year one (and again when I was in year two!) and gave us a bit of a motivational talk. Later, he signed one of my Grug books. I would include a picture of that one, but it is somewhere in the depths of the childhood possessions at my family home, which I have not visited in over a year. Hopefully it is still in good enough condition that I can get it back one day.

Honourable Mentions: 'Selby Speaks', Hundreds of old Tin-Tin comics that were all in French, Dr Seuss (obviously), A series of books that I think were called 'Young Adult Fact Finder' which I totally read over and over because I really love facts, Mr McGee Goes To Sea (apparently there is now a 'Mr Mcgee and the Big Bag of Bread'. I keep seeing it in the post office and wanting to buy it)

-Smackie Onassis

Seriously

Ok, I just had a whole entry written up and formatted, but apparently Blogger is on its period, because it refused to format it properly. As in, half of my text was visible and half was on the page, but only visible upon highlighting. No matter what I did, this problem would not be resolved. I even tried deleting the post, logging out of blogspot, logging back in and trying to post it again but still, the same ridiculous problem.

I am going to try and post it again, but in the meantime I just thought I'd take a pause to say: Suck my dick, Blogger.

-Smackie Onassis