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

"Comedy Stylings"

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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.

The Rules Of Attraction

I recently mentioned in passing that I had worked out the four main categories of people I automatically develop a crush on. I have now realised that this probably deserves a bit of elaboration. Now, admittedly my science is very flawed and this is something that may work or may not work, but after having been asked about it by someone who reads this blog (people read this blog?), I thought I better explain.

See, I have had my fair share of crushes over the years and, because I have an insatiable need to over-analyse my every waking thought, I did a little survey. I looked over all the crushes I'd had, from boys at school to slightly more famous people. After awhile, I had defined four distinct categories of people that I will almost always be attracted to straight away, whether I am okay with that or not. Only one category is necessary, but the chance of swooning increases exponentially with every additional category.

Category #1: Musicians

Specifically, acoustic singer-songwriter types, preferably with skills in the field of banjo. I guess what I am saying here is that I have had a massive crush on Darren Hanlon since I picked up a copy of 'Little Chills' at my local library, around six or seven years ago. I actually met him after one of his gigs once and I could barely speak. I managed to squeak out a request for him to sign my copy of 'Fingertips and Mountaintops' before having to excuse myself for a spot of quiet hyperventilation. But it doesn't have to be Darren Hanlon. Really, all you need is to strap on an acoustic guitar and sing me a gentle folk ballad and, in the immortal words of Jason Mraz, "I'm Yours"*.

Category #2: Geeky indie boys

For this category see: every guy I have ever been on a date with. Or, at the very least, every guy I have ever been on a successful date with. Also, every guy who has ever turned me down for a date. Maybe it's because they usually have excellent taste in music, maybe it's because being geeky usually indicates being smart. Maybe it's because I subconsciously only date guys that I could probably hold my own against in a fight. Either way, if a guy puns about poetry, wears obscure band shirts, and looks like he is in a constant state of having just woken up, he gets an Admit One ticket to my own personal "Wonderland"**.

Category #3: Comedians

This was one of those things that sort of took me by surprise. I think I actively denied it, mainly because my idea of a comedy groupie was based pretty heavily around Kristen Schaal's character in the Flight of the Conchords TV series. And yet, I kept finding myself listening to old Get This podcasts and finding Ed Kavalee "confusingly attractive" (for those playing at home, I coined that phrase a few entries ago re: Scott Dooley). Even the ugly ones started looking kinda cute when they told a particularly funny joke. I have been asked what constitutes a "comedian". Do they have to do it for a career, or can they just be a funny dude? I have yet to work this out.

Category #4: Women With Excellent Hair

Arguably the odd category out. I have never actually dated a girl, and I don't usually like crushing on people for such horribly shallow reasons. But man, red hair on women looks really amazing. Felicia Day, anyone? Florence Welch? I would turn for either of those attractive, attractive ladies.

-Smackie Onassis

*No, I don't know any of the other lyrics to that song because I don't own a radio right now.

** I'm sorry, John Mayer. I also feel obliged to apologise to Australia's Wonderland. I'm sorry. You were pretty great, even if I only got to visit you once as part of some kind of surrealist maths assignment/excursion.

One Degree Of Seperation, Where "Separation" Actually Means Professional Writing

I have mixed feelings about the course I did at uni. I had actually wanted to take some time off to figure out what I wanted to do with myself but everyone sort of convinced me that because I was good at writing, I should do a course that would teach me how to write for a career.

My major was in journalism, although I was discouraged pretty early. The attitude of most of my journalism professors was something along the lines of:

"Guys, don't become a journalist. Don't ever do it, not ever, not if you want to maintain a will to live. The hours are crap, the pay is crap and if you want to make a living you basically have to work for a company that will sell your journalistic integrity on Ebay and pocket the proceeds."*

There was also the fact that, in journalism, it doesn't mean shit if you have a degree or not. You can graduate with honours, but a newspaper will laugh you out onto the street if you can't show them a portfolio of published works. I knew this, but I continued with the degree because I was under the impression that they might actually teach us something useful.

This is how my degree was structured:

Professional Writing 101 -> Lengthy rehashings of subjects covered in Professional Writing 101 -> Irrelevant filler subjects -> Electives

Admittedly, this is probably because I went to a university whose focus was clearly more on bringing in the dollars than actually giving people a useful education. I am sure there are similar degrees at other institutions that are of a much higher quality. I, however, made the foolish choice of trusting a school who had recently been in the news for passing students who could barely write a coherant sentence, solely because they didn't want to lose a full-fee-paying student.

That being said, my degree wasn't a total bust. Some of the topics were quite good, media interviewing in particular was one I enjoyed, as was radio production (funnily enough, I had the same teacher for both these subjects, who was great. She was actually a woman I had known for most of my life, and even done amateur theatre with. She was an excellent teacher). The electives I chose were great, and I actually did learn a few things. Linguistics gave me an even larger basis for being a total language nerd, Film Studies introduced me to the wonderful works of Jim Jarmusch. If you haven't seen Dead Man, watch it now. I am not even kidding. This blog will be here when you get back.

However, the single easiest High Distinction I ever received in my university career was in a little subject called "Introduction to Guitar". This was in the second semester of my second year. I had realised that I still had one elective left to fill, and while browsing the various topics I stumbled across that one. 'Super,' I thought, 'I could do with honing my guitar skills and getting credit points for it'. I signed up to the class.

What I didn't realise was that this was a course aimed at education students, designed for people who had never looked at a guitar before. I was no prodigy on the instrument, my previous experience being based around fiddling with chords in my room as I attempted to teach myself. However, not meaning to talk myself up or anything, but with ten years of classical piano training under my belt, as well as six years of saxophone lessons and five of singing lessons, it was safe to say I knew what an octave was.

Of course, I could have dropped out at any point after realising how basic the course content was, but I didn't. It was just too much of a self-esteem boost. I was not at my most confident at that stage, and to be doing a course where I was top of the class while doing literally no work was pretty excellent. While everyone else struggled to pluck out the melody to Three Blind Mice, they would look over at me in awe as I played it through with no mistakes.

"I am going to rock these three blind mice so hard, their sight will be restored," I would say, as every one else swooned at my feet. 

Ok, so maybe that's an exaggeration, and maybe playing simple tunes is not so impressive for someone with my musical experience, but it really was "Self-Esteem 101" for me. Because the majority of the assessment was based on in-class performance, I literally had to do no work outside of class. There were a few worksheets on scales and chord structures, but I pretty much filled them out on the bus on my way to class, so that doesn't really count. It is a bit ironic that the best grade I received in uni was for the class where I did the least work, but you know me. I dig irony. I love that shit.

Unfortunately, I ended up dropping out of the degree in my final year, feeling that my time would be better spent spiraling into a deep-seated, existential depression and ultimately moving halfway across the country to be with a guy I had known for a month. It was fairly spontaneous, yes, but it was actually one of the best decisions I ever made.

-Smackie Onassis

*They didn't say those exact words, but that was the general gist of it. I am now wondering if I can actually put my journalistic integrity on ebay. I might try this, actually.

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'.

Musings From A Washed Up Rockstar #2

I really need to stop updating this blog so much, at least until I get a new pair of glasses. My old ones disappeared mysteriously, and I am getting so many headaches from squinting at a tiny laptop screen all the live long day. However, every now and then, I like to take the opportunity to publicly reminisce about when I was a total rockstar.

The band I was in was never particularly famous. We did a few interviews, got on the radio a bit, and played a bunch of festivals and support slots for significantly more famous bands. Apart from die-hard aficionados of the genre, not many people would have had the slightest clue who we were, apart from maybe a fond recollection of giggling at the pun in our band name, or being hit on by the bass player.

But there was a brief, shining moment when I at least felt totally famous. There was a new year's eve festival one year. Because a bunch of the other bands playing had to leave early to drive to the Peat's Ridge festival (which we had played the previous night), we ended up headlining.

It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. The crowd estimates we got from the venue guys were that there was around 1000 people in the audience. When I got on stage, I swear, I nearly wet myself. Literally one thousand screaming music fans were in front of me. We did the midnight countdown live on stage, and then started our set with fireworks going off behind us. It was insane.

"Are you ready for some NOVELTY SKA POP?" 

That should never be a question that gets more than a polite spattering of clapping, but yeah. Cacophonous, tumultuous applause, with a garnish of screaming teens. For a moment I thought I had slipped into an alternate dimension and I was actually onstage with My Chemical Romance, but looking around, it was still the same band with whom I normally played at dive bars to disinterested audiences. Admittedly the audience were all probably very drunk at this stage.

It got considerably more insane when I realised, towards the end of the set, there was a teenage boy in the front row yelling my name. My real name, my actual real first name. I freaked out a little bit, because I couldn't possibly comprehend how anyone in the audience would even know that name.

Now, it turned out that this kid was the younger brother of a girl I knew in highschool, but still, I didn't know HIS name. I got him backstage after the gig, and received the biggest ego trip of my life as this star struck youth ranted about how I was, like, famous now.

And yet, here I am, some years later, back in obscurity. I mean, even deeper obscurity. I am still battling with my parents to get some of my intruments sent over. In the meantime, I will fiddle with an out of tune guitar and write silly songs about the futuristic heartbreak of being dumped for your own clone.

-Smackie Onassis

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.