Friday, July 28, 2006

Emotional Rescue is in the mail...

Met this guy, had a few ambers, a coupla giggies. He had a maniacal laugh when chats got good and had recently been badly bashed by threes dickheads, wearing Aussie rugby league blazers. Has a steal plate in his face now. Beautiful stuff. He seemed to think that people create a load a drama that they just don’t need.


That we spend all our time on, “emotional blackmail. I just haven’t got the time for it!” he says and that’s the bulldust we give to each other to cause each other grief. It’s an attempt to force each other into positions we wouldn’t perhaps already occupy.

But the problem is nobody, NOBODY, likes to be forced to do things, nobody…

“That’s not how you make porridge!”

When it’s all broken down, the bulldust and troubles with others and the there abouts, we just got the bullshite that is emotional blackmail and that creates the drama. And it’s as simple as that. We love the drama, ‘cos what else is there to tell our friends? What else is there to talk about? What else breaks the monotony of a regular work life? So we make the drama? We hunt for the drama, we cry and fight and scheme and push on with the drama. The stories of ups and downs of our own life, desperately avoiding the stability, the endless capacity for love and getting stuff done, clouding the unique simplicity of the truth with a million and one grabs at something else we don’t have, forgetting to enjoy what we do have and learning to trust we can make more of the good. There is more to it, but… I’m thinking there’s something in it.

I met this guy, my friends, had a few ambers, a coupla giggies, and this one goes out to the one I love, if only she knew and knew how…

Tuesday, July 25, 2006


On the edge of this big old park, there's a great little place called Woollahra. In the middle of this great little place there's this local called, The Woollahra. Out back of The Woollahra, there's an even smaller place simply called, the Back Bar. It's a real treat. It's the smokers bar, the pool table bar, the people's of Woollahra, bar. It's got a cigga machine and a room off the side where the pokies hardly ever get played. Scores of interesting folk frequent.
Have gotten familiar with a certain Executive Producer of news and current affair on a certain TV network. A very intense man, driven wholly by a ragin' ego. Take the piss of him, as some of the drinkers have and you get a quick and intense threatening stare, forcing the culprit to back down. A mwith ourour a sense of humor perhaps? He can be a very moody fellow, but I like his work, has greater depth than his rivals. A certain new CEO of an old network plus board members frequent. Am making vague acquaintance, it's all "mate" and stuff. I'm not sure I really like him and I'm not actually sure if anyone else does either. But an old ruthlessly ambitious friend or mine did say how much she would love to "blow him." There is also a smattering of old Aussie actors and the sorts. You'ld know 'em.
There's an old journo who has been writing a weekly business column, in some mag, for 40 years now, just tonight he let slip that Jewish people can be otherwise named a 5 by 2 or a Jew. It's kinda naughty funny but some people choose not to have senses of humour bout some stuff. Gotta love a rhyme. He also let out bout, "When the fan hits the shit!! WHEN-THE-FAN-HITS-THE-SHIT!!" I like that line. There's a gall who runs round with a big bag a coke, who never has no money but surprisingly always gets loans for the pokie machines. She's been a load a fun on several occasions, but wouldn't pick her cherry if it was the last one on earth. Not even if shed dished up that whole bag in one sittin', but a lovely lass nevertheless. She reckons the Back bar is the loneliest place on Earth, but I'm thinking it's that little bag a white talking, it's white magic talkin'. They got each other in the back bar. They got each other, any night of the week to share a coupla drinks with and that's just the way they likes it.
Further down the street, at an earlier hour, everybody without money in Woollahra seems to deal in second hand furniture that they pick up from the council throw outs, it seems. They have a lot of time on their hands, Council throw out only comes every couple a months. There is a load of flash antique shops along Queen Street. But those places make money, apparently.
There's this fab coffee shop, that must make a million coffees a day, so is it so regularly visited. People lining up all down the road. And darn, they's be the best bloody coffee's in the whole town, I must say. A morning giggy (sic) and a soy latte with a whole load of honey and ya start the day with a great BIG SMILE. Everybody's happy in Smurfville, Woollahra. Something bout the air. All that Centennial Park greenery giving off anti-oxidising negative ions or somethink. Perhaps they get out jogging more round here or do the gym more. I know it's not that, but I think they feel like the chosen few. The special souls. The lucky ones. There's just something bout the place, that's hard to put a finger on. Perhaps it could be all that stuff that grows on trees bobbing round, soothin' their peaceful souls...