So we're all set...Kirilie had booked tickets to see Blackbird at the Malthouse...a show I really wanted to see...but there was a dilemma...the show began at 6:30pm in the City (this being a Tuesday night)...I finished work at 5:00 in Kew (not in the City)...ALSO...I had no more clean shirts or...ahem...unmentionables...although I just mentioned them...let's call them 'mentionables'...so being the bright spark I am I thought I could dash home...put on a load of laundry...hang it up to dry...leave home a bit before 6pm and arrive before the show began...perfect.
The washing machine is loaded...I set up the clothes hanger...then nip to the toilet (which is in the same room as the washing machine)...whilst there I notice the socks on my feet getting wet...lo and behold...I had forgotten to put the hose from the washing machine into the shower...so now it was spurting water all over the bathroom floor...and quite a bit of it...and it was now approaching 5:20pm...
And of course...we don't own a mop.
So I rummaged through the towels we have and decided on the one with the orange makeup stains (don't ask...) as a blotter for the water...thinking a few blots and it'll be done...but that would be in The Secret Life of James Antonas...I drop the towel and soak up some water...the towel is now drenched...and the water hasn't subsided one bit...'This is not going to work you fool.' I said to myself.
So with an eye on the time...I dash to the car...dash to the hardware store...dash off with a mop...and dash back in my slippers. I am quite dashing.
The mop barely made a dent in the water...I swear it would have been about 50 or so mop wrings to get rid of three quarters of the aqua vitae...AND the clothes are still wet in the laundry...AND it's 5:40pm...
So...regretfully I had to pull out of going to see Blackbird (which was fantastic according to reports)...and had the enviable task of mopping, wringing, blotting and hanging out wet laundry...
So I ask you...was this some kind of sub-conscience sabotage or am I just an idiot?
Actually...don't worry...I think I know.
Damn sub-conscience.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Rats!
I had a dream last night. I can barely remember it, but one part has stuck in my head...
I was reading an article on green living, I don't think it was celebrity green living but for some reason the two accompanying photos were of Stephen Curry and how he lives the greenie life...and one photo was him in his kitchen...looking very commune like and hippie...and then I was in the picture and it was reality...and someone was cooking something and I was at the bench top with a bowl of food...when suddenly a rat scurried past one of the shelves above me and someone cried 'Lookout!' and as the words were out of their mouth the rat projectiled pooped in my direction...but, this being a dream, my reflexes were like a steel trap and I had good hand-eye coordination...and moved my bowl out of the direction of the flying feces without falling over myself...catastrophe averted I thought. I moved to a stool near the kitchen table and relaxed. Then the rats started coming out from under the oven (an old school wood burner with space underneath for...well, rats) and started coming at me with a vengeance and started climbing the stool I tried to kick them off but I was barefoot so didn't want to touch them and they just kept coming at me...
And that's when I woke up...not merely woke up but I woke up to find myself flinching as if rats were climbing up my feet whilst in bed...then realising it was a dream...soothed myself and went back to sleep.
Interesting? I don't know. I don't like rats but I've never really thought of them at any great length...and then to dream about them and for them to scare me enough in my sub-conscious that I force myself to wake up flailing about in bed like some...flailer...strange indeed.
I wonder what it means...if anything.
Of course people have crazy dreams all the time. Kirilie regularly has dreams in which I make an appearance...unfortunately I act like a total bastard...to such an extent that Kirilie will be angry at me for the rest of the day...the nerve...blaming me for her own sub-conscious! So I have to differentiate myself from this other James...this 'Dream James' as I call him. He waltzes into her dreams...causes a stir...and waltzes right out again...leaving 'Real James' to pick up the pieces. Of course 'Real James' can sometimes be a bastard but I've found that 'Dream James' has never matched the goodness of 'Real James'...funny. It's like there are two James' - the evil James and the pleasant convivial James...and for some reason Kirilie's sub-conscious is the home where these two giants of Jamesness do battle...instead of it taking place within me like the ol' Jekyll and Hyde syndrome thing balancing two parts of myself...it's in her noggin'. But they always seem to somehow work out a balance. I don't scare her too much during the day and he'll scare the bejesus out of her at night. It all reminds me of that movie...you know the one...Father of the Bride 2...
Steve Martin's funny.
I was reading an article on green living, I don't think it was celebrity green living but for some reason the two accompanying photos were of Stephen Curry and how he lives the greenie life...and one photo was him in his kitchen...looking very commune like and hippie...and then I was in the picture and it was reality...and someone was cooking something and I was at the bench top with a bowl of food...when suddenly a rat scurried past one of the shelves above me and someone cried 'Lookout!' and as the words were out of their mouth the rat projectiled pooped in my direction...but, this being a dream, my reflexes were like a steel trap and I had good hand-eye coordination...and moved my bowl out of the direction of the flying feces without falling over myself...catastrophe averted I thought. I moved to a stool near the kitchen table and relaxed. Then the rats started coming out from under the oven (an old school wood burner with space underneath for...well, rats) and started coming at me with a vengeance and started climbing the stool I tried to kick them off but I was barefoot so didn't want to touch them and they just kept coming at me...
And that's when I woke up...not merely woke up but I woke up to find myself flinching as if rats were climbing up my feet whilst in bed...then realising it was a dream...soothed myself and went back to sleep.
Interesting? I don't know. I don't like rats but I've never really thought of them at any great length...and then to dream about them and for them to scare me enough in my sub-conscious that I force myself to wake up flailing about in bed like some...flailer...strange indeed.
I wonder what it means...if anything.
Of course people have crazy dreams all the time. Kirilie regularly has dreams in which I make an appearance...unfortunately I act like a total bastard...to such an extent that Kirilie will be angry at me for the rest of the day...the nerve...blaming me for her own sub-conscious! So I have to differentiate myself from this other James...this 'Dream James' as I call him. He waltzes into her dreams...causes a stir...and waltzes right out again...leaving 'Real James' to pick up the pieces. Of course 'Real James' can sometimes be a bastard but I've found that 'Dream James' has never matched the goodness of 'Real James'...funny. It's like there are two James' - the evil James and the pleasant convivial James...and for some reason Kirilie's sub-conscious is the home where these two giants of Jamesness do battle...instead of it taking place within me like the ol' Jekyll and Hyde syndrome thing balancing two parts of myself...it's in her noggin'. But they always seem to somehow work out a balance. I don't scare her too much during the day and he'll scare the bejesus out of her at night. It all reminds me of that movie...you know the one...Father of the Bride 2...
Steve Martin's funny.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Thank God I'm Old
I'm 26 years old. Officially.
Unofficially, my age ranges from 25 to 31 as people guess-timate and assess with a skill usually reserved for the selection of a good melon in the produce aisle. They say I act more mature, or seem more mature, or display more maturity...or some are honest and state plainly that I just look that old.
Now I don't take offence to that...the years have aged me, somewhat ungracefully, but with the passing of those years came the attainment of wisdom and knowledge which was followed by a gradual forgetting of that knowledge and then a period of relearning and adult education.
I've learnt many life lessons...and things about myself that, frankly, I didn't want to know about myself...for example, it turns out that I am quite handsome...not simply handsome...but quite handsome...what kind of burden is that to put on a young man struggling through life? Also, I'm in possession of a devilish wit...I don't know how...I don't ever remember paying for it but here I am in possession of wit...can I now on-sell it?
Through my junior years or 'junior years' as I like to refer to them (it gives them an air of self-importance and makes people believe there could be other stages of the life of James Antonas...so that a film could be made called James Antonas: the Wilderness Years) I thought I was quite the frugal friend...a penny pincher...a cheapskate...and so I came to the conclusion early on that I was an ungenerous person. But through the 'junior-middle-upper years' and my arrival to adulthood and full time employment...I find that I am quite a generous person...so it seems my generosity is only limited by my funding...a good thing to know I'd say.
I was/am a selfish person. Who isn't? I love lobster and crabs...ha ha...did you see what I did? Just another example of the wit aforementioned above. But seriously, I do love lobster.
I am a self-centered person...but over the years...I have become less so. There is still the ol' selfish nature there...but I try to appease him with gifts and promises of future wealth and fame if he allows me the moments to show my unselfish side through good deeds and practices...and I have to say that it is a deal that has worked a treat these last two years...and there's only room for more growth as the demand for good deeds and practices increases in these economically turbulent times.
I am impatient which impedes my ability to be a rational thinker. I learnt this lesson all too well these last few weeks moving house with Kirilie (the unselfish, patient angel that she is...who never raises her voice or says a cross word...she has said a crucifix word but we usually save that for Sunday mornings.) The lack of forethought, the hurried nature of my thinking, the frustrated impatience...all combined to make our move the magical experience that it was...I believe Disney are in talks to turn our story into a ride in the Magic Kingdom.
I used to be bitter...and negative. But not any more. Hopefully. A positive spin and there's a grin! (c) James Antonas Industries.
There are other lessons I've learnt...but who has the time for that much internal analysis...when there are more important things out there to enjoy...like lobster....ROCK LOBSTER!
Unofficially, my age ranges from 25 to 31 as people guess-timate and assess with a skill usually reserved for the selection of a good melon in the produce aisle. They say I act more mature, or seem more mature, or display more maturity...or some are honest and state plainly that I just look that old.
Now I don't take offence to that...the years have aged me, somewhat ungracefully, but with the passing of those years came the attainment of wisdom and knowledge which was followed by a gradual forgetting of that knowledge and then a period of relearning and adult education.
I've learnt many life lessons...and things about myself that, frankly, I didn't want to know about myself...for example, it turns out that I am quite handsome...not simply handsome...but quite handsome...what kind of burden is that to put on a young man struggling through life? Also, I'm in possession of a devilish wit...I don't know how...I don't ever remember paying for it but here I am in possession of wit...can I now on-sell it?
Through my junior years or 'junior years' as I like to refer to them (it gives them an air of self-importance and makes people believe there could be other stages of the life of James Antonas...so that a film could be made called James Antonas: the Wilderness Years) I thought I was quite the frugal friend...a penny pincher...a cheapskate...and so I came to the conclusion early on that I was an ungenerous person. But through the 'junior-middle-upper years' and my arrival to adulthood and full time employment...I find that I am quite a generous person...so it seems my generosity is only limited by my funding...a good thing to know I'd say.
I was/am a selfish person. Who isn't? I love lobster and crabs...ha ha...did you see what I did? Just another example of the wit aforementioned above. But seriously, I do love lobster.
I am a self-centered person...but over the years...I have become less so. There is still the ol' selfish nature there...but I try to appease him with gifts and promises of future wealth and fame if he allows me the moments to show my unselfish side through good deeds and practices...and I have to say that it is a deal that has worked a treat these last two years...and there's only room for more growth as the demand for good deeds and practices increases in these economically turbulent times.
I am impatient which impedes my ability to be a rational thinker. I learnt this lesson all too well these last few weeks moving house with Kirilie (the unselfish, patient angel that she is...who never raises her voice or says a cross word...she has said a crucifix word but we usually save that for Sunday mornings.) The lack of forethought, the hurried nature of my thinking, the frustrated impatience...all combined to make our move the magical experience that it was...I believe Disney are in talks to turn our story into a ride in the Magic Kingdom.
I used to be bitter...and negative. But not any more. Hopefully. A positive spin and there's a grin! (c) James Antonas Industries.
There are other lessons I've learnt...but who has the time for that much internal analysis...when there are more important things out there to enjoy...like lobster....ROCK LOBSTER!
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Character building
I'm struggling with my Irish ancestry, specifically trying to replicate a half decent Irish accent. I've put it off for weeks because in my head I can do an excellent Irish accent...but as I've discovered throughout my life what you sound like in your head is not at all like real life.
For instance, I used to think my voice was actually quite deep and sounded smooth and seductive...and then I hear a recording of myself or see myself on a nationally broadcast TV game show called The Contest and I realise that in fact I sound like a pale imitation of Woody Allen...more middle ground Woody Allen actually rather than full blown nerdy nasality. And I find it quite grating...but that's not the point. There have also been times in the past where I haven't looked my best...maybe a bit looser around the middle than I'd like...a little wobbly in the chins department...but have been able to look myself up and down in the mirror, smile at myself, do the gun point and wink, maybe throw in a 'Looking good tiger' and have completely fooled myself into thinking I look gorgeous. Self delusion is the easiest form of flattery.
So I thought I could do Irish. I read a passage with my Irish accent and recorded it...and whatever that accent was, it was not Irish. It was like some dumb cartoon dog from an old Hanna-Barbera show or something...with strange sounding vowels and consonants like 'O'im thunking aboot the parst' (I'm thinking about the past).
Crap is the word.
And since the character description basically says: 20-30, Irish Accent - I only fulfil half the criteria required for the character. So I think I'll see what I can do about listening to some Irishness in a movie or two over the next few days...see if that helps.
But it got me thinking about character and building character...specifically the things you do in your childhood that you initially thought were terrible and then later...you still think are terrible...and then a few more years pass and you think those things are less terrible. For example, in my case our Dad use to make us go to a farm...a hobby farm really...with an apple orchard, corn, strawberries, sheep (I think)...but not in vast amounts...small...like 20 or so acres...and he'd make us go there nearly every weekend (it seemed like every weekend it may have been less)...and me and my brother kicked up a fuss, but in reality we didn't really have anything better to do, we were about 10ish. So this was Dad's way of getting us into the outdoors to a degree...and obviously we hated it. It had spiders...maybe rats...there was work to be done...and sometimes nothing to be done.
And when I look back on those days, I still remember the hate and dislike of the whole damn thing, but it's now ensconced in a nice hazy glaze of nostalgia...I remember the walnut and mulberry tree, the time my brother and I rode a motorbike and slid on some dog sh*t and did a wheelie halfway around the house, playing Gin and Go Fish, watching The Bill on Saturday nights, playing board games, the black floral couch, the small TV, the oil heater, the time Mum lost her ring and then found it in the old wood fire oven, the regularity of Dad after driving us all the way there getting called back at some point during the weekend and leaving us there, the gas gun in the orchard, apples, riding on the doors or in the tray of the truck, the sore back from picking strawberries in the sun terrified the whole time that a Red back spider was going to get you, the creek, tracksuits, gumboots, the chickens, the goats, the smell...everything.
And it's a funny thing. I'm now in my mid-twenties (26 on Monday...Jay-zus!) but all that is stuff that I now cherish and would love to do again. To go away somewhere for a weekend and not be working in an office and just enjoy the atmosphere of the outdoors and to not be in suburbia. I guess it takes some growing up and other life experiences to realise that those kind of activities and experiences are really quite important to who we are, what we do and what we want out of life. Who wouldn't love to drive off after work on Friday to some retreat and live on and off the land? To forget the drudgery of the working life and pick up a shovel and dig a hole...for no other reason that to just dig a hole! A hole! And luckily we live in a country where hole digging opportunities are abundant. Do it. Pick up a shovel and just dig. You won't regret it!
And I know that if the day ever comes that Kirilie and I decide to have children (and may that day never come!) I will enjoy inflicting the same torture on them that my father inflicted on me and my brother...and I know that they will be better people for it...they'll hate it at the time but later they'll grow up to thank me for the experience...and you know what, they may even do it in an Irish accent.
For instance, I used to think my voice was actually quite deep and sounded smooth and seductive...and then I hear a recording of myself or see myself on a nationally broadcast TV game show called The Contest and I realise that in fact I sound like a pale imitation of Woody Allen...more middle ground Woody Allen actually rather than full blown nerdy nasality. And I find it quite grating...but that's not the point. There have also been times in the past where I haven't looked my best...maybe a bit looser around the middle than I'd like...a little wobbly in the chins department...but have been able to look myself up and down in the mirror, smile at myself, do the gun point and wink, maybe throw in a 'Looking good tiger' and have completely fooled myself into thinking I look gorgeous. Self delusion is the easiest form of flattery.
So I thought I could do Irish. I read a passage with my Irish accent and recorded it...and whatever that accent was, it was not Irish. It was like some dumb cartoon dog from an old Hanna-Barbera show or something...with strange sounding vowels and consonants like 'O'im thunking aboot the parst' (I'm thinking about the past).
Crap is the word.
And since the character description basically says: 20-30, Irish Accent - I only fulfil half the criteria required for the character. So I think I'll see what I can do about listening to some Irishness in a movie or two over the next few days...see if that helps.
But it got me thinking about character and building character...specifically the things you do in your childhood that you initially thought were terrible and then later...you still think are terrible...and then a few more years pass and you think those things are less terrible. For example, in my case our Dad use to make us go to a farm...a hobby farm really...with an apple orchard, corn, strawberries, sheep (I think)...but not in vast amounts...small...like 20 or so acres...and he'd make us go there nearly every weekend (it seemed like every weekend it may have been less)...and me and my brother kicked up a fuss, but in reality we didn't really have anything better to do, we were about 10ish. So this was Dad's way of getting us into the outdoors to a degree...and obviously we hated it. It had spiders...maybe rats...there was work to be done...and sometimes nothing to be done.
And when I look back on those days, I still remember the hate and dislike of the whole damn thing, but it's now ensconced in a nice hazy glaze of nostalgia...I remember the walnut and mulberry tree, the time my brother and I rode a motorbike and slid on some dog sh*t and did a wheelie halfway around the house, playing Gin and Go Fish, watching The Bill on Saturday nights, playing board games, the black floral couch, the small TV, the oil heater, the time Mum lost her ring and then found it in the old wood fire oven, the regularity of Dad after driving us all the way there getting called back at some point during the weekend and leaving us there, the gas gun in the orchard, apples, riding on the doors or in the tray of the truck, the sore back from picking strawberries in the sun terrified the whole time that a Red back spider was going to get you, the creek, tracksuits, gumboots, the chickens, the goats, the smell...everything.
And it's a funny thing. I'm now in my mid-twenties (26 on Monday...Jay-zus!) but all that is stuff that I now cherish and would love to do again. To go away somewhere for a weekend and not be working in an office and just enjoy the atmosphere of the outdoors and to not be in suburbia. I guess it takes some growing up and other life experiences to realise that those kind of activities and experiences are really quite important to who we are, what we do and what we want out of life. Who wouldn't love to drive off after work on Friday to some retreat and live on and off the land? To forget the drudgery of the working life and pick up a shovel and dig a hole...for no other reason that to just dig a hole! A hole! And luckily we live in a country where hole digging opportunities are abundant. Do it. Pick up a shovel and just dig. You won't regret it!
And I know that if the day ever comes that Kirilie and I decide to have children (and may that day never come!) I will enjoy inflicting the same torture on them that my father inflicted on me and my brother...and I know that they will be better people for it...they'll hate it at the time but later they'll grow up to thank me for the experience...and you know what, they may even do it in an Irish accent.
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