Seppo Down Under

Phil's first attempt at fame....the House of Flying Daggers

I had made some statement a ways back about filling in bits and pieces of Phil's life before he became the baddest little 1/4th to 1/16th Cherokee you ever will meet. Here is a small tale of the way it was back in the "hard 'ole days".

As told by Phil....

"So I'm standing in line at the bank behind this chick, and I've got my tongue in her ass"...... (sorry folks, had to include something from the Dice Man for those who truly appreciate him for the hilarious mofo he is). The name's Phil, Phil Anje, and if you haven't guessed already, I'm a friggin' finger. To say the least, this limits my career options because I effectively have no hands (ironic, isn't it?), no feet, and no genitals (like my "host"). Pretty much whatever he does, I have to do, unless I play that "dead" game where I fake like I'm sleeping...he loves that game. Sometimes I talk a leg or a foot into doing it, and sit back in amusement as he hobbles around.

There was one time in my life that I decided I would go against the grain and try to pursue my own career. Mr. Big was all for it, as he could tell I was getting bored with the whole university thing and he was working me to death writing out proofs and truss diagrams. Sometimes I think my brothers on the other side of the road got the good gig, as they only have to run a fork and throw a baseball. I got stuck with being the lead dog on a team of 5 who had to scribble out engineering notes and produce something readable...and Fleety liked to take alot of notes well before the morning cup of coffee got all the way to me! So, I looked in the want ads, trying to find something that would better compliment my skill set, which for the most part included pointing, scratching, and plugging small holes in objects that were leaking. You might ask why I didn't look at some sort of clerical work. Well, I'm a shit typist. Even with my 9 brother working along side me, we are hopeless (ha ha, Mr. Big).

So I went to many interviews, and nobody was really sold on the idea of a finger working all by himself. They would have hired my less-significant bigger counterpart, but would likely refuse to pay the exorbitant compensation that he would demand. I didn't need much money, so I would have taken any job. After about 10 rejections, I decided to be crafty. I was convinced they would not hire me because of my native American genealogy...or maybe it was the Irish half...or because I'm short. Any way you sliced it, it was an issue of discrimination! I, Phil, was being discriminated against! Oh, this was the first step along the road to becoming the baddest little 1/4th to 1/16th Cherokee you ever will meet.

The next step was to decide where I would use my new anti-discrimination slant to get a job. Maybe I needed to look for a place with more workers like me. Minority group. Smaller stature. Highly intelligent. Agile....ah hah!

I would be a sushi chef/knife handler extraordinaire! Alongside my mentor, Kito, I would single handedly wow the pants right off of hordes of teenagers trying desperately to impress their dates with an expensive meal, or middle-aged white bred factory workers taking their fat wives out for some "ethnic food". I would build the mother of all onion volcanoes and the newspaper would write about the lightening-quick agility and fantastical shrimp throws as I Seschwan BBQ the crap out of everything in site. I would be the master of the salt and pepper shakers and perform mind-boggling feats of dexterity with my cleaver and spatula!

Now, it all sounds good in theory. I used the equal opportunity slant to get into the door, although there are 10 like me for every one of you people...but not many fingers looking for legitimate work...mostly unsavoury professions. They asked me to show them my skills. I proceeded to pull out a chopstick and whirl it around in a show that would rival Val Kilmer as Doc Holliday with his whiskey mug. A flurry of chopstick twirling action as it whisked within millimeters of my body, back and forth, up and down, round and round like a Wu-Shu master of the bladed long staff. They were thoroughly impressed and gave me a job as one of the head chefs right on the spot (thus the red hat in the picture above). As I left the interview, stoked as a beaver in a room full of toothpicks, I started to notice splinters all over my body. "This could be bad", I say....chopsticks don't have sharp edges....knives do! gulp!

Needless to say, in my first evening of work I was less than entertaining. Teenagers and fat wives were not impressed, as I banged the salt and pepper shakers around and stayed away from the knives to reduce the risk of filleting myself. I looked more like the less coordinated unsuccessful actors who auditioned for Tom Cruise's role in Cocktail, and less like the steak ninja I had envisaged. Had the grill been a set of steel drums, I would have been massively entertaining to a street full of rastas, but I was a crap Sho-Gun. My fantasy of building the largest onion volcano in history was shattered, as a whole onion rolling unimpressively around a grill does not belch a flurry of yellow flames. I had effectively started a new sport, onion grill curling. On a positive note, I did toss several dozen shrimp! They ended up landing in the light fixtures, the fake bonsai trees in the fourier, on said fat wife's head, and I almost caught one on my hat like I had watched Kito do many times, but it was bigger than me and almost knocked me out cold! Woosey and highly denigrated, I slumped away to the kitchen to pick up my nights wage and receive my walking papers. Cruel working world -1, Imaginary steak Ninja -0. Screw them, I don't need a job anyway. I could have been ten times the chef of any guy in there if I had hands! Angry little Cherokee....angry.

So that's the story of the first, and only job I've had on my own. No wonder I'm an angry little Cherokee. The man has kept me down, and so I have to be the right hand man (even though I'm a left hand finger) for this slob for the rest of our lives!

Life sucks....have a nice day, though.

The Baddest little 1/4th to 1/16th Cherokee you ever will meet

Gee, there, k-fleet-13....looks as if you have ALOT of text and very few pictures for the last few blogs...um, what's happenin' there?

Well, it's amazing that you should ask, Mr. Nobody!

I am transient at the moment. All of the pictures I have have been taken in the last 3 months, as all I have is my laptop and I'm 1500 miles from my picture treasure trove. Once I get back to Kalgoorlie, I will smother you all with pictures, but for now I will just have to dispise myself for posting text.

Oh, OK. I will let you slide only until the first of the year, at which time I will boycott your blog.

Ciao, bella

Random Thoughts of the Day....

In Bizarro World...

So how many of you out there have this alternate internet personality?(How many of you have read a hundred blogs just like this one where some idiot lets his alternate internet personality tell tall tales about how cool he really isn't but says he is?). I believe there is some bionic link between the human psyche and the wizardry of electronics. A link that renders most people super-human, almost possessing the ability to fly and see through walls...maybe that is a stretch, but WAY more bold that they would ever be in real life. Behind a keyboard, I am eloquent, sophisticated, appear educated and highly cultured, and can perpetuate the image of being quite a wordsmith. In reality, I say "um" alot when I speak (especially to a group), and am apprehensive to speak up in a room full of strangers. On the internet, I can reach out and grab a piece of information from across the world in fractions of a second (or maybe a few seconds over dial-up...those guys are like the less popular support staff for the superheroes...like internet sidekicks! But being a sidekick isn't all that bad, as you still get to wear a costume and pull the second-class superhero groupies...just for fetching coffee and experiencing the occasional brush with imminent doom). Where was I? Oh, in Internetville (Bizarro world), the fat are thin, the meek are bold, and the man with 6 fingers on each hand is king!

I'm not really sure where I was going with this...just a random observation in the absence of anything important to talk about...and not really enough time to get into another story.

Good luck vibes out to the boys of the AR-MABL Arkansas Shadows in their preparation for the Men's Amateur Baseball League World Series Tournament in Phoenix, AZ. Weav, JJ, and the rest of you whom I don't know because you have never had the pleasure of playing alongside me, good luck and don't choke...again...like last year....and the year before that! Mojo to you for the next 3 scrimmage games before boarding the plane for the big dance. May your feet be swift, may your bats be mighty, and may your gloves be true.

Oh yeah, for all of you bloggers out there, if I wanted to read all text and have no pictures, I'd pick up a dictionary. Please post pictures that may or may not go along with your story. And make them original pictures that come from your own life, not the crap that floods into my inbox by "those who forward EVERYTHING"....really, please stop that. The first six times the joke was funny. And if the chain forwards were true, by deleting them I would have no arms, no job, a debilitating disease, no girlfriend, and the worst luck of anybody in the world....ummm, I have arms, but the rest is pretty much the case. My luck isn't the worst, but it's bad enough...screw it, I refuse to forward all of that crap! Bring that bad internet mojo my way, because I will delete every chain letter that hits my inbox!!

Scotch is my nemesis....
or the earlier version working title: 21 and dumb as a box of chicken beaks
or: If I died, I would have already been embalmed (with Scotch, so no open flames around my casket)

There have been approximately 3 times in my life when I was beyond the point of "sensible consumption" of alcohol. I have been tipsy, drunk, blotto, rat-arsed. etc on many occasions, but these particular 3 were the ones where it takes you a week to recover and for all intents and purposes, you should have been in the ER getting a stomach pumping. I may eventually get around to telling the story of the other 2, as they happened within the stint of about a year during my first habitation of Australia, but this story will be about fateful #1...."The Scotch Incident". Now I must say I hate it when people compare drunk stories, or brag about how drunk they got last weekend and how they spewed all over someone's car/house/shoes/etc. Notable accomplishment, fella! But this story helps to define my aversion to a certain alcoholic substance. Really the only one I will no longer touch. I'm not proud of my effort, but it's a bit amusing now (ten years past).

So ask yourself, what is the definition of silky-smooth cool at the local "uptown" watering hole (you know, the cocktail bar where a beer costs $7 and they actually make a chocolate martini)? To me, it's the well-maintained, successful, Hugo Boss wearing 40-something (but looks 29) fellow gliding across the floor in his Italian shoes to order up a single malt Scotch on the rocks. Well, I'll never be that guy. One, when I'm 40, I'll look 50 and feel 60. Two, I'll be the guy in a plain Fruit of the Loom T-shirt ordering a draft beer in a plastic cup. Three, I probably wouldn't be in that joint (as I probably wouldn't be allowed in wearing said T-shirt) and they don't have pool tables and puddles of beer/spit/urine on the floor and a toothless fat woman cackling in the corner while busting her floppy boobies out at everyone who walks in. Four, Scotch makes me ILL (and I'm not talkin Beastie Boy ill...I mean stomach churning ill). I was not one of the unlucky people who were born with an alcohol allergy. My Scotch-induced malaise was of my own doing...actually not me personally, as I blame "the giant".

Rewind 10+ years...

I'm all excited...the good 'ole 21st B-day is coming up and the guys have decided to throw a party that weekend. Not necessarily for my birthday, but it is around the same time, so I'll take it. Right before the party commences at "the baseball house", my good friend Jules brings me my birthday gift...a pouch of Redman Golden Blend. Oh Jules, how sweet of you to indulge my tobacco habit...the good stuff, too. No Taylors Pride or Beech-Nut...she went for the holy grail of leaf tobaccos. So I stroll to the party, girlfriend and female friend in tow. The usual cast of characters is there. The inhabitants of the baseball house (strangely, though, the house was actually only 2 baseball players, and 2 non baseball players, but was the "baseball house"...probably because there was a swimmers house and runners house where actual swimmers and runners lived) the rest of the team, and the baseball supporters/friends/groupies. So I stroll in and draw my first cup of brew from the keg...frosty! I sit in a big, cushy chair by the door, with my lady on one leg and my female friend on the other(they were roommates, so it was kind of OK); a beer in one hand and a spitter in the other hand and a big wad of Redman nestled in my cheek. I now know what Jabba the Hut felt like when he had Princess Leia as his chamber slave and he's watching Han Solo be cast in Carbonite. I was the king of the castle. I was Henry the 8th, perched upon my throne (except I didn't order the beheadings of anybody). When I needed a beer, the missus would get it. But as a mighty water balloon reaches it's height of trajectory before plummeting to it's soakingly tragic doom, I was due to crash miserably and leave a trail of wet, messy horror in my wake.

The binge drinking started shortly after I arrived and purveyed my might kingdom from atop my righteous perch. The first initiatory chug was instigated by my friend Dial. He decreed that every time he pointed at me, I would have to take a healthy slug of my beer. Fair enough. I am a king of the people, and will do my faithful duty to serve them and meet their wishes. Chug chug. Spit tobacco. Chug chug, burp. Lovely...doing my kingly duties. A half hour later, apparently a messenger of the cardinal would show up, because my stately powers would diminish with my liver. Enter 7ft Rob.

Rob is 7ft tall. He used to play professional basketball in Europe until he blew out his knees. Now he hangs with baseball players as the older and much more foreboding character while working on an engineering degree (oh yeah, we're all engineering students so we would be a little smart). So Rob walks in, "what's up Fleet?" Smile and ....ooh Dial is pointing at me from across the room Chug, spit tobacco. "Nothing". The duke of the shire (Mikey) for which I am overseeing this evening walks up to Rob. "It's Fleet's 21st, do your worst"(fateful words that still ring in my ears like the haunting sound of something mildly more threatening than a small kitten with a bad disposition). I'm not really sure why Rob was the judge, jury, and executioner. I think maybe it was because he was a liege of the holy robe or something else that appoints him immediate power to rule over the kings of the land...or because he's really tall and has hands the size of dinner plates and a voice that could make concrete crawl away. So I am plucked from my throne for a trip to the kitchen. Up to the cabinet above the stove. Enter the black knight to my Lancelot...a cheap bottle of Scotch Whiskey. I am not sure of the brand. It had a bird on it, and I notice a price tag of $11.75....not single malt apparently. The rules are the same as with Dial, but instead of being a good leader to my people, I am a donkey being led up a steep hill by a barbwire leash....point, drink....you know the rules....frown. The next couple of hours are the fun bit of the story.

Point, swig, wince, repeat. The guys had a grand idea for the party. They would mount a strobe light and a video camera in the basement, with a live feed to the bigscreen upstairs. Dance music in the basement, chillin' music, bullshitting, and darts upstairs. This live feed and camera would later compliment my apparent Scotch-induced exhibitionism. So early in the game, it changes from hide from Rob and drink when he eventually finds me, to a seek and destroy mission where I would find him and take a swig from my bottle just for spite. Shortly after this point, I would end up in the basement, performing for the camera. Blurriedly I look around...ooh, camera. Music. Prime setting for a striptease. So, I proceed to peel off my clothing in a provocative manner, my poor girlfriend collecting the items as I free my assets. At one point, another girl looks at her and and asks, "Are you going to let him do this?". The GF just shrugs and continues picking up clothing and holding my beloved bottle of sweet, sweet death. I never got to full monty. Even blind drunk, I have a shred of humility, a spot of decency, and a bit of humbleness. Good time to put my clothes back on I guess and head back upstairs.

The limited mental photographs I would collect after the strip would include me walking up to people and proudly displaying the amount of Scotch I had consumed in roughly an hour. I would point to the top, and slide my finger down the bottle (with accompanying sound effects) to the point about an inch from the bottom....yes you read that right. Almost a fifth (750mL) of Scotch in about an hour. Then, I would roll around the floor giggling like a cracked-out, Tourette's syndrome stricken orangutan. Then, a surly gurgle in my tummy alerts me that maybe it is time to work my way carefully to the door. Uh oh, no longer a gurgle...now a mild explosion. Throw hand over mouth and run, don't walk to the nearest exit. Porch, air, release! Projectile regurgitation of Scotch (oh how I hate thee). Sit down and rest. Pass out sitting against the house.

The next thing I recall is being pinned between the toilet and the bath tub in the upstairs bathroom of the house. My poor GF is in between me and the bath tub, trying to keep me from either drowning in the toilet or suffering a concussion by slamming my head against the porcelain as I drift in and out of consciousness between bouts of dry heaves. Lights on, chuck chuck...bile, blood (less than optimal). Lights out...smack. Lights on.."I'm sorry...curse loudly", heave. Lights out...no smack (caught me in time). My best guess is this went on for about an apologetic hour or so. Big points to the GF for putting up with this and still choosing to talk to me the next day. My next conscious recollection is waking up on the couch downstairs. Mikey and Nate sitting in their respective regular places in their boxers watching Sports Center and eating cereal. It is now Sunday, and we have a scrimmage game this afternoon. I pop up, feeling quite good actually. I start the 2 block walk home, wondering how the hell I got upstairs to begin with, and moreso how I got back downstairs because the guys had gone to bed before I was finished with my "episode" upstairs (I remember them saying that). I do remember several people checking in on me/GF and just shaking their heads, "Happy Birthday" they would say, or just "Is he going to die?" as they peeked through the bathroom door.

I'm one block into the walk and I don't feel so well now. This is going to be the hangover your momma warns you about, and you have a scrimmage game in about 3 hours. Need food. Needless to say, I did not feel at all well at the game. I was standing in right field, the sun hitting my face, breathing heavily, trying not to fertilize the grass with the contents of my breakfast. Eggs and waffles would not help the grass grow. Game over, sleep for 18 hours.

So thats why I don't drink Scotch. Now you know. I think Scotch tape is one of the most wonderful inventions of our time, Scotch filets are tasty, the Scotch people are friendly, Scotch whiskey, though, is the liquid embodiment of the antichrist.

No Friends for You!

I sometimes play the "blog lottery", whereabouts I surf random blogs to see who is stealing all of my readership and occupying space on Al Gore's internet that could go towards storage and transport of free pornography and buttonhook websites (you guys remember making a lame piece of "art" with yarn and a mesh number-coded platen...long live buttonhook). In my blog travels, I have come across many pages of teenage angst. The last year of high school, the first year of high school, just hangin' out in high school. Is it just me, or are kids that much worse off today? I hate to call them "kids", as that classifies me as a "not kid", but the number of potential future collegiate eating disorders and substance abuses I read alarms me.

I am all for technology. I think computers and the web are great networking tools, and make life easier (unless you ever put a computer in for service with Best Buy). But for the kids today, the internet is just another avenue where you face potential disappointment. For that matter, the same goes for adults and the dating websites. Instead of the limited number of people you actually meet in person rejecting you, you get countless numbers of "foxylady99"s or "sillygirl"s who can stomp right on your attempt to find that small group of people with whom you completely meld.

As a teenager, you are ultimately worried about your appearance. I guess that's where the internet comes in handy. I was a fat kid, and a rotund early teenager, but I was a funny fat kid not the depressed recluse. I would have loved to get ahold of photoshop and paste my head onto a body shot of Patrick Swayze (the total babe magnet from my days of teenagerdome), misrepresenting my portly physique in the ultimate act of deviance and betrayal. There you go, "Lipstick Lisa76", I'm a hottie, not a fatty! But alas, I had to deal with the fact that I wore the same pants size as my father (although I was 9 inches shorter). I think it was where I developed my self deprecating humour. I was Chunk from "The Goonies", and the "truffle shuffle" was well within my range of entertaining diddys. Another fun game I had to suffer through was "What is this colour", performed by my older brother in front of his friends. You see, as per the wondrous reality of genetics, I am colour blind (from maternal G-Pa). Technically Red/Green colour blind, but I prefer the term "colour deficient". I think you can tell where this is going. Older brother, his friends, coloured object, and one colour blind little brother...you work it out. Little did we know until later, my twin brother is also colour blind but never made it apparent, so he never got to call blue, purple or green, brown much to the amusement of a bunch of 12 year olds.

So, technology when I was a growing up was the state of the art Commodore 64. We had the flash version with the cassette drive. Remember this way of slamming your brother?

1>Print, "Keith is a butthole"
2>Goto 1
3>Run

And the screen would scroll down with line after line of "Keith is a butthole"...good times, yeah, good radio. Then there was the "Meow Meow" program that ran from the tape drive. The more affluent programmers (my older brother) could hack the DOS text of the cat face to make him look like ET. What a master stroke! Then there was the Oregon Trail. Funnest computer game ever invented. Where else can you barter with and /or fight with hostile and friendly natives all while traveling across the Great Plains in a wagon? Cholera, cool!

So I think my generation came out better, having not had the "advantages" of technology. We had to take our lumps in person, and were forced to hop on our bicycles to go visit instead of texting or IM'ing our friends. As a member of (baby boomers + Gen X)/2 generation, we grew up to some of the best music, best clothing styles, and worst haircuts of the 20th century. Long live the 25-35 ers in all of their breakdancing, valley girl glory.

Random thought(s) of the day....

1) Loneliness is like a tuna sandwich without bread...so basically it's like, just tuna...

2) I'm convinced my bubby is the only person in the world who reads my piece of crap blog. He is the only one who posts any responses. I'm not a page designer, so I have no idea how to put a counter thingy on to see how many people jump on the page, or at least pass by while surfing random blogs. If I did have a counter, I would jump on my own page all the time just to pad the numbers and make myself look more popular! It's like rolling back the odometer of an old car before you sell it, except it's not like that at all, except there are numbers involved.

3) I have noticed that there are alot of blogs where people post crappy poetry. Art is subjective, of course, and so I think most of the attempted poetry lacks inspiration. Too many people with the melancholy blues spouting free prose about darkness and raindrops of disparity and depressing shit like that. What happened to the old fashioned limerick?

Wasn't there once a man from Nantucket?

Wasn't there once a girl from Wheeling?

What about Uncle Bud? (bubby will get this one)

Tick a dog, tick a seed, tick a bear.........(another inside one from Poppy Fleetwood)

Please, crappy poetry writer guys and gals, try something upbeat instead of how your soul has shattered like the peaceful quiet of the morning....you really do make me want to listen to REM and hang MYSELF in the shower by my shoestrings! With that, I'll leave you with a treat...an old classic (and one of the first, and only, I ever learned and remembered compliments of Thos D.).

There once was a girl from Wheeling,
who thought it was a good dealing.
To lay on her back, and open her crack,
and piss all over the ceiling!

I just made up a new phrase, and I wanted to get it written down before someone takes it from me and it becomes the next ad campaign for Rossi, Blundstone, Red Wings, Doc Martins, etc.

"My boots will go to heaven, because they have marched me through hell."
or
"My shoes will go to heaven, because they have walked/ran/carried me through hell"

Damn that sounds good. Yeah the literary giant!

No Phil, you do not get the credit because you pushed the M,b,t,g,h,...and so on. It came from my head...I'm pretty sure it's original. I can't remember reading it or hearing it anywhere.

More for 15 minutes of shame...

more Study folks (thanks to bubby):

Brent Faucett
Mark Bryant
Shawn Fisher
Steve Wilson
Mandy Ray
April Isley
Angie Collins
Jason Harville
Elisha Ray (Wheaty)
Jill Downing
Angie Glenn (Flame)

And the Skeletons Do a Line Dance....PHIL Sighting imminent

This is all fiction...no really. The story is about a friend of mine, Phil. You have all met Phil. He has a penchance for corroborating with unsavoury characters, and committing moral atrocities. I, unfortunately have to witness these first hand (pun intended), unless I am lucky enough to be passed out before he misbehaves. That's one way to keep him reeled in. He's not strong enough to drag my 83kg of dead weight around...hah hah. Unless he figures out that he can strike a deal with his cousins on the other end of town and they can help carry me around even though the old brain is switched off. Phil's tale of debauchery...

As told by the rascal himself, Phil.

I've never really thought about a political career. In fact, I don't want one, or at least not one where a few personal infringements of the law would keep me out or get me fired. I have decided, after much deliberation, to air out my dirty laundry so that anybody trying to collect incriminating facts about me in the future can have it all in one nice little packet. 10 years from now (or even 10 minutes from now), I will probably regret what I am about to write. I know the poor sap that I'm carrying around with me will pay for this (this 6' stunning bronze god with rippling abs and amazing hands...hey, I'll toot my own horn when I can, lord knows this guy isn't getting me any action!)

For the last few years, I have lived under the premise of an "open book" policy. I will answer any question about myself, no matter how personal, but will not divulge incriminating facts willy-nilly without being posed with a question. There are plenty of things I have done in my life that I am embarrassed about, but nothing that I am ashamed of. That's probably because I don't do things that I will be ashamed about later....it keeps me under some level of legal and moral control. Plus, they have transformed me into the finger I am today.

My children one day will resurrect this blog from the archives after the great computer revolution and we are living in the sewers, hiding from all the blood-thirsty robots (don't ask me why a robot would want or need to taste human blood, but it makes the story better). And these are ROBOTS, not high tech cyborgs with polymetallic skeleton and human flesh overlay. These robots are slow, clumsy, can't turn to the left, and have blinking lights and ringing bells, like Robbie, and are the size of Cadillacs. They can't smell, and vision is in the form of 56Kb streaming video over an overworked dial-up network, so they don't see well....but they are bloodthirsty, so if they ever did catch a crafty and highly agile human, they would chow down. Okay, so the robots aren't a threat and we are just hanging out in the sewer looking at turds float by like little fecal sailboats. Normally we would be at home and just duck behind the couch when the robots come by looking for a feed...wait, where was I? Oh yeah, so my hypothetical future kid finds this blog, and he/she/it (we don't know what kind of inter-species mating will go on in the future after the war) sees all of the naughty things their old man had been up to before he went on the path of righteousness in his 80's (By that point I'll be 120, going through my midlife crisis after the World gov't starts giving growth hormone out like Skittles). They say, "Daddy, was that actually illegal back then?" "They were different times then, DFHtsdgrfe23fefr456 and bub" (all the good names were taken by then, so I picked DFHtsdgrfe23fefr456 after passing out on my keyboard. Plus, it had a nice ring. We call her DFHtsdgrfe23fefr for short). So here is the list. The skeletons are now coming out of the closet, doing a line dance to Achy Breaky Heart as they drag my reputation to ruin. I hope you all enjoy this humiliating and spirit-freeing exercise in humility. I know my buddy, the Fleetwood Express (as he likes to call himself...how pathetic. Delusions of grandeur) will not like it, and I will have to press the "Publish" button while he is looking away, as he would be guilty by association. Even the accomplices become somebody's bitch in the slammer...moreso because he is a silent observer and not quite the badass I am...plus I have no sphincter to be violated. Enjoy the rogering, buddy!

Here they are, in all my glory...

Illegal things (booze & drug related):

-I have imbibed in alcoholic beverages while under the legal drinking age
-I have "contributed to the delinquency of minors" by purchasing alcohol for those under the legal drinking age.
-I have taken someone elses prescription medication for therapeutic and non-therapeutic purposes
-I have taken non-prescription formulations for recreational purposes (only once)
- I have taken scheduled substances for aesthetic purposes

Illegal things (road things):

- I have knowingly and willfully driven in excess of the posted speed limit
- I have, on occasion, not ceased my forward motion at stop lights/stop signs.
- I have, stupidly, operated a motor vehicle over the legal blood alcohol content

Illegal things (other):

-I have taken items that did not belong to me

Morally Reprehensible things:

- I have lied
- I have cheated on exams by using additional formulas written on extra "scratch paper". Never copied answers from someone else or attempted to obtain answers before the exam.
- I have helped others cheat by being the "answer guy" from whom they took answers
- I have cheated during a relationship
- I have made fun of those with physical or mental handicaps, or the disadvantages
- I have used derogatory racial slurs
- I have dropped the "C-Bomb"
-I have flatulated in confined spaces or at inopportune times

That's about all I can think of. The top few would probably land me in jail for a couple of years, but of course there is no precedence for prosecuting a rogue appendage.

There are plenty of things that I believe have kept the karma police off of my back, though.

Good things:

-I have given to numorous charities and people in need
-I have bought more damn magazines from kids trying to win trips that I could ever read. I still haven't received one batch that I ordered like 1.5 years ago!
-I have bought plenty of cleaning items from drunken derelicts trying to get money for their next fix (I still say I paid $20 for Simple Green in a spraybottle in WY)
-I have been the rock on which many have strapped their anchors in the storm
-I have lent money to many in a time of need with no intention of collecting it back (you are not off the hook, Scott)
-I have been kind to stray animals and children (not stray children)
- I have never taken advantage of an intoxicated female ( that would be regretful, which I don't do)
- I have purchased books from religious groups of which I had no interest
- I have tipped ludicrously high amounts for those who appeared to need it (if they need the money, they will be working their arses off for you)
- I have allowed ignorant people to tell me what they know about absolutely nothing without burning them to the ground and shattering their cracked porcelain facade
- I have saved insects in peril, and re-released them into the wild
- I have always "given a penny". Never "taken one"

After all is said and done, I guess I live a somewhat charmed life. Things don't get handed to me (no pun intended), but they seem to fall into place. Hard work and risk-taking have paid off for the most part (except for the almost dying 3 or so times between the age of 20 and 30). I guess I could have gotten a worse body to ride along with, although he does scratch his testicles a bit too much...but lucky me, he prefers to scratch with his right hand (sorry, brother). When it's all said and done, I think the bad things I have done aren't all that bad...mostly misdemeanors or something that could be plea-bargained to a suspended sentence and community service...maybe even supervised probation. To all of those riding the train of probation, stick it out (you know who I'm talking to...both of you). Hang tough and keep that nose clean...all will be admonished soon enough.

That's the tale of me, Phil Anje, the way it should be told. No pussy-footing around because I am the baddest little digit you'll ever meet...Word! I'm not hip-hop or gangsta. I'm an Indian outlaw (well, somewhere between 1/4 and 1/16th)...so you better recognise before you get a tom-tom upside your freshly scalped noggin....oh wait, I'm from a peaceful tribe...got any shiny beads, I have pristine woodlands!

A shot out to two of the most entertaining people on the web...miss Doxie (www.missdoxie.com) and Mike (aka Azn Steve) from Youtube. When work is slow, you keep me awake!

Random thought of the day....

I was discussing this with a colleague at the mine this morning....

If you are a fluffer on the set of an adult motion picture, do you get to include that film/producer on your resume? Would you actually include jobs where you were "behind the scenes technical support"? I would think being a fluffer would be like an internship, which you would definitely include under your work experience when interviewing for a job. I also wonder how a former adult film star would fill in an application for say, Subway.

Former work experience: Adult film actress
Duration of employment: 3 years
Reasons for leaving: Blown-out sphincter
Special training: DVDA (for those not familiar with the acronym, look it up)
Front line supervisors name: Tony Hardrod and Jimmy KingDong

Random though of the day.....

I like SPAM. The "light" version sucks. It's cousin, "Veet" is not all that bad. On all other processed and canned meat goods I am indifferent. The high fat, high sodium "potted" meats are edible. Pate' or braunschweiger are decent for organ meats.

See, random.

Your 15 Minutes of Fame....

If, like me, you have ever decided to "google" your name to see what dirt is published on the web about you, you will like this post. I have decided to give ALOT of people that I know their own little space on the web that will pop up when googled (maybe, I can't confirm that). It will link them to my page, and maybe lead them here to catch up with what I have been up to. This will be a boring blog for those of you seeking entertainment, but the next one will be better. I just wanted to send a vibe out into the universe with some acknowledgement of the people that have been memorable. I'll break it down into sections so you's can see where these folks fit in. If I have included your name on here, and you don't want it here, stiff shit! If I have forgotten you, then it may have slipped my mind temporarily, or you might not have been all that memorable in the grand scheme of my life...plus I'm getting old. I'll make no apologies...you should have tried harder, or I have left you out for a reason (like you are a cockhead). This will be a random list of the names that pop into my head, so don't fret. I'll also list just first or last names if I can't remember the lot. As I think of you, I may include you. If you're not here in the first post, keep your eyes peeled if you think I should remember you. In addition, I may put you in the wrong slot. Come'on, that's like 20 years ago. The mental file tabs have faded a bit.

The original crew.....

From the days of way back when we were terrorizing the neighbourhood on our BMX bikes (actually Flying-O's for bubby and I). Water Street was the epicenter of everything. It's odd that we were "neighbourhood chums", because we lived more than a block from one another. Technically we didn't even live in the same neighbourhood, except for Larry and us Fleetwood boys. The original members of this crew would spend about 10 tight years together, from the early days of Study Elementary and Jr. High, through the end of Central High School. I'll be standing at the altar as a best-man trifecta in one of their weddings in December, and best-manned for another 4 years ago. Back in the day, the worst thing in the world was to be "dissed" from the crew. It was a fate worse than death. The cast of characters, in no particular order.

Kris Fleetwood (bubby, and the ring leader...aka Cucumber, EMD (Every Mother's Dream))

Scott Gardner (aka MCA)

Brad Kirk

Donald Piatt (aka "D", or Laredo Dan)

Larry Andrus (Lar)

Me (aka Soda Pop, KDK (Kool Daddy K))...pathetic, isn't it?

Once in High school a couple more members joined the crew. They are:

Gary McCormack

William McCrimmons (Big Will)

Back to Study Elementary/Jr High for a moment. The members of the original posse will recognise these names, and I only remember a few, so I'll throw them out there to show they were present and accounted for.

Elementary:
Brad Adams (and twin older brothers Bobby and Billy "the Michael Jacksons")
Brian Wade Worthy ("bombadeer")
Tandi Newton (my first girlfriend)
Natalie Dunn
Tanna Helwig
Daniel Clements
James Brown (aka "Liquorice")
Liz Letterman
Paula Little
Amanda Frye
Andy Belt
Brandon Thomas
Terry & Ottie (Charles) Smith
Christy Ingram
Alex Arnall
Shane Johnson

Teachers:
Mrs Lippman
Mrs McElwain
Mrs Punch
Mr Heilman
Mrs Adams

Jr High: this list is pathetic, I know...I'll try to meditate more and come up with more names..or I'll ask bubby to chip in:
Scott Robinett
Chandi Mitchell
Nathan Christenson
The Chaffin Twins (Dawn & Michelle)
Josh Cooper
Robbie Jacobs

Teachers:
Mrs Wayne
Mrs Stringer
Mrs George

Honourable mention goes out to my older brother's group of friends who did not terrorize us near enough to be older brother's friends.

Rodney Pippin (Hot Rod)
Brent Cowan (Beast)
Shane Fickbaum
Scotty Allen
Matt McCoy
Robert Eichen
Brian Pryor (aka Red)

High School:
Mark Noel
Bryce Gilliland
Terrence Johnson
Travis Wommack
Kenny Tudor
Mike Ray
Howard Ziegenbein (Ziggy)
Louis Baker
Mickey Hatfield
Michelle Mondragon
Mary Click (still got a crush on the girl)
Carol Slavens
Vicky Vanaman
Ida Renee Goller
Mary Evans
Amber Schauffner (now Piatt)
Lisa Cooper
Tony Franklin
Tyrone Lewis

Teachers:
Coach Jim Hoodenpyle
Mr. Greg Darnaby
Coach Jim Reynolds
Coach Kermit Kenyon
Coach Alan Spencer
Coach John Willis
Coach Ken Hopper
Coach Hurst
Coach Stacy
Mrs Johnson
Mr Hawkins
Mr Toby (Tobe-Dawg)
Mr Alan Vandel
Frau Mary Bielenberg-Turner
Mr Evans
Mrs Garner

UMR:

TJ 4-South:
Simon Crafts (the Grand Pubah)
Neil Bacoski
Alex Bowman
Dale Martinez
Tim Krall
Matt Rottmund
Joel Weinhold
Chris Bertman
Jason Williams
Scott Purtle
Darrel
Aaron Cypret (my roomie)
Angie "Killer" Green
Sonya Hockaday
Shelly (the downstairs neighbour from hell)

UMR Baseball:
Tom Hasenstab (Hoss)
Tim Felton
Gary Hubbard (Bluto)
Mike Williams
Nate Wade
Kevin Hill (K-Nuts)
Pat Cisco
John McReynolds (Johnnie Mac)
Andy Dial
Vince Como (The Love-Gun)
Ted "Theodore" Ingalls (Tingles)
Jimmy VanIten
Jeff Ulrich
Scott Hopper
Keith (Cranky)
Matt Bryant
Kyle Brummer
Tom Winkleman
Mike Banfield (Dino)
Russel Springer
Dwight Ipock
Jeffrey Woytek
Joe Schmidberger
Randy Root
Matt Klaus
Jason Cerrano
Jeff Morris
Steve Ingram (the Alaskan Assassin)

Other UMR-ites to mention:
Donna Smith
Melanie Claxton (now Jelinek)
Paul Wakeland
Keith Wheeler (The Hornet)
Don Richardson (Slats)

Swimmers:
Eric Jelinek (Jelly)
Ryan Uptmor (Spermy)
Sphincter
Beef
Capone
Wade Haggstrom

Profs:
Dr John Wilson
Dr Larry Grayson
Dr Jerry Tien
Dr Paul Worsey
Dr Richard Bullock
Mr Richard Gertsch
Dr Murial Mazurkeweitz
Dr Ronald Bienick
Dr Tad Golosinski
Barb Robertson
Tammy Short
Ron Robinson & Jimmy from experimental mine

Shit, this list is too long now. I'll backlog and add more later once my reminiscing cell has cooled down in my brain.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.....

I would like to think I'm a regular Joe. I like sports. I like music. I like the outdoors. I like the indoors. TV rocks. Movies are great, when they're good. I have the regular number of appendages. What makes me different than every other Joe in the world? One thing is my prized possession in the world. When you ask most people what their prized possession is, they would say a family heirloom, or a car, or something they earned for a spectacular achievement. My prized possession is the oldest thing I own that I actually purchased myself. It has traveled the world with me, and kept the elements from burning, blowing, or washing away my head. My most valued possession is virtually worthless to someone else, unless it is raining or the sun is fierce, or if you are gathering spare change to raise funds for a mate's last trip to the brothel (you're welcome, Noah). My most valued item is a hat. A Notre Dame baseball cap to be specific.

For those of you who have spent more than a few hours with me, you have seen this little beauty perched atop my head. For most of you, you would have made a comment about the ferral state of my beauty. Sometimes, it gets more attention than I do, and thus has it's own personality. To the best of my recollection, I bought this cap somewhere between the ages of 12-15 years. I bought it at a "garage sale" that was being held at the Conference Center in my hometown. Local businesses brought out items to peddle them, and I believe Key Sports were selling this cap, along with others. I'm not sure why I would have chosen Notre Dame at that point, as I would become a fan later in Uni, but I ended up with it. It started out dark blue with beautiful white and gold embriodery. Starter brand...kudos to the Starter company. Bubby bought a New York Yankees hat, which I believe is still in existence, but has not been heard from in a while.

If we back calculate, I have had this hat for somewhere between 16 and 19 years....that's a while.

This hat went through many stages of life from purchase to current day. Primary headwear as a youth, to secondary as I went through my wannabe thug stage in high school (go Westside Whiteys), when it was swapped for a black Raiders and Atlanta Falcons hat. Once in Uni, I added a few other Notre Dame pieces to my collection, as I was a Lou Holtz freak. I even got to go to a home game in Southbend...fantastic! (thanks Tim Krall, wherever you are). In my sophomore or junior year, I alternated this cap with others depending on my outfit. Ball caps are fashion accessories in uni...although I never bought one just because it matched an outfit. At some stage, all the rage were the caps that had been beaten to utter shit. My precious was once again resurrected to primary headwear, as it was pretty haggard by this point due to years of wear. It still looked too new to be old, though. Time to abuse it more. Also to note, I played baseball in college, so I had that hat to abuse as well. This would probably serve as the saving grace for my precious ND cap.

Somewhere along the way (I think in late high school), I cut the lining out of the inside to allow the crown to drop and fit hy head better. That's the first step to breaking a ball cap well...cut the plastic mesh lining material out of the crown. Next, you have to soak the hat in hot water, tie the bill up with rubber bands in a full circle, and hang it up to dry...repeat twice. This goes for all ball caps, unless you are into the new oversized, flat bill look that is ruining hats the world over.

For the rest of uni, I wore a cap almost every day. That's probably why my hair started falling out, especially with this mess of a hat on my head. I'd say ND got about half time wear during the year, full time in the summer. It was finally getting really horrible to look at, like a well worn cap should. After graduating uni, Mr ND became the top dog once again. Everywhere I go, it goes with me, either riding atop my crest, or stuffed in a backpack. It has become virtually impossible to ruin the bill at this point, as I think the repeated dirt and oil infusion has transformed the cardboard into a memory material. Over the last 8 years or so, this hat has been in every body of water I have touched. Every lake, stream, ocean, sea, puddle, river, jacuzzi, and even quite a few showers. For the most part, this is the only washing it gets....quick dip and dry on my head. At this point, I would not even consider putting it in a washing machine. I am convinced it would turn to dust. I do give it a bit of a washing every 6 months or so by wearing it into the shower and soaping it up with shampoo like I was washing my hair. Then hang to dry. Every time I know I'll be doing something really dirty, I throw this hat on. I'd hate to hear the stories it would have to tell...all of the drenchings in water or sweat, all of the sunburns, the mud, dust, snow, grease, oil, rocks, lime, etc etc. This hat has been the consummate trooper, and has been a great companion. At times in our life together, a girl or guy has snatched it off of my head, and I jump immediately to attention. It used to be funny when I was young and my hat was young, but now it's worth fighting over. I'm like Gollum with his trinket....my precious. The funny thing is I haven't had to change the size on the back tabs (that are in horrible shape, but it's good plastic) in many, many years.

I'm sure there are alot of things that make me different from every Joe Blow, but this is one of them. If I am lucky enough to have my ND cap for the rest of my life, I think I would like to be buried with it. That way when I get to heaven or hell (whichever one it ends up being), it will protect me from the angels crapping above me or the rain of brimstone down in Hades.

RETRACTION:

In a post from the recent past, I stated that I was wearing a Superman T-shirt ala vintage Marvel Comics. Superman was, of course, DC Comics. My bad.

BACKLOG....CAIRNS THE FIRST TIME AROUND

I have written a bit about the first Cairns trip for Phil and I. I think I made it to my hotel room, then the Lagoon. That was all on Friday arvo. Time to strike through the rest of the trip...

Friday night....The Courthouse.

Dave, John, Megs, and I head out to meet some of Meg's friends at a restaurant/pub (Rattle 'N Hum). Beer #1, nice. #2 & #3 just as good. We order up food and the peppered fish takes like 45 minutes. Everybody had already gotten their food and are 3/4 of the way through it. We were each given one of those little remote vibrators. I go up to see if they actually had to go out back and cast a rod for mine, and they say they tried to buzz me when it was ready a half an hour ago. "No, I had this thing in my hand, and it never went off". She tries it again, and NOTHING! The sumbitch was broken. "Oops, I guess it doesn't work, here's your food". Grumble, curse, walk back to table. Food done, and drink done. The pub has a novelty toilet, where the urinal trough is against a 2-way mirror. From the urinal, you can see out, but the folks outside in the dining area cannot see in. The fun thing is if you now someone has walked in there, point at an area midway up the mirror and giggle.

We all "posse up" and head to the Courthouse. At this juncture, Nina and Siska have joined the group, as well as some others of the Japanese JCU group. It's kind of a somber weekend for the fellas, especially John, because Meagan is due to go back to Japan on Sunday. She had been living with John and his wife/daughter for the last year while studying English at JCU in Cairns. So it's time for the big send-off, as the graduation ceremony had been earlier in the day. There's one thing I notice about that particular evening in the Courthouse....tons of Japanese/international students. I'm not sure if that may be their usual haunt, but this evening, Dave, John, Nina, and myself were the minority as anglos. Meagan's friends from the program were living it up in grand fashion, going after the tequila, Jaegar, whatever the barkeep would poor into a shot glass. I was sitting there nursing my beer, just shaking my head, knowing they would pay for it later (sometimes age does = wisdom, especially when it somes to boozing it up and hitting the shots). The brew was being quite kind to me, and I have a suspicion that the air was extremely dry, as my beer was evaporating from the bottle! I think Phil may have been sneaking a few drinks as well, because I would notice a numb feeling in my hand...cheeky little bastard....I told you I had to watch him!

So the evening is wearing on, and I get to see the brotherly "love" rear it's ugly head, as a bit of a spat breaks out between big brother John and little brother Dave. There is an interesting dynamic there, as John has a family, a house, and is a solicitor (like a lawyer, but I'm not sure how it is different). Dave is more unsettled, and travels at will. He has a car and some stuff, but when he's off of site, he is transient. I would think it would be a refreshing lifestyle sometimes, but annoying at other times when you just want to head to the pad and chill for the 6 days. The specifics are unimportant about the squabble, but I was not sure if I was going to have to hose them down like children, or separate them to neutral corners. So now it's time to head to the hotel and get some rest for a big Saturday in the rain forest.

Saturday morning is chill. Plenty of sun, and a brekkie at the hotel. Very refreshing to wake up to a seaside view from the balcony. We get on the road at about 11am to head to the hills South of Cairns to try and find some waterfalls. We drive for 45 minutes or so and go into a national park. Our masterful navigator, Dave, has no idea where the turn-off is to go to his "sweet spot". We weave around and end up near a camp site that John has stayed at before. Checklist....river (check), sun (check). Looks like a good place to stop for a swim!

L-R: Megs, Dave, John, Nina, und mir

So this is the group...early in the day....before the long-arse hike uphill to try and find a waterfall.

After a nice little swim in testicle-ascending cold water, we all decide to hike up to the camp site. The road was blocked due to supposed residual damage from cyclone Larry that ripped through about 6 months earlier and devastated the banana crop (bananas went from $2-$3/kg to $10/kg). I stopped eating bananas. The plants are recovering well, to note, and looking healthy as of the most recent trip through Innsbrook (banana central).

Megs is all full of energy and starts running up the hill, unaware that we would walk about 5 kms before giving up and turning back. She had been crook earlier, almost hurling on the ride to the park. She bounced back beautifully, but the malaise would return after a 5k uphill hike. Youth is wasted on the young I tell you.

We walk and gawk at the wilderness for probably an hour. Then we all make the executive decision to turn back, as we do not hear water, and we're still going uphill. Along the trip, there were a few flora and fauna lessons and arguments between Dave and John. The jury is still out as to whether "trash wood" is the scientific name for the trees we were walking past. I think not.

Once we get back to the bottom of the hill, we have another swim. The water is I believe colder this time, but felt good on the sunburn that I had picked up on my arms and shoulders. There was one deep spot in the river, directly under the bridge (how convenient for the igmos that like to jump off of things). Dave is first up...he doesn't die. Then John. Then Megs.

I have a particular aversion to jumping off of things into the water, so I opt out. I'd rather not jack my legs into my spleen, nor have to go through a testicular extraction procedure once my sack is slammed into my sphincter! Time to head back to town.

John is hosting a get together for Meg's friends as she is due to ship out the next morning. For the next few hours, people pop in and out, and drink beer and socialize. I tried my damndest to fit in, but I was clearly an outsider and was just looming on the edge of conversations...I was "that guy". I did meet a particularly interesting fellow, Victor, from Peru. Apparently in Peru, cocaine (coca) costs about $800 per kilo (that's between $200K and $600K street value in Oz depending on how many times it's cut). Maybe Mr Escobar was in the right racket...too bad he was a loon later in his career! Victor would contribute more to the evening later. We tried to put some bootleg Indonesian DVD's on to play, but they were mostly crap quality. I guess that's what you get for AUD$1.30. Team America ("fu*k yeah") was the first. It was shithouse quality, and kept hanging up. It did include the scheister sex scene, though. Dave and I were teaching Nina how to flip bottle caps, and after she had somewhat mastered the craft, we had a bit of a competition to knock over beer cans. She beat me. I was humiliated (not really), and so the game was over before I could wager anything for the winner! So it's time to get ready to go out. I was excited to finally check out Gilligan's, as I had heard alot about it. "Gilligan's is the place" was commonly heard with regards to a trip to Cairns. The crew gets around, and it is Megs, John, Dave, Victor, a friend of Dave/John, Jared, and me. Lets see, that makes 6....someone has to ride in the boot (trunk)! We head to Victor's with Dave in the boot. 5 mins for Vic to get ready, and we head to my hotel. 5 mins for me, as I shed my boardies and T, take a Right Guard shower, spray on some sweet smelling whore spray (Hugo Boss), and don my Levi's 527's, Superman T-shirt, and Rossi's. Slap goo in hair and head out the door...6 minutes flat (record). Guess who the odd man is? Fleetwood in the boot! Comfy and roomy, although the left turns are a bit rude. We get downtown and head in. Gilligan's it is.

Gilligan's Island....Is it a bird, is it a plane, No, its........

It's late by this point, about midnight. We walk in, and you can tell we're on the downslide side of a ripper of an evening. First up, head to bar to order a heap of beers (more than I can carry, but hopefully John is back before they get here). Victor is AWOL right away. Dave and Jared have left take his car to his place, which is not far away, and ride a taxi back. I order my beers, and some tall English bird starts shaking a maracca in my face. Drunk, cheeky, "hello". Blah blah gribble gribble (incoherent). "Right.....oh look, my beer is here, sorry". So now I at this point I'm wishing I had gotten the dominant gene and been born with 6 fingers (5 fingers per hand is a recessive gene...remember that one for the next time you're watching Jeopardy), as I have to carry 5 draft beers without plunging my fingers in and giving them the old glassy bulk pickup. Somehow I get them all secured with a maneuver that allows me to carry 6 baseballs in 2 hands when needed. About that time, Dave and Jared arrive. Time to have a good look around. All shapes and sizes. We play "pick the nationality", as the place is swarming with backpackers. German, Canadian, Pom, Pom, Pom, Irish, Canadian, Aussie. Not that we confirmed many of the predictions, but if we were disagreeing, Dave would stroll up and have a chat. He's good at that. We stay there for a couple of hours, and decide to go to the seedy nightclub upstairs. Can't carry your drinks up, so we skoll our beers in line, and apparently there's a dress code to get upstairs. Muscled up, small penised bouncers are guarding the stairwell, acting as the "pretty police" to regulate the flow upstairs. Dave and Megs through. John through. Victor....um there's a problem. Apparently Victor had "relations" with the bouncer's girlfriend...and he knew! Sorry, Victor, you can't go up. I'm asserting the only authority I have in this world....no club for you! And guess who is the next in line...with a Superman T-shirt on? VETO! No entry for Fleetwood. Now I have never been kept out of an exclusive area before. I have just been discriminated against by a softcock doorman. He says it's because I have a T-shirt on. I see other T-shirts waltz up the stairs. Am I one of the "undesirables"? Am I too old, is it the ever-progressingly high hairline? Mmmmmph. It's Victor's fault. He shouldn't have thrown the root to this bloke's missus. Oh well, it probably sucks up there anyway (sour grapes).

The rest of the evening is not all that eventful. I do see another guy in a Superman T-shirt...it's not the same as mine. His is black and silver millennium Superman...mine is vintage blue with the Marvel comics old school "S" in red and yellow. He sees me and says, "He's the shit, huh?" Ummmm yeah. I don't feel bad, because this cat looks hip, not one of the comic book geeks. I start wondering if there are any other comic logos that are as internationally known, as quite a few people were calling me Superman as I walked past. I wanted to believe is was because of my barrel chest, superhero good looks, and red underwear (that they could not see, only me because of my X-ray vision). One poor sap was wearing a batman T-shirt...how 1998! The place starts clearing out slowly, and it goes from happenin' spot to graveyard by about 2am. Time to mosey. Phil and myself are a bit intoxicated, and the pizza/botulism vendor outside the bar is calling my name. $5 slice of warm cardboard...yummmm.

We get back to the hotel (Phil and I), and he is trashed. I'm not sober. Poor phil is tuckered out and full-on cactus. He passes out as I get ready for bed....bad move, Phil! There's a rule that I live by. If you pass out, you will be abused. Given, he's only a little bloke, and shouldn't be able to handle his alcohol, but passing out is bad form. What can I do?

"You gotta pay for those good times" (Thos D. Fleetwood)

Now Phil, I want you to know this is going to hurt you more than me, but it's a lesson that must be learned. I'm not shaving your eyebrows off, or scrawling graffiti on your face. It's just a lesson.

passed out Phil

Agua!....Splash!Phil's pissed!He's not very big, but he poked the shit out of me...even left a couple of bruises. He threatened not to point for me anymore, or to take care of any itches. Also, he was going to go on "writing strike". I threatened to pick my nose and scratch my arse more....he settled down!

That's about my trip to Cairns. I wanted to do a skydive, but got around too late and missed out. In the future it'll happen.

Until next time, kiddies!

CAIRNS CONT'D (AGAIN).......

So now we're back in town, in search of more booze and some food. We hit PJ's and straight inside for another round of drinks. By that point, it had been a good half hour since our last drink, and that was not to be tolerated. Straight to the back of the pub and hit the pool tables, pint of Kilkenny in hand. After a couple of really poor showings at the pool table, our little party was joined by a quiet German fellow named Berndt. He was apparently staying in the hotel upstairs and wanted to see what all of the commotion was about downstairs. He found us, playing really bad billiards with tiny sticks and sunglasses. Berndt had just arrived in Oz from Japan. He was about 2 weeks into a 6 week holiday, of which he would spend the last 4 weeks riding a rented BMW motorcycle down the East coast of Australia. Vielen Gluck, Berndt. Was time for food, definitely. We went to this little upstairs Mexican restaurant off of the main drag. The service was pretty ordinary, but the food was good. Almost everything I tried to order, they were out of. No Dos Equis beer, no cactus, no chorizzo.....cripes! I settled for Sol beer, some chicken dish that ended up being alot like a mole' (which was really good), salsa verde, and queso dip. It took ages to get, but was tasty and the table was out on the balcony. I once again contacted meine Fraulein Nina, but she had a big one Friday night (that I missed), and she was staying in due to an early dive the next morning. So, we paid our bills and departed for Gilligan's. Saturday nights are always big at Gilligan's. The line to get into G's was probably an hour and a half wait. Out the main corridor to the sidewalk, wrapping around and ending about 10 meters down the sidewalk. We were NOT going to wait in that line, no matter how many hotties were waiting inside. Time to try the previous night's haunt, Shenanigans. We ride into Shenny's and the place is pretty empty. A band was playing the best of the sing-along tunes and we opted to play some more shithouse pool. Picts below . Things are starting to get interesting after about 12 hours of drinking.









Now we are ready for some excitement. "what about the Woolshed?" someone asks. None of us had ever been there, but RALPH Magazine gave it rave reviews in it's Cairns weekend. What the hell? So we go up the narrow stairwell to a dark abyss of pumping music and wooden tables set up like an old shearing shack. Atmosphere for misbehaving...dark corners and no rules. Dancing on the tables is encouraged! Time to hit the bar and find ourselves a table to perch upon to shake our tail feathers. You see, everybody at work thought I was the quiet, reserved type. Earlier in the day, I got the reputation for being an arsehole who criticizes girls' shoes. Leigh had been talking trash about wanting to dance and would dance circles around us fellas. They don't know me very well, do they? You kiddies know...all of you who have been out with me on one of "those nights". Good music, good atmosphere, good liquor, and some female company...boogie time, baby!! First drink from the bar...beer. Drink half of it and someone else picks it up after we find a table on which to cut a rug. 30 mins hardcore skee-dipping. 2nd drink JAGERBOMB!!! Yes, I said it. I know I have cursed Jaegermeister many times, but it was put in front of me...and it wasn't horrible. It wasn't even that bad. Okay, I liked it! Jaeger and Red Bull as a drop shot...it's the cure for what ails ya! It makes for good dancing fuel as well...sugar, caffeine, and alcohol...it's like rump shaking crack. As the evening wore on, we danced more and did 2 more bombs. At one point, I was forced into initiating a strip tease. I did not go through with it, as I would not want that reputation at work. And at various points, my ample bottom was being smacked by a female hand....I'll not say who, but lets say the pants did what they were supposed to do, even though they were sharply criticised.











About 3am, we all kind of decided it was time to leave. They had played the same songs going on the 3rd time, and the crowd was thinning out. By that point, Ben and I had been on the terps for 16 hours. Scotty did not go to the Woolshed with us, as he is allergic to alcohol and didn't get a shot of Ventolin after we got back from the races. He doesn't carry it, and plans on it lasting for about 6 hours. Trooper for sticking to the piss for about 12 hours even though he's allergic. Not hives and die allergic, just a bit of trouble breathing. He said later that he just ran out of oxygen and had to call it a night. We hit a dirty little McDonalds on the way back to the hotel for some bacon and egg McMuffins....hit the spot.

We all rolled up at about 8:30 Sunday morning as we had to be out of the hotel by 10am. Showers and dress...wait a minute, no hangover, again! This is discerning now. 3 day bender, and no hangover. I used to be a wreck for 2 days after a heavy night on the grog. Time for brekkie. We go and pick the girls up at their hotel to have breakfast and take them back to their car at the racetrack. Eggs, bacon, tomato, toast, and lemon cheesecake for breakfast...mmmm. We take a walk through the Lagoon (remember the Lagoon?) It's pretty empty, as it's only 11, but you can see the early signs of a ripper of a day. Too bad it's time to head back to Townsville in order to make it to the Watermark for the Sunday Session. Drive back...boring. KFC on the way home...grease perks us all right up.

I get to my hotel in T-ville and have a long, proper shower. Then the fellas come pick me up for our 4th in a row (their 5th booze-up in a row). I am dragging arse and struggle to get a beer down. A salmon and caper pizza doesn't help out any. I know I have to get on a plane at 6am the next morning to come to site. I leave by 9am...soft. When the rest of the crew got back to site, I heard they had another massive night...and I missed it. I really should have stayed another night, as I did nothing on Monday here at the mine. I missed a great party, as they started drinking Long Island Ice Teas and went to the wet T-shirt contest at the Cri (Criterion Hotel). One of the contestants tried to molest Scotty, but from what I gather she was a bit on the less than desirable side...like circus freak status. I don't know, I told Scotty he should have jumped on that grenade, as he had been looking for a fun story to tell.

That's the Cairns Race trip, 2006. What do you mean you ran out of beer?!?

CAIRNS, CONT'D...............

Scotty

BenMe Sweet sunnies!!

So we set off for Cairns to experience all that the amateurs cup has to offer. It's a pretty non-eventful road trip to Cairns...about 3.5 hours worth of sugar cane and banana plants, and sugar cane, and sugar cane, did I mention sugar cane?

We roll into Cairns and there's already a buzz in the air. It's Friday about 5pm, and the 3 amigos are bustin' for a feed and some booze (mind you the night before was decently big, and the other 2 had a massive night on Wednesday before I flew in) . We come to rest at our hotel, the recently $1.5M renovated Discovery resort. If this place has had that amount of money poured into it, I'd hated to have seen it before! Decent place, but the rooms were nothing special and the bathroom door was just slats, so you could hear somebody doing their business in there. The beds were as small as my bed in camp, and the tile floor was apparently pretty hard (ask Scotty, who slept there in a swag). But, it's all about location, and this joint is about 500m from the central business district and the bars/pubs/clubs/cafes/shops/backpacker hostels/etc. Off for a roam and a beer. The first resting place was PJ O'Briens for a couple of Kilkennys and Guinesses. Atmosphere oozing out of the place, and the tables outside gave a great viewing point for the roaming international travelers that swamp Cairns in the springtime before the tropical summer hits. After a couple of pints at PJ's, we opt to see what else is happening around the joint. There's this massive backpackers/nightclub that has always been a good haunt in Cairns. It's called Gilligan's, and I went there in the previous trip. We stop in, and it is graveyard dead! Not even the hard-core drinkers have decided to rock up there. Just a few blokes sitting around watching the footie....sausage factory! Well, no need adding to the testosterone level here, time to mosey and see what else is on. It's a good thing we went in, though, as we paid the door cover while there was no line, and that would help out later. Mad Cow, dead. Woolshed, dead. Oh, what's this? Shenanigans....and it's hoppin'! Time to 'ave a go!

Shenanigans.........

So we walk in, and we find out where all the girls who were supposed to be at Gilligan's had gone. I have to say something before we go any further. At one point, my behaviour became reprehensible, and I will apologize in advance. I was swept up in a moment, and I am deeply embarrassed for it. Nobody was injured, but my self respect was damaged a bit in the process. Anywho, we order up a round of drinks and enjoy the atmosphere while observing multitudes of drunks get tripped by the phantom boobie ledge at the bottom of a small flight of about 5 steps. It's painted yellow, but for some reason alcohol reduces the appearance of yellow paint and folks continue to trip over the 3" curb. After a couple of more drinks, I hit rock bottom (the event mentioned above). As I'm perusing the crowd, someone catches my eye. Familiar face, oh look there's another familiar face...holy crap, it's Tim and Greg Logan from Big Brother season #5! Sad, I know, but I couldn't help but get a little excited. I was in the presence of reality television royalty as the Australian Big Brother 2005 winner and runner-up were standing 5m from me. Tim only got a car, but I had been tipping him to win the entire season. He played the game beautifully. Greg was a knob-job who somehow won the $800K prize money that was left over after all of the fines were taken out and they got to play for some of the money to go back into the pot.

Side step and rewind 1 year........

BB season 5 was a tumultuous one, with a great cast of characters who, at the least, kept Australia entertained. BB season 6, which just ended, was a friggin' snoozefest. The people in the house lived like they were on camera, and there just weren't any strong personalities. I know I am having a critical discussion about reality TV, but if it can't entertain, don't put it on the telly.

The cast of characters in BB5 was a great blend of party girls, wingeing bitches, intellectuals, jocks, bogans, and even a farm boy(shearer). Vesna was always complaining, but a vulgar chick. Hotdogs was the bogan from Perth who had his particular view of womens' role in society...ie barefoot and pregnant. Dean was an alpha male cockhead. The Logans (Greg and David-twins) were Dean's lap dogs. Christie was the exhibitionist and topless most of the time (which is legal for Australian TV), Tim was the sensitive, quiet intellectual. Kate was the sweetheart, also from Perth. Glenn the Shearer was the chauvinistic sheep shearer...anyways, there were more but I can't remember their names.

I spent many a night with the BB5 crew, and they left me wanting more. Reality TV is for idiots and simpletons, and I can't figure out which one I am because I was a Big Brother fanatic! I never watched it in the US, but maybe the lax censorship laws in Australian TV made for a more entertaining program. BB, yes. Survivor, yes. Idol, yes. Biggest loser, yes. Any of the celebrity programs (except for celebrity real world and the celebrity fat camp), NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I don't want to watch C-grade actor/ "celebrity" perform in a circus or ice skate or ballroom dance. What they need is celebrity mixed martial arts...that would be entertaining! If they are that hard up for a gig, I'm sure there are a cattlecade of 13 y/o Jewish boys who need barmitzfah entertainment! Rant over...

Back to present day....

So here I am, giddy over seeing the BB5 winner and runner up. Wait a minute, Tim has a pot belly and looks haggard. Greg has about a half a head of grey hair. These guys look terrible! Greg was playing the almost famous card...you could tell. Tim was blending in...oh, that's so Tim (I'm a jackass, I know). So what is the protocol for reality TV personalities that are 1 year removed fro the spotlight? Do they expect to be noticed, or are they aware their time in the limelight is over and they have to move over for the newest crop of media whores? I opted not to gawk too much, and definitely did not approach. I would only know to call them "Greg" and "Tim", although those are not their real names. They're TV names, and they put them in quarantine for a week before going into the house so that they get used to their new names. Greg did become a running joke between myself and Ben, who had also been a fan a year ago. If we were somewhere, it became the "happening place" if Greg showed up. At random times I would ask, "I wonder what Greg is doing?" It was good for a chuckle.

Back to the business at hand....booze and scoping of the lady folk. Shenanigans started slowing down, so it's time to head back to Gilligans, which by now has surely picked up. Okay, looking good with a 50ft line to the door (it's ladies night BTW). We already have our stamps as a result of the early entry into the graveyard, so we jaunt past the line like VIP's and head straight through the door. Still a bit empty, but we opt to stay. Upon walking in, I notice something different....BITCH BOXES! You know those portable stands used by go-go dancers? There are 3 platforms, so something good is about to happen.....and it did. A treat for both the guys and girls. 3 ladies or 3 gents shaking their rumps in a rotating fashion for the next hour. The 3 guys were B-boys with straight-brimmed oversized baseball caps and jeans that clearly needed to be belted or hemmed. The girls in bustiers and fishnet stockings with long leather boots. Now it's a party. About 1:30am, we left there. A quick stop back at the nexus of the universe, PJ O'Briens, for a quiet one, then off to the hotel for a snooze. Upon arriving at the hotel, an acquaintance called me that lives in Cairns. Nina, the German traveler, who has dropped out of Uni back in Germany to pursue a career on the reef diving boats out of Cairns. I had met her on the first trip to Cairns (I promise I'll backlog my previous trip), and wanted to hang out a bit more this time in. She was at the Courthouse pub (a pub that used to be the actual Cairns courthouse...original name, I know). I couldn't for the life of me remember where it was, and the other 2 amigos were nearing unconsciousness, so I opted to have a snooze after the night before (and their 2 nights before). I figured there was always Saturday night. Schuss bis Morgan, Nina. Ich schlafe jetz.

Morning came too early, as I stirred once again before 7am. And the girls from Cannington that were coming up to join us called at 7am to wake Scotty up as they were preparing to head North from Townsville. We all shower, and to my surprise, no hangover...again. 2 for 2 with only a little haze, but no headache, no rotten gut...picture of health. Very interesting. Off for a little cafe brekkie...eggs, bacon, toast, tomato, and coffee. Perfect brekkie after a night on the slops. Back to the hotel to get ready for the races.

We had heard the races started at 11am. We planned to get there at 10:30. Let me give you a tip. If you call a Taxi in Cairns, it will either get there in the next 3 seconds, or in 30 minutes. We called for a taxi from the room, and headed down not 5 minutes later. Then we waited for a half hour and decided to call again to check the status. The one we originally ordered had already been there and we missed it. Please send us another. 2 minutes later, there! We get the the racecourse, and straight up, I lose Scotty's stubby cooler (can coozie to Americans)....bad form already. He almost left his camera in the taxi, so I don't feel as bad. We get in, and the racecourse is pretty empty at 11am. We snatch a great little table in the beer tent close to the bar and the bathrooms...and it's shaded (no sunburn this time, yeah). How do we kill time? BOOZE! The next 2 hours are kind of a big hodgepodge of empty beer cans and people walking past. Leigh and Ruth (Cannington girls) finally get to the racecourse at about 2 pm. I think I recall hearing some galloping in the background, so I'm pretty sure there were actual horses being ridden around a track. I can neither confirm nor deny that theory, though, at this stage. We were also waiting on Scotty's downstairs neighbour, Alana, to show up with her 5 friends. I think it must have been about 3pm when Alana surfaced, without her friends, who were busy chatting up some American Army fellas. Here's are a few snaps of the Cairns crew....

pic 1 (top L): Scotty, Alana, and Ben (seated)

Pic 2: (L-R) Ruth, Ben, Scotty, Leigh

Pic 3: Alana and me

Pic 4: Scotty and me.....smoooooth

Pic 5: A couple of wickpricks dressed like cavemen.

Now that we have the whole crew, the talk turns to fashion. I am quite let down by the shoe selection amongst the female race-goers. The races are about fabulous frocks and great shoes with a big, colourful hat or at least a dead peacock strapped to your head. The shoes just weren't there. For some reason, a general statement like, "I'm disappointed with the selection of shoes out here" becomes personal to anyone who hears it. So, one of our female crew asks, "What about mine?" I was not particularly impressed, and I thought there were not enough accessories to pull them off with the dress. I did not attack her selection, but rather offered an unbiased opinion.....here comes the shitstorm!! For the next 2 hours I get grilled by one of the other females (I'll not include names) as to what girl #1 could have done to accessorise, and my own outfit gets attacked. Now mind you, I was hoping someone would make a comment about my shoes, but not, "Only women and pimps wear fake snake skin". Crushing blow #1. My shirt and tie were OK I guess. The fit of my trousers, as well as my choice of pattern came under attack. Apparently I should have bought a size bigger in the pants (although the ones I had were my waist size), because they were too snug in the backside. Let's face it. I have a big can! Everybody who knows me knows I worked hard for years to build a big, round bottom that would fill out a pair of jeans. Hours and hours of deep squats, rock-bottom leg presses, and dead lifts during my bodybuilding days to build what I fondly referred to as a "gorilla butt". It has been the topic of many a conversation, and I am proud of my big arse! So, I can't expect regular trousers, cut for the sleeker, metro cappucino-kelp crowd to fit my ample behind, wide hips, and larger-than-average legs. If I had more time and a bigger selection of trousers, maybe I could have found something in a Eurpoean cut with more relief in the seat and thighs. I took what I could get, and I stuffed my honking big gluteus into them. Believe me, it used to be much bigger and rounder. 5 years ago, I'd never have even gotten my legs into these pants. What do you think?

So after the verbal thrashing, I took my bruised ego and went for a stroll. Look, I saw a horse...and there's someone on it, and it's a wee little bloke in a fluorescent coloured jersey with a number....and another one...and another. I am, in fact, at a horse race! Gentleman's bet, I picket #12 to place that race due to a decent stride and laid-back attitude. He came 3rd.

Back to the table to drink more booze. By this time, the derelict that was clearing the cans from the table had gotten overwhelmed and decided to take a smoko for about an hour and a half. The cans were piling up to monumental levels with the 6 of us pounding Carlton Draught and Bundy/Cola cans. We looked like raging alcoholics...which we were by that point, with Scotty, Ben, and myself having been pretty steady for 6 hours or so. Time to leave the races and head to town for a feed and fun (we hadn't eaten since brekkie). Bus ride to city. Straight to the Irish vortex of life, PJ O'Briens for more Kilkenny and some food (and some pool).

Next installment coming up...

BOOOOOOOZE FEST:

I know y'all have been hanging by, waiting for tales from my trip to Cairns last weekend. I myself am waiting to see if my liver comes back home, after I pissed it off real, real good over the weekend. He said something about "domestic abuse" and muttered the word "Jagermeister" as he slinked away, shaking his head, with a broomstick and bandana hobo suitcase over his shoulder. I'm hoping for at least a visit over Christmas so that I can indulge in the drink during my trip to the States, but I haven't even received a postcard. He's probably sitting in a bar drinking whiskey and.....OH, he better not have taken up smoking! I bet he's smoking, damnit! Enough about my poor liver and his adventures. Back to Cairns.

So I fly off of site on Thursday evening, getting to Townsville just in time to take a taxi to the pub to meet some mates for a drink. I jumped in the taxi and the driver about shit when I said, "To the Brewery, please". The cabbie was a complete hoon, ripping through the streets like he was driving in a rally...Fast and Furious in a Toyota Corolla! So I get to the pub and dump my bags right by the table and get my first drink. Ned's Red microbrew...damn fine liquid, that one. It was Scotty J, Ben, Spotty, Paula (who moved to Singapore the next day and is best mates with a female friend of mine), and me. We polished off a few drinks apiece and Paula pissed off for her hotel, as she had to fly out the next morning for her career move (hope all is going well, Paula). It was then off to a little Irish pub with live music...the one man band was tripping balls, but played a decent guitar. Pretty good vocalist as well. Add 4 more or so drinks while listening to tunes and being cracked upon by middle-aged women and some beligerent troll who was dry-humping the stage. Nobody would go near the girl, she was that ferral. She approached us and tried to have a "conversation", which consisted of her babbling something incoherently, then me responding in kind in a mix of Chinese and Klingon. I think she made something of the nothing I was blabbering, and might have gotten a bit offended because she luckily pissed off. The forty-something nurse was still rubbing up against my back at a regular interval, and I tried to ignore her as much as possible. She, too, tried to talk to us but we did not willingly oblige. So, we called it a night about 1:30 or so. We had to road-trip the next day, and we needed our beauty rest for the big weekend coming.

Friday morning, I rose at 6am....friggin' mine and my messed-up Cicadian cycle. I got a bit more rest~8am, at which time I stirred a bit and proceeded to make a bit of conversation with Scotty-J's flatmate, Emily. We had met before and I was getting an update on her mini-dramas. After Scotty stirred, we went for brekkie and then to go shopping for my race clothes, which would become a drama in and of itself.

PLAYTIME:

We stroll through Flinder's Market, heading to a joint that specialises in menswear, Playtime Menswear. I'm set on a shirt and trousers....I end up with a shirt, trousers, socks, shoes, a tie, and a belt. The look that I was going for changed from urban sheik to urban geek, then back to metro mismatch. The only piece I really like of the whole bunch is the shirt, which is stained right now from 17 hours of drinking, dancing (more later), and sunscreen....oh to have a little scrub brush and some Dawn dishwashing liquid. I will take a picture of the outfit, laid nicely on my bed at camp. There aren't any full-length pictures of the "race around crew", so I'll have to make due so that you may better understand later statements.

There was a friendly salesgirl in Playtime, who I worked to death! She was trying really hard to push some larger ticket items, and I was trying really hard to put together an outfit that would be both FABULOUS and affordable. I was deadset against a suit, as I am in this semi-permanent state of transit (I haven't been in my own room since July), and it was supposed to be a bit warm and mondo sunny. So, I go after the first piece...shirt. Any outfit can be built around a great shirt. I find it after a trial of 3....not a hard decision. Next, trousers. Light to charcoal grey, vertical pinstripe....nothing. Okay, there goes urban sheik. Ooooh, light grey plaid...hello urban geek! Not really working for me. They look more like the ones I have purchased for $5 at the Salvation Army for a fancy dress party. My charming sales girl walks up with a pair of dark charcoal (almost black) trousers with dark blue cross hatching....interesting. Slip in...comfy (but snug in the posterior-more later). Full length mirror.....not too shabby. At this point, the guys were getting impatient, and my sales girl was trying not to ignore the indecisive prick(me)in the first changing stall. Screw it, I am already mixing 2 patterns: checks and vertical stripes, I might as well go for 3. I read somewhere that you can safely pull off 3 as long as you use a bit of texture and different orientations of pattern. This is when I settle upon metro mismatch. Off to find just the right tie. Now mind you, I have a rack of ties back in Kalgoorlie that would impress most suit owners. In fact, I have about 3 ties that would work perfectly with this outfit. But, I have to pick one here, now. I finally settle on a diagonal stripe blue number...time to grab some shoes and get the hell out of there....we got some road-trippin' to do to Cairns.

The shoe selection is questionable at best. I see nothing that really screams "race day" at me. Some might argue that my shoe selection was less than spectacular. I thought people would like them.....the jury is still out, so please give me some feedback.

SWEET KICKS

So now I have made a dent in my EFTPOS card to the tune of about $450. The sales girl sucked me in with the pants, which were a whopping $160...the most expensive pair of pants I own to date....not counting the ones with my Hilfinger suit that is.....oh if I would have had my Hilfinger. Now off to find a pair of big, rude sunglasses....to the chemists! Ben opted for a pair of silver and black aviators with 100% reflective silver lenses. I went for the amber lenses and gold frames ala 1970's porn director. Now lets hit the road.

Off to Cairns ...again!!

There's something in the air in Cairns. Maybe it's the fresh seaside smell, the interaction with nature, or the droves of drunken backpackers laying around with their gear out! Whatever it is, I'm headed there again this weekend. This time I am going to see the ponies (and that's not some crude reference to a Mexican donkey type show). The amateur horse racing cup is in Cairns and supposedly about 30,000 people will descend upon the quaint seaside village to get absolutely blotto, sunburned, and broke. I will be one of them, but I'll not come back to the mine site with empty pockets. I usually don't bet the ponies. I've had a go before at Oaklawn in Hot Springs, AR, and didn't have a good run at all. The guy I was with found a pace near the end and made his money back plus a little, but I cut my losses (Hey Weav, jackass). I've come to the conclusion that I'm just not a good gambler. So, I'll sink my piss while cheering on any horse that looks like it could use my support, without actually betting any money on it. I usually pick it right, until I stand to lose something, them my horse tends to suffer spontaneous asthma or some other freak, performance altering affliction.

Let's be honest, why do people actually go to a "cup" race? It has nothing to do with the horses. It could be a cane toad race and it would draw just as many as long as they have cold beer and a good excuse for the lady folk to dress up! It is the pervo's special, the races. Slinky dresses, alcohol, and a nice breeze blowing....P-l-e-a-s-e! It's a fashion show on grass, coinciding with a drunken mingling of social classes. You can pick them right away by the fine details of the cut of the suit, selection of fabrics, accessories, and the drink in their hand. The "upper echelon" will be sipping champaign and mamosas in fine egyptian cotton shirts or linen suits while the blue collar boys will be donning the Target collared dress shirt, black belt, brown boots, and trousers that are just that little bit too short... and swilling Victoria Bitter (VB to the Aussies) beer. It's a wonderful site to see pissed-up, wealthy middle-aged women in silk gowns and satellite-dish sized hats stumbling through the grass in their $2000 high heels. The good Aussie blokes passed out on the lawn, sunburned to a crisp, with a big smile and empty pockets. The evening out on the town after the race is that much sweeter, as folks segregate to their respective social groups...sunburned and suffering from their first tier hangover before their second trip up the hill. I, too, will be making the hike as many times as physically possible. I tend to be constrained to only 2, drunk-down cycles before I just want to go to bed. Not a good trait for an all-day, all night event, but I'll find some way to power through. As for what I will be wearing to the races, I have not a clue. I have to go shopping, as all of this trip to Cairns materialised today (the day before flying out of site on an unscheduled trip). I'll probably be wearing just a shirt and trousers. Something in a nice, light material with a pastel shirt. The temp will be 28 degrees Celsius, which is not too hot, but the sun will be fierce. I'll be slapping on the sunscreen between drinks for sure. I got a bit too much sun 2 weekends ago and it's peeling a bit now, so I look a bit like a low-grade leper.

I'll try to take photos of either me or Phil acting a fool! Run pony run!