Mummy, I feel like a nap now

I've never been to Japan before, but I have been told you can pretty much buy ANYTHING there. Even women's dirty underwear - from a vending machine of all places! This is probably nothing new for many of you but just thought I might point out the obvious: the Japanese are very good at catering for fetishes. 

One of my personal favourites is the lap-pillow (pictured above). It's one of those products that is kind of cute, albeit in a disturbing sort of way. 

That aside, I was at a party the other weekend and discussions turned to an American  product by TrueCompanion. It turns out that Japan may have a bit of competition here. The product is a series of female robots that are designed to service men in EVERY way possible. Suppposedly they even have personalities. There's:

• Wild Wendy: outgoing and adventurous
• Frigid Farrah: reserved and shy
• Mature Martha: the matriarchal carer
• S/M Sarah: adventurous

Curiosity inevitably got the better of me and I jumped online and found their website. The tale behind its creator is rather interesting:

Funny how something so innocent, something originally conceived from the death of a friend and expounded by 9 /11, has ended up catering for the adult entertainment industry.

Tracing back along the timeline of products such as this must surely turn up some surprising results. 

How many of them started out with innocent longings like Douglas Hines and his Roxxxy TrueCompanion? 

I have no doubt Japan's lap-pillow did.

To that stranger in the night...

You stank of beer and cigarettes and really bad B.O. That was what I first noticed. I didn't really care about your ripped clothes, shaggy hair or your lack of shoes. It was your odor that put me on edge. Funny what smells can trigger. 

But then you insisted I walk behind you so I didn't think you were going to mug me. I was both impressed and disturbed by this. Impressed that you were thinking along those lines. Disturbed that I was thinking along those lines too.

You needed to find the train station and I was en route to one. It was dark. Very dark, and that always made me suspicious. But then you started to talk and although you mumbled, I could pick up enough. 

• Your cousin was pissing out the door of a train when another passing train hit him. That was only hours before. He was on life support at the hospital and you were on your way home after visiting him.
• Life had passed you by... or so you said. Many missed opportunities, though you're a stone mason now. " At least you got paid while you studied.", I joked. 
• You smiled and responded with a "You're a lucky man, you know that. Working at a tv station, living round here..."  I didn't know what to say. Not at all the response I expected and I apologise for not responding with anything. For once I really was lost for words.

When we parted ways you offered me a cigarette. You had no need to. For the most part of our journey I had been nothing but suspicious - or at the very least wary - of you. I declined, feeling unworthy of it.  

Now some may call you a bum. 

Others might think you just a bogan. 

Not me. I think you're a gentleman, albeit in a rough diamond sort of way. 

Don't worry Spiderman, I'm an addict too - Part II

Alrighty folks, I must admit what started as a simple parallel I was trying to make; that dancing and indoor rock climbing stimulate similar parts of the brain has evolved in the telling to what is now a two-part blog. It was originally a very straight-forward point I was hoping to make, but sort of got muddled along the way. The greatest hurdle I faced when writing the first blog: what separated climbing from other sports? Like dancing, like climbing, almost all sports involve the same principles; physical co-ordination, mental stamina and team participation. 

Why did I choose to compare dancing and climbing? It took me a few hours to work out how best to describe this, but I do believe I've nailed it.  
  
The greatest similarity between the two is, as this youtube video shows, both sports are choreographed.   

Dancing, naturally, already has these moves pre-choreographed by some guru in years/decades/centuries long ago. Climbing is a little more organic, but we nevertheless 'choreograph' our moves up the wall. We stand there, look at this strange wall with funny little bits of plastic sticking out and think,
'When my right leg goes on this rock, then my right hand has to reach for that ledge there...' 

We 'dance' our way up the wall.  
And as all climbers have found out - usually by falling off the wall about a million times - we need to attack a wall time and time and time again until we get it right.  The hope is that we inevitably end up remembering where each leg goes, where each arm must move, which three fingers are meant to (hopefully) support our weight. And so, like the steps in a dance, the pirouette in a crescendo of music, we move "these complex behaviours from our short term to long term memories."

And if, as Dr Valenzuela claims, Scottish Country Dancing helps keep the brain healthy, diminishing our chances of dementia, then surely climbing must do the same. Hmmm... I think I'll continue climbing for MANY years to come then.  

Don't worry Spiderman, I'm an addict too

Peter Parker and I might not have a great deal in common but we're both big lovers of climbing walls.

While he may stick to the streets of New York City, my preference is for warehouses. And while he goes for spiderwebs, my preference is for indoor rock-climbing.

I took it up about 8 months ago and it has now become a bi-weekly event. What started out as a bit of fun has turned into a real mental and physical exercise workout. It requires not only the sheer strength to hoist yourself up a wall, but also the intellectual strategm to navigate from one rock to another.

For this reason, I believe rock climbing is very similar to dance.

Now before you dismiss me as a raving lunatic, hear me out. The parallel I've drawn is not without merit.

On "Insight" last year they did a forum on intelligence. Part of the persuing discussion broached the issue of dementia and how we can actively try to prevent it. Surprisingly, one activity that proved to exercise the brain most effectively was Scottish country dancing!
 
Yes, that's right. Scottish dancing! And there was sound logic behind the claim. According to Dr Valenzuela, dancing stimulated the brain on 3 different fronts.

1. Co-ordination. ie athleticism, balance and spatial awareness. And they have to complete a series of complex movements which have to be done in:
•  a specific order, 
• to the beat of the music,
• while co-ordinating their movements to everyone else.


2. Memory. The dancing couples not only have to memorise these moves, but they've then got to shift these steps from the short-term to the long-term spaces in their brains.


3. Social interaction. While dancing, individuals must be conscious of the other people around them - how are they moving? Are they synchronised? Are they struggling? And then individuals must adjust their own movements accordingly.

Now how does this relate to rock-climbing? Well that, in the words of all our favourite tv shows, is 'to be continued...'

A hippie's watch

"You b*#ch!" 

They were my initial thoughts. 

For the most part it was like any other Saturday really; where I sit in with my grandfather while he works at our local department store. A watch repairer by trade, he's been at it for almost 64 years now. My grandmother, before her death, participated in this weekly ritual; sitting in with him while he worked. As best I can I have tried to fill her shoes. 

Now customers come and go on any given day. Some stay only for a minute or two while they get links taken out. Others feel an urge to stay a little longer. His office is small, intimate; a little alcove in the corner of the store. Those who have guilty consciences somehow mistake it for a confessional. I believe cabbies have the same problem. Women share tales of their adultery, men boast of their encounters with prostitutes, teenagers b*#ch about their parents... 

My grandfather has a quiet disposition that lends itself nicely to this role. I simply sit back, enjoy the show, relish the tales and silently snigger at the absurd pantomimes these customers perform.

For the most part, these people are polite. Occasionally they can be demanding, arrogant... traits I'm willing to forgive because it's in their nature. 

But last Saturday, there came a couple from a small hippie-ish town in northern New South Wales.

The lady's first statement was, "Oooh what a terrible office they've given you. So small."
There was no malice in her voice, no condescending tone. For her, it was merely a statement of fact. She was completely ignorant of the impact her words had. This put me on edge.

"...And you've been doing it for over sixty years! That must have been terrible, having to do this terrible, terrible job. You poor thing." 

And that's when I thought those two terrible words. How dare she judge him like that, put him down like that, patronise him! I was fuming.      
It was in this moment of what I can only describe as paternal passion, a question reared it's ugly head... 

Is this how a parent feels when their children are threatened?

Shopping with the Enemy

Given I have a sister, I know the story of 'Pretty Woman' all too well.

All of us men do. 

That's a fact, no matter how much we'd like to deny it. It's what I like to call sibling osmosis. Similar in process to passive smoking only much much worse. 

As a result of this sad fact, I am all to familiar with the 'Pretty Woman' scene where Julia Roberts returns to that snobbish clothes store. You know the one where the staff all come ass-kissing up to her because she's got bags of fashion designer labels - only for Julia to palm them off, reminding them how they snubbed her only the day before. The ultimate in poetic justice.  The sort of thing you simply expect in films and fairytales, right?  Apparently not. 

I was dredging through the remains of the post-Christmas sales when I fell into this very trap. Not the snobs part, thank god.  But I had been at a pretty classy clothes shop. Nothing extravagant, but it's the sort of store that stocks quality stuff. Anyway as soon as I walked in, the staff swooned on me likes bees to a honey pot. Now I know how poor Winnie the Pooh must have felt! 

It was bloody disgusting and they were so blatantly open about it: "Oh I've seen you've been to YD. Oooh you've got some shorts. Believe me we have just the shirt that will go with it!" 

So much for Hollywood being unrealistic!!!  But at least I can now say, "Ms Roberts, I know exactly how you feel."   

Brothers & Sisters

Thought I might share this with you...

"Your brother or sister, it might be said, is your other self -- your grander, sadder, braver, shrewder, uglier, slenderer self. 
Your sibling is your most severe judge, and your fiercest defender. You must always rescue them. They always abandon you. They abandoned you only once, and you will never forget it. They are a pain in the arse. They save you. They will not be conquered. They never leave you alone. They always leave you to pick up the pieces. 

They won't grow up, won't let you grow up. They are a gang, and you its weary leader, its exhausted captive. They still get off scot-free. They protect you from evil, from yourself. They are the stone in your shoe, the thorn in your side, the one who remembers things you won't. They are the special one, your ugly mirror.

They will not be fooled by your nonsense. They are the only one who makes you wake and worry in the stark, dark night. They make you laugh more and cry harder than anyone ever has, or will..."


An extract from the foreword of 'Brothers and Sisters'; a collection of short stories about that very topic. 
How very true, don't you think?

Toilet talk - a shared language

There is a certain individual at work who we've dubbed "Knuckles". The best representation of a cave-man I've ever seen; he even has the sloping forehead! Other than the irregular grunts that escape his mouth, the few words that do dominate his vocabulary are rich with jargon.

So rich that I have actually created a dictionary of this 'language' he created. Here are a few of my favourites:

DISSEMINATE ~ to pass round
eg. "I require you to disseminate that information"

VERBALISE ~ talk
eg. "At the meeting, they verbalised their concerns"

CLIENT ~ the program/person you work for
eg. "your skill set meet the client's requirements"

ACCORD ~ refer to (often for a complaint)
eg "I accord you to my supervisor for any further discussions"

COLLATE ~ collect
eg "Please collate information so we can do your P.M.P."

CONFER ~ discuss
eg. "We need to confer on this issue"

NAVIGATE ~ to direct
eg. "I will navigate you to South Australia whereby you can liase with a fellow journalist"

DEPLOY ~ to lend
eg. "All camera equipment has been deployed"

FACILITATE ~ chat with
eg. "I need you to facilitate with your colleagues"

EDIFICATE ~ to inform
eg. "The contents of this discussion are for your edification only"

And those are just a FEW of his most common catchphrases. Now you can see why I decided to come up with a dictionary. Most people I work with just go "huh?" after every conversation with Knuckles. Needless to say his 'knucklisms' has become a great source of entertainment for us. If ever I have a friend feeling down I just forward her on this dictionary.

But there's another guy at work who we (or should I say I) have dubbed "Toilet". His initials are W.C. and is so anal he could have been the inspiration for Jack Nicholson's 'As Good As It Gets'. Much to my disappointment Toilet has started creating his own jargon too aka 'toilet-talk'. It's still early days yet so I haven't got enough words to form a dictionary at the moment but it'll come.

Now I'm all for a bit of jargon here and there, just a little to speed up conversations - but jargon NEEDS to be a SHARED language!! It's like any language - even Tolkien's elvish (who he admittedly shared with a fictional race) - there needs to be a speaker AND a listener. Otherwise you may as well just babble bullshit to a rubber duckie.  

Using jargon does not make you sound smarter, it does not magically put you 'in the loop' and believe me, my bullshit detector is bigger than your vocabulary so no Knuckle or Toilet is going to pull the wool over my eyes.

And I KNOW I ain't alone on this.

So far all of you out there who are planning to drop a few big words into conversations, think very carefully about it because our bullshit detectors will always be bigger than your tongue.

H.L.L.F.: the Hair Loss Liberation Front

Gentlemen, this blog's for you....

I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror and thought 'I need a haircut.'
So that's exactly what I did - gave myself a haircut.

Then and there. Myself. Fifteen minutes later I was back down to 3mm.

Other than the Neo-Nazi's, few people can say they're able to do that. But that's the beauty of shaving your own hair. Not that I'm a skinhead - well not in the stereotypical sense. Just a balding twenty-something bachelor who opted for the easy way out.

And I must admit it was one of the best decisions I ever made. It's so bloody liberating. Without a doubt.

No waking up in the morning and spending fifteen minutes trying to wax it down; no trying to flick it back when the wind throws that extra gust at you; no more worrying about hat hair.

Nope.

Just a quick shave every 3 or so weeks (depending on how lazy you are). But a few things I picked up en route....

1. Lather up. Hit the sunscreen. When I first shaved it all off - many, many years ago when I had just hit uni and more than willing to embrace dares I was convinced to go under the razor blade. Of course I had a full head of hair then and emerged from the bathroom looking like a leukaemia patient. I was that pale under all that hair. Anyway, next day was a dress-up day and I had to don a bandana for the duration of the day (not that I was complaining.) Alas, it wasn't the biggest of bandana's and unaware of this fateful trap I disrobed that night to discover a very vibrant 'V' painted on my head in the shape of that very same bandana. Needless to say I adopted a lot of hats very quickly - one of my fav's being the beret. And of course this leads me on nicely to point number two.

2. Learn to love your hats! I mean I had a hat fetish from a very young age. I think I was only two when I fell in love with this red fireman's helmet I wore everywhere. There are pics of 'little me' wearing it scattered all throughout my folk's photo albums. Fancy dress hats aside, I never appreciated how multifunctional hats can be. Three things I never realised about hair:

• It stops oh so much sweat from pouring down your face. I'm still considering buying a head band when I do sports. Would that be too wanky? On the downside, your hats get absolutely drenched in sweat.

• Getting rained on is quite 'an experience'. That water just cascades down the back of your neck like a waterfall. 

• And of course it get damn freezin' without a hat during those winter months. God I love my hats.

All that aside, I absolutely LOVE having a shaved head. Men, forget comb-overs, forget Shane 'I'm no longer bald' Warnie with his $90/month hair treatment, forget O.D'ing on hair spray so it covers that ever-expanding bald spot.

Just do it!