Lucy, the chemist and the village idiot

• He absolutely loves "I Love Lucy" but has never once watched an episode in its entirety.
• He owns multiple copies of all 179 episodes but hasn't bothered to open half of them.
• He knows all the dialogue word-for-word and wanders the street muttering the lines to himself.

His name is Shane and I guess he is what you'd call our village idiot.

Every Friday, Shane works for two hours for the local chemist stacking shelves. And every Friday, without fail, the chemist walks him home and they watch half an episode of "I Love Lucy". Life is not easy for Shane; the poor bugger has the patience of a five year old kid and the diagnosed intellect of a nine year old but he never stops smiling. Something I wish many more people could do. 

Now my suburb was once described by a newspaper article as boring. But with colourful characters like Shane... like loudmouthed Larry, bug-eyed Bruce and the bearded lady wandering the streets, I ask you how could anyone consider this suburb boring?

Ode to the Buck's Night

"The Hangover" was one of Hollywood's great surprises of 2009; a low budget film with no 'big names', yet still managed to rake in over $467 million! A simple tale, but one that was very effectively executed. I have no shame in saying that it is now one of my personal favourite flicks of all time.

And of course the best part of the movie is that it's propagating a myth I believe is slowly dying - if not already on death's door. Now I've only been to three Buck's Nights so I'm definitely no expert on the subject, but their antics certainly haven't been in the same league as "The Hangover" (much to the bride-to-be's relief). Don't get me wrong, I've loved all three. They've been great days. The heart is still there; the cheekiness, the typical Australian larrkin still shines through, but they've changed.

We will still dress them up like Guantanamo Bay prisoners with "Prisoner For Life" written on the back, we will still steal their mobile phones so there is absolutely NO contact with their fiances, but I think gone are the days where the groom is admitted to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, where the vows are exchanged in the emergency room and the wedding night is spent in the ICU trying to piece together a defence against 'indecent exposure' charges.

Two of the three buck's nights I've attended have had female friends present, inevitably inhibiting certain activities. And perhaps this is a reflection of our change in philosophy. The threat of castration may have gained momentum since Lorena Bobbit reached notoriety, but really I think Buck's Nights are now more a good excuse to have a catchup and piss-up with mates than it is 'his final night of bachelorhood so let's get him absolutely slaughtered and chain him to a public toilet'. The toasts are no longer "here's to your last night of freedom", but "good luck matey, you're a braver man than me."

Now I'm not claiming that wild and crazy things don't happen at Buck's Nights - but for every stripper we hire, I have no doubt a hen somewhere will be playing host to the 'Chippendales' - so really we ain't that bad.... or that different.

So ladies, next time you hear a man claim he's off to help celebrate a mate's last night of bachelorhood, relax, it's ONLY a Buck's Night.

Thoughts gentlemen?

Information Overload: One man's life story in 180 seconds

The transaction took no longer than three minutes. It was a simple refund for a climbing harness.

But in those few minutes, I learnt that:

1. The shop attendant grew up in Tasmania,
2. He came up to Sydney for a girl,
3. She had been scared about what would happen if he moved up here and they broke up,
4. The couple had been together for four years,
5. This was the longest relationship he had even been in,
6. He was intending to propose this year, though NOT on Valentine's Day,
7. She knew he would be proposing soon,
8. He had picked out the beach he was going to propose on. 

That's one fact every 10 seconds.

And I learnt all this with him swiping my card, pumping my details into the computer, signing all the right forms... a man who was brutally honest and able to multi-task. So atypically male.

Walking out the door, a question sprung itself upon me. 

How can I know all this about him, all these intimate facts, and still not even know his name? 

So typically me. So typically Sydney.

Girl on a bus

I have a confession to make. Yesterday's blog was inspired by a girl. A girl on a bus. Corny I know, but true.

With trackwork forging ahead once again on my train-line, I was forced to 'bus it' into town last weekend. Not that I am complaining; not this time. The whole incident only lasted about 2 minutes and 30 seconds... and that is part of this tale's tragedy. I had managed to secure a seat for myself, found a good playlist on my ipod and was staring listllessly out the window when a gorgeous young lady sat next to me. Three thoughts immediately went through my head.

1. I never want this trip to end. 
2. What a shame we are both listening to music. Now I'm never going to get a conversation started with her. 
3. Points 1 and 2 will make a good impetus for a blog

Obviously my third thought proved to come true - twice in fact. My second thought also proved to come true. We had fallen victim to one of my great loves: music. Or to be more precise, mp3 players.

Now even if I was a pro at flirting and didn't actually find videos like this (just a little) enlightening, there was still an unfortunate physical divide between us. I like to call them headphones. 

There's no denying I absolutely love my ipod. I feel lost without it. But have you ever noticed that (with the exception of Garden State) no films ever have their protagonists or love interests listening to music players? In fact, the plot for Sliding Doors would have never progressed beyond the train scene.Gwyneth Paltrow and Jack Hannah would have just sat next to each other; Jack humming away to 'The Beatles' (or 'The Foetals'), Gwyneth brewing over 'Enya' or some other depressing crap. Why? Because mp3 players are double edged swords: an escape route when the need comes, but also antisocial buggers that can starve us of human contact.

  
Sometimes they can work to our advantage... when some sleazy bastards is trying out his latest pickup line on you or some kid wants to tell you all about his new pet hampster, but for the most part we have missed many an opportunities to meet new people. 

Today the extent of our interchange is normally a simple nod or polite smile while we enjoy Triple J's hottest 100 or MIX's love song dedications. Unless we want to live dangerously and take our headphones out when we see that special someone, the opportunity for us to 'casually' start up a conversation has been substantially reduced. 

In this case, for example, 'the girl on that bus' remains 'the girl on that bus'. I never did remove my headphones. And while she has made good fodder for my blogs, she has also suffered from a missed opportunity... she has fallen victim to my great taste in music.

Poor girl.

Take one large vehicle, add a sprinkling of people, sauté in an overcrowded city and hey presto! Public transport

Forget Manderlay, "Last night I dreamt of trains again..."

... and the pubescent stench of teenage boys, the sickly sweet smell of schoolgirl deodorants, the sweat stained armpits of an overweight middle-aged man, the high-pitched squeals of an excited twenty-something blonde on her mobile, the balding 'suit' unconsciously practising his new 'Zoolander' pose in the reflection of his friend's sunglasses....

... experiences I believe we may have all had while on peak-hour public transport (P.T.). Fond memories for us all, right? 

Now call me weird, call me eccentric, call me 'different' because I am going to say yes they are petty, insignificant encounters that I (for the lack of a better word) treasure, and I realise that by saying this I am probably putting myself in the minority here. 

There are millions of 'anti-public transport'  fan sites floating out there; all of the opinion that trains, buses and ferries are noisy, smelly, inefficiently run and mere toys of an incompetent regime who couldn't care less about the public - only interested in scoring new corporate deals with greedy government officials. (Sydney's Cityrail service seems to be a great target at the moment, as facebook demonstrates so well here).

I can not deny that many of these anti-P.T. spokespeople probably have valid points, but I'm not here to advocate or decry their arguments. 

Instead, I want to discuss the lost art of enjoying public transport. I used to catch the train to work every day; twenty odd minutes each way. Nowadays I'm an eco-friendly citizen and walk. But in all honesty, I miss that P.T. experience. I miss that opportunity to read a book, to stare listlessly out the window, to gossip with friends and to observe strangers make flamboyant fools of themselves. For every foul smell and unpleasant experience, there was always something - no matter how small - that put a smile on my face.

So next time you're ready to slag off P.T., just think of:

• that daily flirtatious smile you exchange with the pretty girl on the 573 bus, 
• that laugh you tried to supress after over-hearing a wonderfully inappropriate joke, 
• that day you were on the final pages of "Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows" and prayed the journey was just that little bit longer so you could finish it, 
• that elderly couple you saw sharing quartered cheese sandwiches with their grandson, 
• that young man with Down's Syndrome who works his way through the carriage, hugging everyone he meets.    

Sure the trains might be late and the buses might be crowded, but if you think of those little moments; those sexy boys, cute kids, amusing situations, absurd sights, don't those little moments make the journey all worthwhile for you? They do for me.