- Returning to work after nearly 6 weeks of holidaying in South America. Ugh. #painMonday, 04.25.16 23:17
- *Sigh* 2 rounds in and @melbournefc is already doing the same old thing. New year, same excuses. Maybe 2017 will be different 😞Saturday, 04.02.16 14:39
- RT @theshortnewz: @Disney has announced that Harrison Ford will return as #IndianaJones in 2019! https://t.co/mDNlpIigD1 #lego @verge https…Tuesday, 03.15.16 22:17
- I love apple earphones, they tell me when others have a fave jam on repeat. Today, I was able to hear Bieber's 'Sorry' 5 times 😨Monday, 03.14.16 22:47
- Looks like Waleed Aly won't get any texts from #shanewarne again, which if you remember Shane's SMS greatest hits, is not a bad thing 😂Friday, 03.11.16 06:54
Australian Beliebers: HOW can you still beliebe in your messiah when it’s clear that he has deserted you??
During a deposition hearing in the US this week (your messiah has been very naughty) Bieber asked his entourage if he’d ever been to Australia. The poor soul honestly couldn’t remember.
Well, let me break this down for you. Bieber was in Australia for approximately 2 weeks during November-December 2013 in which he played 8 (EIGHT) shows at very large arenas. Mind you, I’ve read that a few geniuses are losing interest in ‘the petulant one’ and not all of those shows were sold out. Still, we’re talking THOUSANDS of shows at $100+ each.
Let’s say your messiah sold 80,000 tickets at an average of $100 each. That’s $8,000,000 (8 MILLION dollars!!). Recent data indicates that the median Australian wage is approximately $60,000.
SO – it would take the average HARD-WORKING Australian 133 years to earn that money. Even if this said hard-working Australian works from birth and lives to 133 years, they’d STILL lose out because inflation is a bitch and $8m won’t even buy you a concert ticket in 133 years.
…Yet, even after you shelled out 100 smackeroos (or more!!), your messiah still doesn’t remember you. Nope, he needed to check with his entourage (which you paid for, mind you). Clearly, the incident on Sunrise and Bieber’s Gold Coast graffiti turdlings didn’t jog his memory. I guess when you’re Bieber and you do a bunch of crummy shit around the world, this might be tough ask. I’ll give him that.
But still, your messiah has NO idea he came here and has no recollection of his ‘adoring Australian fans’. Hell, he probably referred to each of his Australian shows as ‘the best ever’, or followed the names of cities his entourage told him he was at with the words ‘you’re the best, I love you!’
So, I don’t get it. Why do you persist with the love? Why don’t you get out in the street and burn all of his shit, delete his BS twitter account and (for the travel-inclined) graffiti HIS home. Hey, it won’t hurt his feelings – he doesn’t even know who you are.
I know you Beliebers love death threats – so feel free to send them through. I could do with a laugh. On that note, in case you don’t beliebe me – I’ve linked the video of Bieber’s classy deposition below.
Time to find a new messiah, guys…
Jesus, what have we become?
My Facebook is littered with dogs fetching beer (admittedly cute, and handy if you like beer + you’re lazy) and barking along to one of the Biebs’ many hits…
…and cats – like when they’re surprised by another cat/electrical device/their owners coming home early, or when they do something that shows people who’s boss (I’ll give you a clue – it’s the cat – guys, cats are the boss, OK?) or, hell, even when they’re just playing with wool (aww cute)…
All this is fine, but it seems that people can’t be arsed endorsing or linking to anything substantial anymore. A quick scroll down my Facebook feed reveals countless ‘likes’ for these beer-fetching, wool-chasing pets and little else. Occasionally I’ll see support for a written piece – sigh, it’s on ‘how to tell which city you SHOULD have been born in’…
Hey guys, I like cats, dogs and general variety pap as much as the next person, but are we already finished with the pursuit of something better? Are we done thinking? Are we done reflecting on life and what it actually means to be alive? I hope we’ve not resigned ourselves to the ‘junk food’ of reading material because life is amazing. It’s not perfect, but it’s such a mysterious mess of good luck, bad luck, sadness and joy, for which there is no sure-fire recipe. Best of all, we get to make it up as we go and dream of better things.
But that’s the point, we should be dreaming! Thinking. Laughing. Cats and dogs are great, but they can’t be the wallpaper of our lives, surely? Yeah, I’m having a whinge here – and rightfully so. Where’s our fucking passion? Why can’t we talk about things that matter? Real things!? Hell, let’s just talk about ‘things’ in general (anything!), even the embarrassing moments of our lives that we could only possibly laugh about afterwards?
Make no mistake, I love the cute things in life, but life isn’t just cute. It’s agonising, glorious, hilarious and at times terrifying. Let’s talk about all that stuff, too…
For now though, I leave you with my family dog, Rocky. What a cutie
Dear Sean of 2008,
Don’t buy that mountain bike – you’re literally going to ride it 4 times. When you eventually get around to selling it, you’ll lose approximately $600 on the whole thing, and that doesn’t even include the $50 cut you give you brother for helping you sell it. Mind you, he doesn’t end up doing much other than wait for the buyer to collect the bike and trade for the cash. Still, $50 for his efforts and so, all up, it’s fair to say that it it’s a failed experiment that ends up costing you $650. Oh, another word of advice: car registration is an expensive nuisance that costs at least $650. So maybe you can apply it to that. You’ll actually use the car.
So, why do you stop riding the mountain bike? Well, you’re a wuss. Specifically, you don’t like the idea of riding with other people on the road – especially when they’re dumbasses inexplicably in charge of high-powered vehicles. Just so you know, your inability to trust people never gets any better. In fact, there are stretches spanning months (years?) where you walk around with squinty eyes; questioning everything around you. You might want to work on that a little earlier. Actually, it probably saves your life on at least one occasion. Maybe hang onto it, then. Your call…
Oh, you also stop riding the damn bike because you’re lazy and you hate gearing up. 2014 Sean still hates gearing up, which probably explains why you never play any team sports. Well, that and your laziness. Don’t worry about fixing this; you never have time to play sport anyway. Life’s a sport, right? Oh yeah, you’re ‘witty’ in the future.
While I’m here, I would love to sell the helmet and pedals (and make a dent in that $650 loss), but I can’t find them. When you put them away, be smart about it and put them somewhere they can be found. You hate looking for shit, which means I hate looking for shit. Don’t be a dick about it.
Oh, and don’t think that you can reinvest ‘bike money’ elsewhere. You’re not musical, so don’t buy a musical instrument. Just steer clear of anything that requires skill, effort and practice and you should be fine.
Sean of 2014
I post this track not only because I’m LOVING it, but because the album it’s from (Burn your Fire for no Witness) is just 100% rocking my world my right now. My favourite button at the moment? Repeat, of course.
This gem is driven by the drums, awash in distortion and dotted perfectly with Angel’s urgent vocals – in which she pleads ‘I don’t know anything! But I love you!’ It’s a familiar sentiment and damn you can’t but feel the same about what Angel is doing right now.
I think I just zinged myself. I never knew that was even possible. I don’t do much zinging, but when I do – I don’t expect to be one who gets zinged! This morning, I was listening to some metal. I listen to a lot of music, but this morning it just happened to be some black metal by a lovely little Polish band called Behemoth. The album is chock-full of growls, snarls and BONE-CRUNCHING RIFFAGE.
I like metal because it energises me for a whole day of BONE-CRUNCHING PRODUCTIVITY. It worked as intended this morning and I arrived at work as energy personified. I placed my phone and earphones on the desk and set about my work for the day.
…And then there was the unmistakable hiss of static. I placed my ear against the computer – nothing. I paced around the desk – nothing. Then it dawned on me, I must have left my music on! So I checked my phone – but alas: nothing.
As it turns out, it was actually static and not metal. So, friends, what you have here is an idiot who mistook static for music he actually enjoys.
Look, if it had actually been my music, I guess it would have settled this matter and I would have to fess up to the fact that my music sounds like static. But that’s not what happened here. I THOUGHT the static was my music. Does that mean I think my music sounds like static? Will I be able to enjoy metal again?
This reminds me of a time I was zinged by a cleaner at work. She had placed a warning on the communal fridge letting us know that she was clearing it out and would throw away items that smelled‘off’. I had only one item in the fridge – a delicious little sandwich I made earlier that morning, so I clearly had nothing to worry about.
WRONG! Sean’s sandwich – BINNED.
It turns out that the cleaner confused my delicious-smelling sandwich with something that needed immediate destruction. Apparently Sean’s food smells like it’s off. ZING. To make things worse, some of the other items that made the cut were definitely questionable. My food didn’t even qualify for the ‘better-leave-it-just-in-case’ treatment.
So, the BONE-CRUNCHING TRUTH is that apparently my food smells like it’s off and even I reckon the music I choose to listen to sounds like static.
I woke up this morning and grrroaned…
So now you’re going to hear all about it. That’s how it works. I get grumpy. You read. We all go back to doing what we were doing before my sook.
That name, the boogie board and the 4.2kg of dope that she didn’t quite get into Bali (well, not in the right hands, anyway – teehee). Anyway, I don’t want to hear about it anymore. She did her time and now we should leave her to celebrate her freedom with the other bogans in Bali. This morning I spotted a ‘headline’ in the Age which read: ‘Schapelle’s friends wait for party text’. What – how is that news? Apparently the party is going to be ‘low key’ given public interest (note: I did NOT read the article – everything I’ve given you was included in the blurb). But seriously…’public interest’?? There’s the problem. If we don’t give a shit and just treat her like every other drug trafficker (i.e. avoid), then everything can go back to normal and the media can focus on more important things. There ARE more important things.
I overheard someone singing ‘Que Sera, Sera’ in a public toilet cubicle the other day. NO – that is NOT a song you sing in the toilet. I don’t get the context and I don’t want to know, either. Things are already awkward enough in the bathroom. I mean, there are people literally pooping their guts out within metres of you. Then they sing Que Sera, Sera? NO.
Running out of Stuff
I know that stuff is generally limited. Still, it doesn’t make me feel any better when stuff runs out. In particular, I seem to get unreasonably annoyed when I run out of staples. I know it’s going to happen, but I can’t help but feel invincible when I’m stapling away…like I’m never going to run out of staples. Then I do – and it’s pretty much the worst thing ever.
The Winter Olympics
I fully acknowledge that the Winter Olympics are the same as the Summer Olympics (except with 100% more snow!!). I do. But I don’t care. People are all like, whoah did you watch the triple inverted wind-tunnel luge last nite? Nope, I didn’t. Everything else was a better option. I dunno, I guess I only have room in my life for one Olympics. Even then, I find that I lose interest with 95% of the Summer Olympics as it is. I’m pretty much done after the 100m sprint, swimming and a little discus.
David Spader’s hat in ‘the Blacklist’
…and just like that, now I feel grrrreat!
I’m basically a baby with a Law degree.
It’s strange – I can interpret legislation and solve legal conundrums just fine (I’m being quite generous here, but please bear with me), but I’ll be damned if I know how to ‘do’ things. If it requires assembly, planning or the application of recognised skills, I’m pretty much not your guy. In fact, I strongly urge you to remove me from your shortlist and burn that piece of paper to ensure that no remnant of my name could ever make it onto a future shortlist. Start again. No Sean – easy. Now, whatever it is you wanted to do will probably get done.
It’s embarrassing. I don’t know which way is North. I’ll die if I ever get lost in the bush. It’s probably why I don’t go camping. I can read a map, provided I walk in a straight line, it isn’t windy and nothing distracts me or takes me off course. Oh, I don’t like contours and stuff, so completely flat land is a MUST.
I don’t know what a volt is. I don’t know how many is TOO many. Are 4 million volts enough? More? If I am ever in charge of distributing volts (?), I will probably kill someone. If they require any first aid, again, I’m not your guy. I’ll be the one googling ‘man convulsing what to do?’
I don’t know any knots, I can’t cut straight (never could) and if technology ever breaks down at home I’ll literally be flung into the dark ages.
I don’t even remember how to do fun things. I don’t remember any jokes. I’ve heard a million of them and I’m not joking (ha) when I tell you that I LITERALLY cannot remember a single one. Oh, I don’t know any magic tricks – not even the ‘missing thumb’ trick. One day, my kids are going to be the most bored kids on the planet. Fact.
However, I did ‘construct’ the spice rack at home. But if I am to be completely honest, I have a funny feeling it’s not going to last long enough to show any future generations. I don’t tell my wife, but I occasionally look out for new spice racks (ones that are less likely to fall off/unravel/disintegrate).
Sometimes I think my law degree isn’t even real. Like it’s printed on fortune cookie paper and part of some elaborate (and funny, if I may say so) plan to get me off university premises.
I absolutely loved ‘Strange Mercy’, and have been waiting, patiently, since then for a new St. Vincent album. Thankfully, Annie Clark’s new self-titled album comes out on 25 February 2014 – so the wait is almost over. This is a cut from the album and it’s a catchy number driven by horns and some funky-ass beats. As usual, we have Annie pondering something worth pndering. Here she seems to mock the digital age, singing: If I can’t show it, if you can’t see me – what’s the point of doing anything?
We’re told that she intends for this album to be a ‘party record you could play at a funeral’. Makes sense…
Very much looking forward to the album, but in the meantime enjoy this oddly hypnotic video for now!
Disclosure – I’m going to sound like an asshole.
If you don’t like people sounding like/being assholes, then this think-piece is not for you. Maybe just sit this one out and return tomorrow when I discuss how the queen (I refuse to capitalise the q) is super poor now.
I remember when Facebook stormed into our lives. We all flocked to the loving embrace of Mark Zuckerberg and his sweet new clubhouse. Yeah, I poked, was poked and rejected game/page invites with the very best of them. I must say, I haven’t lost any of that charm. I’m still rejecting and ignoring stupid requests like a pro.
What I didn’t do very well was refrain from gathering friends like they were redeemable coupons. I accepted and added everybody. Hell, I even accepted a friend request from a woman who shares the same last name as me. We’re not related, but I guess she thinks that we are. She looked nice enough, so I adopted her as a fake auntie (cousin?), and now she’s in my life – totally normal.
For some reason, I added people I loathed in my younger years. I assumed that these morons had changed and grown into decent human beings, despite being genuine pricks back in the day. So, through Facebook they watched me at the beach (weird), witnessed my wedding and drooled at the many self-indulgent pictures I’ve posted of food (yeah, I’m one of those people). I caught the occasional glimpse into their lives and for the longest time I mocked, lambasted and scoffed at them. I disliked their words and actions just as much as I did the first time we were thrown into the same pool.
Nothing ever changes. So I decided to delete them.
One by one, I ‘unfriended’ people I’d foolishly allowed back into my life. In just a few short moments, I unfriended 20-30 chumps. I’m not a petty person, but seeing these twits fall off my map warmed the cockles of my heart. The problem is that I’ve become so addicted to the rush of hunting these unwitting ‘victims’ that now I’m running out of fresh blood. So I’ve decided to ‘ration’ out the deletions in order to prolong the magic. Instead of mass deletions, I pick people off in groups of 2 or 3 so I still get my fix. Just this afternoon I rewarded myself for a good sesh at work by deleting a jackass from my past. It felt great and I was as peppy as hell during the afternoon. Look, I’m no egomaniac and I don’t believe for a second that they would even notice my absence – but I don’t care. It’s not as if I’ve posted one of those passive aggressive messages on Facebook in which I tell of the exodus and warn of more bloodshed. This is just about me and the somewhat perverse pleasure I’m getting out of exercising the same discretion I exercise in the real world. You know, choosing who I do and don’t associate with.
Who needs drugs/skydiving/tattoos when you have a delete button? It’s the ultimate rush.
While it’s true that first impressions count, I’ve seen firsthand that second impressions are just as important – if not more so.
The other day, I saw a man strutting down the street in some pretty wicked cowboy boots. This guy had a vibe and I’ll be damned if he didn’t completely own the footpath under his boots. His face was well-worn and kind of dusty. It fit the likely story: he’d been up for a few days attending to important cowboy business and was just searching for a shaded corner to rest his weary head. He’d seen things. You could just tell.
Oh, then he shoved his hand into a parking ticket machine in search of loose coins, and everything changed. When he realised that the machine was empty, he progressed to the next machine. Each time he grew more and more impatient and increased the rate of his strut, which made him look desperate. By the time he reached the end of the street, he was frantic and had started waving his hands in the air like he cared. In case you didn’t know, cowboys aren’t supposed to care.
So the man I first thought was a cowboy was in fact no cowboy at all. As it turns out, he was just some guy foraging for coins in his cowboy boots. I felt deceived and even a little violated by his silent assertion that he was bravado personified. I guess if he had just rifled through ONE machine, I could have given him a pass. Cowboys can be opportunists, too. BUT, he needed to do it in a ‘devil may care’ manner and look completely chill upon realising there were no coins. That would be totally cowboy. But he didn’t do that…
Hell, if he had found a coin he could still have maintained his cowboy image by giving it a flick to a passerby in exchange for a cigarette (it’s OK for cowboys to pay for goods and services), or by stomping on it with his boot – pulverising it into its liquid state and soldering it into his spurs with his bare hands. He wouldn’t even feel the pain of the molten metal because his hands would be calloused from the many years of such bravado. Not only would this be DIY cowboy, but it would also be totally badass and would have restored my faith in this cowboy who had lost his way.
But this isn’t what happened. My experience was with ‘cheapskate cowboy’ – skating along on his deceitful boots, hunting for free money. You know, the money probably wasn’t even for cigarettes; he probably just needed to pay an overdue library fee, do his dry-cleaning or something similarly sad.
Such was the disappointment of Cheapskate Cowboy.