A Little Bit Country...

Some of you may have noticed that I've been absent from the interwebs for the last few days. Well, you'll be pleased to know that I've put the time to good use. You see, I've spent the last week writing and recording some new songs with my band Shitkicker Deluxe. Our debut album That Ain't My Finger and I Ain't Jokin' should hit stores in the middle of March. An eclectic mix of country-rock and bluegrass, That Ain't My Finger and I Ain't Jokin' features the following tracks:

1. Jimmy Carter's Buildin' Me A Houseboat.
2. I Didn't Know She Was Your Sister (I Thought She Was Mine).
3. Diabetes Done Took My Foot.
4. This Hat Is My Home, These Boots Is My Car (And This Hand Is My Wife).
5. If Whiskey Don't Kill Me, Asbestos Just Might.
6. Tonight's The Night (I'm Gonna Make You Holler Like Ned Beatty).
7. Chew. Spit. Repeat.
8. I'm Just Smokey (Jesus Is The Bandit).
9. Requiem For A Critter.
10. You're As Cold As Ice (So How Come It Burns When I Pee?).

So far, the reviews have been positive. Spin magazine was particularly vocal in its praise:

Shitkicker Deluxe break new sonic ground with their debut album. Tapping into the rich musical traditions of rural America, the band delivers a tour de force of murder ballads, hoedowns and Southern rock epics. The virtuoso pedal-steel of Buford "Six Toes" Calhoun haunts the album's opening four tracks and anchors the soaring instrumental Requiem For A Critter, a gospel-blues in D-flat minor composed by Calhoun after the tragic death in a farming accident of his pet Armadillo, Darryl. Solid instrumental backing is provided by drummer Rusty "Nails" Cockburn and bassist Bill "Motherfuckin'" Jones. But it is the songwriting of singer/guitarist Leroy "Teapot" Witherspoon that serves as the band's emotional core. The album's lyrics drip with Southern Gothic imagery: lines like "The tragic splendor of his betrayal/sends my brain humming/Jesus was a carpenter/'cos Jews don't know 'bout plumbing" convey the alienation of traditional religious communities in post-Bush America, while phrases like "I lie alone in bed/and slowly go mad/two years of lovin' you/now my junk's gone bad" from You're As Cold As Ice show a playful side to Witherspoon's otherwise serious lyricism.

I'll advise of tour dates shortly.

Butterflies Are Free

I don't know if it's just the fact that I'm getting older and harder of hearing, but lately I've noticed myself having difficulty following conversations. I find myself missing sentences and catching only snippets of dialogue. Deprived of context, making sense of the few random words I manage to understand during any given discussion can be a difficult task. I'm not sure why, but the problem seems to be particularly severe when I find myself chatting with people significantly older than me. There's one particular fellow at work who I am forever struggling to understand. Here are some examples of things I've (mis)heard from him during social events. For full effect, it's best to imagine the following words being said with an English accent by a distinguished-looking man in his late 60s:

'... And that was the first time I saw Jessica Tandy kill a man.'

'... So I said "The joke's on you, buddy. That's not my scrotum."'

'... No, I don't suppose the pope would have much use for a machete.'

'... Of course it's well known these days that Sir John Latham was Australia's most flatulent chief justice.'

'... Actually, studies indicate that blue cheese is a highly effective contraceptive.'

'... I guess Churchill won the argument, but D H Lawrence walked away with the aubergines.'

'... Well, I don't need to tell you we've been advising our clients to get out of the sharemarket and invest in binoculars.'

'... But what they don't teach you at Oxford is how to slaughter a goat.'

'... And right on cue, in walks the Home Secretary with a set of bagpipes and a trowel.'

'... So I said "Oh... I guess my Lexus will just find its own way out of that hedge maze, will it?"'

'... But what nobody tells you about Ted Kennedy is that the man can't ice-skate for beans!'

'... Yes, we had a fellow like that at Eton. Just could not walk away from a chainsaw.'

'... Back when I was a boy, this land was nothing but lizard sanctuaries as far as the eye could see.'

'... Any man who tells you a Jaguar will float simply doesn't know what he's talking about.'

'... What irritates me isn't that the Portuguese can't build a time machine. It's that they won't.'

'... Do you speak Sumerian? Because the office really could use someone who speaks Sumerian.'

'... So I said "Look... If Cousteau wants a fight to the death, he knows where to find me."'

'... Of course back then you had to smoke opium or you'd risk losing your scholarship.'

Only the Lonely

And so today is Valentine's day. To be honest, I don't really understand the point of the whole celebration. Frankly, it seems to have been designed primarily for the purpose of making single people feel bad about themselves. But then what can you expect from people who think a bow and arrow is a perfectly appropriate plaything for a toddler? Anyway... I've thought of a number ways for single people to avoid the crippling feelings of loneliness that can accompany the 14th of February. Following my advice might just bring an element of romance back into your life:

Buy yourself a box of chocolates. If you don't like chocolate, buy yourself a bottle of Wild Turkey and spend the day sitting in the bathtub getting 'faced on mint juleps.

Watch a double-bill of When Harry Met Sally and Bridget Jones' Diary. Alternatively, watch Planet of the Apes. Nobody knows romance like Dr Zaius. And would I do Dr Zira? Well... Let's just say I wouldn't not do her.

The smell of fresh flowers can brighten up your day and make you feel alive. So why not buy yourself a bunch? If you can't afford flowers, buy a pack of Lucky Strikes. Lucky Strikes smell good too.

Porn. If you already spend a lot of time looking at porn, try gay porn. After all, routine is the enemy of romance. And you'll never understand those confusing feelings you have about Jimmy Smits if you don't explore them.

Two words: internet dating. It's not just for ugly people anymore. OK, you're right. It is. But you're not getting any younger and you should be glad to have anyone. And how come don't you call anymore? What, you're too busy? All of a sudden sitting on the couch in your underwear is a full-time job? By the way, your cousin Michael's a doctor now.

Take a long walk along the beach. If you don't live near a beach, try walking to a strip club. But not one of those expensive strip clubs where the women make lots of money and wear perfume and jewellery and have perfect posture and nice teeth. Lonely people can find solace in each other's company. And there's nothing lonelier than a 42-year old with scoliosis and BO who's just pawned her stripper boots to pay for a root canal.

Try speed dating. After all, it only takes a minute to fall in love. And some of those speed dating places give you free booze. But if you plan to drink, make sure you're going speed dating and not speed skating. 'Cos I heard about this guy in Canada... Long story short: he went speed skating with a bottle of Jaeger and now he's missing three feet of small intestine.

Don't spend the night at home eating dinner by yourself. Go to a nice restaurant. But don't go to a French restaurant. I know nobody does romance like the French, but last time I went to one it was a debacle: five minutes into the meal the salad nicoise surrendered to my brother's BMW keys and formed a puppet government. Then the beef bourguignon dug a hole and hid until a squadron of cheeseburgers from the local McDonald's made a heroic landing on the shores of the bouillabaisse and liberated it. There was ketchup everywhere. To make matters worse, the crème brulee spent the rest of the night meditating on the futility of existence and decrying the cultural imperialism of the English-speaking world. You know what I'm talking about, people: cheese-eating surrender monkeys. And they're kind of pretentious. And this has nothing to do with that French chick who wasn't interested in me. Seriously.

Read a nice romantic book. Try Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Or if that's not your thing, try Pride and Extreme Prejudice by Stone Cold Steve Austin.



From left to right: Stone Cold Steve Austin, Dr Zaius, Dr Zira, Jimmy Smits and the consequences of allowing children access to projectile weapons.

The Seven Signs of Evil

As some of you may be aware, Melbourne experienced its highest ever recorded temperature on Saturday. The mercury climbed above 46 degrees and the State experienced some of the worst fires in its history. The baking heat and ashen sky created the closest thing I've ever experienced to a vision of hell. At times during the day, I genuinely believed the world was coming to an end. Fortunately, I've spent a great deal of my life contemplating the apocalypse and I have identified seven events that I am convinced will accompany the end-times. The fact that that none of these signifiers of doom appeared during the course of the day gave me hope that the world would indeed continue to turn. For future reference, I believe the following markers will point the way to our destruction:

The Wayans brothers win the Nobel Prize for Chemistry.

The Washington Monument is demolished to make way for a 180-foot bronze statue of Dick Cheney urinating on the Constitution.

The image of Dame Nellie Melba on the Australian $100 note is replaced by a hologram of Vanessa Amorosi.

Friday editions of The New York Times are devoted entirely to opinion pieces by or about Jar-Jar Binks. The paper is renamed The Daily Gungan.

Martin Scorses's gangland epic Goodfellas is adapted into a romantic comedy starring Patrick Dempsey. The film is given the title Maid Men.

Sony Music releases The Complete Works of F Scott Fitzgerald: As Read by Gwen Stefani.

"And the Oscar goes to... Dane Cook for Death of a Salesman."

Everything must go...

So today I turn 29. Aging, as a wise man once said, is the process of reconciling yourself to the crushing realisation that you'll never be the man you'd hoped to grow into. With that in mind, I thought it was time to take stock; time to look back over the ambitions I once held for my 20s and to compare them with the accomplishments of my real life. The process of comparison is simple: I take a goal I held for myself at or before the beginning of my third decade and compare it with my life's achievement which most nearly corresponds to that goal. For example: as a young man I dreamed of writing a novel. As it turns out, I maintain an obscure weblog with a readership of two. I think that's a reasonably good result. Perhaps my other goals have been less completely fulfilled. The following list of goals and outcomes will no doubt demonstrate the mixed feelings that accompany my progress toward middle age:

Goal:

Find a cure for cancer.

Outcome:

Have thus far managed to avoid getting cancer.

Goal:

Play football for Arsenal Football Club.

Outcome:

Played foosball drunk off my arse.

Goal:

Own a 1959 Les Paul.

Outcome:

Hit on a 59-year-old lesbian named Paula.

Goal:

Speak fluent German.

Outcome:

Can speak fluent Gibberish (well... Pidgin Gibberish).

Goal:

Compose a symphony.

Outcome:

Can belch Islands in the Stream in two different keys.

Goal:

Have a torrid love affair with a French lingerie model.

Outcome:

Stole orthopaedic footwear from a bowlegged stripper.

Goal:

Conduct an a capella performance of Haendel's Messiah.

Outcome:

Taught a parrot to say 'Where's the Beef' on command.

Goal:

Direct stage adaptation of To Kill A Mockingbird.

Outcome:

Stole Gregory Peck's shoes, walked a mile in them.

Goal:

Direct sequel to Blade Runner.

Outcome:

Shot a guy during a job interview.

Goal:

Climb K2 without oxygen.

Outcome:

Spent a month living on nothing but grape soda and popcorn chicken.

Goal:

Write an award-winning sitcom.

Outcome:

Watched half a season of 18 Wheels of Justice.

Goal:

Run a marathon.

Outcome:

Lost $20 gambling on the outcome of a semi-professional prune juice drinking contest.

As you will no doubt have gathered from the above, my 20s have been a rich period of triumph, tragedy and personal growth. So what remains for the final year of my third decade? Well... I spent this evening watching the season return of How I Met Your Mother and I couldn't help but think that meeting Ms Right should be the project to which I devote this year. That said, I couldn't quite understand why 29-year-old perpetual lonely heart Ted, desperate to settle down, would second-guess his decision to marry Sarah Chalke because she didn't like Star Wars. Frankly, spending a lifetime with Dr Elliot Reid strikes me as a fairly good way to shuffle off this mortal coil. If she hadn't enjoyed The Empire Strikes Back, I might have understood Ted's misgivings, but Star Wars? Leaving this issue for a moment... Has anyone noticed how much that Ted guy looks like Arsenal 'striker' Nicklas Bendtner? It's kind of freaky:



Both of these men have trouble scoring, but only one of them is Danish. The question is: which one? Answers in the comments section, please.