Sunday, March 31, 2013


Let me set the scene for you. 

It's around 8:54pm on Sunday night. I've just rage quit Mass Effect 2 because, quite frankly, I shouldn't be fighting the Quarian race's intergalactic battles for them. I throw the control through my television screen and take out my trusty phone, Sheeba, and open Twitter. I like to do this because it gives me a nice anger-come-down, and quick. (Or, 'ACDC'.) I'm scrolling through the inane ramblings of my collection of complete strangers that I've become quite attached to over the years, like a digital, password-protected security blanket, if you will. Then it happens. The deeply buried unresolved issues from my childhood that involved a twice-daily beating of disappointment to my mushy developing mind. (A few years later it would be my discovery of stick mags and alcohol that would would do most of the damage to my brain.) I believe you'll all know the feeling to which I refer to very well. It is of course, the Arch Window from Playschool.

It's not that I have anything against the plain-Jane round window or the ordinary-as-a-box-of-shaven-Indian-ritual-plaits square window. But the arch window always seemed to be the most elegant. The most poised. The most... arched.

I'd sit there in front of my beige, 16 inch Palsonic TV and beg the camera to zoom through that window and show me a world of intrigue and mystery the likes of which hadn't been seen since Lucy and Ethel sold their living room set to a shady street-peddler and tried to hide it from Ricky. And when It wouldn't happen, when they'd go through one of the other two windows, my little heart would break. I'd refuse to show any interest in the ponies doing dressage with little ribbons on their tails, or the re-enactment of the moon-landing. I'd just sit there on the carpet making little arch windows out of Play-Doh and hold them up to my eye. Which really wasn't the same. Tasty though.

The heartache wouldn't stop. As if taking pleasure in the breaking of children's hearts, the evil producers of Playschool would continue their reign of terror through to story time. And the dreaded Flower Clock.

I guess this was some sick way of convincing kids that becoming an astronaut and flying in a rocket, as the fan favourite and original of the clocks, the Rocket Clock seemed to suggest. No, they wanted to steer children into the more attainable career of "horticulturist", or "floral clock designer". Well I can assure you, ABC Kids, I will NOT fall for your little mind games! I will continue on the career path that I have chosen! I will reach for the stars and live my dreams! I will become a horticulturist! Wait...what? Oh.

Monday, February 04, 2013


in·au·gu·ral ( n-รด gy r- l). adj. 1: Initial; first; beginning. ex: 'Mum, I just got my inaugural period'; 'Mum, I just lodged my inaugural insurance claim for the car you bought for my birthday that I crashed and didn't tell you about'; 'Mum, please enjoy my inaugural blog post'.

The thing about the inaugural blog post is that it's the most important one. The post that is expected to draw in the crowds. The post that indicates the level to which all succeeding posts will be striving to reach. The brow level if you will. Will this blog be high brow? Low brow? Perhaps a heavily Botoxed brow? As a new reader you're expected to be able to simply skim read the first few lines and know exactly which direction the writer's musings will be heading in down the road. But I find that to be a lot of pressure. What if I'm not sure myself? What if the nature of my blog can't be categorized? (Not that I'm like, a blog-bisexual who doesn't believe in blog-labels or being pigeon-blogged.) Then again, maybe I know exactly what my posts will relate to and I'm just enjoying stringing you along for the ride. See if maybe I can push your skimming abilities to their very limits. Keep you titillated, one might say. I guess we'll never know. Well, I'll know.

Will it be another blog about pretentious home-made cuisines that someone has copied directly from a cookbook but then added their own secret ingredient (salt) to, and will be packing for their child's play lunch, which their child will then most likely give to their teacher anyway because, seriously, this kid is 7 years old and all he really wants for lunch is an LCM bar and a banana milk? (No offense.) Will it be a cliched menage of photographs of exquisite hipster capri pants paired with captions announcing why the writer wishes they could afford to buy, or at the very least had the talent to design themselves that some young fashionista employee of Crazy Clark's has posted? (Again, no offense.) Or will my blog be a trashy online gossip page with pictures of Kim Kardashian's areola peeking over a sweat covered fox fur stole she's using to cover what she's telling people is a baby bump but is in actual fact the result of recently becoming a Burger King franchisee for a store she's just opened up in her master bedroom's walk-in closet? (That one was definitely intended to be offensive.)

Alas, my blog will be none of those things. And all of those things. My blog will have one sole purpose: to write about absolutely nothing that matters in an effort to entertain all you good people with dubious enough tastes to enjoy it.