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The First Day of Rantuary

Welcome To Rantuary!
(Caution: May contain traces of overt CAPITALISATION and ill-directed, word-based rage.)

Grrrr…
It’s hot at the moment. Which is generally an effect of the summer, however when I say that it’s hot at the moment what I really mean to say is that Melbourne as a city has transcended the ordinary meteorological realm and elevated itself into a climate usually reserved for fictional universes. Places like Mordor or Hell.

A heat wave has unleashed its Charizard-like intensity onto the unsuspecting public who the week before had been whining about an unusually cool and overcast start to the year.

Whichever deity we have managed to piss off, they’ve let loose a scorching week of 40 plus days (for those who use Fahrenheit that’s like 104 plus five days running with the overnight low of 100) and it’s starting to take it’s toll.

Not only have there been bushfires exploding all over the country (if you go on the CFA website to look up spot fires in the state in looks like some Sim City scenario gone horribly wrong) but the Australian Open had to enact it’s ‘hot weather protocol plan delta six four six’ and halted play yesterday after thermometers across the country went on strike. This was after a Canadian player got so hot and delirious he started to believe Snoopy was bouncing around on the other side of net (having said that, the beloved beagle has a mean forehand and won 6-1, 6-3, 6-0).

It’s hot. As the great Robin Williams said: “It’s so hot I can cook things in my shorts.”

And as a result of the oppressive heat and the lack of air-conditioning in the house I am currently house-sitting with my girlfriend (because we all know that if you don’t look after a house while it’s owners are away it will stay up late watching SBS porn and drinking nana’s Pimms) I have been turned into a sun burnt Hulk with bad tan lines.

Grrr….

So I’ve dubbed this month Rantuary and in honour of this new title I will be writing a new rant every day (or so) about something that’s making me see red (that isn’t just my reflection in the mirror after going outside to get the mail).

And yes I am aware that it’s like more than halfway through the month, but you know what? MY ANGER HAS STOPPED ME FROM BEING ABLE TO COMPREHEND DATES IN THE TRADITIONAL FASHION AND EVERYTHING HAS JUST BLURRED INTO HEAT.

And On The First Day of Rantuary My True Rage Gave To Me: Derryn Hinch.

 So between sets down at Rod Laver Arena, there are actually things going on in the world and occasionally you get a glimpse at what they are when for an hour every day Channel 7 give you a break from the grunting, aces and commentators getting people’s names wrong and then covering it up by referring to them as their nationality (I’m looking at you Macavaney) to bring you the news. And then something that’s dressed like news and quacks like a duck but is not a duck nor is it news.

That would be Today Tonight. Something I avoid like Candy Crush requests.

However in an exhausted state from cheering a bit too hard for someone I don’t know in a sport I can’t play, I sweltered through the news and forgot to do anything when it eventually became the oxymoronic current affairs program.

Normally the show alone is enough to set me off.

But this instalment was going to serve up a whole new level of rage because it featured the self-proclaimed ‘Human Headline’ (which I think roughly translates to: guy who does stupid things and makes headlines for being a wanker) that is former shock-jock, part-time ‘defender of free speech’ and full-time dickhead Derryn Hinch. You may remember him from that time he was on Dancing with the Stars, but if you need help he looks Don Burke had too much plastic surgery and didn’t age well and then got into beard-scaping.

Derryn Hinch.

He’s the kind of conservative, out-spoken asshat that makes the gibbering homeless man in the park look like a poet laureate. A man whose sensationalist idiocy is thinly disguised as investigative journalism. Basically he’s an idiot. But recently he went from just an idiot to fully fledged moron, like a phoenix born from the ashes of stupidity.

His latest ridiculous battle in his ‘war against those liberal bastards taking away our free speech’ saw him reveal information about an ongoing criminal investigation, information that the police had asked to be suppressed due to the horrific nature of the crime and the fact that it would taint any jury that was brought in during the trial, therefore not allowing for a fair trial.

So Hinch decided that he would take it upon himself to do this anyway and broke the law by breaking the suppression order. Something he does a bit on his quest for truth, justice and ratings.

After the whole incident the police fined Hinch and said that if he didn’t pay the fine he’d go to prison (after all he’d been under house arrest for doing THE EXACT SAME THING a few years back).

Well Hinchy, the stalwart pillar of integrity that he is, came out yesterday (not like that unfortunately because that WOULD BE THE FUNNIEST FUCKING THING EVER CONSIDERING HIS AUDIENCE) and said that he wasn’t paying the fine and would be serving the jail time because he was a man of principles.

Principles.
I have done farts with more principles than Derryn Hinch.

Apparently this was him taking a stand in the battle against ‘political correctness’ and the oppression of the truth, and isn’t he a fucking hero? He made a special announcement on a show that he works for and is paid a lot to appear on. And it was about principles?

Puh-lease.

Not only that but for the twenty-minutes before and after, Channel 7 ran the story in their news updates saying that ‘Derryn Hinch was making huge sacrifice.’ Sacrifice? SACRIFICE? Derryn Hinch seems to believe he’s some sort of Mandela, only instead of going to prison trying to break the shackles of oppression against an entire race of people, Hinch is going to prison because he’s an idiot who knowingly broke the law so that he could get more hits on his blog.

He interfered with a police investigation that could have resulted in a murderer walking free because he just couldn’t help himself.

And despite the best efforts of Channel 7 and Hinch, there’s no sympathy here. Only stupidity.

GRRRRRRRRRRRR…..

So my keyboard took a hammering, but my urge to set fire to random people…I mean things has diminished significantly. Look out for the next instalment when Tom gets angry at things that probably aren’t worth the effort but IT’S HOT AND I’M MAD AND WHEN AM I EVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO USE A PORTMANTEAU LIKE RANTUARY AGAIN???

Love.
Treed.

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A Brief History Of My Automotive Exploits.

My current car is my third. My first was a hand-me-down relic of the automotive industry that had spent so long in a stationary position that it had accrued a small ecosystem in the form of lichen, spiders and moths. It was the vehicular equivalent of a sloth that slowly becomes home to algae. It was a beautiful behemoth of a thing that rattled and groaned and struggled up inclinations over 10 degrees. However affection and crossed fingers did not create the necessary combustive process to keep it going and eventually I had to trade up and across and I downsized to a cube.A half-car, essentially it stopped at about the point where most cars back seats started.

It too was a faithful fuelled companion and had the added of bonus in that it didn’t smell like the set of Mad Max every time I turned the ignition over. Unfortunately my second car didn’t last very long. In fact a family of improperly spawned and maintained sea-monkeys outlived my little half-car. My new automotive relationship lasted a week before I attempted to inhabit the exact same space at the exact time as another car coming the other way. Apparently you can’t do that. So my half-car became a two-thirds-car. From the front seat backwards the car was pristine. However the third with all of the important car related bits in it was spread out across a stretch of intersection near a railway line.

Which completes the journey to my latest four-wheeled accomplice. It’s original master lived across the road and took pity on the wreck of Car no.2 that sat on my family’s front lawn for a lot longer than it should have. Perhaps it was a deliberate manipulation of emotions, a strategic placement of a busted dream so that it was in full view of the neighbours and therefore would cause them to come to my aid. I’m not that clever. I drove my car into another car remember? (Strangely enough, I still have that dudes number in my phone…because that’s a great number to drunk dial: “Heeeeyyyy! I ruined your brother’s car and your girlfriend hates my guts…”)

Anyways. This is basically a complicated way of saying that I am currently writing this on the metal block pretending to be a balcony that juts out from my apartment, and in doing so I have an excellent view of the world below…and the people trying desperately to find a park within it. The reason I brought up my own experiences with cars is because I wanted to talk about my parking anxiety. It’s the sort of shortness-of-breath-clammy-palms-shaking-knees-oh-god-oh-god mania that overcomes even the best of us in certain situations. For some people it’s when they have to order a particularly complicated sandwich at a cafe. For others it’s the moment of fear just before you commit to greeting someone with a hug, a kiss on the cheek or a combination of the two without knowing if they are prepared for such a greeting.

Parking anxiety is compounded by the pressure of other vehicles sitting right on your tail, your passengers giving you disparaging looks and the fact that if you go just a little too far to the right you will leave a big dirty smear down the length of an Audi whose front bumper costs more than you’re whole car. However my parking anxiety transcends beyond just my own parking frustrations and extends out to feeling that sense of unease and sweatiness when watching total strangers park.

Like right now.

I realised I was holding my breath as I watched a green Commodore slowly revolve precariously close to its neighbour, it’s driver stuttering backwards and forwards as they tried to navigate the tight turn from the road to the safety of the white outline. However in the same instant as being gripped by vicarious panic, I also felt a strange sensation pass over me. From this vantage point I realised that there was quite a bit of space. An abundance of space between what the driver saw as the edge and what actually constituted the edge. And as I expanded my gaze across the other parking spaces I saw that many of the other drivers had misjudged the space they were allowed and had hugged one line or the other.

It was a profound moment for me. A sense of freedom and peace. I no longer felt my sphincter tighten at the thought of nudging my car into the gap. It was like turning on the light and realising that the ominous shadow in the corner that bore an uncanny resemblance to Slender Man was really just a lamp with a jacket thrown across it. It was kind of like being cured.

I say kind of because while from my lofty height above the cars and the commuters rushing around everything looks fine, as soon as you hit ground level the miles of free asphalt suddenly transforms into a cat’s arse in a vice. The horrible feeling came back and I knew that if I was in my car trying to flick my car into that space, my bird’s-eye view would count for jack, instead it would be replaced with the flat expanse of terror presented from below. It’s like turning the light back off again and realising that you don’t own a jacket…or a lamp.

Panic is all in the perspective.

Anyway this whole thing was really just an excuse to sit in the sun, I had planned on writing a short story about a fat man…but that will have to come with the next ray of sunshine predicted for later in the week (what am I made of motivation and creativity???)

Good luck with your driving.
Treed.

This post is in loving memory of my green Toyota Lexcen: You served me well old girl.
And my white Mazda: You were taken from us much too early…
RIP Guys.

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Preface

The camera slowly pans across the room, it is in a state of disarray. The couch lies tipped on it’s side, a small coffee table is in two crumbling halves and the bookshelf, along with it’s contents, leans haphazardly against the fridge. Scorch marks dot the carpet and several large knives jut from the walls-obviously thrown with force. Along the same wall is a dull, red smear that resembles blood. Tufts of hair litter the floor and there are deep gouge marks in the T.V. Something nasty has gone down in this apartment…

The camera sweeps around at the sound of a shotgun being reloaded. There, crouched behind the flipped dining table, is a YOUNG MAN. He’s maybe twenty-one tops and is decked out in facial hair and snorkel mask. He stares at something unseen with bloodshot eyes, a single bleeding cut trickles from his cheek. He brings the shotgun up to his shoulder.

YOUNG MAN
Time to die motherfucker…

He loosens off a shot and there is horrible sound akin to pig dying and a bear farting. He fires another one and the noise stops. He sighs and drops the gun to the floor, eyes closed with relief. Suddenly a growl starts up from across the room. The man’s eyes fling open and he let’s out a scream as something large and furry rushes him…FADE TO CREDITS.

I am a someone of notoriety. That is to say I have something that I am notorious for. It’s nothing major, I’ve never robbed a bank or been arrested for wrestling a bear in public (they were only allegations). I am notorious for never finishing a thing ever. I have started many various hobbies/pursuits with full gusto and bravado only to become distracted by a moth at the last second.

So I have decided rather than fight my natural instinct for procrastination and distraction, I would finally embrace it and try to turn it into something positive (or at the very least productive). So I present to you, the good people of *mumble* a series of interconnected but wholly unrelated thoughts and musings. Basically I’m going to break this blog into five main categories: Life & Times Of, Trivial Pursuits, Creative Catharsis, List-o-mania and Urban Monsters.

Below is a field guide to these categoricals:

Life & Times Of: Anecdotes and Reflections on daily activities, relevance/amusement levels may vary. Best served with a side of white wine and salad. Not to be administered to anyone with glandular problems.

Trivial Pursuits: As an avid trivia participator and pointless fakt absorber I will endeavour to broaden your horizons with some useless information that may just come in handy one day should you ever find yourself in a life -or-death trivia based situation.

Creative Catharsis: Being a would-be writer I may occasionally use this blog for either shameless self-promotion of my own work or as a brainstorming environment for ideas. You know because using your inner most thoughts as a creative process is only made more interesting by sharing that process with the collective interwebs.

List-o-mania: Lists of things. Pretty fucking boring actually.

Urban Monsters: The continuing story of three people living in an apartment trying to deal with an unwanted guest residing in the closet and various other enclosed spaces. (See interlude above)

I give you fair warning now that this is a scattershot assortment of things and nonsense and that your involvement in the following my cause respiratory problems, dizziness, heightened sense of self, sore gums, receding hairlines, erectile dysfunction and spontaneous thumb pregnancy.

So please come along for the ride as I attempt to do this thing…I can’t promise how frequent my postings will be (I shall aim for one or two a week…maybe even more) and leave it at that. Have a wonderful day (and not in a patronising way at all…which only makes it sound even more patronising).

Treed.

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Filed under Creative Catharsis, Life & Times Of, List-o-mania, Trivial Pursuits, Urban Monsters