Phone blogging. Well, it has always seemed anathema to me. And normally on my computer it would be easy for me to independently check the definition of the word “anathema” to make sure it was appropriate to my purposes. Basically I mean it’s something I’ve never been keen on. But I’ll go on faith in this context. The next obvious hurdle is the lack of keyboard. The keyboard, you must understand, is my instrument. Much less attractive to the ladies than the guitar or, well, I was gonna say saxaphone but I think these days they’re only likely to be attracted to guitar proficiency. But I spent five terms (that’s a year and a quarter) in high school doing little else but practicing typing – with mostly women who were as equally vastly unimpressed as they’ve since been by my dedication to the English language expressed via computer. It was never about being attractive, though I’ve also long held the view that men don’t do much that isn’t geared toward enamouring the fairer sex. I just knew deep down in my geek soul that, Jesus! This shit is going to come in handy one day. And it has, financially and personally. And the militant feminist teacher I endured who’d segregate or outright ostracise her male pupils be damned. As far as I’m concerned, I got to the computer keyboard skill equivalent point that Beethoven did on the piano. Maybe. Maybe not.
I may have digressed. It’s 1.30am and I’m out the back of a share house belonging via rent to a bunch of beautiful young women from the east-mid-western northern rivers New South Wales region who all moved here chasing the Gold Coast dream. Whatever the fuck that is. One of them is educated in floristry but works behind a bar I frequent with some, erm, frequency. As much as I’m grateful for their benevolent presence in my shit hole of an adopted town (I was born in Geelong and moved here with my olds when I was five), it seems only fair or at least truthful to put signs reading something like “Warning: Gold Coast city is much more superficial, vacuous and sparsely industrialized than it may first appear while you’re on holidays”; at any and all points of ingress to the local government area governed by a popularly elected mayor who is, let’s face it, a greedy businessman formerly of Liberal National Party colours who is interested in little other than protecting and furthering the interests of himself and his greedy businessman mates.
Now, where was I? As if you give a shit, on account of the fact that it’s difficult to attach photos to a phone blog, and I’m the first to admit that blogs without photos are about as useful as revolutionary thoughts in a supermarket worker’s head. Sorry. Was trying to come up with a better “as useful as” analogy than the good old “tits on a bull” one. Sometimes clichés are apt, I guess. My point is this bullshite is words only, and God fucking bless you fantastic bastards who have bothered to read this far. I suppose this is as good a time as any to mention that the girl, the incredibly gorgeous and crazy and weird and wonderful girl who is our (mine and my brother’s) host, has gone to bed upstairs. Leaving us both languishing downstairs on the couch enduring the agonizingly slow death throes of a fridge that looks fine but sounds like a diesel generator. This sucks (her going to bed, as much as the noisy fridge) because my couple of inches taller and 20 kgs heavier brother has had the privilege of sleeping in the same bed as her twice. (It’s a common thing for me, as a relative intellectual who lives in his arguably superior physical shadow when it comes to the fairer sex. Actually, we rarely share the same taste, intellectually, emotionally or superficially, in women, but this girl might be different.) New paragraph.
He was, apparently, a gentleman both times. I’m less confident I would be, but to be honest even in my drunken state I would give my left pinkie toe just for the chance to spend some time with her while we’re both sober. (She serves us drinks down the local sports club so regrettably I’ve always been a couple of sheets to the wind in her purely social company.) A man can dream, in the hope his reality might become dream-like in its beauty and magnificence and possible unlikelihood. Changing subject. Well I guess I’m happy with my first phone blog. It’s certainly helped me expend some frustrated sexual, romantic and creative energy. Guess I might as well publish it, after a quick read through. No one is likely to read it any time soon, especially without photos and especially (hey I got italics to work) without a post to Facebook that upwards of five people might read but none will comment on/’like’. I don’t care though. I write, in whatever and presently this form, because I want to and have to. Any readership and one day again God willing money which results is purely a bonus. Permit me to say “fuck you” to my phone’s auto correct which has so often attempted to thwart my best literary intentions over the past hour. And a sincere thank you to those who made it this far. Romance is not dead. And world peace can happen in our lifetimes.