Dear Vic

When leaving in a work truck it is important to:

- Make sure all items required for the day are packed.

- Delegate a spotter before reversing a truck and trailer out of the smallest vehicle parking area in the world, which is packed with far too many vehicles. If not, you may actually run into something.

- Make sure the radio works by cranking it up. This will also ensure that nobody in your work crew will snooze on the hour or so drive to the mine site, thus ensuring that they will be 100% awake and ready to work (or at least hastily exit the truck) when they arrive.

- Walk around the truck prior to departure making sure all items that are supposed to be secure indeed actually are. This should stop things from falling off.

- Walk around the truck prior to departure making sure all items that aren't supposed to be secured have been detatched completely. This should stop you from taking a trailer along by accident next time. Who would guess it? You're dragging around 2.3 tonnes of vacuum unit on wheels and you don't even know it? Damn.

That is all.

To My Co-Workers:

Train Station Goodness:

I love trains. Always have. Watching them, hearing them, travelling on them.

Train stations will always hold some hidden little smiles for me - a surprise flower growing between the tracks, the weird way an underground station smells in all it's tiled clinicity, the fifty people all gathered under the clock as a meeting spot. There's graffiti, one of my favourite visual excitements, and usually there's a slogan to make my mind twist.

On the way into Sydney recently to see the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras parade I caught sight of a beauty at Waverton station: a beautifully painted station fixture sign that said

Alight here for Beautiful BALLS HEAD

... and we all know what comes right along with balls, don't we? But there's plenty of those types of heads floating around already and I'd rather not like to spend time with them!

On Morning Time

It's early. I have twenty minutes in which to drink a cup of tea, put my shoes on, panic about the whereabouts of my keys and cigarettes and then I'll still be at work before I'm meant to.

Jonah the Mostly Black Cat is rustling away beside me tearing up the latest box that has pissed him off. The fridge is humming away to itself, the pay TV box has joined in with it's own somewhat possessed hum and yet still, above all the household running sounds I can hear the crickets carrying on outside.

This time of morning is pretty relaxing when I'm not rushing to find clothes, shake off a hangover or just beat the consequences of too many hits on the snooze button. There's stuff all traffic out and about. All the drunken idiots that tend to walk by have either got into a fight and been hospitalised or arrested or they've passed out somewhere by now. It's just me and the crickets.

It's times like now - kicking back, relaxing before the start of the hectic day - that I try to resolve that I will get up well before I'm required to every day. I know somehow that it's not going to happen. Things will get in the way. Jonah will destroy my bedroom all night leaving me with the five minute gaps the snooze button affords me to catch up. I'll get hit by the drunk stick before bed, rendering any form of organisation completely useless. I'll forget to put the washing on early enough and have to fight my way through the stress of ironing still wet clothes while saying shitgoddamnhell just dry. I'll decide to make muffins for sixty people at the drop of a hat.

There will usually be something to keep me from kicking back relaxing in the mornings.

But.... I really do love this time.

Period of Annoyance

It’s time for a little song. Come along, warm up your vocal chords and join in whenever you’re ready. No need to be shy, now! Today’s song is called Riding the Red Pony or is otherwise known as Making Teabags for the Vampires…

Periods. Why do I even need them?
Periods. I hate them with a passion.

(shout)
[Aunt Flo sends her regards!]

Periods. Make you panic in the restroom.
Periods. Soak your pants if you bleed through.

(shout)
[Blowjob season. Bitchy Witchy Week!]

Rags. What a pity there’s no riches.
Monthlies. It’s what turns us into bitches.
Cramps. Hurl your stomach into stictches.
I’m out of action. Can’t stand the bodily glitches!

Periods. So much better if it’s not you.
Periods. Can’t find a toilet when you need to.

(shout)
[Feed the lesbian vampires!]

Periods. A curse I can’t get rid of.
Periods. Tell all of them to fuck off.

(shout)
[I sat on a tomato]

Visitors. So much for battle of the sexes.
Girl Things. Wish them on your exes.
Red Tide. It’s The Blood of St. Menses.
Sticky Time. I’ve got a Leaky Basement!

THERE WILL BE NO MORE MENSTRUATION JOKES, PERIOD.

Streaker

Last night I woke sprawled face down like a starfish across my double bed, in just a pair of underpants. I must have tried to embrace my bed in a bear hug out of joy for finally seeing it. That’s right, I think to myself. I came home on the train last night and had to wait forever for it. No wonder bed was obviously a disorganised event consisting of Aim and Flop. The process was more than likely hastened by tripping over the cuffs of my jeans as I tried to step out of them.

Why did I wake from the depths of my overtired, exhausted and somewhat alcohol induced slumber?

Rain. A downpour of summer storm proportions. We’ve been having heaps of those lately in Vicsville. Normally it would be a great feeling to roll over, stretch a bit and then settle in to listen to the beautiful sounds it creates, bask in the smell of rain and the cool breeze it brings. I have always loved a downpour. It gets into your soul. It calms you in a way that nothing else can. It is contentment.

This time it is panic.
It is panic, and near-naked streaking.

Out into the common driveway of six units I went at full sprint. Underpants hanging around my arse, tits (stupid things they are) heaving in all the wrong ways, and car keys gripped in my hand.

How the hell I remembered that the windows were down I have no idea. In those twenty seconds of full world exposure I managed to get my only item of clothing, my underpants, completely saturated.

With my entire body wet, still exhausted and probably still drunk, I ditched the soggy, floppy underdacks without ceremony right next to the pair of jeans I’d tripped out of. No sitting back and basking in the sounds tonight. Straight back to embracing the bed and the sleep that comes hand in hand with it.

Night Out

An hour of preparation shared between the shower, razor and the bedroom mirror.
An hour of self-admonishment for forgetting how to let loose with my style.
Five cans of Rum & Dry.
Half a dozen cigarettes and a couple of slices of cold pizza.

Smash the last can of rum down on the half-dozen block walk to the train station and there’s no turning back.

We’re going out on the town.

More specifically, I’m going out on the town to the only local gay bar I know in existence. That was another point of self-admonishment. I’ve forgotten my dyke style. I haven’t been around my kindred spirits for so long I’ve forgotten how to make my statement among them.

Twenty minutes of train journey.
Twenty minutes of enduring some snotty little teenage girls talking about how many guys they got onto and how so-and-so is so disgusting for getting onto so-and-so.
Get me another fucking drink.

I turn on the music player on my phone as I get off the train. Let’s have some pump-up music, in the form of Big and Rich’s party track Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy:
Well I saddle up my horse and I ride into the city
I make a lot of noise ‘cause the girls they are so pretty

Yep, yes, and hell yeah. I’m hoping to see me quite a few of those pretty girls, bust a few beers down and perhaps make a few friends. Then I plan on getting my merry arse on to the dance floor and working off all the pies I shouldn’t have had on the way to work. Then, hopefully, I’ll make it home without sleeping past my stop on the train.

It worked out, sort of. I listened to bad karaoke run by a fantastically camp tranny. I watched two absolutely gorgeous women play some great pool. I was hanging out in the smokers’ section chatting to the occasional random person when…
I got picked up on.
You’re joking. I think to myself.
I haven’t hit my peak with the style. I’m wearing sneakers for fuck’s sake. I’m carrying ten kilos more fat than I want to, and in all the wrong places.
Surely this is a joke.

I bailed to the dancefloor because I wasn’t actually there to pick up. I just wanted a night out.

She continued to seek me out, cornering me in the smoker’s section.

No joke. She definitely wanted me. Wow! Holyshit and whatthefuck all in one big swirly mix. I ended up trying to go home because I wasn’t exactly that interested in her. She was sexy all right, but I was tired and she was extremely forward. She asked if she could kiss me before I left. Sure, I say. Why the fuck not then?

It was nice, although it felt as though she was trying to rape me in the middle of the courtyard after a while. I broke it off, kind of embarrassed to be virtually fucking in front of everyone, and also not wanting to have her think I was going to take her home. Another day, maybe I would have. Not this time. I had only just started coaxing my dykeness back out of the closet and there was no way sex was going to come easily to me. I thought it best to head home. That’s where things turned nasty.

I was a fucking tease
A mole.
Apparently I knew that she’d had her eyes on me from the second I walked in the door.
An arsehole.

So maybe it’s going to take a while to get my mojo back in full swing. Certainly it’s going to take a while to deal with being hit on. That normally doesn’t happen to me and was a daunting surprise to say the least.

But the mojo, my inner dyke style?
It’s coming. It’s coming back with a vengeance.

Quote of the Day

"The problem with your gene pool is that there's no lifeguard."

Born today: Newton

"Newton was not the first of the age of reason: he was the last of the magicians."
- Keynes, John Maynard (1972), "Newton, The Man"

Sir Isaac Newton was born three hundred and sixty-seven years ago, today. At the time of his birth, though, it was Christmas Day, 1642. It just happens that England hadn't adopted the Gregorian calendar yet. In fact, the Brits didn't change to the different style calendar until quarter of a century after Newton died, so the poor bugger was stuck celebrating Christmas and his birthday on the same day. They were the fourth last in the old Europe to join in on the whole Gregorian calendar party, so if he'd been born somewhere such as Spain or Portugal he could have enjoyed separate Christmases and birthdays his entire life.

Most people have seen cartoons of an apple donking Newton on the head, prompting him to come up with the theory of gravity. Well... not quite true. Watching an apple fall from a tree in his mother's garden prompted him to think on gravity. Not whether it existed, but whether it extended so far from Earth that it could also be the force holding the moon to it's orbit. Since he guessed the same force was responsible for other orbital motion he named it "universal gravitation".

"The" tree is a subject of some debate. The school that Newton went to (even though his mother took him out of school to be a farmer for a while - which he didn't like much)claim that they bought "the" tree, uprooted it, and plomped it in the headmaster's garden years later. Apparently his signature can still be found on the library window sill - so possibly the school has spent more money on refurbishing their gardens than they have maintaining the buildings.

Woolsthorpe Manor, Newton's family home, reckon they still have it safe in their garden. Trinity College in Cambridge think they've got a descendant of it in their gardens below the room he lived in when he studied there. You can even buy a descendant tree for yourself, from the National Fruit Collection, for your own inspirational benefit. Perhaps you could place it next to your model of Archimedes' bath. I feel a theory on the rate of decay brought on by fruit fly invasion coming on.

Heading off to work to:

Well, to install some insulation...

But my real aim for the day is to keep a tally of how many lame Hey Vic, haven't seen you since last year! comments I can get.

What Happened to the Weekend?

Yesterday I was planning to write about a nice little drive in the rain through the local countryside. There were nice little rainy landscape shots. There were geese. There were heritage buildings. There were bunnies and flowers. There were signs and reflections and patterns and all things photographically inspiring.

And then there was major pain. The type of pain that landed me in hospital.

So began couple of hours of morphine and uncertainty as to what the hell was going on. In fact, I still don't know what really happened. It was somewhere between my chest and crotch, but it was sending cramping pains all over my body. Mainly I just lay there in pain while the nurses shoved opiates at me and asked if I felt any better. Occasionally I dozed off.

There were a couple of beautiful moments of Australianism to witness. God, our people just make me smile.

One of the nurses came by with a plastic cup and shoved it out toward me. The doc said you should have this. It tastes like crap. I raised my eyebrows at her. Serious, darl. It's gunna stick all the way down your throat and you can't have anything for ten minutes after you have it. It's horrible crap. Well, at least I didn't have any good expectations for it then.

Where's me tape? Who stole me tape this time? Inspiring, definately.

Anyway, after a bunch of drugs and a few scans I still don't know what caused the pain. I have been told though, that I need to avoid cheese and large meals, as well as smoking and drinking. Have these people been informed of my cynical approach to the "standard" resolutions for the new year? Am I somehow being sent a message that it is time to act on those rather than putting it off for another year?

Kisses, Happy New Year

Now that I am capable of some degree of movement, it is time to say Happy New Year to everyone. The standard resolutions are in place - I have contemplated never drinking again, looked at the financial gains of cutting back the smoking, and swilled down Coke while affirming that I need to be more healthy in my lifestyle. They'll all go to shit very quickly, of course. But this year is mostly about being the Groover.

Out of the foggy hangover haze that is clouding last night's activities rises one very clear memory: a kiss. Actually a couple of kisses.

It was out of the blue, and to be honest I have no idea why or how it started. We were wrestling for the possession of my hat, and somehow ended up kissing. Oh shit I remember thinking. Maybe I shouldn't have done that. So I pulled away quickly, only to be grabbed by the back of my neck to come back for more. Oh what a fantastic feeling. That hand on my neck pulling me down. The beautiful soft feel of her lips. The slightly sweet taste of her mouth. The feel of confident, strong, desiring hands upon me. The soft skin of her neck under my lips.

It's been so long since I've had a hand that desires me touch me like that. It's a memory that will make me feel a little weak at the knees for quite a while now. Wow, what fantastic kisses they were.

Of course, I want more. Typically, though, I have picked a person that I shouldn't have. The search will need to be continued elsewhere. That's another resolution. I want somebody else to touch, to share with, to kiss with passion and receive all that back in full from them. I think I deserve it.

Oh, and I resolve to blog far more frequently than last year.

Quote of the Day

Housemate Country was describing my cat Jonah's latest effort in the litter box of doom. The stench was unbelievable given the size of the kitten. You could market them as weapons of mass destruction. Death wrapped in fur and four legs.

Holy shit says Country. If he was a bloke I have high fived him.

Go Fish

Scumbagland yielded a whole lot of hours of boring waiting around today.

It had rained, typically, for the entire Christmas break, making the mine we were going to impassable. At least until the dozers had knocked a few layers off the existing roads to expose a bit of dry dirt. What does that mean? Five hours of waiting around with people you don't know much about.

I've been in this situation before, you see. Plenty. One amazing guy broke the awkward silences by bringing in riddles for us all to do. I've played music games. We've all spent hours playing target practice with the plentiful stones. I have a collection of fossil leaves and other interesting stones from trawling around where the truck has been parked for hours.

And I also have a pack of cards.

That's where that interesting cross-section of people becomes far more of a hinderance. We're constrained to what everybody knows how to play. The lowest common denominator. Sometimes you can jag some really good card players and set up a tournament of sorts... Other days, like today, it's junior style cards in the form of Go Fish!

There's something campfire-ish about tucking a bag of rags under your butt and dealing out the cards while you're sitting out there in the nothing of a mine. People open up to slagging each other off a bit, letting out their sometimes guarded senses of humour, relaxing a bit around people they normally don't talk to. Face it, it's better than ignoring each other and trying to sleep on a wonky bench seat in the back of a truck [ie sauna]. Sometimes a decent person will emerge through the chance to be sociable.

Go Fish stumped me today. That's a pretty basic card game. Should we hold Scumbag interviews with a mandatory gaming skills test?

Should I be campaigning for a card game rules book to be part of the daily equipment?

Dear Scumbag Boss Peoples,

I am writing in order to place a request for a copy of certain card game rule books to be placed in the glove boxes of all working vehicles (and possibly those that aren't, for later). We lower Scumbags feel that it is in the best interest of crew dynamics and sociability that group activities such as the participation in card gaming are an asset to crew dynamics and staff satisfaction. This, in turn, leads to a greater sense of camaraderie amongst employees and therefore a more positive approach to the safety of others within the crew.

Yours Sincerely,
The Scumbags in Scumbagland.

Can we have some staff training days too?

Resolutions?

It's leading up to the end of the year. That precious time where you think of all the resolutions you can make for the coming year. Where you plan to instigate changes, usually radical, and hope they make your life swiftly better.

Reality usually reduces that to one simple sentence.

"I'm never going to drink again."

However, I face another New Year's Eve of not drinking and instead falling asleep on the lounge in front of the television. In previous years I have played in front of drunken mobs of idiots, wishing I could join the throng in order to not witness the tragedy from under the bright lights of sobriety. This time around I've got to work a nasty long shift New Year's Eve, and a 4am start isn't particularly condusive to partying after work.

So what will be the focus of my lounge-bound life-altering resolutions?



Up Yours, All Right

That's it. Whatever way I can find to say Fuck You, This is ME I want to embrace and try it out.

Hey, something's gotta work. This past year I've been run down by the people I trusted, I've given myself more the enough knocks of my own doing, chance has given me some dodgey turns and frankly I didn't want to come out of it alive.

Why? I think I got so caught up in wanting to be wanted that I lost sight of the real me. The sometimes funny, intelligent musician who had a genuine love of seeing new things and finding wonder in the world. I want it back. Fuck you, this is ME.

And if you can't hack it...

Don't bother sticking around.

Do You Ever?

Do you ever:

Wish you could play music all day and never stop?

Want to work with friends and not losers?

Hope that the chick you just saw a picture of and thought she was gorgeous would realise that Mr. Wonderful was actually you, the person who doesn't actually have a penis?

No???

Maybe it's just me then.

PhotoHunt: Fast

The PhotoHunt theme this week is Fast. The immediate thoughts are of speed and motion. Trains rushing along a set of tracks in the middle of nowhere. Jet contrails. Streaks of tail lights in long exposures. The blur of a cricket bat being swung during a game in the hot Australian summer.

Since when has the obvious been fun? A deadline prevents me from bothering to set myself up for any of the obvious shots, however let's pretend that I've actually been clever and approached the task from a different angle completely.

What goes fast around here?

I mean, REALLY fast.



That's right, BEER. It doesn't stay for long at all. It comes and goes again altogether far too quickly for my liking. Especially at this time of year.

Why on earth does the silly season demand that people "get together for a few drinks before Christmas"?
Fuck off.
Why not get together for a few drinks at any time of year for absolutely no reason but the hell of it? It would make Christmas a hell of a lot easier to cope with when it comes to cash flow. Not only do I need to buy presents for the family, I've had to buy carton after carton of beer.

Stuff the silly season. In future, if you really want to drink with me you won't wait until December.

The Family Extended

Ah, that ever-evolving process of change that is life. I’ve taken on a flatmate, known as Country. He’s a fellow Scumbag Industries worker and a true champion. To my home life he’s brought hours of supermarket indecisiveness He’s a fellow Scumbag Industries worker and a true champion. To my home life he’s brought hours of supermarket indecisiveness, a brilliant excuse to cook more often, and of course, several too many hangovers. It’s only been a couple of weeks.

Another addition to the Groove Shack is Jonah. A kitten who is both frustratingly loaded with testosterone and unmeasurably cute. He’s perfect.

Jonah came into my life in a typically weird way. Every day the Scumbags stop at a particular bottleshop on the way home, to grab a beer after a long day of dealing with grime and grot. Consequently, we all know the staff by name and have a good relationship with them. One day my favourite staff member showed me the stray kittens that had been born out back of the shop.

Marg, I want one.

I didn’t get one that particular day, but about a week later. I was working alone, so I had a whole dual cab ScumbagMobile all to myself, and nobody else in a hurry to get home at the end of the day. Perfect for kitten-catching.

The kittens had holed up at an abandoned shop next door to the bottle shop. I made my way through the overgrown yard, plucking blackberry thorns away from grabbing at my work clothes as I went. For the first time this summer, I was glad for the heavy thickness of our uniforms. The trek through the yard behind me, I climbed onto the verandah of this abandoned shop and peered around for these supposed kittens. I spotted one, a black and white little cutie with blue eyes who looked scared to death - like he’d never seen a human up close before.

I made a diving lunge for this kitten over boxes, milk crates and old shop shelving. Missed. Nowhere to be seen. But then… I spied the tips of a pair of little black ears. I reached in and snatched. Hauling him up by the neck, we stared each other down. He was incredibly scared but bold. Too young to figure out what his claws were for, he waved them around in the air and instead leaned in and latched onto my thumb with his teeth. Little fucker drew blood.

Meanwhile, old Marg is peering over the fence. She’s pretty short, so all I can see is her eyes and the top of her head.

Did you get one? She yells.

Holding my little trophy in the air, still by the back of the neck, I showed her. There was blood streaming out of my thumb and running down my right arm.

Fucker bit me Marg!

Here, put him in a box she says, and flings an empty beer carton over the fence at me.

It doesn’t end there. I grabbed a beer from Marg, still bleeding and laughing uncontrollably about the whole adventure, then proceeded to try to make my new little charge a bit more comfortable for the long drive home. I’d grabbed a bunch of rags and the plan was to put them in the carton with him so that he had something to snuggle up on and feel comfortable in. I’d keep the box at home as a bed for him, something familiar.

Nice plan. Thankfully I’d thought enough to roll up the windows on my ScumbagMobilebecause as soon as I opened the box my little guy made a leaping dash. Smack! into the window. He then Made a run to hide somewhere in the back of the truck.

Ah well, I thought. I’ll find you when I get back to the yard.

It must have looked great on the security cameras at the vehicle yard. It’s about nine o’clock at night and there’s Vic crawling around the back of this truck for a while and then coming out hugging a beer carton! Not only that, but talking to this beer carton.

Ah well, the things you do to build a family.

Scumbag Phraseology

There are a few main phrases to be aware of as a Scumbag.

That’s What She Said - This can be used at any time as an interjection to a conversation. A show-stopping statement.

Vic (talking about a grease buildup) : Holy shit it’s hard.
Anonymous Scumbag: Yeah, that’s what she said.

I Fucked Me Back Ay - Often accompanied with hobbling actions, this is based on a worker who did not last very long at all in Scumbag Industries. A Dead Set Unit, who spent a night shift playing on some over-exaggerated injuries. Basically the guy got the site safety officer at the time involved and sent my stress levels through the roof in a few short seconds. The other guys picked up on this phrase and started using it to make me laugh about the entire episode.

From there it became a way of breaking the silence. The guy has long since been shuffled off, and I’m not sure whether half the workers really know the origin of the phrase. It’s just something we say to break the tension now.

Wanna hat? - [Why? ‘Cause you’re a cock]. There are lens cleaner wipes out where we Scumbags go, that are in little individual packets with the brand Uvex upon them. Somewhere along the lines a bored imagination took hold of this and ran, twisting them into a brand of condom. Usually the phrase Wanna hat? is accompanied with the action of reaching into the top pocket to fish one of these out and attempting to hand it to the person receiving the comment. Why? ‘Cause you’re a cock is most often implied in the statement and not needed to be said. Unless the person is a Dead Set Unit.

Watch this fuckin’ idiot - One from the self-proclaimed King Scumbag, this must be stated with rising volume and pitch. Out of respect one of his phrases has been appropriated into general usage. Originally to warn of an approaching idiot driver, the usage has broadened to include general workplace hazards as well.

What have you done for me lately? - This is what happens when a bunch of Scumbags get together socially. Out comes Eddie Murphy doing stand-up comedy with Raw, and we all have a new phrase to play with. This one is so new it’s guaranteed to almost make me wet myself laughing, or at least reduce me to tears.

Scumbag Lingo

It’s about time I introduced the world to some of the Scumbag lingo. We have our own way of speaking, derived by spending far too many hours together in sometimes extreme, other times extremely boring, and most often isolated conditions.

Scumbag - One who has earned the title through being a good worker and good person. This title is not just bestowed upon any old person who rocks up for a shift. You can depend upon a scumbag, you can have a laugh and you will look after each other no matter what.

Deadset, or, for more emphasis, Dead Set - Serious, absolutely true. For example: Dead Set, I fell over a rock with every bastard watching me. Another example can be displayed in the following conversation:
Vic: Deadset mate, he’s a fuckin’ idiot.
Anonymous Scumbag: Deadset?
Vic: Dead Set.

Translation:
Vic: Seriously, he’s an idiot.
Anonymous Scumbag: You’re serious?
Vic: Absolutely.

Unit - A worker who is most definitely not a Scumbag. This may apply for a small period of time, in humour, to a Scumbag who has done something idiotic. This may be phrased Dead Set you’re a fuckin’ unit, mate. A deadset unit.

Most often the term unit is used to describe those with little to no aptitude. They could be dumb, oblivious, dangerous or just downright lazy.

Festy Cheese Beanie - The worst of the worst. This term applies only to the opposition. It literally translates to “foreskin” and this translation has been described in great detail within earshot of the offending crew members, without their knowledge that this is actually how we refer to them. The Festy Cheese Beanies are inferior workers, with inferior knowledge and equipment. They have amazing amount of distaste bestowed upon them by the Scumbags.

Mad - Excellent, amazing, deadset awesome. Example: I found this Mad new way do the job.

Goggle Box - The fluttering of the eyelids upon a woman’s clitoris. This is a hypothetical sexual manoeuvre invented on a boring day, laughing at this term inscripted on a wash pad storage box. ”Check out her eyelashes! Vic, I bet she could give you a mad goggle box!”