Mikey's City Weekly Articles
27.9.01 - Age Rules 27.9.01 - Age RulesI've got a birthday coming up later this year and it's a bit of a big one. I'm fine about it. No, really I am. I mean, it's no big deal turning fo ... for ... forty. Ah, there I said it. See, told you I didn't have a problem with it. In fact, I'm looking forward to it. It's a grand age. It's a ... Oh, who am I kidding, I'm getting old; hell, I'm virtually dying while I type this. Vultures are circling my house. My best years are behind me. I have to face facts. My life, well ... it's over.Forty. The worst thing is I thought by now I'd have some wisdom, some insight into life. I'm even more confused than when I was 20. Mid you though, then I had youthful arrogance to get me through life's quandaries. Now all I've got is a left knee that makes a clicking noise if I go up stairs too fast. And it's not as if I haven't seen it coming, my approaching middle age. It all started three years ago in Melbourne when a mate and I decided we were too old to go into a guitar shop and pretend we were interested in buying one so they'd have to get it down and let us play it. That used to be so much fun. And then last year at the supermarket I caught myself checking the ingredients and fat content on the side of a packet of breakfast cereal. This from a man who was still youthfully consuming Fruit Loops on his 30th birthday - and, might I add, still happy if he found the free toy inside. Then over the past few weeks there was having to deal with the sad fact that rock stars from my youth were dying and having to explain to 20-somethings in the office that Skyhooks wrote songs other than just "Juke Box in Siberia". While we're speaking of popular music, am I the only person in the world annoyed by Jamiriquia's inability to grow a full beard, or alone in pondering why half the rock bands in the world can't seem to afford a belt for their pants, and ... Oh my god, I'm sounding like my father. Sorry, I need to calm down. Please, someone make me a martini and put a Frank Sinatra CD on. No, no, someone get me a Red Bull and tickets to a Limp Bizket concert - that's what I meant to say. Also don't get me started on clothes. I look stupid in young people's clothes but I don't think I'm quite ready yet for a nice cardigan and a pair of slacks pulled up to my armpits. What the hell are 40-year-old men meant to wear? I can't wear my suit down to the shops on Saturday mornings, not unless I want the guy at the deli gossiping that I've been out all night. I tried the whole 'smart casual' thing but I just looked like a fat reject from a Country Road catalogue. Oh, and speaking of catalogues, I've started reading them. I spent half an hour last week weighing up the pros and cons of various items of outdoor furniture. Now, how rock and roll is that! It's not that I don't mind giving up the excesses of my wild youth; it's just that nature is forcing me to. I mean, the last time I attempted to stage-dive, the mosh pit took one look at my more-than-ample frame and parted like the Red Sea. Oh, the humiliation as my face smacked into the dance floor. Well, I guess old father time has just caught up with me. No more trips to The Big Day Out. No, from now on my idea of fun will be heading to the shoe department at DJ's to see if the new season shipment of slippers has arrived yet. 11.10.01 - Mentioning the Unmentionables
The day after some bugger invented the wheel another bugger in the next cave came up with a slogan for it and thus was born the second oldest profession in the world. Of course, what the advertising Neanderthal spent his clams on is a mystery, although archaeologists have recently found remnants of four wheels hitched together with the letters 'BMW' carved into them.
Advertising is a fact of life, though, and as it deals with other facts of life it shows itself at its most truly weird.
18.10.01 - Let me brag a little.
I think I mentioned a few weeks ago that I was on a diet. Well, let me update you. (Actually let me brag a bit.) As of yesterday I'd lost 20 kilograms. Okay, I know I'm still a fat bugger but, come on, look at my photo on this page. Twenty kilos is at least 10 of those chins you see wobbling away beneath my face. Not that I had 10 chins; in fact, what I had
was one big chin that seemed to finish somewhere just above my groin.
Women in UniformHave you noticed the posters all about town for these things called 'school dances'? No, they're not humble little nights of fun at the local school hall for kids. Far worse: they're places where adults who should know better dress up in school uniforms and bob away to the music of their youth. Apparently they are popular in Great Britian - but, then again, so are Neighbours, poor dental hygiene and male members of parliament who dress up as Little Bo Peep, so go figure. Look, not even Buddhists are forced to relive mistakes from their current lives. Can you think of anything more terrifying than having to fo through the 'joys' of the school dance all over again? These nights are aimed at 20- and 30- somethings so let's get one fact dealt with first: the music of the 80s was crap. Okay, there might have been some good stuff, but were you listening to it as a teenager? No, you didn't think "will Style Council's new album be as good as the first EP"; you were thinking "how can I get my hair just like Lamahl's" and "do you think the girl from Roxette is gay". Trust me, a decade in which bands are remembered more for their haircuts than their singles is not a decade worth revisting. While I'm at it, here are two words to rekindle your memory: Hayzee Fantazee. I rest my case. Plus, what would you wear? Hands up all you people who reckon you can still fir into your old school uniform. I for one know they haven't yet invented a lubricant strong enough to get me into my old shorts, so that means you're going to have to head off to the children's section of your nearest department store and try to score a uniform in your current size. (Just make sure you have a good story for when the cops ask what you're up to.) Apparently, though, the one difference between then and now when it comes to uniforms is that the women tend to wear stilettos, which gives a look somewhere between a blue light disco and a red light district. I mean, to truly recreate the whole atmosphere of the school dance I hope they are throwing in a few extra elements. Like, wouldn't it be fun if you got your um and dad to drop you off and pick you up? It's one way of beating the booze bus. And even better if a couple of older parents want to relive their earlier parenting days by offering to chaperone. Let's face it, nothing cramps a guy's style when his hitting onto some hot 20-something like his mum whining that she wants to get home in time to watch Touced By an Angel on Foxtel. For nostalgia's sake I'll recreat some of my finest high school dance moments: I'll smuggle in a hip flask of tequilla, throw up on the vice-principal's car and watch the girl I have a crush on go home with my best mate. Ah, those golden high school years. I see the promoter's point, though: maybe it might be fun to visit the hormone-fuelled environment of your youth as more mature, acne-free adults. But I kind of like being a grown-up - particularly the whole not-living-with-my-parents/making-a-wage-instead-of-pocket-money thing. Hey, then again, if the stockmarket crashes once more maybe we'll all get to re-live those fab living-at-home days on a national scale. Now, where did I store my Doc Martens? Oh, right, in the attic under my Flashdance poster. God, I was a nerd.
He's making a list....My mates and I like to play a game over Christmas. We make a list of sights and sounds and then, like birdwatches, we tick them off when we come across them. The game starts on December 1 and runs through to Australia Day. Seeing as this is my last column I thought I'd share them with you. Over the next few months you must observe: 1. At least five backpackers waking up on or near a beach with sand all over their badly sunburnt faces. 2. A fat kid running after a Mr Whippy van. 3. The look on a vegetarian's face when you whack their sliced eggplant right next to the juiciest, fattiest, bloodiest T-bone at the barbecue. 4. An elderly relative saying "don't turn the fan on - it blows hot air around". 5. The squelching noise an elderly relative's back makes when she tries to pry herself from her sweat-soaked recliner-rocker. 6. Kids in beach carparks doing the hot-foot mamba while dad tries to find the car keys. 7. Four male family members with belts undone dribbling on the couch after Christmas lunch. 8. Richie Benaud explaining reverse swing for the 20th time in a single day of test cricket. 9. The first limb in a cast as a result of a new bike. 10. The in envitable evening news story about skin cancer, which must contain at least four gratuitous shots of sunbaking women's breasts. 11. A couple fighting in an airconditioned store. 12. Being kept awake by mosquitoes. 13. Being woken by the early-morning cicada orgy going on in the garden. 14. Being kept wake by the next-door's party. 15. Losing sleep and nearly suffocating because your partner insists on keeping the window shut to avoid the previous three problems. 16. One of the networks running the crappiest sitcom of all time (the one where Erkel is all grown up or any show starring the girl from Punky Brewster: double points if someone re-runs Alf). 17. The oldest, fattest man still wearing Speedos (I took myself out of the running years ago). 18. Watching the Queen's Christmas message without making an 'annus horribilus' joke about royal staffer Paul Burrell. 19. A mate being busted returning a gift. 20. A mate being busted smoking after he threw his last pack out the window on New Year's Eve. 21. At least three of your own resolutions being broken. 22. At least five Christmas cards addressed to previous occupants being displayed as your own. 23. At least three unread books starinbg at you from your holiday reading pile come mid-January. 24. A pissed person dancing while wearing reindeer horns and holding a piece of fake mistletoe over their head (this person must not be you caught on video from last year). 25. Buying thoughtful gifts - it doesn't have to be costly but should be something more personal than a CD voucher, a book token or a coupon for a car wash. 26. Yourself smiling at every damn fool who asks "hot enough for you". 27. Buying a tool you will never use. That should be enough to get you started. That's it from me for now as I'm taking a break from this column for a while. Thanks to those of you who have told me you enjoyed reading it. It's been a tough year for a lot of people and I know we will have them in our thoughts over the festive period to come. Talk to you soon. Best Wishes - Mikey
wanna bet?Picture this scene if you will: the sun is casting its first ray over a tranquil Bondi beach, the air is heavy with salt and the fading mist, a few health-conscious Sydneysiders are running up and down the soft sand, a couple who've been out all night embrace and kiss in the morning light and I'm standing there microphone-in-hand wearing nothing but a blue sequinned G-string. It's at this precise moment I remember something very important about the men in my family: we can NEVER WIN A BET. You see, the reason for my sad semi-naked appearnace on Bondi is that a few months ago I bet one Triple M listener that I could lose more wight than him over a period of six weeks. If I did he would have to run down the beach in a G-string. It was than that I heard the voices of my dead ancestors ringing in my head: "we can never win a bet". Foolishly, I chose to ignore them. Sure enough, come the final weigh in Justin (lovely bloke from the Central Coast) had shed more kilos than me and proceeded to fling a G-string in my face. From the dark mists of time I heard noble elders laughing their tits off. My father's father was a mug hunter. According to family legend he lost a rather considerable sum of money gambling in the late 40s and early 50s. My dad never bought so much as a lottery ticket, and I'm the kind of guy who has to get a little old lady to help him fill out a betting slip come Melbourne Cup day. We're the sort of people who, by betting on two flies crawling up a wall, can cause the wall to fall over. I should have known better. My wife sure did - not that she wasn't supportive. Hell, she even made the G-String. Well, we had to make it after we discovered store- bought ones couldn't wuite keep all the sheep in the paddock. If you get the drift, so she cut the bum out of a pair of Y-fronts, sequinned up the front and then added the sequinned bit of dental floss that ran up the back. Trust me, it's been a few days and I'm still digging little blue sparkly bits out of places they shouldn't be in. She also accompanied me on my early morning beach run. A good thing, too. Seeing as I was carrying a microphone and transmitter she was the only one who could rush and save the day when the damn piece of underwear started falling down. Now that is an act of love that should be written into every wedding vow. I've lost bets before. Every time I bet on my beloved Souths they don't have a good game (OK, no snickering) and I believe I'm personally responsible for the Ausrralian cricket team's slump in the post-Chappell era. I spent two weeks in Vegas and put only $10 dollars through the slots, and that took me two minutes. I've never won the toss of any coin and I still owe my sister a billion trillion dollars from 'paper, rock, scissors'. Last night I went to the casino. Sure enough, I took 50 bucks to the roulette table and five minutes later I was done. People like me just shouldn't bet. Horses die when we put money on them, we yell out "snap!" when we get a good hand at poker, and guys with gold teeth and heaps of tattoos see us coming on Anzac Day at the two-up ring. We are the unlucky, the unfortunates, the sad bum-wobbling-on-Bondi few that make sure the bookies of this world get to drive BMWs. If we didn't exist no-one would make a red cent out of gambling.
praise the pubI've been at a pub all afternoon. So be gentle. Well I say "pub" - it was a licensed space that sold booze - but it wasn't a pub as far as I was concerned. Look, I like a bar that feels cosy, and the last time I looked at the definition of the word cosy it didn't include sharp edges you could slice an onion on. What passes for a pub these days often resembles a showroom for Swedish furniture, with beer on tap, more than a place I want to while away a few hours. If I want to see that much pine furniture I'll go bear hunting. I'm a big man, as indeed are a lot of my boozy mates, if I want to sit in a seat smaller than my backside I'll buy a Korean car, okay. And while I'm at it, let's call a moratorium on all beers that come from countries with a smaller gross domestic product that our own. I know Mexican is a wonderful country with a history going back thousands of years, but until they can market a toilet that flushes properly I'll be buying my beer elsewhere. Let me also add that any beer that requires fruit added is a crime in my opinion. If I wanted a fruit salad I'd be having dessert at my auntie's place. The problem is that these new-fangled pubs are spreading. You turn your back, count to 10 and before you know it some real estate developer has knocked down your local and replaced it with a new-fashioned-style drinking emporium that only sells Belgian beer and a bizarre brand of chips made from rare algae. It can happen so quickly that you barely notice it - that is until you get halfway through a shout and receive a warning from your bank manager. You need to be able to spot the subtle changes that mean your local has become a 21st Century drinking place. Write these down on the back of a beer coaster and beware. The Music: Firstly they take the jukebox away. Then you notice tiny speakers the size of handbags dotted all over the pub. They start playing somethingthat they call "ambient house," a form of music so bland you start wishing that The Party Boys would reform for one last tour. The bar staff: All look too young to drink. They also look completely bored because no-one will publish their novel or fund their film script - both of which they wrote in less time then it takes them to pour a schooner. The toilet icons: Gone are the dapper gent in the top hat and the 'lady' in the ball gown. These days the toilet logos are so indecipherable that many innocent drinkers wander into the wrong one. The food: Here's a little test, walk into your local pub and ask for a pie. If it comes with a biography of where the cow spent irs formative years you are in a tosser pub. Run hard and run fast before you find yourself asking for five varieties of lettuce in your steak sandwich. Any pub that offers healthy cuisine is also a danger. If you're concerned about your health what the hell are you doing in a pub anyway? I hope that helps. We have to fight to keep our old pubs going. If we whack a National Trust plaque at the place where an Australian legend had their first maths lesson, surely we can commemorate the place they first drink six schooners and went number ones in the pot plant. deep-seated beliefI was reading in the paper this morning about the ultimate invention: a chair that is not only a recliner but that contains not one but two cup holders as well as a built-in universal remote control. Be still, my beating heart! Forget penicillin. Forget the artificial heart. So long the computer. Is this or is this not the pinnacle of three million years of evolution? Well, not exactly. There are still a few changes I'd like to make like, say, a built-in bar fridge and a massage device to stop muscles atrophying, because, let's face it, once you put your buttin in this little sucker you ain't never going to move again. Which also means it needs to be combined with one of those pensioner chairs that actually lifts you in and out, to make those trips to the bathroom a little easier. Just think: if you ever got a chair like that you'd feel like a Roman emperor except, of course, they never had a remote control. I suppose that's why they had slaves. I mean, someone had to get up and change the channel. Look, I may be taking things a little too far here but I bet if an when I pass through those pearly gates there'll be God sitting on his heavenly throne and guess what: It'll have cup holders. For what is it that separates man from the lowly beast? The fact we don't sit with our bums on the ground. Sure, we need food, shelter and companionship but after that all we really want is a big comfy chair to place ourselves in after a hard day's foraging inthe forest. I have two friends who years ago decided to get two recliner rockers instead of a desinger couch. Their trendier friends mocked them but to this day you'd be hard-pressed to find a happier couple anywhere. In Japan a few years ago they had department stores with over a floor taken up by leather chairs with built-in mechanical messagers. They might fell the inner enlightenment of Zen but they also like to feel a powerful electric motor kneading their buttocks into a state of Nirvana. Since man first looked around and cobbled together a few planks we've been trying to design the perfect armchair. How else do we recognise a king? Simple: he's the guy with the biggest chair in the room. Sure, heavy might hang the head that wears the crown but his arse is going to be comfy. What do airlines advertside as their biggest selling points in first and business class? The comfort of their chairs. I mean, really, shouldm't you be swayed by an airline's safety record? No, we'd rather worry about the size of its seats. As a big man who has had to use a tyre lever to get himself into an economy seat I, for one, see the sense in this. So mock the big seat at your peril, but remember its power. In fact, consider the phrases "seat of power" and "seat of knowledge", and that when someone falls from grace they do not have "the seat pulled out from under them"? Why, even US president LBJ had a special seat made that would hydraulically lower and raise itself to make him the dominant person in the room, although it didn't have a cup holder - a reason, I maintain, he only ever served a single term. don't wanna knowWe've had a good old-fashioned political sex scandal this week, and I think I speak for most of us when I say "thank you Laurie Oakes for ruining my appetitie". I'm sorry, but imagining politicians doing the nasty is like walking in on your parents on Saturday morning when they think you are at footy training. (I still get cold chills at the sound of football studs on lineleum.) We select these people to govern; that's why we send them to Canberra (probably the unsexiest place in the world). If we wanted a lot of bed hopping from them we'd have made Australia's capital the Gold Coast and held parliament during schoolies' week. Now, I'm not blaming anyone - we've all got skeletons in the closet - but I can't deal with the fact politics and trouser-dropping seem to go hand in hand. Look at the last president of America. Hell, look at most presidents of America, from Thomas Jefferson to Bill Clinton: a more hardcore bunch of root rats you wouldn't find outside a rugby end-of-season coach trip. Wasn't it Henry Kissinger who said "power is the ultimate aphrodisiac"? (His way of explaining why a man with a face like the north end of a south-bound Rottweiler got more sex in the 60s than Hendrix and The Rolling Stones combined.) Last year a friend gave me a birthday present which, tightly wrapped, felt like a video cassett. With a wink she said "here's some adult entertainment for you". Later that night I found that what I had in my hand was not the latest instalment of Where the Boys Aren't but rather a copy of The Star Report, wrapped in plastic like a porn mag in a newsagency. Let me tell you, folks, it is one grubby little read - grubby because no matter how much respect you might have for Clinton, what he was doing was not just wrong, it was silly. (Then again, if any couple's sexual peccadilloes were put into print they would read silly - and if not it would mean they were probably having sex so boring it would be a wonder they managed to stay awake during the act.) So why are we so amazed when we find out our political leaders also might engage in a little bit of the old horizontal folk dancing? A few months ago when Sir John Gorton passed away did the media tell us about his achievements in helping to establish the Australian film industry or his role in disentangling us from the nightmare of the Vietnam War? Only in passing, before spending more time talking about his liking for scotch and young women. Now, having a liking for scotch and attractive young women would accurately describe about 90 per cent of the heterosexual male population over the age of 30 (young folk don't appreciate a good whisky any more). Which means at week's end we are left with two people publicily humiliated for their own mistakes, a public feeling justified with its low opinion of politicians, and the hypocrisy of a media standing around and tut-tutting to anyone who bothers to listen. Oh, and my evening meal ruined for at least two nights by the vision of Laurie Oakes talking about sex on my TV.
i just don't get itThere are some thing I will never understand, no matter how often they are explained to me. You know that look a dog gets on its face when you tell it it isn't allowed on the new couch, even though it used to live on the old one? This was exactly the look I had on my face this week as my accountant explained new tax laws to me. He may as well have been speaking in some ancient language that druids used only on a full moon as far as I was concerned. All I heard clearly was my name and the words "bit of a problem here" and "pen". I'm not sure, but I think I now own a newsagency in the Cocos Islands. I know it's my own fault. I still remember taking commerce in junior high school and staring out the window trying to imagine what Daisy Duke might look like in the nude. I just didn't get it....the same way I don't get Aussie rules, even though it's been explained to me a million times. I didn't e-mail for ages and now that I've finally got my head around it I'm being confronted with texting (or SMSing, as it's properly called). For a start, I have chubby thumbs so what I mean to type and what comes out are often two entirely different things. Also, I kind of like having vowels in my language. I received a text the other day from a mate about joining him for a beer at the pub and it looked like a restaurant bill from outer Tajikistan. If Shakespeare was alive today Romeo would be texting Julite with "c u ltr undr balc". Not quite the same, is it? And it's not just technology I don't understand. Try as I might I just can't get my head around ballet. I watched ballet the other day. From what I could figure out, several extremely skinny young women were trying to run away from some guys with over-develeped cald muscles in a forest. Then some fairies caught the women and made them live underwater, then I fell asleep. When I woke up everyone was throwing streamers about except for the skinniest of the women, who was dead. (This was indicated by the fact she didn't move any more and her ex-boyfriend seemed to be having a relationship with a cello.) God, I've seen better plots on Home and Away. And don't get me started on modern dance, which looks to me like bad soft-core porn performed to the sound of someone installing an airconditioner. Now, I know I'm not totally stupid, so why don't I get so many things? Why don't I get how a computer works? Sure, I've seen the documentaries about binary code and the development of the personal computer but as far as I'm concerned my desktop is that big block of magic where an evil god eats my words as a sacrifice on a monthly basis. It's a weird thing, knowledge. It's like the human brain can only absorb so much information. You see, if you were to ask who produced the Ramones' single "Rock and Roll High School" or who was the bass player for Derrick and The Dominoes, I'd be your man. It's a matter of priorities. You remember what your brain finds important. Now, you'll have to excuse me. I have to go to the shops and I need to ask my wife what my PIN is. I've um....well, you know, forgotten it again.
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