Rapper Boy and the Cliff

Now just add a beard and you've got the general idea.


It's the second last lesson for the day and there is a pitched battle as both sides grasp for control of the room. In the blue corner a pack of roughly 30 fourteen year olds. In the red corner is me, sitting fairly safely somewhere along the spectrum for high functioning autism. I'm trying to explain the concept of self-control and it's relationship to happiness. Self control + teenagers + afternoon class = stupid teacher.

It's a bun fight.

Half way through the analogy in which I attempt to explain the idea that reality isn't too fussed about whether or not you believe in it, I make two important discoveries. (I have to note at this juncture that teenagers have this marvelous apprehension of the belief that "if I can't see it, it's not there" and apply this to general knowledge - if they haven't seen something it ain't there. If reality was Chuck Norris they'd all be dead.) Discovery number one: two girls right at the front on the room, I mean right under my nose, are busy doing maths homework. Discovery number two: they haven't got a clue what I'm talking about.

Me: You see, just because I don't believe in gravity doesn't stop it from existing. So if I dance on top of a building in the belief that gravity isn't real regardless of what I believe the reality is I may well fall to my death. In the same way morality is a law that may very well... girls? What are you doing?
Girls: Maths homework.
Me: Maths homework?
Girls: Yeah we have a test next session.
Me: Yeah but you probably have a party to go to this weekend.
Girls: So?
Me: (walking across the room and taking the work off them) So think of this as study for that.
Girls: What?
Interfering child #1: Tear the work up Mr. Limb!
Me: Shut up.
Me:(putting work in draw) Now girls I hate maths almost as much as I hate inebriated teenage girls..
Girls: What?
Me: Shut up. And I find it troubling that you would do that work in my class.
Girls: But what has gravity got to do with parties?
Me: I'm talking about the reality and implication of a moral law, whether or not you believe in that moral law.
Girls: But what has gravity got to do with parties?
Me:...
Girls: (one of them suddenly puts up their hands) I don't understand what you're talking about. What's morality?
Me: (beat) What?
Girls: What's that word mean?
Me: You are kidding, right? (Looks at room in disbelief, he suddenly notices something he hadn't before - a complete lack of comprehension) Who can tell me what morality is?
Room: Silence
Me: Put up your hand if you know what morality is. (there is the no movement - two students turn to ask each other a question) SHUTUP! Who knows what.... ok no-one know s what the term morality means. This is so getting blogged.
Girls: Hey rapper boy's dead.
General mass along that side of the room erupts.
I bring a meter ruler down on a desk.
Me: QUIET. Does anyone have a working definition of what morals are?
Girls: No he's dead, he jumped off a cliff 'cause he thought he could fly.
Girls: You know who he is Mr. Limb, you know? Rapper boy?
Me: (I stare)
Girls: yeah... (one of them starts absurdly bobbing up and down in her chair folding and unfolding her arms like a mummy having second thoughts) (She sings... badly)
Class erupts again.
I explode again. Ruler starts to splinter.
Me: You don't know what... that makes things a little more difficult.
Girls: Yeah morals is rules about doing the right thing.
Me: Ok. Good, now morality is the same idea.
Girls: But what's that got to do with gravity and parties?
Me: You know Rapper Boy who jumped off the cliff?
Girls: Yeah?
Me: Was he drunk?
Girls: Yep and high on...
Me: Good. Now you understand the link I'm trying to make between gravity and parties.
Boy: But you can't prove that God exists.
Me: What?
Boy: You think God might exist but you can't prove that!
Me: Where did you... (I try to make the link)
Class erupts.
Teacher quietly thinks that rapper boy may have been onto something.

The Lonely Moon

We care about our children's health. We care about our mental health more, and this is why I decided to buy a Coke and go thirds with both my kids. There had been some earlier travesty in which my daughter had been embezzled out of the last mouthful of the only coke she had been allowed to ever have and was justifiably upset by the whole thing. I had found myself in the unenviable situation of having to wait for what turned out to be three hours with the kids while Tan was in an eye appointment.My daughter's misery weighed heavily upon my frame.

I decided to amp the kids up on sugar and caffeine in order to improve their moods.

Upon purchasing the Coke we found a place to sit, us three, while we consumed it. The venue was the dispatch/drop off entry at the rear of Charles Gairdener Hospital. A massive empty room last decorated in 1972. The carpet was made up of those square tiles of pony hair that any poor soul tripping or sliding across would be eviscerated. In fact there were darkened patches in places across this enormous chamber. Around the walls of this catacomb were pieces of artwork created by Western Australian artists and understandably hidden here.

In this setting we sat listlessly, silently, passing the bottle back and forth. No one speaking. After some minutes the bore water stained doors abruptly slid open and an elderly man in a wheelchair was delivered by a large mustached man in a white uniform.

"You can take yourself the rest of the way." Were the only words uttered as the doors suddenly closed again.

The man sat motionless at the other end of the cavern. A huddled form that seems entirely incapable of doing anything. The coke continued to be sipped as we passed it back and forth in silence. The three of us sitting on the only chair in the entire room. The man, the room, the three of us set out like some sort of Post Modernist Exhibition. It was the most exciting thing the room had seen in years.

His withered hands unfolded from his lap and almost incredibly the wheelchair began to move. It hissed as his leathery hands slid to find their place and move the wheels inches forward. And this was all there was as we silently watched the man move across the room like the moon across the evening sky.

Eventually, as he drew closer I broke the endless silence by asking if he wanted to be pushed. I waited, dreading the response.

There was no response.

He had absolutely no idea that we were there. He was completely unaware of anything other than the chair. Probably a good thing given the art was truly deplorable.

It hissed passed us. None of us took our eyes off him.

Then, as he was about to pass out of sight around the corner he spoke. Startling us.

"Thirty bloody years of THIS."

The silence swallowed his words as he vanished around the corner. We silent witnesses beheld the futility and the passion contained within. My daughter then began to giggle, trying to drink the last of the Coke, becoming increasingly hysterical with laughter as my eight year old failed to purse her lips around the bottle. The word 'bloody' had struck her as mud slung across the masterpiece of post-modernity we had all beheld. Perfect and a privilege to behold.

Kissmas

Santa and his Ninjas. Crazy.


Christmas.

It's the time of year for reconciliation and hope. A time when family and friends get the chance to put their differences aside and gather around the manger for quiet reflection. Sure it's commercial, rushed and tends to be a bit stressful but dang it, it's worth it.

As we sit around the Christmas tree sipping eggnog with Christmas carols playing in the background and laughing together at this or that, suddenly, quietly there comes a disquieting sense that you're merely acting out something you saw in a film. In fact, it's 35 degrees and everyone has jumpers on. As you step out of your chair, eggnog smashing in slow motion to the floor you realize there's a blazing fire and the heat has sent you stark raving mad. You rip off the santa hat and the jumper, exposing your black t-shirt. Pointing to everyone who have now frozen in toothy smiles with looks of confusion you scream out the command to turn the shiny poisonous music off.

You sink to your knees, fists at your ears, eyes squeezed tightly shut....

Christmas.


Look I don't hate Christmas... it's just that Christmas and me don't speak so much anymore. We both decided it was better for all involved, you know (conspiratorial whisper) the kids.

Actually I do hate Christmas, but if I opened this entry with "My giddy aunt I hate Christmas..." most people may very well go "Well there's a surprise..." and go and spend their time on a less dysfunctional activity.

But let me explain.

The whole thing tears me up because I can't make up my mind. I wouldn't want to call for an end to Christmas, not that anyone's asking me to make that decision for them. Cut to:

(It's a darkened room, like those war rooms you see in Armageddon and million other stupid films full of men in uniform)
General (sweat drips from his forehead): It's time to call it Mr. Limb
The camera pans taking in anxious faces.
Limb: (Head down teeth clenched, he suddenly looks up): Burn him, burn the fat man.... end Christmas.
General: We have it men, GO GO GO!
It's pandemonium in the room as men run through the room with guns - a massive computer display featuring a flashing Santa with a cross through him with the title:

MISSION: Burn Fat Boy, Burn.

Anyway I digress. Not that anyone's about to ban Christmas. If people decided to ban Christmas I'd worry about a future event involving empty streets with newspaper and tumble weeds wandering listlessly about with gray houses filled with miserable children staring at an empty corner. I'm not ready to call it quits, but nor do I want the ordeal. You see I'm jammed.

The arguments for it aren't compelling.

1.It's a time for family to get together.
Let's face it, if that's the only time the family gets together then maybe it isn't worth the trouble, I mean they're not busting their guts to get together at any other point in the year. Should these people really be in the same room together with a surplus of food and alcohol.

2.Gift giving.
Love presents - but I don't like presents given under compunction. They end up being shit. You know I like the way Patrick thinks about things. He's a fan of coming across something and thinking "Such and such would like this..." Versus scrambling about a few weeks or even days before the event grabbing anything that looks substantial in wrapping paper. A possible solution is to do something along the lines of Patrick's idea, but hold onto until Christmas. If you are that organized chances are you probably don't enjoy Christmas, it will kill you or alternatively it all becomes such a competition for you that you should not be allowed to participate on the grounds that you are in danger of turning the whole thing into a Jihad.

3. Jesus' Birthday
No, it wasn't.
Here's a little history of Christmas
Here's a little something about the date of Jesus' birth
and here's something else
Yeah but it's an opportunity for people who don't go to church to, you know, go to church. See point number 1.

Having said all that there are some people that just love doing the cards and the presents and all the other cute red and white celebratory stuff and at the end of the day you've just got to let them be, live and let live. Unless of course they start imposing their views on you. Then it's time to burn the fat man.






This image was going to be my title image. But then I thought about it and... well, here it is for your viewing pleasure. I couldn't pull my eyes away there's just so much that's... wrong. Go to the website - many other images, many.

taken from: http://www.dudeirock.com/
worth checking out if you have a moment or two...

Oh, and then I found this. Always loved this guy, but this is really something else.

Tiny Spiders of Shame

There are times when I actually believe that I am a decent person. For some reason this always occurs to me when I'm walking into the male staff toilet at school. It's kind of like a confessional sans the priest. A priest in there would make it awkward. A priest in there isn't likely to be a priest, rather a man dressed as a priest in which case he is there because he is taking a break from his nefarious plans. Alternatively, he is in the middle of one of said nefarious plans.

Anyway.

I walk into the alcove and through the orange toilet door and that's when the thought hits me. I'm doing okay... people like me... my life matters... blah blah blah.... blah. Unless of course someone is in there and the door is (hopefully) locked. Then I just slam into it, hurt my wrist, hope that I wasn't talking to myself too loudly so that whoever I scared the proverbial out of doesn't work out it was me and make like a bat out of hell out of there.

There are times when I think that I am a decent person.

Today wasn't one of them.

Tan was working today and that meant I had to get off my arse and provide some sort of assistance. On Thursdays that means dropping her off at work, and taking Zed and his friend to school. My oldest is already at school and the plan is to meet her and then take her to the uniform shop.

I drop Tan off. Me and the boys find ourselves a little early so I park the car out the front of school and crank up The Shins. The boys kick around in the back seat. So I read a magazine and let the clock tick round until class is only 5 minutes away.

I jump out the car and tell the boys to do the same.

They do this. His mate grabs his own bag and hops out. Zed jumps out and starts to strut off like, I don't know, Huckleberry Finn. I notice that his sandals are on the wrong feet.
"Hang on, where's your school bag?"
He heads back to the car.
Nothing.
I open the boot. The boot looks alarmingly empty. I'm actually alarmed before I realize why exactly I'm alarmed. Then it hits me. This means there's no bag in the car at all. Spiders begin to skitter across my heart.
"Oi... where's your bag?"
"At home."
At HOME?!"
Silence.
Parents. Glances. I forget he's five. I talk to him like he's my idiot henchmen in one of those gangster films.
"Right, boys, back in the car."
The spiders in my heart produce knives and start stabbing my heart as I begin to do the math.

I'm supposed to meet my daughter in 2 minutes.
The round trip will take 10 minutes.
Failure to meet daughter will mean no uniform.
Last chance for uniform.
No uniform means an unhappy wife.

I picture the scene for a moment.
It unsettles me

It's ok, I'll drop the boys and then meet daughter then I'll go home and....
No.
I've got to be in class to teach in fifteen minutes.
Uniform = at least ten minutes... at least.
Round trip back = ten minutes... at least.
Zed needs his bag. He can't go all day without food.
There is no way I'm going to get that bag in time.

There is no chance of pulling all of this off.

I start to yell.
I'm actually yelling the sums in my head out loud. And as I start I'm angry. But halfway through the list my eyes point in different directions and my mouth moves like it belongs to a marionette. I've shot straight through to bastard maniac at the children in the back seat. I glance in the rear vision mirror. My son's eyes are perfect circles. The other child's explaining something about not forgetting HIS bag but I can't hear him over my noise.

I finally work out that I have to turn the car around.

I swing it and suddenly it's like we've just got the call for back-up. Cept I'm not a cop, I'm a loser Dad having a tantrum.

On and on I go like Tony Soprano. There is no object lesson for my son in this. The lesson, if there was ever one in the first instance is blown away by the hurricane of me and my dancing, angry, stabbing spiders who wear tiny T-shirts with a picture of me with the title "DICKHEAD".

I ring my wife. I yell down the phone at her. I think I'm actually explaining something to her, like that's the intention but it must just sound like she's got a call from a war zone evac gone wrong.

I get the guys to class. Miss my daughter. Fish her out of class. Sort out uniforms. Talk to a friend who had wound up behind me when I chewed up the asphalt (she's actually a cop... I play back the tape in my head... the spider's T-Shirt now say something I've made the decision not to publish). I work out how I can fix everything - I'll be late to my appointment with the University in Fremantle... but for the most part I can work things out.

I get back in the car to get to class.

I think how little my son is and a part of me dies inside.

There are times when I think that I am a decent person.

Today wasn't one of them.

A Lesson In How To Ignite Their Gasps

Currently as I write this I have year nine exam supervision. I hate exams. Really, really hate them. Nevertheless I have to tow the line in terms of being a demonstrative bastard.

The students come tumbling into the room and one of them cheerfully greets me. “GET OUT OF THE ROOM” I roar at him. Then without changing pitch or volume I instruct all of them that any talking will result in them being thrown out of the room. The great thing at the moment is I’ve got a mild cold that makes me sound like a chronic smoker so my voice is particularly shattering when uttered with any volume. Upon reflection it was probably a little bit much, nevertheless I wanted students to have the notion absolutely crystal clear that exams are not environments in which one should have a happy go lucky approach. Least ways have any ideas in your head that you can chat. Police pull people over, teachers have exams, it's just the way things are.

What isn’t helping is that I’ve got a really high blood sugar at the moment. As a diabetic a high blood sugar can make you somewhat easy to irritate. It is hard to convey, but imagine being cut off in traffic. Someone cuts you off in traffic and gives you the bird. That feeling right there, that’s what everything feels like. Take for example the fact there were no tissues in the exam. It’s a simple mistake, in fact you couldn’t even really in all fairness call it a mistake. There are simply no tissues in the room. Ordinarily you would smile graciously to the child requesting the absent tissues, politely lean out the door. Upon seeing there was no-one outside the room to assist you quietly inform the student that there weren’t any tissues and that if they just waited a couple of minutes there would be enough tissues to stuff a mattress. I would chuckle, sigh, put my hands on my hips and cock my head to one side with a wink. That particular scenario with a high blood sugar evokes a response from me that would be on a par with insulting a Europeans’ mother. The absence of tissues is a personal affront. It would be like setting my dog on fire. Personal. Affront.

A student puts up their hand and requested a tissue. I quickly scan the room. No tissues. I step backward out the door. No floater. A floater incidentally is a staff member who hangs about outside the room to assist teachers in the classroom with requests pertaining to things like tissues. I waited. The sounds coming from the waiting student continued to bubble and hiss. I glare at the student – there are other ways to resolve this. I pause and think better of it. No floater. I leave the exam and storm across the foyer into the English staff room and explode upon the teacher standing there. “Where’s the frigging floater? I need some tissues!”
“Why, that’s alliteration!”
I stare. A moment passes and then I flick the back of her head so that her face smashes into the table she’s sitting at.”
A male staff member offers the following comment much like I imagine a Lewis Carroll character would speak. “The floater’s meant to be sitting out in the foyer.”
I grab his elbow and hurry the him over to the filing cabinet, open a draw and slam his fingers firmly. “I know that, I know the floater is supposed to be sitting in the foyer. But they’re not. They are not sitting there. They are gone.”
Slowly, with trembling hands he hands me a box of tissues.
I re-enter the room and hurl the box at the student, killing him instantly. He bubbles and churns, like a snail frothing to death. That by the way is a simile. The children gasp. Gasping. Hate gasping. Probably a little bit more than exams. I make my way to the groundsman’s office. The gasoline is easy to find. Back in the exam I start to empty the contents on the floor. Shaking the tin wildly above my head.The world about me shimmers. Stepping back I draw on my cigarette and explain apologetically – no gasping in exams. The cigarette is flicked John Woo style into the air igniting their gasps.

I blink. The room smells like hair conditioner and students. The occasional one yawns. Time passes.

On another note – another Zac story. Zac and Tan are shopping. They pass a woman in a full burhka and Zac excitedly points out to Tanya – “Mum, I just saw a real Ninja.” Made his day, to see a Ninja out at the shops.


This goes for nine minutes, so only if you have time. I've heard about it over the years and remember it in the media at the time, but boy, does Safran have nerve.

The Mirror

The thing that concerns me the most about living in a bureaucracy is that you could very well end up where you don't want to. Often in a bureaucracy there are forms to fill in. While at first these forms appear to have a variety of boxes to tick giving us what appears to be innumerable choices on closer inspection, (or in the event you actually fill in of these forms) you realise that you don't really fit into the descriptions provided. There's not actually that much choice. No big deal. No big deal until you wind up dead that is. Then it is a big deal. Obviously not to you, but to everyone else. Hopefully.

I get nervous filling out organ donor information when reapplying for my driver's license. As a diabetic I kind of wonder who the hell would want my organs anyway. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with them. Not that I’m aware of. But I could imagine that’s there’s a little bit more wear and tear on them. Perhaps it’s not even that, maybe it’s the thought that the recipient would be told, “By the way your heart belonged to a diabetic.”

“A diabetic? So… why do I get the heart of the diabetic… like they can’t even get life insurance… why would anyone want their heart?”

“Look do you want the heart or not… it’s got 10 maybe 20 good years left in it… how much did your heart have left? A week, week an a half?”

“I guess… I just… I just hoped I’d get like, you know an athlete’s heart, someone young, strong, and possibly black… you know?”

“Oh this guy wasn’t black… nope, nothin’ even close. Wasn’t tall either. Nope. School teacher. Sorry buddy it’s that or the 75 year old that kicked it at the picnic.”

I have this fear of letting down complete strangers as well. I don't want to meet the eyes of the lady behind the counter as I hand the completed form to her. Like, I don’t want to be sexist but in my mind it's a woman - a biggish middle aged woman with no sense of humour who mentions that I've checked the bit that says I'm not handing over my organs upon death. She keeps staring. Even when I look away, I can feel her eyes on me. Even in my imagination she’s staring at me and if you look closely (even though I’m not looking at her I can because it’s my imagination – actually if it was my imagination I’d have adimantium claws and a light sabre) you can see her eye lid twitch. Either way I apologise and hastily correct the information.

I don't want to feel bad.

I don't want to explain that I'm diabetic.

And most importantly, I don't want to face the poster that says, "Don't take your organs to heaven, heaven knows we need them here." Apart from the unlikelihood that we are actually going to take ourselves off to heaven in our present form and God is going to receive us only to turn us around and say,

"Hold on a minute tiger. No kidneys... you have no kidneys... were you aware that... you know this is happening more and more what's going on? Why is everyone giving them away. You need them here. Did you know you need them here?" He pauses, maybe for a minute, maybe for an eternity, thing is you're in Heaven. Finally He says, "And it's not just the kidneys, you name it, livers, hearts, eyes, brains... people are turning up without brains. Try playing chess sans a brain." At this points God sighs and folds His arms with a faraway look in His eyes. " This wasn't happening 50 years ago. Now you people turn up like sock puppets..." He trailed away,"...sock puppets."

So now I'm worried that upon an accident I might look dead, a brief discussion ensues amongst rescue workers and out comes the esky and Stanley trimmers.

That's not really what I'm talking about though. I'm talking about online tax returns that you simply haven't really got any idea whether or not you've provided the right information and then upon pressing return your house gets repossessed for tax fraud.

Well, the reason I'm bringing all this up is because of that particular feeling being invoked when I responded to an email. It read, simply Fred (not Sarah's real name) wants you to join Facebook. Should be called My Face. (Big shout out to Katie)
Well, that's nice, I thought. I'll join. I'll join and say hello. How nice.
Next thing I had a Facebook and I was contacting all my friends telling THEM to join. I didn't recall deciding to do that today. It wasn't even at the back of my mind. THEN I had one friend write back and say I needed to spice up my Facebook. So I urinated on my laptop and yelled "Is that enough salt for you? IS IT?" But I'm not sure if salt is a spice.

So now I'm part of something I can't abide.

Myspace tried to lure me in with their cheap tricks. Tom and some other guy. Wish I could remember his name. I've had him two if not three times try to get me to join. When I first got the email I was genuinely touched. Wow... someone wants to be my friend. Well, I will be their friend. And we will be friends. So I clicked on the link. And there he was, all by himself. That's about when my alarm bells went off. Why was a good looking guy like that all by himself. Someone I've never even heard of is smiling back from his desk where he is writing on his laptop, presumably to me. Suddenly I was a budgie in a cage staring into the mirror. And for a second I bought it. For a second I thought I had a friend. So I emailed him and told him that I wasn't going to be his friend. In fact, I had chosen to be his enemy. I was going to have my picture posted not under friend, but enemy. Sworn enemy. Come knocking on my cage, will you?. My diabetic cage of vengeance and… vengenceness.

Oh, and this is just for nerds only.

And Patrick needs thanking for putting me onto this one. Magic.

My Son the Bat.

Everyone wants their kids to be special. Special in a way that leaves the other kids in the dust. Not that we'd say that out loud of course but we want the rush of watching our kid finish the race first, or write something in class (or anywhere apart from a wall for that matter), that leaves us beaming with pride. We do not want our children to be special in the other sense of the word. The kind of special that makes us aware that other parents glance sidewards at us.

Recently we got Zac's report home from his pre-primary class. He's five.



















It's possibly a little hard to read, double click on it and you can read it for yourself. If you can't be bothered it essentially breaks down as such:

Creates a recognizable person: partially achieved

Includes a body, head arms, legs and facial features in their picture: partially achieved

Adds extra features to their portrait: Not yet evident

Uses a variety of colours in their portrait to distinguish features: Not yet evident.

So what precisely did my son draw when he was asked to create a self portrait?









Teacher's comment: Zac has drawn himself as a bat with his eyes closed.

Teacher is fairly certain Zac is autistic.

We suspect he is anti authoritarian.

Draw a picture of myself?! Noooooooo.... that's boring. No we really need a picture of a bat with his eyes closed.

I asked Zac why the bat's eyes were closed. Zac looked at me as if I was insane. "Because the sun is up."

I thought that showed some sort of intelligence. Bet the other kids didn't draw their self portrait depicting themselves with their eyes closed.

And hello to Emma who must start her own blog and Max who must also bite the bullet and start her own blog.... way to cool for anonymity these two. And they sell wine and are forced to listen to diabolically bad music. Cept Sting... I'm exempting Sting from that. And maybe a tiny bit of Wendy Matthews. But I can say that cause I love Arcade Fire and Modest Mouse and that balances out the uncoolness. Cept Sting is cool. Love Sting.

Oh, and by the way... there is something wrong with our new dog. His mouth is too big.