Thursday, October 15, 2009

Look at Those Sideburns, He Looks Like a Girl.

When Teddy Roosevelt was in his mid twenties he spent a lot of time at his ranch near the Dakota Badlands. He kept a small boat tied up near the Little Missouri river (not that there was ostensibly much use for it; indeed, there were small scows tied up at various places all up and down the valley, but most had rotted from disuse; for most of the year the Little Missouri was so shallow that horses could gallop right through it, and in Winter it would freeze over, allowing man and beast to ride across like any highway). It was quite handy, however, during the freak weather that prevailed in March 1886. And it was then that three thieves made off with it, sailing downriver in the middle of the night.

Teddy awoke on the morning of March 24, keen to embark on a planned cougar hunt, only to find his boat missing. The rope used to secure it had been slashed with a knife. A red woolen mitten lay nearby.

Over the next few days he built a raft and sailed it downriver until they collided with the stolen boat. He then tracked down the theives' camp, accosted and disarmed them, and marched them for eight days, through sub zero nights and ice-jam that rarely shifted before noon, all the way back to civilisation to face charges.

Today I watched T.V. in my blankey and made a few snacks.


Saturday, July 25, 2009

Kids Say The Stupidest Shit.

The following is a snippet from an hour conversation I had at work last night with a six year old girl. We discussed, among other things, the finer point of cubby houses, Harry Potter and lemonade, but this was my favourite exchange:

Her: "When's your birthday?"
Me: "Next month actually, the 22nd."
Her: "How old will you be?"
Me: "How old do you think I'll be?"
Her: "30?"
Me: "Lower."
Her: "Umm, 49?"

And that was after her little brother called me a weirdo booger face and informed me that I in fact eat boogers, probably from my face.

It's a hard knock life.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Leon Kompowsky

When I was ten I hated shoes. Not the wearing of, of course, and well, maybe hate is too strong a word. Certainly I wasn't excited by the prospect of new shoes, and so on Christmas morning when I unwrapped my main present to find a shoe box, I was confused and slightly disappointed (ungrateful, I know). I pretended to love my new shoes when my mum giggled and informed to look inside. I opened the box and there lay Michael Jackson's History double CD. I pretty much hit the roof and spent the rest of the day, and rest of the next few years, listening to nothing else.

A sad and strange day.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Glen or Glenda?

Circa 2004.
A young Andrew stands in line to buy a sausage sandwich at his younger sister's netball game. Sideburns blowing in the breeze, speckles of pube-like facial hair spread across his chin; he feels like a man. He writes about himself in the third person.

In front of him a tired looking woman wrestles with her restless daughter. The little girl twists and jumps and almost pirou-freakin-ettes right onto Andrew's foot. She immediately ducks behind her mum, embarrassed. Mum tells her to "watch the ladies toes".

Andrew is at work. A party of sixteen occupies the main table; they are not regulars. As lunch time dwindles most of them scatter. Three stay behind.

Andrew glides up to the table to collect their empty dessert plates. One man, an older gentleman, says: "Thank you ma'am." Not only is Andrew apparently female, he is also old as fuck.


Luckily he realised his mistake and apologised. I should have said: "It's nothing, I get it all the time, really. I'm actually dating a lesbian, I just don't have the heart to tell her..."