This man scares the bejesus out of me

CREEEEEEEPY

'ken awesome

Junk

I am in media heaven. My favourite author releases a new book the same week my favourite band releases a new album. David Mitchell, I want to marry you. Would you mind? And the same goes for Snow Patrol. I want to marry you too, even if you're not particularly attractive, I very much heart your music. Well, at least for the meantime. If I get bored of you I reserve the right to throw either of you over some someone more fanciable. but right now there isn't anyone else. Just, you, David Mitchell, and you Snow Patrol. Oh, and you Big Brother. But I don't really want to marry you—I'd rather sneak around with you for some tawdry action in the broom closet, if you don't mind.

Add a touch of Martha Wainwright: Listen to "Set Fire to the Third Bar". RIGHT NOW.

HEAVEN

One of my besties called to tell me of his newborn son last night...

Is there any way to avoid TMI in a birth story?

Been a while between drinks

Contrary to rumours, I am still alive and kicking, just flat-out at the coalface. But working with a whole bunch of nerds and fanboys does give you the chance to experience some of the more wondrous sides of the dubdubdub. I didn't even know there were species of nerd this nerdy living deep in the labyrinth which is the information superhighway. And I pride myself with being up there with the latest in nerdity. Well, to an extent.

Otherwise, all these four-day weeks have been playing havoc with my liver; although, so far, it does seem to be holding up. And holding up these four-day weeks have been for a little project I have been devoting much of my spare time to over the last few months. Yes, that dreaded word R E N O V A T I O N. Now, along with all the other beaujolais-swilling*, ABC-watching, inner-city-living lefties of my generation, I decided a few months back that my digs were no longer satisfactory, and that I should exercise my exquisite taste by spending thousands upon thousands of dollars that I don't have to get them up to scratch. Florence Broadhurst, marimekko and the like have nothing on my plans—whihc primarily include demolishing an outdoor dunny and bringing the WC inside, reshaping the apricot-laminex kitchen, and adding a dining zone, coz I'm sick to the shit of eating off my knees in front of the telly (it plays havoc with my PS2 controllers).

Around Novemeber the local council approved my pans without so much as a whimper. And since then it's been the hard yards of getting the plans up to scratch and finding me a builder. It's taken quite some months, but I've found one, paid an exorbitant amount of money to "lock him in" and as of about 5 weeks ago, it was meant to be a quick dash down the home straight. All we had to do was get ourselves a building permit, which, I was advised my all involved—my good mate the architect, the builder and sundry other professionals—that this was really just a matter of process.

HA!

Since that fateful day, I have run into the biggest problem of the entire campaign—cue the creepy music— dum de dum dum—the nextdoor neighbour FROM HELL. Now this old cow is renowned around my 'hood as being on very good terms with the devil. She does not actually live in the house nextdoor to mine. She used to, but has now moved to the more genteel environs of Doncaster to grow her tomatoes and harass anything that can move. I was stunned, nay, mortified, to find that she had not objected to my bourgeois aspirations, but at the same time, heaved a very long sigh of relief.

Six months on since the granting of council approval for me to add value to my nest, the harridan has wised up. I need her approval to build over a drainage pipe that runs off her roof. I also need her approval to work on the wall that joins our properties. All pretty much procedural stuff—with the plans approved, there not fucking much she can do. But that hasn't bothered this karma-killer. I have had her round gesticualting madly at me and shouting unintelligible insults ina forrign tongue. I have had her on her hands and knees outside my place with her arm shoulder-deep in the drainage pipe in question. I have had her informing all and sundry that she is going to do her best to stop this "development", as she will be losing "light" [erm, if you bothered to look at the planning submission beeyatch, this aint true] and "air" [like, how is that possible?] and that she will do anything within her forthright, stout and dowdy powers to ensure this doesn't proceed.

HA!

Should've thought of that six months ago, stronza! An old saying comes to mind: "Too late, too late, she cried as she waved her wooden leg". Not that her leg is wooden (it certainly didn't seem so when she had her arse in the air and arm down a drainpipe, but there is something rather arboreal about her head. Even her son was shaking his head as he watched her.

And this crazywoman is just one of the myriad nightmares that crowd my waking life at the moment. Just wait for the one about wheelchair access. It's a cracker.

So, rather than dwell on such minutae, instead, I give another installment of the South American odyssey. Peace out.


*Beaujolais is just a red herring. The reality is more like pot-swilling, Big Brother-watching. Though I do have a thing for Teachers at the moment. Or any repeated series the ABC runs in the 11pm timeslot. Like Wild Side.

Let the games begin

And they did. The Festival of Skander kicked off on the weekend with, well, it wasn't hugely sumptuous or anything, but a veritable smørgasbord of delights, including fresh prawns and home-grown tomatoes with freshly picked basil, with a duck-breast in a sour cherry sauce, a delightful chilled rosé, with a creamy gorgonzola and a half wheel of jindi brie, all soft and gooey and delicious. There were cornichons and rye bread and organic sourdough for the fussy. And all there was to eat all this was la embarazada, my parents, a cripple and an old lady, otherwise known as my dear grandmother. "What did you say, dear?" seems to be her most common comment these days, but even when she does mishear you she comes out with some crackers. And I don't mean on a nice little floral saucer to go with the cheese.

Anyway, the weather was delightful, sunny but not too hot, with a lovely onshore breeze lowering the temperate just enough, and there was even home-made dessert of the ice-cream variety. Yes, just what the doctor ordered of a weekend in the country. Unfortunately, my folks ahve decided the lash the celebrations proper this year as they have found better things to do than take me out to dinner—so what am I to do with my booking for 8 people at Long Grain tomorrow night? Harrumph.

But more importantly, what do I want? What gifts will satsicfy me? Make my cheeks go red and heart skip a beat as I glimpse it through the wrapping paper? Or, like that electric razor they gave me at 18, will make me sullen and sulky for the rest of the day? Hmm, I have to avoid that one at all costs. Yes, just what is it I want this year?

A bigger picture

A bigger picture

Watch the video

Ok, so it's slightly lazy hitting up all these .mov I took while I was away, but man, everytime I look at them I am transported back to that idyll. Yes, it's more waterfalls, but this time you get to see how thay all fit together, from the Cascadas Escondidas to the biggest Mo'Fo in da world.

The Devil's Throat

The Devil's Throat

Watch the video

This is the top of "The World's largest waterfall".  It is mad.  You start to feel the spray a good 50-yards back from the edge, and by the time you reach this aquatic inferno, you are thoroughly drenched.

It rocks. 

Are we there yet?

Are we there yet?

Watch the video

I've managed to lose my template, and still haven't sussed whether I've got this video thang happening...

Market research

I don't like it. A bit of a bevel on the star brings it into the 21st century, but it's the typeface and the black I can't handle. I think the "customer-friendly" lower case looks patronising, with the black revealing the true nature of the beast.

And while I'm at it, how bad does the Channel 9 logo look?

Lyrics I love (volume 1)

Buenas Tardes Amigo / Hola, my good friend / Cinco de Mayo's on Tuesday / And I hoped we'd see each other again / You killed my brother last winter / You shot him three times in the back / In the night I still hear mama weeping / Oh mama, still dresses in black / I looked at every fiesta / For you I wanted to greet / Maybe I'd sell you a chicken / With poison interlaced with the meat / You...you look like my brother / Mama loved him the best / He was head honcho with the ladies / Mama always said he was blessed / The village all gathered around him / They couldn't believe what they saw / I said it was you that had killed him / And that I'd find you and upstand the law / The people of the village believed me / Mama...she wanted revenge / I told her that I'd see that she was honored / I'd find you and put you to death

So now...now that I've found you / On this such a joyous day / I tell you it was me who killed him / But the truth I'll never have to say / Buenas tardes amigo / Hola, my good friend / Cinco de Mayo's on Tuesday / And I hoped we'd see each other again / Yes, I hoped we'd see each other again

By the way, don't ever fool around with Speedy Gonzalez impersonations in Spanish-speaking countries. Despite the hours and hours of hilarity that can ensue from a simple «¡Andare, andare! ¡Arriba, arriba!», it doesn't always go down the right way. Years ago, when I was but a whipper-snapper, I took the overnight train from Paris to Madrid. Sharing my cabin were a middle-aged Japanese fellow who, as we whizzed through the countryside somewhere near the Loire in the early evening, decided to strip down to his Y-fronts and and lie on his bunk , and a chatty bloke from Stockport called Dave. So naturally we strike up a conversation, as one does over a few cans of Kronenbourg 1664. And so it goes. When the conductor came through to gather our passports and pull down the bunks (the Japanese guy was still fully clothed at this stage), we got onto the topic of Spanish. Know anything? Iasked. "Only dos cervesas por favor". "Yeah, nice one" I replied. "All I know is ¡Andare, andare! ¡Arriba, arriba!", and we both laughed. At which point the conductor turned and glared at me, harrumphed as only Europeans can, and stormed out of the cabin.

So we looked at each other and shrugged, like you do, had a few more cans, got freaked out by the Japanese guy, and turned in ourselves. In the morning, when said conductor dropped by to return our passports, he gave the Japanese man his, Dave his, and threw mine at me from the door, really hard. And I think it was just then that we realised that telling a petty European public servant to" Hurry, hurry! Quickly, quickly!" was not the most polite thing to do as he makes your bed. Nor to crack up laughing aftwards.

Wanna know what shits me?

Too bad.

It's the Australian Labor Party.

But why? I hear you ask.

First of all, Public Transport. I have always been and will always be, if not in practice, a devotee to public transport. A slut for it, even. Melbourne (and indeed Victoria's) public transport has been left to rot by the State Government since well before the Kennett Government hastily (and against the advice of its consultants KPMG—or was it Ernst and Young? I cannae remember) privatised our "public" transport system. Then the do-nothing Bracks Government decides we need faster rural rail services. Fuck yes we do. And so, after spending millions and millions of dollars, they speed the rural trains up by between one and seven minutes for THEIR TOTAL JOURNEYS to regional centres. Like, what, seven minutes faster on a four-hour rain journey is anything for ANYONE to write home about? And then they decide to the pinch the VFT name and attach it to these so-called "very (not) fast trains. These aint no TGVs or Shinkansen. They're not even fast, let alone very fast.

And so, now, I have it on first-class, reliable authority, that the Bracks Goverment has, as its main priority in its 2006 Traffic for Melbourne "blueprint" that the main initiative planned is a tunnel under the cemetary from the Eastern Freeway to Citylink. Aussie Goverment's love their tunnels. Big, fuck-off spends on engineering projects that falsely bolster their economic figures and placate the so-called "aspirational" voter in the outer suburbs. To where there is no public transport, because 10 years ago there were only cattle and sheep living there. So, I asked my source, in December when The Age was carrying on its hoo-hah about PT, "what initiatives have Mr Bachelor and his cronies, erm advisers, got in store for us public transport users? There have been heaps of great ideas in the paper." I said. And my source replied: "Oh, we won't be doing anything on trams or trains. There are no votes in it. And it would cost too much."
"And a fuck-off tunnel won't?"
"It will placate those voters who were pissed off with the eastlink tollway thing"
"But what about the future of the city and it's liveability and all that? You know, more tunnels, more cars, more petrol, higher petrol prices, more pollution, more people"
"Huh?"
CUNTS
Rio, Buenos Aires and Santiago all have better public transport than we do, and their standard of living is about half of ours at best. God this shits me.

And more, I concur with Shaun Carney, as ever, in his Saturday column. What is it that the ALP can't see? Stacking their numbers in the house with Union reps is a good thing? While less Australian workers join unions, more unionists join the ALP. And unionists are surely about as respected as real estate agents when it comes to honesty, integrity and good intentions. There's a reason no-one else wants join the ALP. It's because its a hotbed of skullduggery and backstabbing, where merit and ideas are thrown over for obsequiousness, backstabbing, and an idolisation of the nastiest and most devious political animal this nation has ever seen. No-one trusts this slimy, weaselly man, and yet Labor's Right can't see it. They revile him in public, but fawn over him and his "electoral success" (read: shrewd manipulation of a spineless media) behind headquarters' doors. Why else would they not run on his blatant and repeated lack of honesty—never ever a GST, I believe in Medicare, NON-CORE PROMISES, weapons of mass destruction, children thown overboard, PETER FUCKING REITH, no knowledge of the AWB Saddam kickbacks, the list goes on—at every moment they have? Why not? Because they're run by a pack of faceless "officials" wouldn't know a policy it it kicked them in the face. Who send their preferences to the rightist Family First instead of the leftist Greens, and in the process end up electing not just a Victorian fundo to the senate, but an extra Lib as well. Who care more about internal numbers than economic numbers.

CUNTS

And, while I'm at it, Kim who?

Errr....

I can't believe I wrote a post about Brazil and forgot the main thing: Caipirinhas. Man oh man, these things rock. After the first sip has acclimatised one's mouth to the cachaça that it. And that's definitely one of those sour-y squint-y too strong-y alcohol-y effects. But once you're past thhe first sip and the limejuice and the sugar are starting to mingle in your plastic cup, and the ice starts a-melting, yeah, that's the spirit. And the drink 'em everywhere. At the wedding, they had a dedicated caipirinha bar—lime, passionfruit or strawberry to choose from. But believe me, there's no reason whatsoever to pass up the lime. The sour acid masks the cachaça flavour in a way no strawberry ever can. And I'm aint no passionfruit man But, hey, you gotta try everything once (except murder and incest, that is). (oh, and ploughing into a group of rural teenagers in your car).

So, after a whirlwind tour of Hee-oh, we had to hot-tail it back to BA. As you all know too well, my kinda town. But it also meant a period of mad flight times, like a 7:30 Rio-BA departure, meaning we have to leave for the airport at oh, 4:45 am. Pitch black. And then spend a woozy day in a rainy BA, feeling fairly shite. But enjoying ourselves nonetheless. Even seeing some tango at the Armenian Social Club in Palermo Viejo. And following yesterday's early morning rise with anothery—this time the 8:15 to Lima.

And the Cuzco. The Andes. Cold. Wet. History. And some fo the best masonry I've ever seen. A city full of these min cars whose brnad I can't recall, all mini like their stoic, broad-faced drivers, these solid, stocky coffee-coloured people who look as though they have been chiselled from stones themselves.

What with altitude sickness, yes, it does exist, Cuzco was a place the put the feet up and relax. Snooze. Drink hot chocolate. Visit the odd cathedral. Snooze some more. Read a little. Plan our itinerary. Eat alpaca (yum!). Drink pisco sours. Peruse silver. Deny the hawkers. All jolly good, old fashioned fun.

A distant memory

I'm still tyring to figure out how to upload my quicktime movies, so in the meantime you shall all have to content yourselves with more stills.

Style icon Buenos Aires: the Peugeot 504


The view from our hotel:



Iguazu:

Brazil: The wedding

Rio:

How's that for a start?

When my baby smiles at me...

Been a while, but yo, I'm on holiday fuckers. Back in Chile with a nice little cerveza aresanal after a whirlwind tour of this continent.

After an exceptionally enjoyable week in BA, la embarazada and I headed up to Iguazu to spent some QT with the world's greatest waterfall. Exceptional Q it was too, thousands of megalitres of water rushing over this small gorge each second, covering everything within 100 yards in fine spray and hurling rainbow after rainbow into the sky. Staying on the Argentinian side of this monstrosity enabled me to continue my carne endulgence—in the form of metre-long swords of meat barbecued to perfection—and to finally get my groove back with the lingo—in the form of a longneck or two of Quilmes and a good solid hour of smalltalk in the black market backstreets of Puerto Iguazu.

And then on to Brazil. Ah Brazil! Such a big thing, the nation, the concept. Strangely orderly buses, an obscure language that sounds like Russians speaking French, no smoking indoors, comunist stylee docket systems, and, unfortunately, a race that looks as you´d expect a mixture of short hairy Portuguese, native South Americans and strapping negroids to look like—not anything to rival their southern neigbours, that´s for sure. I'll say it now: Sao Paolo is a dump. 20 million odd people in a metropolis not much more than 120 years old. No street life, ugly grey highrises, undeciferable language. But the point of our excursion lay in this city, and it was exceptionally fulfilled:
And then onto Rio. Not a city I had much expectation of after the disappointment of our other Brazilian destinos. But low expectations are the easiest to exceed, and exceed they did. This is where all the Brazilian hotties hang out. On the streets. In their togs. Whiling away their hours sucking down sucos and playing hands-free volleyball on the beach. Do these people have anything resembling a job? Do they need one, these lithe latte-coloured laydeez and buff brown blokes? None of the class of their Argentine brethren, but what they lack in class they make up for in brawn. Even if their language is undeciferable. They pronounce the name of their city "Hee-oh" for fuck's sake.

¡Feliz Año Nuevo!

So Buenos Aires eh? Awesome town. Shame about the location of my hotel, but hey, what can you do when all the really nice hotels you wanted to stay in are all booked out three months in advance? Downtown was where we were, a quaint little nod to our friends further north on the same landmass, I think; better than our own terminology, as an English mate of mine recently pointed out—CBD isn't really an appealling term. Nor is downtown. So I'll go for the actual district, which was called Monserrat. Whatever, we were 5 seconds from the Plaza de Mayo, which is probably the third biggest tourist site in BA, and its Casa Rosada, of Evita, or if you prefer Madonna fame (I am and always will be an Elaine Paige man myself), and that's smack bang in the middle of BA. Its focal point, if you like. Which, paticularly as far as bus routes and the underground system go, is quite important.
Now this town. This town. Initially, I was somewhat miffed by the place. Big. busy, high-rise, 35 degrees. Filled with buses and smog and hotties and ATMs and not much more.
So after running the gauntlet of the leather touts in Calle Florida ("Sir, our leather, direct from factory, very good prices"), I decided that if I was to enjoy this city at all, we had to go out on a limb and discover some suburbs. And discover we did.
A happening little area called Palermo Viejo, a suburb straight out of a wallpaper* magazine. And I'm serious when I say I reckon they started that magazine after a stay in Buenos Aires. This place is on the money. Spot on. Hardly a thing I can fault. Given that every fourth man or woman in BA is a dead-set head-turner—seriously Riza, forget Europe or a car, you gotta get yo' ass down here—they also dress well, they speak Spanish (which is dead sexy in my book, never mind that I don't understand them and it's at 100 miles an hour), they drink their beer outta 750ml bottles (a tres-cuatro, I picked that one up quickly), they smoke in their restaurants, they like their beef, they look you in the eye, they dine not before 10pm, they specialise in leather. Did I mention they are all hot? Palermo has that edgy-established feel to it: enticing cafes that double as restaurants and triple as bars, shady streets packed full of chouette shops, small designers charging Argentian pesos. Being a man who hasn't bought a stitch since April 2005, this was something akin to heaven. You know how it is when that inner fashion slave is let out? And when everything is half price, seriously half price? I mean the tag says something you think is a reasonable price, and the you convert it, and it's a pair of white leather shoes for 99 bucks? Or a cream suit for 230? Or hand-made leather wedges at 115? Particularly when travelling with someone who works in the fashion industry, it's hard to tear yourself away from all this.
And so we shopped. And ate. And shopped some more. Then, after a swim and a few more beers, we returned the next day to pick up the things we were still thinking about. Hard to think I'm only 600 bucks worse off for all the shit I'm now carrying.
But we didn't just shop. Asid from sweating our way around the bars and boutiques of Palermo, we actaully did get to tyake in some sights. The Cementaria de Recoleta and Evita's crypt. La Camiñita and the coloured houses of the docks area. General San Martin's monument. More admiring of 'historic' buildings. And so it goes.
Another bunch of observations, this time on BA:
Their legendary reputation as night owls is correct. These fuckers don't go out before 10. So for someone on an Australian timetable, and slave to another timetable (that of la embarazada), looking about for somewhere to have a drink near our hotel, round say eightish—before dinner, GnT time in the mother country—nothing is doing. They catch up for late lunch like 6ish, and then disappear from the streets for four hours. There's a lot I like about that, except that it doesn't do well with a) jetlag and b) pregnancy.
The right shops open at 11 and close for lunch at 1pm, to reopen at 3, and close at 8. the wrong shops open at 9 and close at 9.
The Porteños, as they are known, dress well, but they do dress conservatively. In Monserrat, it was fashionable suits made of unfashionable 80s materials. On women. Elsewhere, it was polo shirts wall-to-wall, much like home, only tucked in (and yes, I was succumbed after a while).
Smoking! The epitome of old style chic. On entering the country, the woman at customs, sitting there next to her big fuck-off baggage scanning machine, long painted nails with a fag between them. I punched the air.
These people love a rally. Almost every day we were in BA, there was a rally of some sort in the Plaza de Mayo. Drums a-banging, banners a-waving, peeps a-marching. The first one involved children dancing, the last one demanded Justicia for the victims of the Cromañon fire, a nightclub fire a year ago that killed 193. I don't know what sort of justice one can demand for victims of a terrible accident, or what a government who has since clamped down on nightclub facilities and capacities can do, but there were thousands of them outside our hotel demanding Justicia.
But then there was New Years Eve. And there was not a soul on the streets. I'd expected something like home, like most capital cities in most coutries around the world where some sort of public entertainment is laid on and there are people thronging the streets. But we left our hotel at nine, looking for trouble, and found none. It took us 45 minutes of walking to find one place serving alcohol open. Just one. The streets were empty, just people carrying food, getting into taxis, which were surprisingly easy to find. Not even the dodgiest kiosco was open, unless you wanted fireworks (which they call cienfuegos, reminding me of dear old Camilo). Noone. Niente. Nada. Thank god for the little place that we found. Heaven sent. And the best pizza BA has to offer. Pity I can't remember its name.
Time up. Hopefully you'll get photos next time.
Happy New Year y'all.

A couple of observacions

OK, so I´m still suffering a bit of jetlag, but that happens when you venture halfway round the globe. Spent last night in Santiago de Chile, the capital of that slender nation, and now your correspondant is hunkered down in an internet joint somewhere in Buenos Aires, trying to get a handle on these weirdarse keyboards. So cut it with any nonsense about dud keystrokes and dogy spellings. I´ve got this far, but that´s because I´ve already knocked out a swift one to the olds, and am getting familar with the strange shift key and the ñ. Kinda like in Turkey, when the i key wasnñ the i key and I had terrible trouble just logging on to my hotmail account. Those were the days.
¿So, what has impressed me so far?
Chilean food is the pits. As far as I could tell, the national dish id the sandwich, or a variation thereof. Or many variations thereof, stuffed full of strange looking hams and vegies. Mind you, I was only there for 18 hours. And all I could get my hands on was the ol´reliable cheese and tomato number. They did have some nasty looking hotdogs smothered in mayo (the guidebook aptly described it as a blanket of mayo), and it seems to be what one scoffs with a cerveza, but I´m waiting till I return there in a coupla weeks to sink my pearly whites into one of those. Or more.
Fast food joints must outnumber restaurants in Santiago by about 6 to 1. And most of them sell these hotdogs. Or atleast are named things like "Doggis". Otherwise you´re next best bet is ice cream, which they seem to dig over there.
Santiago wasnñt what I expected of the richest and most westernised nation on this here continent. Way more dirty and traffic-clogged and low-rise that I´d expected. And that magical view of the Andes wasn´t visible through the smog. Though I did get an awesome view of the mountains as we flew over them this morning.
And while Í´m on flights, the Auckland-Santiago leg was hell for a fairly big bloke like myself, wedged there in economy, with, as always, the person who immediately puts their seat ALL THE WAY BACK as soon as the seatbelt sign goes off. Ho`pe your trip sucks dogs balls bitch.
But all was redeemed when checking in this morning the requisite two hours before departure, when a lovely Chileña sidled up to us asking what time we were departing, only to suggest the next flight was available, leaving us with just a half-hour wait at the airport AND bulkhead seats. The clanging of the spheres or just my own hapless charm? I´ll go for the latter.
BA on the other hand is an amazing looking town. Just like Paris or Barçelona, only warmer and with madder drivers. And yes, it is true what they say: this city seriously sports the best looking men and women on the planet. Itñs a constant battle not to phwoar and turn your head as they amble past...
talking on their mobile phones as though they are two-way radios. They hold them to their mouth to speak and then to their ear to hear. As opposed to holding them in the one place to get both things happening at once, they talk into it with not even the slightest pretence at listening to the other person.
Beef. Bring it on. I´ve always been a red meat man, and this place is meant to slice and char the world´s best. So look out parrillas, here I come.
Now it´s time to sample the local ale.
¡Hasta luego amigos!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night

First the heavy news:
Today it was confirmed that a little cancerian skander will be joining the world in 2006.

And on a lighter note:
The work Xmas do is tonight, and I have a rather fetching seersucker safari suit to impress the crowd with.
Then I leave for South America on Monday.

Bucking the trend

I have attended a bucks do on almost every Saturday night so far this December. Bucks parties are strange beasts, the sort of thing you look forward to with equal parts trepidation and and fervour. There's the prospect of copious amounts of piss, of naked, dancing bogans, of being stuck with the bride's best friend's fiancé who works in behind a service counter at a university, of barely seen old mates, of illicit drugs, of casinos, of obscure family rituals. My main motivating factor is, frankly, the booze. Then again, as many would suggest, it is perhaps, my only motivating factor. Ever. My love of the demon is well-documented, and it is my understanding that, yes, he loves me back.

Nonetheless, bucks parties are strange events. All that testosterone in one place, all these fathers and husbands and boyfriends and lovers all sitting round the same table/standing around the same bar. And it always begins with the small talk:

"Ah, Chook, it's been ages mate, what's news?"
"Well, I've got three kids and work's kicking goals"
"What it is you do again? Last time we saw each other it must have been, oh, seven years ago mate, and you were still working in that pub/agency/factory/building near the train station."
"Well, I'm still there mate. Loving it, been working my way up. I'm running the place now. Here, have a business card."
"Ah, so the concrete business is doing okay these days?"
"Well, Katie and I have just bought a place in Pakanham, huge land, and, yeah things are looking good. What's your story mate? Do you ever catch up with Macca these days?"

or

"Hello Mr Spack!"
"Hello Skander! I haven't seen you for years, not since that time we had to drop you home after you'd had too much to drink at that party all those years ago"
"Yeah, well, older and wiser, you know what they say"
"I hope so. And what are you doing with yourself these days? Something creative/high-powered/to do with cars, I'm sure"
"No, I'm doing well, everythings going just fine. I'm off ot South America for five weeks in Jan, so I'm really looking forward to that"
"Oh that sounds wonderful. I've always wanted to go to South America. Tell me are you going to Capetown? I hear it's lovely."
"?"
"Oh, silly me. Now, tell me, how are your parents? Judy and I would love to catch up with them someday."

or worst of all

"G'day Ando! Man, it's been ages. How's things?"
"Oh, they're alright. Chrissie is letting me see young Oscar again these days, so I guess things are looking up"
"Oh, that's good news. I didn't know you guys had been having trouble?"
"Um, yeah, she started seeing this other guy a couple of years ago, and you know, neither of us thought they were serious. Just after Ollie turned two, she felt she wanted a fling, and so, whatever. We had an arrangement. And then one day, I just come home from work and all her stuff, and all of little Oliver's stuff is gone. She'd even put a restraining order on me! Can you believe it?"
"?"
"Man, it was tough times. But I'm doing ok now. Doc tells me I'm almost ready go off the prozac soon."
"Oh, and do you find they've helped?"
"Well, as I said, it was tough times. But since I've been allowed to go back home, I have really been finding that I'm on the improve. I spose the drugs help. Yeah, and Mum still drops round and cleans the place up n stuff. Cooks me dinner."
"Oh really, how is your mum?"
"Great."
"Oh good. Now, do you know where the bathroom is mate? Cool. I'll be back in 5."

And so it goes.

But the oddly defining part of the last two bucks affairs I went to were that the first buck organised his own stripper, and the second one was a play-by-play copy of the best man's bucks party held 3 months prior. To the minute.

And that's kinda wierd. Well both of them are. You don't bloody well organise the stripper at your own bucks party. If you have one at all, and I'm not averse to the bucks party that does not have strippers—in fact, I'm rather partial to them. But like, greeting and looking after the stripper, like, "I'll be sitting here, so you come in from over there..." is all a bit strange. I mean, it's supposed to be degrading and somewhat embarassing, not all familiar and like "Hi Joanne, welcome" And the groomsmen are meant to pay from a hat passed round (preferably before the event), surely? Not the groom chasing her after her routine with a wad of cash...

The second one, on the other hand, just seemed completely and absolutely unoriginal, and by that, was rather uncomplimentary to the buck. I kinda believe that bucks parties are tailored to the buck, to the sorta things he's into, be it paintball or horse-racing or strippers or fuck-off expensive wine. But to just regurgitate what this bloke did for you a couple of months earlier is a cop out. It was a frame-by-frame remake: first go-karting; then lunch in Port Melbourne; then a room at the casino; with a pair of topless waiteresses; everything.

Which is not to say I did not enjoy myself at either of these events. Indeed, I am sure I was not making any sense whatsoever when I finally disappeared out of the casino from the later party. Sure, because I couldn't stand up straight either. And because I was having trouble seeing anything in the singular. As I said, I love that demon alcohol. And he loves me.