Please, Let Me Kill You – Or At Least Get Angry At You a Bit

A newly formed habit gradually creeps up on you. You wake up, pick your nose, roll it between your thumb and forefinger and drop it over the side of your bed. It’s only when you vacuum and it sounds like you’re sucking up scattered sand that you realise you’ve been rolling snot and dropping it next to your bed for pretty much as long as you can remember.

‘You can relax, little one. The chiwawa is gone.’

Of course, probably, when you become aware of your new lazy-arsed, snot rolling and dropping habit, you’ll stop – although there will always be something satisfying about mining out a booger the size of a small cockroach. But what if you’ve formed a new habit that you just can’t shake, like wishing a stranger would outrage you enough so you can kill them?

Men, Get the F##k Off the Couch and Do Some Housework

The majority of guys are lazy, sooky, mummy’s boys. Don’t believe me? Have a conversation with any woman in a relationship with a dude and you can bet pretty much most of them will say their man does absolutely nothing around the house. And they mean nothing. As in doesn’t lift a God-damn finger, nothing.

How does this happen? How do two people get to the point where it seems totally normal for one to do every piece of housework while the other doesn’t do any? To me, it sounds like utter insanity.

Beers and Spray Tans

‘Wow, I look pretty good for 37!’

I’m going to tell you something I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone, ever. And to be honest, I’m a little nervous about it. However I feel this is a safe place. A place of non-judgment. Somewhere we can let it all dangle in the breeze and save our sniggering for later when we aren’t around each other. Not that I do that of course.

Turning Into a Caveman

Are you scared yet? You should be.

I get a varied response when I tell people I go to Caveman Training. The first is usually one of confusion, understandably, and then it’s often a jump to believing I attend some kind of new-age, men’s group where we dress in nothing but a piece of bark over our junk and try to reclaim our lost masculinity. And while dressing like that does sound kind of fun, although a little drafty now that winter is drawing close, Caveman Training isn’t a new-age men’s group, it’s a place where I go for motivation, inspiration, hardship, pain, euphoria, tears, sweat, satisfaction, mateship and maybe a little bit of vomit. And the reason I’m telling you about this is because it’s changed my life.

Man. You’re A Real Mate

The other day I witnessed one of the most masculine displays of emotional outpouring I’ve ever seen. That’s right, masculine and emotional. Some say those two words don’t mix, like mixed-netball and enjoyment, but after what I saw I can guarantee you they do.

To be fair to my argument the man getting all emotional was Hugh Jackman. That guy could be getting a man-Brazilian and make it look blokey – except when he dances. Stop the dancing Hugh. Stop that right now. It was during a 60 minutes interview and after being asked a few questions about his father he began to tear up. Rather than stopping or trying to hide the tears, he wiped them away and said “Sorry mate,” to the interviewer and continued on.

Men Are Stupid

I wanna be a caveman – they get to wear sexy dresses.

Men are stupid. Yeah, I’ve heard that sentiment before. And most of the time I’d have to agree. However in saying that, I don’t blame anyone for thinking it. Much of our behaviour can come across as childish in an I-like-to-hit-things-with-my-caveman-club kind of way.

Over the last week I’ve had two questions posed to me. The first being – ‘What is it with men and jets?’ and the second being – ‘What is it with men and ribs?’

The first question comes in context from my city’s River Fire Spectacular.

Pink Jobs, Blue Jobs

‘My old enemy, we meet again.’

It’s safe to say society has changed since the middle ages. We have running water, garbage trucks, and the ability to check Facebook from the comfort of our own beds. The days of brushing our teeth with charcoal and having to marry the first person we accidentally knock-up, or get knocked-up by, are way behind us.

I Think I Hear My Youth Screaming Goodbye

‘Hey, I’ve got your enthusiasm right here.’

We’re all getting older.

You’re now older than you were since you just read that line. Now you’re even older again. It’s unavoidable. Like a hangover, or farting in bed.

I mean, we all know we’re on a constantly ticking journey towards a tearful eulogy and eager relatives at our will reading, but there are some parts of growing older that seem to sneak up on you. You turn around and suddenly bam! Father time has kicked you in the balls and stolen a few things that you once held closely and dearly to your younger, more enthusiastic self.

Diary Of A Scared Kid

Damn! The Little Mermaid is scary shit!

A while ago whilst driving through the outback on the way to a wedding, I passed a little hotel with a sign on the roof stating ‘Grey Nomads welcome’. Now, I can be a bit naive at times and my first reaction conjured up thoughts of bikers piling in at sunset to bathe in Jack Daniels and watch their skanks pole dance on the pool tables. ‘Shit, we must be in biker country,’ I said to my girlfriend while studying the road behind in the mirror. It wasn’t until my much smarter and streetwise girlfriend let me in on the secret that Grey Nomads were actually elderly people travelling around Australia in camper-vans making the most of their retirement, that I started to relax.

‘Are you scared of motorcycle gangs or something?’ she asked. ‘No’, I replied maybe a little too quickly.

One Man Salad Please, With Extra Balls.

Sneaky camouflage salad.

What is a Man Salad?

A man salad, according to one of my mates, is a salad you would be comfortable eating in front of a group of other blokes.

Sounds simple enough in this age of readily available moisturiser and brutes getting pedicures on their Bali holidays – on the insistence of their girlfriends of course – however a Man Salad is a difficult and slippery concept, and one that if executed wrongly will make you run screaming to the nearest pie shop in shame.

Where is that fine line between a salad that gets a laugh and condolences over the tragedy of your lunch, and one that looks good enough to get jealous stares and guilty glances at our own bloated beer-guts?

Real Men Don’t Read Harry Potter

Harry, your wand has obviously grown with age.

I went to see the latest Harry Potter the other week. I’ve seen them all. Right from when Daniel Radcliffe looked like a little half man, half boy, leprechaun, with a voice to match, right up until now where he looks … actually, the same I guess.

Before I anger the diehard fans out there and end up being accosted in the street with ‘arseaholeous’ spells being thrown in my direction, I must say, I really like the movies. Before watching the most recent film I went out and actually watched all of them over again. And by the end of it I actually thought for a moment I could perhaps be a wizard, until my girlfriend got over me pointing a chopstick at her and saying the word ‘clothesoffious’ with different inflections and force. Sadly I had to concede the whole notion was fantasy.

Google Maps is Messing With My Masculinity

It'll take your manhood.

I love technology. I’m just old enough to remember having to get off the couch and turn the channel changer around. My first record album actually was a record album – Wham actually… so, what of it? I didn’t have a mobile until I turned 25, and I still enjoy the comfort of a city directory under my arm when trying to navigate my way around.

So given the amazing advances we’ve seen in the last 10 to 15 years I still get all ‘ooh wow’ when I discover something that makes my life so much easier.

But, it can really screw you up sometimes.

Take Google maps for instance.

Stay Classy Gentlemen: 5 Tips To Dress Like An Adult – Tip 2

Powderfinger would be bums without their jackets.

So I watched the Arias last night. Anyone who doesn’t know, the Arias are the Australian music awards. They’re like MTV awards, but with tall poppy syndrome rife in Australia everyone tries to come across totally laid back and chilled to the point one begins to wonder if the majority of Australian artists are half retarded.

Since I started this whole ‘stay classy gentlemen’ trip, I’ve been taking a lot more notice of what other dudes wear, and watching the Arias gave me a good chance to have a look at what the rock stars of Australia are into.

I’m sure if we had the confidence to strut around in rock star like clothes we all would. I know I would. Becoming a rock star would have to go down as my one of three wishes if I ever do find that genie.

However when it came time for Angus and Julia Stone to accept their award for album of the year, I sort of went WTF??

21st Century Man: Thugs Or Wimps – Choose One.

Thugs up in your grill?

More and more often I find myself horrified at the brutality of my city. I’m sure violence and robberies and assaults are rampant in any big city the world over, but I’m amazed at how many of these situations occur in broad daylight or in the middle of a crowded street.

It seems the majority of men out there today are either thugs doing the intimidation, or are wimps turning a blind eye.

I know this sounds pretty bloody harsh, but lately I haven’t witnessed much to sway my opinion.

Peter Pan Syndrome: Will Staying Young Really Win Wendy’s Heart?

Oh Peter, you look sorta - old.

Peter stands on the shore of Never Land, golden sword trailing through shallow water. His small, pointy leather boots slowly fill with sand and discarded cigarette butts from nearby Pirate Town. A little way off shore Wendy kneels at the stern of a small launch being paddled by men with hunched shoulders and ragged hair. The men heave their oars through the water and draw closer to an impressive ship, resplendent with polished rails and colourful flags as if heralding the arrival of the young lady. Also decked out in finery is the man waiting to greet Wendy, who watches her approach through a lengthy spyglass. His richly darkened wig falls over a coat decorated with golden amulets and pearls taken from the most experienced of seafarers and the proudest of island warriors.

On the beach, Peter wipes mucus from his nose and trails it down the front of his green tunic with the back of his hand. “I thought we were in love!” he shouts at Wendy’s retreating figure.

Wendy turns and shrugs. “That may be so, but what do you expect Peter? Hook has a boat, and power, and treasure. He’s taking me to Bora Bora!”

When All the Planets of the Solar System Align, Then we’ll Have Sex.

"You're right, this IS more interactive than a Wii console!"

We love sex. I love sex, you love sex, my 65 year old neighbours love sex. Actually, they really, really love sex – loud sex. Before you even finish your eye-opener coffee in the morning, you’ve probably been spanked with the notion of sex in a dozen different ways from a dozen different angles. Be it through the telly, newspaper, online news, patting the sauce bottle, squeezing your toothpaste, it’s bloody-well everywhere.

Maybe that’s why everyone freaks out when they think they ain’t gettin’ enough.

I’m In A Rally, So Get Outta My Way!

This is the section were we get to have a bitch about what’s pissing us off right now. It’ll always be posted on Monday, just to coincide with the best day of the week – if you’re still drunk from a roaring Sunday session. If not, it’s because Mondays have a tendency to totally blow.

Feel free to comment about what’s pissing you off right now.

_________________

I gotta get home to catch Junior MasterChef!

This is something I notice all the time. It always gives me a flush of road-rage which I then consciously need to extinguish with the thought of they’re just IDIOTS so don’t hold it against them. Plus, it happens so often, if I let it affect me too much I may start wigging out by following them home and stealing their undies to make voodoo dolls out of them – or some crazy shit like that. Anyway, it bugs the hell out of me.

It’s when people turn street corners like they’re in a rally.

I Do – But I Don’t Do Your Name.

This is a debate I know can get ugly. After writing, I’m going to be looking over my shoulder expecting to be dragged into dark alleys by high-powered female business women and academics. I’ll be tied up with their slimming Shapewear, beaten with iPads and left as a warning to other men who foolishly dare broach the subject.

This subject can get ugly.

After watching a movie the other day called Hot Tub Time Machine – seriously hilarious, there’s a drunken dude dressed as a bear, freakin gold. I began thinking about the traditionally slippery slope of working out what happens to your surname after marriage.

Tight Denim, Tyler Durden and the Dirty Thirties.

Finding your masculinity can be damn hard for young men of today. Thanks to Father Time, you don’t find it, it finds you.

“So what do you think?”

My Girlfriend turned and looked as I stood wearing a jacket I’d picked off the rack.

“Yeah, I like it,” she said. “Sort of Tyler Durden looking.”

“Really?” We were doing some Sunday arvo shopping and had stopped at a little boutique in Paddington.

“Yes,” came the rasping verdict from the 55 year old shop assistant. “Very masculine.”

My mind started throwing around pictures of Tyler Durden, Han Solo and Aragorn. These dudes are men. I’m not a man. Since when did strangers complement me on my masculinity? I puffed my chest out and squinted a little. I guess the jacket did make me look a bit Tyler – if the light was dimmed, and if I had a chiseled haircut, and a tan, and a completely different body.

Don’t drink? You some kind of pussy?

So, I don’t drink. Believe me, I would love to. But the choice has been taken away from me recently.

It’s not because I want to wow my hot yogalates instructor, and it’s not because I suffer from alcoholism. My body one day just decided it had had enough and gave me an extreme case of pancreatitis – it’s when the pancreas tries to digest itself. From now on every alcoholic drink is damaging and causes a shit load of pain. A specialist explained why alcohol specifically has this effect, but the best I can come up with in my own words is – it’s like my pancreas is the Death Star with its shields down and booze is like X-Wings on crack attacking it. Oh, and now the shields are down, they stay down. Forever.