Congratulations to GrodsReader Skeptic who has recently given birth to twin girls (or at least his partner has.) Skeptic is seeking suggestions from other GrodsReaders “as to the appropriate lefty indoctrination I should now be following to make sure the little ones are participating in group thinking and other socialist-related activities?”

My advice is to ensure that the girls’ first non-breast food is a latte. Leave your advice in comments.

I’ve spent the last five days at Palm Cove, just north of Cairns, alternating between swims in the ocean, newspapers on the beach and beers in the poolside bar. I’ve been wearing nothing but a pair of board shorts and a thin sheen of salt; I didn’t even need to wear proper shoes for the wedding on Saturday as it was a thongs kinda gig. Yesterday I went out on my cousin-in-law’s yacht for a bit of a sail. In short, life has been very, very good.

Last night at 11:30pm I arrived into Melbourne airport wearing a shirt for basically the first time since last Tuesday. It was six degrees. This morning my alarm went off at 6:30am so I could get dressed in the freezing cold for a day of crowd control on a bunch of screaming kids out on excursion.

The life, it can suck sometimes.

Sigh. I’m too good for some of you. One of you. That’ll be Krypto, who is lamenting the lack of activity on this blog tonight.

But it did get me wondering: what the hell are you all doing tonight? Indeed, how are you all going to spend your long weekend this weekend? Or if you come and look at this blog late on Sunday night, how did you spend your long weekend?

Myself, I’m watching the third season of Blackadder, and it’s very funny. I just love Rowan Atkinson. I’m shocked that I’ve never bothered to watch this show before.

And in about 10 minutes, I’m going to dash to the bottle shop and get another bottle of wine. I’m still sober. Too sober. IT’S A PUBLIC HOLIDAY TOMORROW! Damn. (I’ve just finished watching the episode of the French in England. Damn.)

So, go wild. Say what you like — and say something really offensive so I can delete it.

Oh and Krypto, the name Sam Newman is not allowed on this post, kthxbai.

Every afternoon during my lunchhour, I walk past a young homeless guy, in his mid-20’s or thereabouts, sitting cross-legged against a window shop window, a little hat in front of him, and begging for a “spare dollar” from people who rush past him, pretending not to notice, see or hear him.

I am guilty of being one of those people, and it makes me feel like shit. I go through phases where I cannot decide whether it’s wise to give the homeless a “spare dollar” or whether it’s better to donate money to a homeless shelter, soup van, etc. At the moment, I’ve been going through the phase thinking that it’s better to donate to a charity. You know, so that “at least I know where my money is going”.

But I also know that in many cases, money that is donated is still not reaching certain people, people who may not go to charities for assistance, or where charities are unable to reach them, for whatever reasons.

However, I would certainly say that giving a “spare dollar” to the guy near my office is much better than the idiots who regularly give him religious tracts — usually from Jehovah’s Witnesses. Sometimes tracts from the dreadful Chick Publications are given to him (yes, I watch everything, as the guy sitting next to me on the train last week should have realised). Other times I’ve noticed the poor dude holding literature from the Scientologists.

This afternoon was no different. The Mormons who prowl on my street were looking down at the homeless dude, talking and pushing shit into his hands, no doubt exhorting that God loves him and wants the best for him. Or something.

Did they give him a “spare dollar”? Of course not. Just like I haven’t. But shit, I don’t give him useless crap like religious proselytising and cheap paper with smudgy ink and coloured drawings of an adult Jesus looking rather solemn.

Today, I stopped to ask him if he ever found the literature thrust into his hands useful. He replied, “Yeah, I use ‘em for toilet paper cos the paper is usually soft enough.”

Well, it made me laugh. He told me about some of the kooky stuff that’s been said from people witnessing to him. As he said, “All I want is a couple of dollars so I can buy something to eat for dinner tonight.” He was utterly sincere. You have to meet him and talk to him to know he wasn’t just trying to get money for booze or drugs or whatever. And he was cold, with the bitter wind whipping up the street, making him shiver underneath his thin jumper.

From now on, I’m going to give him a “spare dollar” when I see him, to make up for the useless, pointless and altogether unhelpful religious preaching about how he can made “whole again in the love and light of our Lord Jesus, Saviour.” I don’t mean to sound like a martyr, but fuck, in this day and age and in this modern city, why are the young and old still freezing and hungry and homeless? And why do religious groups think it’s OK to push Jesus’s message of caring for the poor, without following his own message, one of which was:

“If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.”

I am not a Christian, but I know what the Christian message is, and I know that the Jesus these Christians apparently follow had a special concern for poor and suppressed people. Far as I know, Jesus never gave a shit about tracts and preaching and being “saved” anyway. His first concern was looking after “God’s people”.

What’s a measley dollar, anyway?

UPDATE:

I would like to see one those tract-pushing dealers wear this t-shirt:

Baby Rogenous turns six months old next week, and a few days ago the first of his little zoobies popped up through his bottom gum. I was talking to my mother about it on the phone tonight, and she told the following story:

“Oh, here we go — E had better watch out now! When your teeth first came out you used to bite my nipple so hard, and by god it hurt!”

Now, don’t get me wrong: it’s lovely talking to my mum about Baby — he’s her first grandchild and she’s every bit the doting grandmother.

But a little piece of me died when she said “nipple”.

Sitting on the train on my way home last Friday night, I was almost lulled into slumber by the screeching metal tracks, when I realised I had been staring at a message on the cold, plastic blue seat opposite, beautifully written in italics - or ‘running writing’ as they used to call it (do they still call it that in primary schools today?).

It was a message that gave me hope that despite the bleakness, the greyness, the murders, the drugs, the rising interest rates, the racism, the bigotry, the falling apart of society, the Blairites, that there is still a beacon of hope and lightness on this forsaken planet. The message said:

Peace, love, acceptance

That’s all that matters.

How true, I thought, suddenly startled out of my alcohol-soaked misery. How damn true - and we all should be aiming for those goals: love, peace, acceptance. I sat up straight and promised no one in particular that these are the goals I am going to apply to my life immediately.

Then my eyes glanced to another familiar bit of running writing, and I was eager to read what other inspiration I could learn from a train seat with the slash in it. What I read changed my life forever:

Fuck the South Side. 

Every time I’m riding a tram down Wellington Parade in East Melbourne, I have to stop myself from alighting at the Fertility Control Clinic and breaking the necks of the anti-abortion protesters who stand at the gate terrorising passers-by and patients with graphic posters of maimed foetuses.

I am neither pro nor anti-abortion, but I virulently oppose this kind of wanton emotional violence.

Contrary to what these zealots seem to believe, the decision to have an abortion is not undertaken lightly. The overwhelming number of people who use abortion clinics do so under extreme stress, and arrive there having made the most excruciating decision of their lives.

Do these (mostly Christian) crusaders honestly believe their god would condone their judgemental bullying, or even reward them for it in the hereafter? The god I learned about in 15-odd years of Catholic catechism would take a particularly dim view of such despicable passive-aggression.

Anyway, my contempt for these people was thrown into sharp relief today when I received an email from my wife, E. She’d returned home from a walk with Baby Rogenous to find an anti-abortion leaflet in the letterbox, containing several bloody photographs of aborted foetuses.

E and I suffered the pain of a miscarriage two years ago. It hasn’t gone away; I suspect it never will. She was, understandably, distraught upon seeing the pictures.

Do the people who peddle this kind of indiscriminate emotional terrorism give a fuck? Does the elderly woman next door to us, who in her youth suffered years of failed attempts at pregnancy, have anything to gain by seeing these images?

What of the people who receive this leaflet who have had abortions, and who might be battling the demons of regret — as many do for the rest of their lives? Does it persuade them any more than the residual torment of their procedure already has that abortion is a course of action not to be taken lightly? That it’s morally wrong?

Does enforced guilt serve any purpose other than to compound remorse or suffering? Has guilt ever helped anyone make a resolution for the right reasons?

I don’t think I’ve ever been more appalled than I am today. For the safety of the ever-present East Melbourne protesters, I think I’ll catch the train home tonight.

I walked into the lounge tonight and caught E Rogenous browsing the Hire A Hubby website. She immediately began stammering an explanation, but the damage was done.

I went into the shower so she and our son wouldn’t see my tears. After a while, with the water still on full, I sat down, wrapped my arms around my knees and gently rocked myself until the water ran cold.

Reaching out of the shower, I remembered that my towel wasn’t hanging on the towel rail because the towel rail is in the bottom drawer of the vanity, where it’s been for the best part of six months.

I think I might call Hire A Hubby tomorrow myself.

Here’s a vexed question if ever there was one: at what stage must you bow to the inevitable and say goodbye to your favourite pair of jeans?

Clearly, I reckon never. However, I’ve been given the order that I’m never to wear these bad boys again.

According to the wife, this pair has reached the stage where they’re offensive. “You’ll make people uncomfortable if you wear them in public,” she said.

Well! I might have been too gutless to retaliate while she was busy attacking my pants, but I’m certainly man enough to blog my retort while she’s not around. So here it is.

More often than not, I wear underpants — dark-coloured ones at that — so there’s little chance of drawing undue attention to the offending area.

Furthermore, anyone who goes out of their way to look at my crotch is obviously doing so in the hope they’ll see something. Far from making them uncomfortable, you could say I’m providing a public service to one of the most marginalised groups in society: dirty filthy sickos.

In fact, one might almost say that kind of selfless act would make me a true Australian hero — and who wouldn’t want to be married to one of those?

Or maybe I’ll just throw the damn things away before she gets home and murders me.

Cats can do amazing things.

(Via icanhascheezburger.com)

It’s not often that The Editor looks forward to hanging out a load of washing on the line. It’s not that he hates doing washing, it’s just that he doesn’t look forward to it the way that one looks forward to going out for dinner or seeing DMac play at The Espy. But today, having exhausted the washing pile, the bed sheets and the towels, Ed’s been furiously searching out new and interesting things around the house to put in the washing machine. In you go, oven mitts.

You see, The Editor’s been locked in the spare bedroom all weekend working on uni assignments and today is such a lovely day. GrodsHQ has a great north-facing backyard that is bathed in sunlight — you know that warm, life-giving sunlight at the arse-end of winter? Ed went out this morning to hang out the first load of weekend washing and was filled with happiness. There was a brief plan to carry the desktop computer out the back and find a long extension lead but this was tempered by the reality of McBec’s potential response. So back into the study cave Ed goes, dragging his feet, after putting on another load of washing. Thus guaranteeing a return trip to the backyard in 25 minutes.

Sitting at GrodsHQ in Brunswick this afternoon, listening to the sounds of the Big Day Out floating up the road from Princess Park, The Editor has been forced to reflect on how so not the kids he is any more. A couple of days ago the Triple J Hottest 100 was released and Ed can’t recognise half the songs in the top ten, let alone recognise half the bands. Back in the day The Editor was a hardcore Triple J listener who religiously tuned into the annual Hottest 100 broadcast after lodging as many votes as possible. In fact, the last time Ed really paid attention to the Hottest 100 was in 2000 while he was at the last Big Day Out he attended.

It was Sydney. It was sold out. The Editor had spent days bidding for tickets on Ebay and finally secured a lone ticket (bad luck housemate Robbie) for some ridiculous price like $160. He got inside and met a friend. Within 30 minutes he’d lost that friend and there was no mobile phone backup. A long day was spent in the main arena sucking down overpriced beers and watching the Hottest 100 results flashed up onto the big screen. Towards the end of the afternoon Ed secured a prime spot on top of a large rubbish bin (he’s a small fella, The Editor) in preparation for the Red Hot Chili Peppers who were headlining that year. Making friends with some other dude who liked the bin posse, Ed could finally go for pee and bar trips without losing his seat. The Chili Peppers came on. They sucked (The RHCP haven’t made a good album since One Hot Minute). The concert finished. Ed jumped off the rubbish bin to leave and fell heavily on his ankle, tearing a ligament. For some reason he decided to try and walk home since he couldn’t get a cab (Homebush to Rozelle is a long, long way). A couple of hours and a street-side nap later Ed managed to get a cab, the driver of which was studying homeopathy and administered some anti-inflammatory pills. Sweet, sweet drunken sleep. The next morning The Editor woke fully dressed and slightly dazed. He stepped out of bed, completely forgetting his ankle, and the screaming made housemate Robbie run into the bedroom ready to beat crap out of a house intruder.

What happened to The Editor between the early and late 20s? Now he’s a committed 3PBS man who subscribes to the symphony orchestra and likes electronic jazz. People walk up to him, stare, and say “you’ve changed.”

As you were.

Warning: This article contains cheese

The most amazing thing has just happened to the Editor. It's one of those little coincidences that happen occasionally in life that make you pause and think about how great the world is.

A few days ago Ed discovered a CD from a band he'd never heard of and really liked it. Today he downloaded a couple of their previous albums from the interweb (for money, dudes, Ed's no thief) and was sitting at his computer, just now, listening to them.

One song ends on Winamp and another begins. All of a sudden the Editor is back in London at 5am on December 29, 2000, waking up to the same song on his clock radio. Ed's heard this song a few times over the last couple of weeks and really liked it. But this day is no normal day. Outside it has snowed overnight and the Editor's about to hop a bus to Edinburgh to enjoy new year's celebrations with a girl that he's head-over-heels about, had a certain degree of success with over a month or two, but has not totally won over yet. This girl is to eventually become Ed's fiance (and wife in January '06).

Anyway, back to the song. Since that day the Editor has never heard it again but often thought about it. Problem was, he had no idea what it was called. So when it started playing from his computer speakers but ten minutes ago it was one of those moments. Just thought he'd share.