Rants & Raves of Jasmine’s Fiction

In a recent conversation about reading and books with a mate, I asked him what genre he likes and he went, “what a jshon-rer?”  As I boggled at his lack of vocabulary I explained that a genre (or jshon-rer in his case) was a specific type of book/film i.e. Romance, Horror, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Non-Fiction etc.  Then the conversation kinda went like this:

~~~~~

Mate: Aah!  I though it was pronounced ‘gen-ree’!

Me (in horror): NO!!!  It’s pronounced ‘jshon-rer’ OHMIGAWD!

Mate:  But its spelled g-e-n-r-e, so doesn’t that mean its pronounced ‘gen-ree’?

Me:  GAH!!!  G-e-n-r-e is pronounced ‘jshon-rer’ because it’s not English, it’s FRENCH!

Mate:  Ohhhhhh.

~~~~~

As I despaired over my mate’s lack of appreciation for the English / pseudo French language I was struck by the thought of how many other mates of mine that have made lingual boo-boos over the years.  Of course as an English teacher one gets exposed to a myriad of horrors but growing up with very predominantly English speaking mates I assume that they, at least have some ability to get it right!  Sigh.  But c‘est la vie /say-la-vee/ (that’s life)! It’s not to be.

One of the most classic boo-boo a rather pompous acquaintance of mine made (which we still take the piss out of him for) was when he was bragging about how fantastic his English was.  The conversation went something like this:

~~~~~

Acquaintance:  My sister taught me how to speak perfect English!

Me:  Really now?

Acquaintance:  Yes!  I know lots of complicated words – like ‘ren-dez-voose’.  Do YOU know what ‘ren-dez-voose’ is?

Me (in all my eye rolling glory):  Dei!  Rendezvous is pronounced ‘ron-day-vu’ and it’s NOT English, it’s FRENCH!!!

~~~~~

Of course the look of shock on his face was classic!  I mean, can you imagine he had the gall to give me that patronising look like I was a simpleton who didn’t know what rendezvous meant.  Sacré bleu /sar’cray bloo/ (bloody hell)!  Like, REALLY! 

Oh another classic – a girl friend and I were in the midst of a very heated fashion discussion of the moral issues regarding fur:

~~~~~

Girl friend:  I think it’s appalling to kill poor defenceless animals for the sake of fashion.  I will only wear ‘fox’ fur!

Me (extremely puzzled):  Huh?  Isn’t a fox an animal?

Girl friend (after a patronising eye roll):  Hello, ‘fox’ as in f-a-u-x, as in fake?

Me (as the realisation hit): OHHHHH! You mean ‘fou’ fur.  F-a-u-x is pronounced ‘fou’.  A FOX is a tiny, furry little animal with a bushy tail whose coats we skin for fashion.  FAUX (one more time for the road, its pronounced ‘fou’) fur is the man-made, acrylic variety. 

Girl friend: …………

~~~~~

Yeah, y’see what I have to put up with now?  I love how the plebeians always get it wrong with the simplest things.  What people don’t understand is that English, while being Lingua Pura is a hodgepodge and jumbled up language with words borrowed from practically every language spoken on the planet.  So in a very moi /mua/ (me) fashion, I’ve made a list from A to Z (told you I like lists) of my personal favourite and more commonly used pseudo French words (and its proper pronunciation) that the wonderful English language has ‘stolen’ over centuries and that most people get wrong:

Après-ski /ah-press-ki/ - after skiing or social events ‘after skiing’

Beaucoup /bo-ku/ - a lot of, used mainly in slang i.e. beaucoup bucks

Coup d’état /ku de’ta/ - state blow or overthrow of the government

Du jour /doo zhur/ - of the day, like soup of the day

Enfant terrible /on-fon tor-ri-bler/ - disruptively unconventional person

Faux /fou/ - false or fake

Grand Prix /gron-pree/ - literally Grand Prize but generally meaning motor racing

Hors d’oeuvre /ho-dove/ - appetisers or something other than the main course

Ingénue /in je’nu/ - innocent, sweet, naïve, young girl

Je-ne-sais-quoi /je’ner-say-kua/ indefinable compelling quality

L’affaire /la-fair/ an affair

Ménange à trois /meh’nage ah-twa/ threesome, usually sexually oriented

Nom de plume /nom-deh-ploom/ pen name

Peignoir /pain-nuah/ ladies’ dressing gown of the frilly pink sort

Raison d’être /raise-on det’tra/ reason for being

S’il vous plaît /si-vou-play/ as you please

Tête-à-tête /tet-ah-tet/ head to head, an intense meeting

Vis-à-vis /vi-a’vi/ face to face, in comparison with or related to

Zut alors! /jhu’ta-lor/ damn it!

There’s actually too many to list but I think it’s a good start for now.  I mean, I can’t have all of you learning pseudo French while in the midst of getting cultured with l‘opera /lo’pera/ (the opera) can we?  So in the meantime I shall have to settle for bad English, murdered French and faux pas /fou-pah/ (blunder) galore. 

So in true sang froid /sahng-fwar/ (cold blood & composure) and nonchalance we shall laissez les bons temps rouler / la-say le bonn tom ru’ler/ (let the good times roll)!

Celeste Aida, forma divina

Mistico serto di luce fior

Del mio pensiero tu sei regina

L’amour, l’amour, l’amour, l’amour                  
L’amour est enfant de boheme

Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo
A te fortuna (a te fortuna, a te fortuna) non manchera
Sono il factotum della citta

Ma il mio mistero e chiuso in me il nome mio nessun sapra
No, no, sulla tua bocca lo diro quando la luce splendera

J’ai l’amour à fleur de coeur
Qui me fait souffrir sans trêve
Lorsque tu rêves

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For those of you single-linguals who really have no idea what the heck I’m going on about – it’s the OPERA!!!  For those of you who actually have some culture in your lives (and when I say culture I do not mean the yoghurt variety!) I’m sure you might recognise the above mentioned lyrics of some of the world’s most famous operas:

-         Celeste Aida from Aida

-         Habanera from Carmen

-         Largo Al Factotum from The Marriage of Figaro

-         Nessun Dorma from Turandot

-         L’amour À Fleur De Coeur from La Boheme

The reason of why I’m going on about this is that last Sunday my sis, a girlfriend and myself went to watch a Malaysian Opera – the first in the nation.  The production, so aptly titled “M! The Opera” is new music composition that is produced and performed by the region’s finest creative talents. I have to say what a wonderful cultural experience it was – Malaysia is finally moving forward in the arts and it’s only a matter of time before they get to a world standard.

Anyway, the opera itself was rather bizarre as most tragic stories go, set in the sumptuous world of couture.  It’s about this boy M from a tiny village where he watches and learns as his seamstress mother makes women beautiful. This is where the story gets a little queer – M’s mom dies in giving birth to his illegitimate brother who was born – with a needle in his fist!  The villagers declare the child a bad omen and prophesises that he would destroy his family and the child is exiled but the needle is given to M, which he promptly gives to Sepi, his beautiful friend and muse for safekeeping. Fast forward to him all grown up in industrial Japan where M becomes a legendary fashion designer. As his fame grows, his friendships diminish.  Then Kerabat, an outrageous designer, emerges and threatens to steal his thunder AND his muse. 

So tragedy is as tragedy does, there’s betrayal and death at every corner.  Little does everyone know that Kerabat is M’s half brother, the one prophesised to be the downfall and demise of M.  So then as M spurns Sepi’s love and support, Kerabat covets and seduces her.  In the heat of the moment, Sepi gives the needle to Kerabat and thus fulfilling the prophesy.  In a bid to save himself and his love, M offers Kerabat the hand of partnership and Sepi a marriage proposal.  Filled with hate and inner demons, Kerabat sews M’s wedding garments with poison and on the wedding day M dies at the alter in Sepi’s arms…  And the ghost M’s mother then appears to M and Kerabat and the latter realises that it was his own half brother that he just killed and is filled with remorse…

Yeah.  I love operas.  The music, the sets, the costumes; everything about operas are just so decadent!  It’s also so overtly dramatic and everything is blown all out of proportion and the best bit, someone always gets to die!  Of course there’s no actual fat lady in the Viking costume with the cone boobs and the horned helmet at the end of every opera (actually I have yet to find a single opera that has that proverbial fat lady in the Viking costume) but its still a wonderful event to attend at least once in your life! 

But in the meantime – when that proverbial fat lady sings; it’s over!

Men irk me.  They vex, irritate, aggravate, perplex, exasperate, annoy and bug me.  Then again, I simply cannot imagine life without these irksome creatures – my father (AARGH!), my boyfriend (ggrrrrr), my mates (eesh), my cousins & uncles (hmmph) and so many others (pffftttt)…  They drive me to the brink of insanity yet I love them all.  Frogs and snails and puppy dog tails.  Even the smelly ones!  Yes Jamal, that’s YOU.

What irks me the most about men is that there are just some things that NO ONE can explain about them.  Brace yourselves people, this is going to be a LONG rant!  You know that email joke that keeps getting sent around – about how men are like laxatives or like the weather or like blenders?  You know – how they irritate the crap out of you, how that nothing can be done to change them and how you know that you need one, just not quite sure why?  Sigh.  I have a list (yes I make lists – it’s therapeutic) of the most mind boggling and did I mention IRKSOME things that men do/are that I don’t get:

- like how they keep talking to my boobs.  Or how they have completely NO muscular control over their necks and eyeballs whenever a scantily clad female sashays past. 

- like their completely unwarranted, unchecked and full blown jealous streak (knee jerk? Pffffttttt)

- like their sexual fixations of girl on girl (what the?  I don’t felt the need to look at fag porn, why the heck would guys want to look at lesbian porn boggles me)

- like their need for meat, speed and blowing shit up

- like their “stand alone complex” or worse, their “I want my mommy complex”

- like how the heck they can spend an entire day with their brother and not ask once if he’s going out with anyone

- like what makes them think those shoes/ that shirt/ those pants/ those boxers look good

- like their emotional scars leftover from primary school dodge-ball

- like why they feel the need to practice their golf swing in the shower (???)

- like how come they STILL earn 20% more than girls do (this REALLY bugs me)

- like how they can just cut out beer from their diet and drop 10 pounds instantly (AARGH!!!)

- like how they think that the players on TV can hear them yelling (this is kinda funny to watch though sometimes)

- like how they can sleep on THOSE sheets (all you girls who’s had to sleep on the funkiest smelling, thinnest thread count, inexplicably stained sheets scream now)

- like how they ALWAYS try to fall back on their perennial Plan B – Mom / Wife / Girlfriend / Sister will do it

- like their primal drive to buy the newest, most expensive, biggest toys  (he who has most toys when they’re dead is invariably DEAD – and you can’t bring it with you!)

- like their aversion to condoms (allergies to latex my arse!)

- like their bizarre fear of children (???)

- like how they feel that it’s a total sellout to have a job that requires a suit  (for the LAST time boys – girls LIKE men in suits – buy one and wear it without complaint!  Be a MAN!)

- like how they ALWAYS make promises they KNOW they’ll break – because its easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to ask for permission (cue the eye rolling)

- like how they can coach you through childbirth and 3 weeks later they desperately want to have sex (I don’t know this for a fact but my married girlfriends tell me this is so)

- like air guitar

I actually have more on my list but I think I shall stop here for now.  Don’t get me wrong people; I love all the men in my life, warts and all.  Though some days they are more like the warts itself but what’s to do?  Men.  Sigh.  I’ll say it again.  Men irk me.  They vex, irritate, aggravate, perplex, exasperate, annoy and bug me - especially when I KNOW that even if they’ve NEVER worked out a day in their lives they can always, ALWAYS lift their end of the couch!  AARGH!!!!!!!!

Or that one day they wake up and decide that they’re ready to marry you…

Recently the company I work for relocated their premises, from a spacious DOUBLE storey corner lot to a semi Victorian style, SINGLE upper floor office.  I say Victorian because it’s long and narrow; I say semi because it’s minus the high ceiling.  Adjusting to the space difference has been an interesting experience to say the least.

As some of you might know, the entire process of moving is a circus in itself.  First you have to inform everyone of the change.  Then you have to pack up your things; from the huge 5 tonne safe box to the tables and chairs to the smallest paperclips, everything had to be packed into boxes, sealed and labelled correctly for easy identification.  Then you load everything into a truck (or seven) and then it’s off to the see the Wizard of Oz.  Well not quite but you do trundle along to the new premises.  Then its unloading time.  Everything comes out of the boxes, is arranged as it was and voila, Bob’s your uncle – new office!  You move in and life goes on.  Simple ain’t it? 

Well simple can kiss my Uncle Bob’s arse!

It’s been one ordeal after another:

-         From the very beginning we had problems with the renovations – the ceiling collapsed in after we took down a wall.  Then there was the relocation of the bathroom and the kitchen sink; partitioning the walls; levelling of the floor; installation of new doors; fitting in new shelving and windows; blocking out the previous paint job (which was a yummy combination of red, orange and yellow) and the re-wiring of the electricals. I’m just thankful no one died!

-         Then there was a typo error in the notices we sent out (granted I was the culprit but what the hey, I’m human) informing our customers and suppliers of the change of address and phone numbers.  Normally that’s not such a big deal, except for the fact that we only noticed AS WE WERE LEAVING to the new place.  So it was back to the fax machine (in the empty old office with no tables and chairs) to re-send the notices again, this time with the I’M SORRY WE FUCKED UP note attached to the correct new address and telephone numbers.  Sigh.

-         Packing an office with about 7 years of files and papers that needed to be re-sorted and re-arranged, along with hardware and supplies that needed to be sorted, packed in bubble wrap, catalogued AND sent to our overseas office is of epic proportions!  And I haven’t even started on our respective tables, computers, fax machines, telephones, knick-knacks, bric-a-brac, odds and ends, bits and pieces and all the other whatnots. I’ve inhaled so much paper dust from constructing and filling AND extracting and collapsing the cardboard boxes, I think I have enough pulp in my boogers to make a refrigerator carton box all by myself.  Yum.

-         The new upper floor office is about one and a half times smaller than our double storey corner lot and fitting what used to have its own space is now a massive exercise in space management.  Its like that Bricks game where you arrange the different shaped blocks – except that we have to use tables, chairs, filing cabinets, and all the like, BUT these bricks don’t vanish when you get them all in a straight line!

-         Then we move onto sorting out the telephone lines, fax lines, setting up the PCs and the wireless, gently reminding people (again) that we’ve moved, the feng shui ceremony to ‘warm-up’ the office, scrambling to re-locate files and records that were previously somewhere else…

Yeah the list goes on and on and on.  I’m still trying to get into the groove of the new routine but the bonus right now for me is: work that previously used to be a 30 minute drive from my house is now a glorious 2 minutes walk.

Two enthusiastic thumbs up for not needing to refuel my car (at the current fuel prices, that’s a MASSIVE bonus) so often, not needing to fight for a parking spot, not needing to take the freeway and pay the ever increasing toll fees, not needing to face the morning & evening ‘rush hour’ traffic everyday and the BIGGEST bonus of ‘em all – I get to sleep in for another 45 minutes every morning!

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

Looking at the recent international crowds at the Formula 1 events that happened this past weekend, I find that in Kuala Lumpur there are a lot of local girls that seem to be trying desperately to convey an artistic message via the clothes they wear.  Though exactly WHAT that message IS I have no idea.  The foreign girls however, seeming to enjoy the glorious warm tropical weather express themselves in other fashion ways with the clothes they DON’T wear. 

It’s fashion hell.  I’ve officially maxed out too many credit cards, spent too many hours traipsing through the malls and street markets and boutiques and I’m being punished for my transgressions by being banished to fashion hell.  I swear!  Most of the time I just want to ask these girls, “do you prefer fashion victim, or ensembly challenged?” My male mates always ask me, “hey you’re a girl, explain why that chick is wearing that?”  And most of the time, I’m stumped for a reply.  Y’see, to the guys the WOMAN is a pretty part, not the clothes.

Unlike my mates, I ‘get’ fashion.  I’m all for the art and drama behind haute couture and the craftsmanship of the darling designer labels with its hefty price tags.  What I don’t ‘get’ is the wearing of designer logos for the sake of the logos.  Might as well wear a sandwich board with the logo of your preferred fashion house emblazoned on it.  Oh I wear my Prada and my Bally boots, and my Versace jeans and my Calvin Klein undergarments like every other cosmopolitan girl but there’s something very wrong to see a girl festooned with her LV EVERYTHING from her hair tie, earrings, sunglasses, necklace, neck scarf, brooch, blouse, belt, purse, handbag, iPod cover, cellphone casing, skirt, stockings, socks & shoes…  That is just…  Criminal.  That girl probably spent the gross national budget of a very small country outfitting herself.  For the day.  See.  That kind of artistic fashion message I don’t get.

Honestly though, that LV fashionista (that’s what they call ‘em nowadays – it’s a nicer term that fashion victim) is probably a damn slight better than some of the girls I saw recently.  The foreign girls seem to be quite fond of the strapless, braless, backless and generally fearless outfits – jiggle fests is a common occurrence.  Something I do not need to see ever again in my lifetime!  Did I also mention the super low cut pants that seem to require a daily bikini wax and when they turn around you are smacked with the whale tail or worse – the plumber’s crack!

Local girls are no better – I’ve seen some girls with neon green leg warmers (why leg warmers in a country that doesn’t go below 27 degrees Celsius I have no freaking idea) - worn together with day-glo tights, pink/red/black/yellow tartan skirts, ripped purple/orange/brown t-shirts with their ratty mismatched undergarments peeking through and a multitude of rings, bracelets, scarves, belts and hair clips and multicolour scrunchies all worn at the same time!  HELLO??? 

And ugh, do NOT get me started on the many many many girls with the bleached blond hair!  Or the visible panty lines!  Worse - visible saggy, ratty, granny knickers panty lines under tight white pants!!!  G-strings sticking out a mile high like a demented beacon!  Glitter eyeshadow smeared so far up her scalp that you wonder where her forehead went…  Platform boots so high you need a crane lift to wear.  Then there’s the ’sexy clubbing clothes’ that make me wanna scream, "oy, there’s a transvestite in King’s Cross that would like ‘her’ clothes back!"  That’s enough to make my nose bleed!

And I swear to GOD, if I ever find out who made those clingy, frilly, short skirts in sizes large enough to be worn by…  beached whales…  I will take a BIG stick and beat you till the candy comes out!

Last night my sister, The Big Bear and I went to watch a Japanese duo with Mohawks and really bad stovepipe suits perform a ‘shut-up’ comedy for an hour and a half without speaking a single word.  Welcome to the world of street theatre - miming.  The show is named GAMARJOBAT and the two un-white faced mimes are Hiropon (with the gold Mohawk) and Ketch (with the red Mohawk).  The show was really, really AWESOME (I was told to mime it to my folks and mates but since that’s kinda hard to do in text… *mimes typing at the PC*) 

Anyway, the show started with the usual switch off all mobile phones and no recording devices of any sort and the duo came out to applause from the audience…  They did simple magic tricks (mostly sleight of hand you learn as a child like how to ‘remove’ your thumb) but all with the corniest expressions on their faces!  One of the highlights of the little skit was when they were chasing each other around the stage and going ‘up’ and ‘down’ an escalator and getting ‘pulled’ from a elevator shaft and ‘smashing’ into ‘windows’…  They also did a Rocky like skit called The Boxer – all in mime, complete with the washed out boxer, his still enthusiastic trainer, the love interest, queer boxing opponents and the hero’s rise back into glory…  Impressively well done considering the entire cast was mimed by the duo.  Also, Hiropon looks really PRETTY in a dress!  Very convincing!

All fun and games, we laughed till our throats hurt!  If you’re in the area and are able to go watch them, I highly recommend that you do.

*mimes lining up for tickets and exploding into a tantrum when told that there are no seats left*

I love movie days; it means I get to do fuck-all and zone out in a dark, air-conditioned room and eat all the junk food I want for 2 odd hours.  Life is good.  Provided you don’t have to take a leak.  Anyway.

Yesterday 5 of us boys (I’m classified as a guy when I hang out these buggers); 3 vampires (that’ll be me, Cye’Ren & Khayman), 1 werewolf (Ursa), and 1 weregoat (Lost) went to watch that new vampire and werewolf sequel - Underworld Evolution.  Something about the immortal twin sons of Corvinus the First Immortal; one bitten by a bat hence turning into a vampire and the other bitten by a wolf hence turning into a werewolf.  If you have seen the first movie you know its all violence, guns, blood, nasty werewolf transformations, gore, crap being blown up, fangs, sex and Kate Beckinsale in the tightest rubber catsuit.  Woo.  Yeah.  Then you know the sequel to that kind of movie means there’s more violence, guns, blood, crap being blown up etc and of course; Kate Beckinsale in the tightest rubber catsuit.  Woo.  Yeah.  Told you I’m a guy.

So we loaded up on hotdogs, cola, popcorn, fish & chips, sweet corn, more popcorn and went in to watch the movie.  We were surrounded by couples on dates - the guys go for the violence and Ms. Beckinsale and the girls go for Scott Speedman (who?) and the very reason to scream and cling on to their boyfriends.  This the one of the reasons I love watching ‘horror/action’ films.  Plenty of action on the screen, and plenty of people getting some action around us!

FUNNY AS HELL!

We had really good seats, right in the middle of the middle of the theatre.  We were also eating really noisily (gimme a break, YOU show me how one eats popcorn quietly) and chuckling through the opening sequence and we got quite a few nasty "shhhhhhhh" from the plebeians but we don’t care.  The movie, while being rather action/gore packed was rather…  Corny.  There were so many clichés!  Like every time the two protagonists were having a tender moment *gag* a giant vampire bat on steroids or a overgrown walking hairball on steroids or a massive piece of rock hurled by the aforementioned two creatures on steroids would impale/crush/land on the poor couple!  Cue screams from the girls in the audiences and cue roaring laughter from the 5 of us.  Oh I cannot leave out the corniest lines like:

        Seline:  What will I become?

        Corvinus:  The future!

*cue dramatic music*

HAHA!  Like tell me that’s not the corniest line ever!  Overall the movie was interesting enough.  The plot was a bit thin, there was way too many things being blown up, the graphics and special effects were not as ‘realistic’ as we would have liked it to be but all in all it was a rather good comedy/zone out movie.  Of course Kate Beckinsale spending the entire movie running around in that tightest rubber catsuit doesn’t hurt.  Neither did the caramel popcorn.  Mmm.  Popcorn.

Woo.  What a weekend!  Truth be told that it was actually quite a regular weekend – hanging out with mates over beer, eating good food, playing pool and just generally having fun.  It shouldn’t be that momentous.  Nothing exciting happened.  No one did anything extraordinary.  We were not celebrating a special occasion.  It was just a run-of-the-mill, plain-jane, boring-brian, ordinary weekend.

Except for the fact that I finally broke the fasting.

Hey, it wasn’t any ordinary fasting – it was a vice fasting!  For over 5 years, I have been clean of any tobacco substance and for the first time in over 5 years, I spent the entire weekend inhaling cigarettes.  YAAY!  Two WHOLE evenings sucking on cancer sticks.  YAAY!  Oh sure, I’m torn up about it.  So much effort over such a long period of time.  To throw it all away on one ordinary weekend – kinda anti-climactic ain’t it?

I think not.  I’m going to use the excuse that it’s been a long week out of a long month.  Bleh to you too.  The joys of finally being able to indulge a craving that has been slowly tormenting me to the brink of insanity – freedom!  Ah the clogging feeling of ash and tar smogging up your lungs, the flavoursome teeth staining smoke filling your mouth and rush of the nicotine slowing your brain cells down… What a feeling!

Sure, I had a drink too…  I didn’t get my Bombay Sapphire but I did get half a pint of Heineken and half a pint of Hoegaarden.  Not much by certain standards but it was just as a space filler between my cigarettes.  Nothing to shout about.

Problem with indulging your vices is the wrath of leaves the next day…  I woke up with that distinct feeling that a small rodent had shuffled off its mortal coil inside my mouth.  Either that or a very talented cat had deposited about half a box of soiled kitty litter in there.  Whatever it was, the taste, smell and feeling – NOT something I’d wish upon anyone but my worst enemy. 

I swear – your mouth is desert dry with that fuzzy, mouldy coating on your tongue and the roof of your mouth; an oily, smoky film on your teeth; gritty, sand-like grains down your throat when you try to swallow; dizzy, swimming feeling when you open your eyes; slower, spastic reflexes when you topple out of bed; breath that can rival a sewage dumpsite; and the nail in the coffin – the MASSIVE urge to light another one.

Sigh.  Back to staying quit.  Which really sucks.  But was the transgression worth it?  Two words.

FUCK YEAH

Do you ever get that feeling that some days you just need a smoke and a drink? 

Yeah yeah I KNOW I’ve quit smoking and drinking for over 5 years now but I tell ya, that craving you get in the middle of the night or at times of stress or whenever the fancy strikes, that constant hunger - NEVER goes away… 

Its been a long 2nd month - rellies with demands, work, mates from overseas with time constraints, work, dislocated ankles, brain tumours, weight fluctuations, insomnia, work, hike in fuel prices, skin allergies, financial turbulence, work, relationship funks…  Did I also mention WORK???  Its been a real trial to say the least.  Course other people go through the same thing as I do but geeze I could use a bit of a breather… 

Woo, a breather like the kind that comes in a little white square box with a pretty gold trim and those lovely words M A R L B O R O  L I G H T S tastefully emblazoned across the front…  Filled with 20 little white cylindricals, all stuffed to the brim with carefully hand-picked and oven dried Nicotiana, all waiting to be plucked out one by one…  It tempts me, calls my name, gently beckons me like a siren’s song, begging to be held and caressed…  Oh to cradle one between my fingers, to slip it between my lips and oh, to set it smouldering with sparked embers of passion…  I close my eyes and let the intoxicating, full bodied tendrils of ecstasy tease my tastebuds and fill my soul…

FUCK!!!        I WANT A CIGARETTE!!!

Eesh.  Life sucks.  Literally.  I can’t have a smoke because I’ve been ‘clean’ for the past 5 years and if I start I swear I will NEVER be able to stop this time around.  And with the anti-tobacco squad squeezing us all like a bunch of dominatrix on steriods with steel torture clamps - cancer sticks are becoming more and more unaffordable.  And unsmokable.  Do you know that you now cannot walk along a pavement/sidewalk with a lit cigarette in Australia?  Talk about overkill.  Eventually it’ll get to the point where you can’t smoke on the shitter inside your own house!  Eesh!

Moving along. 

Now about that drink…  I haven’t had a proper drink in a long time…  No I don’t mean wine with dinner or the occational pint of beer on Friday nights; I’m talking about a REAL drink.  Not the wussy kind - watered down Long Island Tea with that sordid bit of lemon, not the sissyfied Bacardi Breezer with the little pink unbrella, and most definately NOT anything with those two nasty words ‘House Pouring’!!!  I’m talking unadulterated, unapologetic, full flavoured, X-Rated for adults only Drink.

A Vodka Martini (Shaken not Stirred) with 3 olives.  A Bombay Sapphire, chilled to 0 degrees Celcius, garnished with a smidgen of tonic water.  Round glasses filled with warm and perfectly aged Whiskey, swirled and savoured.  A Flaming Lamborghini, standing on the bar, vroom vroom!  Bright green Creme de Menthe on the rocks.  Shots of burning Tequila with a lick of salt and a wedge of lime.  Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of Rum!  Ay caramba - Mojito in a thin, tall glass with a fistful of mint leaves.  A sexy Cosmopolitant, New York style.  Toxic shots of rancid green Absinthe with the inevitable Green Faerie hallucinations.  Southern Comfort with a toasted marshmellow.  And if you must have beer, Stella Artois in a frozen steiner, a proper Pint of Kilkenny in your Kilt and Shamrock or a barrel of Heineken drunk straight from the tap, foaming at the mouth!

Ok who’s up for a drink?