My Night at the Footy!

The zombie horde on the way to the MCG.

I've lived in Melbourne for eight years now and have never had the inclination to go to an AFL game - until now!

An invitation to the Richmond versus Essendon Dreamtime game from my workmates, combined with a desire to broaden my horizons, found me marching with the zombie-like horde towards the gates of the MCG on a chilly Saturday night.

After feasting on a dinner of reasonably priced hotdogs and pies, we entered the hallowed grounds of the MCG, where we were efficiently processed and marched towards our seats.

I felt a giddy thrill as I stared out at the grounds. I think this was more a result of the steep incline of the stands, a fear of the altitude we found ourselves at and a shortness of breath from the climb, than any genuine love of the game.

It was something of a mad scramble for everyone to get to their seats and there was a lot of sitting and then standing to let others pass. There was a polite level of apologising that you would expect in a crowded outdoor event. I considered this to be just part-and-parcel of the game and living in a civilised society.

There were a group of about four or five girls directly in front of us, however, who took exception to this constant interruption.

They stood out immediately to me because they were dressed as if they were heading to a nightclub more than a sporting event and were speaking loudly in a bored, spoilt, privileged and entitled tone that can only be reserved for one dreaded section of society - the American tourist!

"I'm literally dying!!" a girl with a cowboy hat drawled, as she stood to let a sheepish and frail-looking couple in their 60s pass.

The dialect of these girls was classically Californian from the 'Valley Girl' school of mangling the Queen's English. I listened intently to their conversations. They would often try and parody this type of speech, but they seemed unaware that it was only marginally different from their own way of speaking.

The 'view' from my seat.

Before we arrived at the MCG, we went to the pub, where I was passionately arguing that there are good people all over the world and ultimately we are all the same. I still believe this, but watching these girls getting up every five minutes to buy beer and pizza, swinging their selfie-stick dangerously over the heads of punters in front of them and only watching the game through the screen of their smartphones, made me briefly reconsider my stance.

I sat next to my friend Jo. She also sits next to me at work. I always considered her to be a very gracious, polite and caring person who would not hurt a fly, but once the game began and she let loose with a barrage of taunts for the opposition, I suddenly began to fear for my life. I was worried the players would not be able to hear the half time siren and wouldn't know when to stop. She was so loud she was even able to briefly distract our American friends from their endless selfies!

It was clear from Jo's barracking that the team we were supposed to be supporting was Essendon.

I could really only tell what was happening on the field by the reaction of the crowd, which was not helped by our physical distance from the ground. I have to admit to often getting distracted by a lone seagull that was circling overhead and sometimes not remembering which end of the ground my new team 'Essendon' were supposed to be running towards. I was relieved that my friend Andy explained to me after the game that the teams swap sides every quarter. I could now rule out my fears that I was suffering from early-onset Alzheimers or was about to have a stroke.

Luckily, our American friends got bored at about half time and left, which made it easier for me to concentrate on the second half of the game. I was actually getting swept up in the barracking, but it was clear from at least one Essendon fan behind us that things were not going well. He went from being broadly encouraging at the start of the game to referring to the team as 'a bunch of retards' by the second half.

In spite of all my attempts to remain positive, ultimately Essendon was defeated by Richmond - 59 to 71. My friends sat in silence as I grappled with a new, strange and unfamiliar feeling of solidarity. Eventually we decided to go for a drink, even though we were in the middle of the Richmond heartland. This would make the defeat all the more bitter.

As Richmond fans filed past our seats, I realised I had gone from being neutral to finding a new kinship with Essendon supporters. I even felt a bit of animosity towards one Richmond fan who gave me a superior grin as he filed past my seat, resplendent in his yellow and black scarf and beanie. I reluctantly stood to let him pass.

"I'm literally dying!!" I thought to myself.

Hard Rubbish

I feel guilty sometimes for missing a time when nobody cared about the environment. Especially when I fondly recall family trips to the dump in the days of my youth, searching through piles of other people's garbage, with the stench of rotting food wafting through the air and flies buzzing majestically on the summer breeze.

They were simple pleasures from a now bygone era.

These days I have to pay every time I dump a bootload of garbage at the local recycling centre and they don't let me paw through their garbage like some starving grizzly-bear. Also, the fact that I own a Mini Cooper makes it less-than-economical for a car that has just enough capacity for the weekly shopping.

So I do what most people do in Melbourne - I wait for the hard rubbish roadside clean-up.

This involves people leaving useless, broken and unwanted items from their homes on the roadside and waiting for a council van to come and take the stuff away - for free!

What usually happens, though, is most of the garbage is scavenged by eagle-eyed neighbours and taken to their homes where presumably their worthlessness is appraised over the coming year until the next hard rubbish clean-up happens and the items are left outside once again to start the cycle anew.

This year we managed to get rid of our massive, useless analogue tv, a box of leads that belonged to appliances we no longer own, a guitar amplifier and a couple of old computers.

All this stuff was scavenged before the council van even had a chance to get to it.

Some items were even taken while I was standing out the front of our house. A workman's ute turned up and boldly appraised our garbage while I was staring right at him.

He looked at the guitar amp, but didn't take it, as it was missing a lead. Sure, it was barely working, but it was in much better working order than an old Apple laptop that his wife suddenly took an interest in.

"Is this thing working?" she asked cheerily.

"Not in the slightest," I replied.

"No matter," she said, as she took the laptop and excitedly got back in the car with her new find, that would undoubtedly become an elaborate paperweight in it's new home.

If they had waited they could have take an older iMac that was inside the house. I was still deliberating whether or not to get rid of it. This computer was a late 90s model from around the time when Apple were still the underdog and living in the shadow of Microsoft. Their marketing ploy at the time was to have the computers available in a range of colours. Ours was orange!

Before we decided to offer it up for the roadside clean-up, though, I thought it would be best if I booted it up one last time to erase the memory.

The ancient cathode-ray tube reluctantly sprang back to life and instantly presented me with a screensaver of our dog Cody as a puppy, from when we lived in Brisbane. I looked down at the Cody of today, who was sitting next to my feet and realised that, like the computer, time had marched on and now Cody is an older model that is 12 years out of date. He has survived remarkably well, but there isn't quite the same excited glint in his eye as his young counterpart.

There were many other photos on the computer of that time featuring a younger, fresher-faced me. My initial thought was that our lives at the time seemed refreshingly uncomplicated. It was nice to see our younger selves happy and smiling in the afternoon sun on our old patio.

As far as I know, none of these photos were copied over to subsequent computers, so I grabbed a USB stick to rectify the situation.

This is the point where the computer decided to freeze and no matter how many attempts I made, it just didn't want to boot-up again. It was like the computer was tantalising me with the information it possessed, before snatching it from my grasp forever.

At first I was mortified that I wouldn't be able to retrieve the data and was also worried that I hadn't erased the memory. Would this result in thieves stealing our credit card numbers and identities? More importantly, would they laugh at our photos, rudimentary pro-tools recordings, university papers and bad attempts at creative writing?

I thought about it for a while before coming to the conclusion that we no longer owned any of those credit cards and I don't care what they think about my recordings or uni papers. As for my bad creative writing, they can just look up my blog online!

The photos were the only thing I cared about, but it struck me that we have thousands of photos on our laptop now and we barely look at 10 per cent of them.

When I was a kid we had only a couple of photo albums and these were seen as precious items representing a doorway to a forgotten world. Somehow these old, faded images often carried more emotional weight than their modern digital counterparts.

It struck me that emotional weight is spread too thinly these days and one precious photo of a loved one, perfectly composed and captured during an important life event, can be far more meaningful than thousands of off-the-cuff photos of less important incidents. I wondered how a member of The Stolen Generation might feel about a lone photo that is the only evidence connecting them to their biological family. The emotional weight of such an image must be enormous!

With this in mind I quickly boxed-up the computer and placed it on the curb. I was thankful for the thousands of images of my family and friends that I already possessed. Unless there was going to be some sort of electromagnetic pulse-bomb that wiped out all computer information in the world, then I didn't need to see those photos on the old iMac again.

As the rain began to fall on our roadside clutter, I didn't feel sad. I realised there was another reason I was willing to part with that old computer and the photos it contained. I didn't necessarily need to recall those old memories - I want to make room for some new ones!

Supanova

Whenever I discuss my high school days with friends, I always try to explain that, whilst I was never one of the 'cool' clique, I was also never a social pariah, either.

Recently, I realised that I've been fooling myself for over two decades. This sort of language is exactly the sort of thing a social pariah would say to justify their existence and boost their self-esteem.

I was shocked one day when I looked at my ageing face in the mirror and realised that I had been a 'nerd' this whole time!

Luckily, these days, being a nerd isn't the terminal social illness it was in the late 1980s, and they even have events catering to this increasingly lucrative niche in society.

With this in mind, I decided to reconnect with my tribe and headed off to the 'Supanova' pop culture exhibition with my six-year old daughter in tow, resplendent in her 'Elsa' dress from the movie 'Frozen.'

Supanova was being held at the Royal Show Grounds in Melbourne, so the best way to get there was to take a train. Whilst I initially found it hard to locate the train platform that was going to the show ground, the gathering throng of assorted anime and comic book characters (who are known as cosplayers for the uninitiated), gave a clear indication as to the direction to travel.

Gogo Yubari.

I have to admit that I didn't recognise too many of the assembling cosplay stars. A lot of them seemed to be from the 'Manga' genre, which has never been my specialty. I'm more of a Star Wars and sixties spy movie kind of guy. I recognised one girl who was dressed like the Japanese schoolgirl Gogo Yubari from the movie 'Kill Bill', but incongruously she was wearing an eye patch. It was when I got closer to her that I realised it was for medical reasons. She was trying to be the character, but must have had a lazy eye or something and needed to wear a patch.

Also, the tall gangly red head guy in the Batman outfit had undoubtedly gone to a lot of trouble on the suit, but without the aid of a studio makeup department, the effect of his frizzy hair and dripping black eye make-up gave him more of an air of 'Colorado movie theatre shooting suspect', than a caped crusader. This was an occurring feeling throughout the day, with a lot of people wearing black and sporting authentic-looking replica weaponry. You would never get away with this if you were going to the footy!

We all ended up crammed into the train as if it was rush hour on a Friday and I instantly noticed the air-brushed posters for Supanova and compared the fit and healthy macrobiotic-eating Hollywood actors to my travelling companions, devouring bags of greasy take-away. The people in the poster looked like the sort of people who would pick on the people in the train carriage and I wondered how much of a divide there was between the 'stars' and their fans. Despite the painful-looking acne scars, wispy moustaches and poor personal hygiene, my sympathies lay entirely with the 'fans.'

The last time Clementine and I had visited the show grounds it was for the Royal Show and we had no trouble buying tickets at the gate. This time things were different. The line to buy tickets was about 200 metres long and there seemed to be about two people manning the booth. I frantically tried to purchase tickets online and join the (slightly) shorter pre-paid queue. Kids under 12 were free, so after making a lame joke in which I apologised for not having ID to prove my daughter was only six - followed by an icy stare - we found ourselves inside the main showground.

Georgina Haig.

Clementine's main goal for the day was to get an autograph from the actress who played 'Elsa,' so we went into the main autograph pavilion to see what time Georgina Haig would be appearing. My first impression was that it was not too different from the cattle pavilion at the Royal Show and there were fans lined up to get autographs from a slew of stars who I barely recognised. The names I did recognise included Star Trek's Walter Koenig, Nichelle Nichols and George Takei, as well as a action star Dolph Lundgren and 'Back to the Future' actor Christopher Lloyd. The others were all a bit hazy to me, even though I was aware of the shows they had been in.

The line for George Takei was already incredibly long and from my point of view I couldn't tell if people were waiting in anticipation, or he was already manning the desk. Takei is one person who really connects at these sort of events. He seems comfortable with his place in the world and is a star of social media. At events like this I wonder how younger actors feel. Do they still have ambitions to perform Shakespeare at The Globe or star in a Broadway show? It's the same feeling I get when watching soap operas on TV. At what point does ambition end and acceptance of your place in the world begin?

We discovered that Georgina Haig would not be appearing until 1:30pm, so Clementine and I had an hour to fill in. We headed out to the main merchandise pavilion and to check out the other cosplayers.

There were not as many Star Trek costumes as I was hoping for, and the ones that were present were

'Large' Scotty.

occupied by bodies that would never pass the audition when it came to suitability for wearing skin-tight lycra. The only exception was one middle-aged man who seemed to be channeling a rather authentic 'larger' mid-1990s 'Mr Scott.' The other impressive costumes included a transformer, iron man, storm troopers and a slew of medieval fantasy characters I could not recognise beyond the fact that they weren't from 'Game of Thrones.'

Overhearing some cosplay conversations, I noticed a bit of snarkiness creeping in. One girl rolled her eyes and lamented about how many people had dressed up like 'Deadpool.' I hadn't noticed this. Besides knowing that he's from the Marvel universe, I couldn't begin to tell you what he looked like. One girl even pointed at Clementine and said 'There's another Elsa kid.'

It struck me that the cosplay girls were no different than me in the 1990s, trying to seek out the most obscure music and thinking anyone else who didn't know what it was must be 'lame.' These days I'm happy just to listen to Gold FM. Maybe in 20 years these girls will all turn up to Supanova dressed as Elsa and Deadpool (whoever that is.)

Clementine and I checked out the merchandise, which she subtly angled for me to buy for her, before I even more subtly ignored her requests. We then returned to the signing pavilion to meet Georgina Haig.

Apparently this is Deadpool.

As if I was a character from a Star Wars film, about ten minutes before Haig was set to appear, I began to have a 'bad feeling about this.' I decided to check the IMDB data base to check her credits. I was dismayed to find that she had appeared in the TV series 'Once Upon a Time' and was not the actress from the hit Disney movie 'Frozen.' I explained this to Clementine who suddenly got all pouty and declared that she 'didn't care.'

I suddenly found myself in one of those positions that seem to happen frequently as a parent, where you find yourself stuck between trying to please your child, or not doing something pointless.

I explored the option of pleasing my child.

At these events they require you to purchase a photo of the star for you to give them to sign. The line to do this was incredibly long. Once again, I explained this to Clementine. Gradually she was coming around to my point of view, but the one deciding factor for me was that I was terrified of Georgina Haig asking either Clementine or I a question about her career and we would have no other recourse other than to sheepishly admit we didn't know who she was.

By the way, Georgina, if you're reading this, you seem like quite a lovely person and probably a great actress. I promise to educate Clementine about you in future, rather than risk falling into this trap again.

Eventually I managed to extract Clementine with the promise that we could get something to eat on the way home.

Heading home on the train, I realised the thing I enjoyed most about the day was the people that had taken the effort to 'dress up.' This seemed a little bit strange to me, because I have never been the sort of person who enjoyed costume parties. To me this always seemed like 'enforced fun' and consequently no fun at all.

However, I realise that there is a sense of community in the cosplay world and this can only be a good thing for people who may struggle to connect socially. Everybody needs a place where they can be themselves, even if it means having to act like somebody else.

I began to think that it wasn't too different from when I was a kid and wanted to be like Luke Skywalker or Indiana Jones. It's good to have role-models and healthy to fantasise.

I certainly aspired to the traits of my heroes when I was younger, but these days when I look at myself,  I no longer see a character, I see me for my own foibles and strengths. It's not that I no longer possess an imagination, it's just the way it has to be for a man in hid forties and I'm fine with that. Those early days of fantasy and heroics surely were part of shaping who I eventually became anyway and I hope its the same for my cosplay friends.

I concluded that maybe the nerds aren't exactly my tribe, but nobody is, or should be, 100 per cent anything.

All I know is there is no way I'm going to start hanging with the jocks this late in the game!

Lost Things

I achieved a minor victory today as a parent. I managed to get my daughter Clementine to voluntarily throw out a small fraction of the myriad of toys she has accumulated over her seven years of existence.

This was no small feat!

My worries in regard to these toys have been growing exponentially for some time, from concern that she does not appreciate the value of these purchases, to a full-blown fear that she will one day suffocate in her house as a middle-aged hoarder. I envisage her body being discovered by police only after the neighbours complain to the council about the smell and the plagues of rats scurrying from her home.

I have tried many times to convince her to get rid of some toys. My constant diatribes about the evils of the multi-national corporations who produce 90 per cent of these toys seemed to have little effect on Clementine's developing mind, so I decided to try a different angle.

I tried to explain to Clementine that the things that are important in life are not as tangible as mere objects and what is really important is the love from her mother and I. She seemed to reluctantly understand this, but I sensed in her mind that she was thinking about all the new toy-related real estate in her room that could be leveraged by letting go of the dead wood.

Methodically we started to go through the piles of random toy-shaped debris, leaving it up to Clementine to decide what should stay and what should go. She seemed surprisingly open to getting rid of a lot of stuff, but I was slightly dismayed that what she considered unimportant were the more esoteric purchases (usually by me.) It seemed that anything of dubious quality, or associated with a major franchise was given Clementine's seal of approval and designated 'too precious to part with.'

Our attention turned to a battered dinosaur figure that Clementine had since she was a toddler.

"That can go," she said unemotionally.

My heart sank.

This used to be her favourite toy!

Suddenly I realised that the tables had turned and now I was about to make the case for holding on to a piece of useless garbage, as if it was some sort of precious relic from a bygone era.

In a way it was.

Clementine had two obsessions when she was young: Dinosaurs and cars.

When we visited my parents house in Cleveland one Christmas, Clementine had an especially annoying toy racing car that would play 'Born to Be Wild' by Steppenwolf at high volume whenever the driver's head was pressed. Sometimes it just seemed to burst into song randomly at 3am in the morning.

I would wearily stumble into Clementine's room just to see the driver looking cheerfully inane as his theme song urged him on to complete an imaginary lap that he would never finish. I found it annoying, but I would never consider getting rid of this toy... Clementine loved it!

Fate transpired, however.

One day we were walking through the canals and decided to stop off at a pier to let Clementine have a closer look at the water and try and spot some fish. As she peered over the guard rail her precious Formula One driver slipped from her fingers and splashed into the canal. Instantly it started to play 'Born to Be Wild.' Almost as quickly, tears started to roll down Clementine's face and she became inconsolable.

I tried all sorts of acrobatics that would have been worthy on Cirque de Soleil to try and retrieve our tiny friend, but all to no avail. I even considered diving into the murky waters in an heroic last-ditch rescue attempt, but the jagged algae-covered rocks prevented me from doing so. I realised I had to let him go. We all watched helplessly as Formula One guy cheerfully drifted out to sea, with his theme song playing defiantly the whole time.

The next day we looked for a replacement for Formula One guy and came across a red dinosaur in an op shop. Clementine instantly took a shine to it. She happily sat in the back of the car with her new purchase. She tentatively pressed a button on Red Dinosaur's head.

Instantly it's eyes glowed an ominous red, it waved it's tail menacingly and let out a fearsome roar. Clementine was petrified and refused to hold it any more... we all thought that maybe it wasn't such a good purchase after all.

Time passed, however, and after we removed the batteries, gave it a few swims in the pool and a brand new paint job, Clementine and Red Dinosaur became inseparable. I would often see the two of them out on the lawn having tea. Red Dinosaur seemed especially fond of water with grass clippings in it.

Cleaning out Clementine's room in the present day made it hard for me to reconcile that Red Dinosaur had slipped from Clementine's affections for good. He seemed to be another casualty of the Disney princess renaissance. I realised to set an example I would have to do the same thing for Red Dinosaur that I did for Formula One guy.

He would have to go.

I reluctantly placed him on top of the pile of toys that were to be delivered to the op shop the next morning.

Clementine and I made a date to drop the toys off on the way to a party. When I went to put the toys in the boot of the car, I noticed that Red Dinosaur had mysteriously returned to Clementine's room. Had I subconsciously returned the dinosaur? I don't think so. More likely, Clementine had taken the dinosaur back for a last minute reprieve, sensing my attachment to him. I couldn't part with him. I was glad to see him looking ferocious and defiant again. On this occasion at least, Red Dinosaur would stay.

As with most things that happen in your childhood, the real truth is never told. Sure we dropped off the rest of the toys to the op-shop, but most likely 80 per cent of these would have been uncaringly tossed into a wheelie bin, deemed unfit for sale. I would have liked to think that Red Dinosaur could have slipped through the cracks and be loved once more by another child, but, as Red Dinosaur's battered appearance can attest, love can often take its toll.

It's a different story for Formula One guy, though. He is travelling the seas solo. No one will ever love him again. Sometimes late at night I like to imagine that he is somewhere adrift in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, entertaining the other lost toys with his own unique rendition of 'Born to Be Wild.' It consoles me to think that wherever he's going, I know he'll be smiling when he reaches his destination.

God speed Formula One guy!

My First Share House

I was talking to my workmates in the lunch room a couple of weeks ago about the terrible neighbours I have. My workmates had similar tales of woe. I really can't remember their stories now, but they stirred up some netherworldly, suppressed observations in me.

For example, I have a strange Eastern-European looking neighbour who sits in a chair directly across from our house like some ever-vigilant gargoyle, or the original inspiration for Dracula. He is never less than friendly when he sees me and always indulges me in a friendly wave. I usually weakly respond. I can't escape the fact that the guy creeps me out.

On one side of our house is an old couple who always seem to be fighting loudly. They talk in Italian, though, so it is hard to tell whether what we're listening to is the final disintegration of a relationship, or the passionate exaltations of a couple who are still in love after decades of marriage.

Most disturbingly, however, is the dilapidated 70s brick building on the other side of our house where there resides an old lady who is never seen. Her son lives with her and is apparently unemployed. Legend (and neighbourhood gossip) has it that he lives off his mother's meagre pension. They have a little dog that never leaves the yard and always seems to be in a constant state of distress. It's like some bizarre Centrelink 'Grimm's Fairy Tale.'

I imparted these tales to my workmates before talk eventually turned to our own personal transgressions. Tales of drunken revelry and loud music turned our sombre tones and disapproving frowns into cackles of joy and fond reminiscences. The sheepish looks we passed between each other signalled an understanding that it's much more fun to dish out bad behaviour than to receive it.

I don't like to boast, but I think my tales of communal living put my workmates' stories to shame.

I was but a lad of 19 when I first moved out of home to my first share house. I was ignorant to the ways of love (still am) and the dangers of the world, when suddenly I found myself on the doorstep of a large, crumbling Queenslander affectionately nick-named 'The Dome' (short for Pleasure Dome, presumably), situated in Ryan's Road, St Lucia.

My meagre possessions at the time only managed to fill half of my 1981 Corona station wagon. I copped a fair amount of ridicule for this from my house mates who were only a few years older than me, but had already managed to accrue a staggering array of useless garbage.

My first impression after crossing the threshold, was to marvel at the pea-green carpet that seemed to have been modelled on the colour of Linda Blair's vomit in The Exorcist. I took note of a large depression in the carpet that seemed to signal a lack of floorboards underneath.

Upon inquiry, It turned out the depression was caused by my new house mate Nick dancing too vigorously and managing to smash a hole in the floor. This incident probably happened to the soundtrack of the half-remembered number 'Can You Dig It,' by the band Pop Will Eat Itself. The floor was ruined, but the carpet remained in tact.

I slept on a foam mattress on the floor of my room for the first couple of weeks, before buying a bed off another housemate who was most likely selling it in an attempt to erase some wanton depravity that happened upon it. I'm ashamed to say that I hung on to that bed for the next three years, in spite of how uncomfortable it was and what demons it may have possessed.

I believe there were about seven people living in the house at the time. There were only about three bedrooms, but there was a room under the house and a verandah just outside my bedroom window where the legendary 'Nick' resided. I originally imagined him to be some sort of werewolf-type character and would cower under the blankets when his dark shadow was cast against my window.

I needn't have worried, Nick turned out to be quite amicable and we are still friends to this day. He still enjoys dancing, but maybe not as vigorously as he used to.

House-cleaning skills were minimal. The art of cleaning a toilet was a strange mystery to almost everybody. Stacks of dishes usually remained uncleaned, while we argued over whose turn it was to clean up. The shower, however, was the biggest disaster. It was the early 1990s and everybody had long hair - it was the style of the time. Reams of matted hair would have to be regularly removed from clogged drains by whoever was unfortunate enough to be on cleaning duties.

Strangely, the one thing we were all experts at was the removal of red wine stains. This is done by applying a mound of table salt, waiting for the wine to be absorbed and then vacuuming up the salt. It's an important tip for any wine enthusiast!

What the house may have lacked in cleanliness, it more than made up for in entertainment. We had a stack of VHS movies, a video game system, a large collection of musical instruments and even a pinball machine! The only downside with the pinball machine was the constant pinging of the bells and the noise of the flippers, which interrupted almost everybody's sleep.

Perhaps our most ill-advised entertainment pursuit in the house involved the swimming pool. It was not in operational order when we lived there and was basically just a glorified swamp.

One housemate who was particularly fond of skating decided to drain the stagnant water, rip out the lining of the pool and fashion a makeshift skate bowl. I have never been a skater, but I feel I should take some responsibility for what happened to the pool, in the same way that the contractors who worked on The Death Star were responsible to some degree for the actions of the Empire.

The skate bowl worked a treat for a while until some heavy summer showers partially filled the pool again. This time, nobody could be bothered draining it and the skate bowl became just another abandoned project. It remarkably returned to an even greater state of stagnation.

We used to have regular parties, and on more than one occasion someone would make a trip to the border of NSW where you could legally purchase fireworks (Fireworks were banned in Queensland.) We didn't do this for any particular reason other than simply celebrating a Tuesday afternoon or the fact that someone got off work early.

At the last of these firework parties, things escalated dramatically. Spurred on by a primal cave-man fire frenzy and a sudden realisation there were no fireworks left, furniture was smashed, thrown into the pool, doused with petrol and set alight. The resulting blaze lit up the night sky like an F1-11 fly-over. Much rejoicing and tribal dancing ensued.

Of course, the pool was never cleaned after this and the the resulting carnage looked like a photo still from a gulf war bombing. An oily slick covered the now blackened water and charred bits of wood and material jutted above the water line, signalling the dangers that lurked below. There would be no skating or swimming in this pool again.

Several weeks later we moved out of the house and made several trips to industrial bins at the university and nearby shopping centres to dispose of carloads of useless garbage we had accumulated. We filled a giant garbage bag with food scraps and duly christened it 'The Blob.' It took three people to lift and managed to split open as I was carrying it. Spoiled dairy products and rancid meat splashed my clothes, eliciting a barely-suppressed gag reflex. 'The Blob' haunts my nightmares to this day.  

Finally, everything was removed from the house except one bit of furniture, a wardrobe placed in a curious position in the middle of the lounge room. It's sole purpose was to cover the hole that Nick had created months earlier.

The landlord wouldn't suspect a thing!

We didn't get our bond back.

The whole household moved to a different address in Auchenflower, where out wacky adventures continued unabated. In both households I don't remember the police ever getting called for noise complaints. Surely they must have?

I know over the years the police have been to several of my parties that were much milder than those over-the-top shindigs. My current theory is that the neighbours in Ryan's Road were too scared of us to call the police! Surely not, but I like to entertain the idea that I can install that sort of fear in people.

I like to think that I've become a good neighbour, but occasionally I get misty-eyed and nostalgic when I think back to those heady days.

Recently I was watching an add for a bank where a smartly-dressed business woman was talking about saving for a home loan so she could get out of the rental trap. The add was implying that this would allow her to escape from her passed-out house-mates lying in front of the flickering television. It seemed to my skewed perception that the house mates were the ones having the most fun.

I like the idea of returning to the communal gathering in front of the television, dishing out snarky comments while ensconced in a scratchy, tasseled woollen blanket, with fat drenched KFC boxes offering an opaque window into the congealed contents inside. Bottles of Lambrusco would be strewn around the room with several mounds of salt absorbing any spillages. It seems like a perfect night in!

Sometimes I think that house on Ryan's Road is the best house I've ever lived in.

Then I remember The Blob.

Escape (The Pina Colada Song)

Rupert Holmes

I read a review recently of the soundtrack to the film 'Guardians of the Galaxy' which astutely observed that it's a soundtrack for people that love 1970s rock but don't own any 1970s rock albums.

I am a fan of 1970s rock and own many albums in the genre. I bought the 'Guardians' album anyway, because many of the songs are AM radio classics that I remember from when I was a child driving around with my mother and sister for what seemed like endless hours in the back seat of our white Ford Escort, either on shopping centre visits, or to the outer suburb of Oxley where my father was working as a pharmacist.

In the brief interludes between fighting with my sister and reeling from threats coming from the front seat of the car, I found time to absorb some of the important hits of the day. It's amazing what sticks with you over the years and what can take you back to younger, simpler times. The songs that still seem to be able to do this are Glen Campbell's 'Wichita Lineman' and the divisive novelty hit by Rupert Holmes - 'Escape (The Pina Colada Song)', which incongruously is featured on the 'Guardians' soundtrack.

I've always liked a big chorus and 'The Pina Colada Song' was one of the earliest examples I can think of that managed to instil this love in me. (Perhaps the other one was Kate Bush's 'Wuthering Heights')

A Ford Escort (white)

To my seven year-old brain 'The Pina Colada Song's' chorus also posed a number of mysterious questions that I wasn't sure I knew the answer to. I can remember running through responses in my head as I gazed vacantly at the passing traffic, while absorbing the vibes in glorious mono that were emanating from the car's speakers.

"Do you like Pina Coladas?" the song asked.

"Uh, I'm not sure, but I know they're made with pineapple juice and coconut, so they could be okay." I responded.

"...and getting caught in the rain?"

"Of Course! It's a chance to race leaves down the storm drains with my friends."

"... and the feel of the ocean?"

"Yes."

"... and the taste of Champagne?"

"It has bubbles like Coca Cola!"

"Do you like making love at midnight - In the dunes on the Cape?"

The Dunes on the Cape

"Well, here things get tricky. I've heard some frankly terrifying rumours in the schoolyard from some unreliable sources, but I'm willing to concede that love is a good thing, so 'making love' can't be bad, right? Also, I like the challenge of staying up until midnight and the beach would be a nice place to hang out."

The mystery of the song stayed with me and even made me aware of the possibility that I might have a romantic soul, even though the young Trevor only had the faintest inkling of what 'romance' meant.

Unfortunately, through the years I also became aware that being 'romantic' to me came with a proviso that I can neither say nor do anything of a romantic nature for fear of embarrassment, rejection, or some soul-paralysing combination of both. But deep down, I know the romantic Trevor still exists somewhere.

The seven year-old Trevor was not available for comment when I recently re-listened to the song from an adult perspective which left me feeling quite critical of the protagonists.

For a start, the guy is responding to a personal column while his wife is lying there next to him in bed.

Why don't they talk?

I know the 70s were a different time and perhaps they were tired after attending a 'key party' or some sort of suburban orgy, but isn't communication still important in the most open of relationships?

Of course, the ultimate irony of the song is that his 'lady' is the one who placed the add in the personal column in the first place, but he is too dumb or insensitive to even recognise that the list of the woman's desires corresponded perfectly with his wife's.

O'Malley's Bar

Selfishly, the man responds to the add and doesn't even mention that he's already in a relationship. What's worse is that he even suggests meeting at a bar called 'O'Malley's', which is obviously a favourite place where he would take his 'lady' for a special night out. He's rubbing her nose in this whole tawdry affair!

The 'lady' is not without fault in this whole ridiculous charade. She didn't even suspect her husband when he suggested that their grubby little get together should take place at her beloved O'Malley's.

The whole scenario comes to a head when they meet and realise that they both have responded to the same personal column ad. Instead of an ugly public scene of shouting and fingernails dashed across lovers' cheeks in a fit of fury, there is a laughing acceptance of each other.

The adult Trevor can't help feeling that maybe they deserve each other!

However, even as I write these words and come to this conclusion about the song, I sense a remnant of the romantic Trevor suggesting that maybe the point of the whole song is forgiveness and they have learned to accept each other for what they are.

Maybe the whole meeting was a catalyst that allowed them to meet half way and offer a romantic gesture without fear of embarrassment?

Maybe it's important to have a catalyst to allow yourself to express a romantic notion?

Perhaps we should all stop fighting over the holidays and take our significant others out for a Pina Colada instead?

It's what the young Trevor would have wanted

Cheers!

The Show

I've been living in Melbourne for many years now, but this is the first one where I dared to venture to 'The Royal Melbourne Show.'

I have fond memories of visiting the Brisbane's own version 'The Ekka' when I was a kid, so I was not averse to the idea of reliving happy memories.

The one thing that had stopped me up until this point was remembering myself as a child and how I would transform from a benevolent free-spirited young man, happy and content to play in the wondrous garden of my own imagination, into a rampant, materialistic capitalist at the very mention of the word 'showbag.'

The fact that I would be attending the show this year with my daughter Clementine, who is six years old and in the prime showbag demographic, gave me cause for concern.

We ventured forth anyway.

The train ride to the show was as cramped and uncomfortable as I expected and the exorbitant entry fee had, at the very least, kept up with the inflation rate. Overall, I was surprised at how similar things were to the last time I attended, even though many years had passed and we were in a completely different geographic location.

The entry point to the show from the train platform was through 'Side Show Alley.' I instantly had fond memories of being a teenager and going on every ride imaginable, before finally being defeated by the 'Gravitron' and regurgitating pink cotton-candy vomit into a nearby bin. As an adult, it struck me as rather silly to put the food stalls right near the rides. To me, this just seems to be asking for trouble and I carefully navigated any suspicious-looking puddles as we ventured towards the main showgrounds.

There were hordes of eager children just like Clementine, dragging around weary and reluctant parents like giant pet gorillas, with expressions on their faces that could pass for World War II concentration camp survivors dreaming of home. Their children, conversely, were absorbing the neural stimulation and trying to process all the data. A lot of them had already been unable to do this and had reverted to the factory setting of 'tantrum' mode.

Amongst all this family dynamic I was delighted to discover still existing one demographic that I had almost forgotten about: The in-betweeners.

I remember being one myself, caught between not being interested in showbags anymore and too young to go to the pub. Invariably, this marginalisation leaves in-betweeners in an unenviable situation of walking around with a look that is a mixture of self-consciousness, a disdainful superiority and the added awkwardness of the 'teenage date' scenario, if you were lucky enough to attend with a partner.

I find it very hard to differentiate certain 'tribes' when I look at teenagers today. They seemed a lot more defined when I was younger, but now with globalisation, I suspect even the time tested divisions between teenage subcultures are falling in a similar manner to the Berlin Wall circa 1989.

The only subculture I really miss is the Goths. I used to silently appreciate their efforts in a sweltering Brisbane summer, where their dedication to flowing black robes and pancake makeup in 40 degree heat struck me as a noble triumph of style over logic.

Alas, I was not fortunate enough to identify with any subculture when I was a teen, so this left me a slave to mid eighties fashion, which unfortunately involved a lot of pastel coloured shirts and baggy jeans. In 1980s movie terminology, I would describe myself as something of a 'Brian' from 'The Breakfast Club' or an even-more awkward 'Ducky' from 'Pretty in Pink'... I was not cool.

This lack of coolness led, inevitably, to not being troubled by any female companionship during my early teenage years. I was spared the 'awkward date' scenario.

Luckily, this left me free to enjoy outings like Brisbane's 'Ekka' in the way only a teenage boy can.

The Ekka was a particularly special event for me. It was one of the first places I was allowed to go unaccompanied by my parents, so I took advantage of my newfound freedom in the weirdest ways possible. One time a friend and I went to all the exhibition stands and pretended we were German exchange students that had lost our way and asked for directions in our rudimentary English. The tricky part was to try and keep straight faces while we did it. We were both surprised at how often it actually worked.

It was almost touching in the way some stall holders would ask us about our home towns back in Germany, so we felt we owed them the courtesy of keeping up the charade. We only stopped because we were laughing so hard it was impossible to continue with tears rolling down our cheeks.

We would follow this up by literally going on every ride at the show, trying to keep up our 'exchange student' act the whole time. We pretended to be terrified on the rides designed for much younger children and played it ultra-cool on the stomach-churning rides that would make an astronaut reconsider his vocation. Luckily for me the 'Gravitron' was the last ride we attempted. There is no shame in spewing on the last ride of the day!

Eventually, these shenanigans spilled out beyond the confines of Ekka grounds and the young Trevor was unleashed upon Brisbane City itself!

Like a typical teenager, I still blame my parents for any trouble I got up to as an in-betweener. I ventured forth resplendent in my latest pastel-coloured attire to the new frontier of Brisbane City, armed only with enough money for a movie and the train fare home. What was I supposed to do in the intervening time between when the movie ended and I was expected to be at home?

As it turns out, my partner in crime and I wandered around the 'Wintergarden Centre' and looked for any free stuff we could find.

Luckily, the ABC Shop was giving away some giant posters of 'Count Down' star Molly Meldrum, so we helped ourself to their entire stock.

We decided to go to the top floor of the centre, which was an open-air carpark. We used our considerable skills at constructing paper airplanes to launch a squadron of Molly Meldrum jet fighters on an unsuspecting public in the mall below. They sailed gracefully on a warm summer breeze towards their targets, with Molly's distorted yet gormless expression smiling back at us.

Eventually, people started to notice their airspace being invaded and squinted skyward to see where the squadron leaders might be located. Finally, we were spotted and beat a hasty retreat like a giddy couple of school girls. (Except for the fact we were boys, this was an otherwise accurate description.)

* * * * * 

Back in 2014 at the Melbourne Show, I consider these follies of youth as Clementine and I find a spot of brown grass under a makeshift tarpaulin. I enjoy what is certainly going to be my first and last Dagwood Dog of the year as Clementine explains the contents of her showbags that she has badgered me into buying. One day I suppose Clementine will be an in-betweener herself. I wonder what weird things she'll get up to? I am actually thankful she's still content with her showbags at the moment.

It occurs to me that being an in-betweener was not such a bad thing after all. Besides the long stretches of boredom sitting around waiting to grow up, it was also some of the best fun I've had that you couldn't begin to get away with as an adult. There was a sense of rebellion, nobody got hurt and we weren't actually doing anything wrong. I kind of miss the opportunity to act weird without people sitting in judgement.

As I watch all the weary parents leave for the day I wonder: 'Is it too late to become a Goth?'