I'm not joking, I actually said this:

Caller -: "Hi, I'm a Flinders Uni student. My name's Abby."
Franzy -: "Hi, Flabby."

Dear Dan, Please code ...

... a Facebook app that lifts your workplace's website layout and transfers all of your time-wasting garbage into a page which, at a glance from your workmates or boss, looks exactly as though you were just checking the company's homepage. ©

Live fresh cheap super easy

I'm probably the only person in the world who reads spam, let alone examines it thoroughly. I once received a spam from a character in my Masters novel. I had been busy editing her all day and when I decided that she had had enough, I opened my inbox only to find a saucy little missive from someone I knew as a professional woman, single mother and faded lady of the seventies offering me cheap drugs.

Today I was lucky enough to receive an offer of a free university degree. Ten years too late! But seriously, I must share a few choice quotes:

"These days buying a degree is a matter of personal motivation."
I had assumed that it was the opposite, but what do I know?

"For example, if you live near a College which only offers renowned marketing degree, then this doesn't help you a bit if you're looking for a marketing degree."
Again, I find myself very much in the dark as to exactly where one gets a marketing degree if not from a college offering renowned degrees.

"... it might be that the degree that you want is only offered by a institution which costs a fortune. So you have to leave your place, look for accommodation in the University's place and do all the other stuff involved costing you tons of cheeze. "
No wonder we're all in such deep financial shit. We've been sinking our money into bonds and real estate while squandering all our treated diary products by smearing them on bikkies.

"Having a University degree is very important these days, and as always in life you should only stick with something you want."
I'm assuming here that the "something you want" with your fake Uni degree is unemployment and perhaps a little civil action and possibly a smidgeon of gaol time. I wonder how long after the shit hit the fan, the planes hit the ground and the heart monitors hit zero would your fellow workmates start asking you some more probing questions about where you learned to do a transplant without even having to wash your hands first?

"Beware choosing to be something just because it was the only good degree your local institution offered. After all, you are only going to be good at your job if you like to do it. Thus, you have to get a degree that means something to you."
Although it is spam, this is the best advice I've had in a while. It speaks to passion for education in a person's soul and against the restrictions wealth and class can place upon that passion. Tally-ho. Tally-ho for spammers!

***
GTH - Shippy and River for giving it a red-hot go. None to Moifey because he was there when I took the picture.
My suggestion: "There's nothing casual about casualty, motherfucker."

An admission

I suppose it's time I came clean:
Go to the Movie Lounge and watch Testimonial No. 1 (Second clip from the right).

She said "Yeah?" I said "Aw Yeah."

I godda jawb.
Ahm gonna payda reynt.
An then she wuz so nais!
Lawd she wa' lubbydubby.

The sound of my phone ringing has always made me apprehensive. I hate to be the one without the info. I hate it when the tingle goes up and it could change your life. The wait after a job interview is in the top ten worst times for a phone to ring. At least when you get the little white letter, you know what's up before you answer the call.
But when the phone rings it could go either way.
Or it could also be a telemarketer. Especially at 5:15pm on a Wednesday.

"Hello, Franzy speaking."
"Hello Franzy, it's Mr Employer here. How are you?"
"I'm well." (gather strength, take deep breath). "How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you. Would you like the good news, or the bad news?"
(Cover mouthpiece to muffle audible groan. Fail to muffle audible groan). "Uhmn. Gimme the bad news."
"The bad news is, my friend ... that you have the job."
(Access mental replay. Confirm information. Thrust fist in air). "What? That's great! Fantastic! Thank you!"
"No problem."
"What's the good news?"
"The good news is ... that you have the job! Aha!"

So, yes. The transformation is complete. We have moved back from Queensland and I am now employed at somewhere far less useless and more productive than The Coffee Club on Bribie Island. Now I'm drinking the coffee, motherfuckers!



Well - not quite. I start in January. And I'm apparently working for quite a prankster.
Thanks to Shippy for the job-search help. Points for you, buddy.

***

Everyone who was madly searching for The Mysterious Seven Story Structures can take a clue from a wonderful series I recently read called Action Philosophers! Joseph Campbell did many interesting things, but one of them was to analyse stories and myths from a lot of cultures and came up with A Definitive Story Structure, otherwise known as The Hero's Journey. I have scanned it in with complete disregard for copyright below, but please, click the image and have a good look.



That should settle a few arguments.
Or start them.

Update - Ryan Dunlavey, Illustrator of Action Philosophers! has somehow found me! And directed me towards the real deal full colour Hero's Journey poster available for just US$3 (plus postage) (which makes it about $AUS4,507) from the Action Philosopher's website (please click on the image above). I urge everyone to either buy a poster or get their hands on Action Philosophers!

***
Far be it from me to heap scorn upon my learned brothers and sisters but mostly brothers in the sciences, but these two news items couldn't have popped into my reader with finer congruity or better timing.
The first "From nerd to word: maths geeks reclaim their cool" is about a new campaign by the Australian Association of Mathematics Teachers to boost the previously "dorky" image of maths. They are attempting to sell the many exciting and lucrative careers options offered by maths.

"It's all to do with imagination," says mathematical stand-up Simon Pampena.
"Most people if you say, `What attracts you to maths?', they wouldn't say, `Imagination'.
"It's usually what repels you from maths and they'd say `Because it's not cool, I'm not going to get a girlfriend doing maths'."

Which brings us neatly to news item number two:
"Male science students uni's most likely virgins: study"

Apparently maths can teach you many things, but good timing isn't one of them.

***
Enthusiasm for last week's movie clippette was so dramatically blunt that I have decided to take my revenge upon you readers who refused to inundate me with copy about your memorable movie moments so that I could rest upon my laurels.
What would you call the scariest movie you've ever seen?
The Grudge?
Saw?
War of the Worlds?
The Ring?
The Omen?
The Sixth Sense?
Scary Movie?

Nuh-uh. Be prepared for a new champion. It is only three and a half minutes long, but trust me on this: you will be curled up in horror as you watch. Many of you may not even make it through. Some of you may actually throw up.
It's safe for work and there's no gore. Just an ill feeling about your entire existence.
Think I'm joking? There's no punchline.
Just watch The World's Scariest Movie.



***

GTH - Points to Kath for the mental image of me busting a shit capoeira-style over a rural French toilet. Or 'toilette'.

I just want to contort with my shirt on

The wonderful thing about being unemployed and looking for a job is ... um ... well ... nothing, actually. It sucks Major Dogs Balls. It does lead to interesting little adventures though.
Last week my friend, Captain T the acrobat called and asked if I could still touch my feet to my head.
'Of course,' I said. 'I haven't done it for a few years, but you never lose that kind of talent as you get older, right?'
'Right,' he said sceptically. 'Anyway, shall I pass your details on to this woman? She's a casting agent.'

An hour later Angie was explaining to me that she needed a male aged around twenty-five who could touch their feet over their head for an ad. Suffice it to say that I had given it a few wobbly goes between the first phone call and the second and confirmed that I could.
'What do you look like?'
I challenge anyone to come up with a straight answer to that question. My first thought was 'Like Seth Green, but without the evil dad'. I didn't say that, of course, and ended up sending a photo. Two photos, actually. A blurry, ten year old one of me doing The Trick with my face in silhouette, and a professional shot of me from quite far away, on my wedding day, from the waist up, to convince her of my low visible-growth count. Above the waist.

So today I found myself at something called a 'casting call'. This has a similar ring to 'cattle call' for a good reason. I gave my name to the lady behind the counter and she ticked me off as 'acrobat'. The next person was ticked off as 'yoga'. Then three more were auditioning for the role of 'bloke'.
We all sat in a small holding office with the table they used in the hit Aussie film, Breaker Morant. According to the plaque on the side. I hadn't actually considered the possibility of other people being able to put their feet on their head until the two men who'd had themselves ticked off as 'yoga' began doing all sorts of strange things: removing their shoes, warming up their tendons and even stretching. I had been busily chatting to a Cambodian woman who had been approached in a mall by one of the agents to be told she had The Look. Turns out that sometimes it's not just the world's worst pick-up line. The first yoga man to be let in soon returned from behind The Door, looking a little perplexed.
'They want a really good backbend,' he answered after we grilled him about how many casting couches we would have to dodge. We remaining two flexible gents smiled politely at each other and quietly but casually whizzed through all 48 possible back stretches, while maintaining the casual air of the seasoned performer. This is difficult to do cramped into a casting office wearing a sweaty Bonds t-shirt I'd chosen because it was the only t-shirt I had left that hadn't done that frilly skirt thing at the bottom that all tight cotton t-shirts eventually do.
Then it was my turn. Angie lead me through a couple of doors and stood me in front of a grey wall on some grey carpet. None of that music video, curved white backdrop today, mate.
'Sorry about the sweat-stains,' I said, indicating the large Jesus-shaped patch in the middle of my chest. 'I kept my warm-up jacket on until the last minute, to keep my shoulders warm.' I had hoped to impress them with my organisation and OH&S savvy. It seemed to impress them, but mostly of my sweatiness.
'That's fine,' they all said politely. 'We'll actually get you to take your shirt off, if that's okay.'
Like I said, unemployment does lead to some wonderful adventures. Or interesting adventures. I can't remember what I said. Point is: there I was in my daggy old soccer shorts in a windowless room with a bunch of smiling strangers wondering which one of them was going to ask me about my waxing habits first.
I shouldn't have worried. I did The Trick. I lay on the floor and did it a different way. I discovered that I can no longer hook both feet over my head from the front. Almost. But not quite. Not with dignity, at any rate.
Then they got me to sit in a chair (still with the shirt off, for some reason) and look like I'd just come back from the gym.
I sat in the chair. 'I feel awesome!' I shouted. 'Pumped! Not sore at all!'
'Sadder,' they said. 'More contemplative.'
I thought about sad things. I contemplated them.
'Do you drink beer?' one of them asked.
'What do you reckon?' I waved my wavy gut at them by way of reply. That went down well.
'Okay, that's great, thank you very much,' they said. 'If we could just get you to stand there, look into the camera and tell us your name and age.'
'Next to this sign with my name written on it?'
'Uh-huh.'
I didn't do my cute little trick of pointing out that introducing myself while standing next to a sign with my name on it was redundant. Instead I did the world's worst Robert De Niro impression. That went down a real treat too. Maybe because I still had my shirt off.

***
GTH - A point to River for keeping it clean, and a point to Shippy for growing a stunning Chop Chop Mo and for turning up to cricket. It would have been two points for coming to the cricket, but I'm going to take the second one away and give it to River to teach you not to slog my bowling over the fence.

Decaf? Y ........ um ........ yes.

What kind of coffee do you have?
Skinny flat white?
Decaf latte?
Weak cappuccino?
Soy Chai latte with extra foam?

No you don't. You might think that that's what you're getting every time, but after slinging the black crack for a week or so, I've got some terrible, awful, skin-peeling news: If it looks like the coffee you ordered and it tastes near enough and you don't bring it back, the chances are about 75% at best that you've received exactly what you asked for.
The further you travel from 'regular flat white', the more likely it is that you're getting the caffeinated equivalent of those cross-pollinating, super-inseminating GM crops.
If I'm making them, that is.
Unless you're lucky enough to order it during a fairly non-busy period when I can really concentrate on whatever the hell I'm supposed to be doing (and even then, I don't like your chances), that skinny decaf latte probably isn't the full shot of sugar.

Decaf? Sure. Sure thing. Putting regular coffee into the group head (handle thing) is as fun and flashy as cocking a shotgun in an Arnie movie. You've seen that grinder, you've heard the click. *shkSHK*
*tamp tamp*
"Lock'n'load! Semper Fi! Double shot! Fire in the hold!"
Putting decaf coffee into the group head involves wiping "all traces" of regular coffee out of the group head, getting out the decaf tin from under the bench where the regular coffee falls on it, spooning it carefully into the basket, smoothing it off and then pressing it tight with the tamper that gets used on the regular coffee all day, every day. And even that doesn't include the occasional lapse in judgement and/or patience that causes me to put a scoop of regular in anyway, just to spite you non-caffeine drinking whimps. Don't give me your well-considered reasoning and sleep-filled nights. You had better not have some kind of heart condition ...

Skinny? Chug it up, fatso! There are two jugs (three, if you count soy, and I'm getting to that). One is filled with full-fat milk and the other with skim. Each jug holds enough for two and a bit coffees. If you're Skimpy Wimpy number three and your cup doesn't have enough milk or froth in it, trust me, in goes the full-fat, creamy-dreamy artery-butter-in-a-bottle. No pause. No lip-chewing moment of guilt. No sigh of compromised workmanship. SSSSSSSLOP. "Looks great! Drinks up! Next!"
Especially if it's busy. Or I'm making it.

Latte? Wanker. Everyone who orders, has ordered, has considered ordering, may conceivably in the future order or who knows or has shaken ungloved hands with someone who orders, has ordered, has considered ordering, may conceivably in the future order, a latte, in any of its configurations, is a wanker. A W-A-N-K-E-R. I'm not kidding. Total tossbags one and all. I should know; I drink them all the time. Look at the first sentence of this paragraph! Wanker! It's because you're not drinking coffee for the caffeine, you're drinking it so that, even on some teensy-tiny, subconscious level, you get to say "Lah-TAY" to rhyme with the one time you tried pronouncing the word "party" as "par-TAY" in all seriousness. You got laughed at. We all did. It sounds stupid. Problem is, that you (and by "you" I mean "we" and by "we" I mean "I") did not learn your lesson. You kept on saying "lah-tay" and getting a microscopic kick out of it. "Latte" is Italian for what happens when you try to simultaneously make a cappuccino and a flat white and somehow fuck both of them up and the mistake ends up in a water glass. Like the barista equivalent of pulling a Homer.

Soy? Soy-tenly! Ah-hah-hah-haahhh. But seriously, you'd better not have any serious lactose intolerance issues, because that soy jug is almost "soy-tenly" contaminated. By the steam wand that gets dipped the other milk jugs a hundred times a day, and then wiped clean with a milk-soaked cloth that gets milk spilled on it. By the thermometer that probably doesn't get as much of a regular cleaning as the steam wand. And by the fridge it sits in all day, surrounded by milk-dripping milk bottles until you float on in and order your coconut semen cappa.

So drink. Drink your coffee and enjoy it. If you didn't see nuthin', we didn't see nuthin'.

***

In answer to all you questions, yes, I am extremely jealous of all the clamorous attention that Mele is (still) receiving for her well-aimed skewering of Queensland in general. But, what are you gonna do? A man knows when he's beat. She will be back ...

In other, sadder news, my laptop died. The distant whisperers of the Dell Helpdesk have told me that my CPU is probably reverting back to the beach sand from when it came and also that this can be prevented by extending my warranty to the tune of $600. Ouch. I wish I had one of those internet tip jars so that I could ask all of my beautiful readers to kick in and save my blog, my photos, my comics, my mp3s, my Phd ....... But, even with Mele writing anti-Queensland diatribes around the clock, every reader would still have to fork out a month's worth of internet each. Fortunately Mele's computer hasn't died and so ... I'll see you folks around. Hopefully. When she's done with her Phd.

Reasons Greetings

Hold on tight, sweetheart. It's going to be a quickie.

Finally, after weeks if writing, fishing, riding bikes and gazing contemplatively at sunsets, I think we've finally settling ourselves down in Bribie Island. A bit. The reason you are reading this is because I've treated myself to an HOUR of internet down at the local library instead of the half and hour dash we tend to get into because of guilt and the increasing desire to save cash. The reason I'm on for an hour is because I've spent a good deal of it checking out internet plans. I've narrowed it down to two companies: Chariot appears more reliable but gives less Gigaboobies, but aaNet provides 50% more wunzenzeros and around 75% more posts on its message boards decrying it as The. Worst. ISP. Ever. For slightly cheaper. Hmm.

Whatever happens, rest assured that I will soon be downloading TV shows and blogging every half an hour with panicked recountings of how true heavy the fracking rain falls around here. In all seriousness, Mele and I actually stood at the front door gazing at the car with furrowed brows, wondering if we should move the car inside to stop it from washing away. That's South Australians for you.

The reason I am even able to consider going on an internet plan is because (drum roll please) ... I have a job. High five? High five?

You're probably right to leave me hanging there because it's not exactly a job filled with honour and career opportunity as the previous ones I've had have been. I'm making coffees at CC on Bribie. I sent in a wanky application letter and they hired me. Even after I went in there and marvelled at the modern technology like pressure gauges and thermometers that go with today's modern coffee bistro. Back in The Day when I used to make coffees for bushwalkers at Eagle On The Hill (now defunct) I used to make it so it looked right and re-make it if anyone complained very very loudly. Apparently feeling how hot the milk needs to be with your finger doesn't really fly in the big leagues. Nonetheless, I start on Thursday.

I almost didn't. In a shocking display of tact and restraint I neglected to ask if 'brewster' was The CC's corporatised version of the very specialised, professional ethnic-sounding title 'barista'. When everyone I met at the place on my training day referred to me as working as the new 'brewster', I felt that this was certain and was about to ask why they didn't just call it 'barista', like the rest of the world. Only a small voice stopped me. The small voice said:

'It's their accents, you over-educated South Australian nonce. They are saying "barista". You're not in fucking Kansas any more.'

Phew.

So, I start on Thursday. If you're in Bribie, don't come and have a coffee for a few weeks until I've gotten out of the habit of sticking my finger in the milk jug to see if it's just right.