I have this thing for goatees.

I find ugly men suddenly turn incredibly good looking with a goatee. Even that doctored picture that was floating around the net a few years ago of the Spice Girls with goatees was remotely attractive.

Jack from Dispatch at my work (remember? he has a head shaped like a dildo) has grown a goatee, and suddenly the mail room has become far more interesting to me.

What’s that? Someone needs a PostPak? Why, let me get that for you! You’re all out of pre-paid envelopes? I was going to visit dispatch anyway!

Goateed Jack from Dispatch is far superior to Regular Jack from Dispatch. He seems to be using it as some sort of total image makeover. Now when he visits my work area, he doesn’t awkwardly bumble about with the mail trolley looking flustered. Nowadays he has time to hang, lean one shoulder on a cubicle wall, raise his eyebrows and use ‘Heeeey’ as a greeting.

So when I first saw the Goatee Version of Jack from Dispatch, what happened?

I sneezed.

Not a regular sneeze. A big, wet, chunky sneeze. One of those sneezes that you just don’t have a chance to prepare for. (For those people who compare sneezes to orgasms - I know I personally don’t have orgasms like these. ‘Whoo!’ ‘What was that?’ ‘I just had an orgasm!’)

I’ve always seen having tissues on your desk as a bit of a wussy move. Suddenly I realised the value of the facial tissue, and didn’t really give a fuck if Kleenex were chopping down trees or whatever. What was the closest thing to hand? A plastic bag.

Can I advise anyone reading this to not wipe their noses on plastic bags? They’re not exactly absorbant. In fact, they tend to make the whole situation more difficult. In my case, I happened to be using a clear plastic bag, so my goobers were flattened on it and spread out for anyone passing by to see. It’s sort of an x-ray vision version of what someone wiping their nose looks like.

*****

I have decided that my chair at work gives me gas. Nobody else’s chair does this. I only have to sit in my chair for about 30 minutes and the tummy starts a’rumbling. The theory was proved when Parappa the Rapper sat in the chair for a few hours and experienced the same problem.

I know a guy who actually has a Fart Magnet chair. You’re not supposed to fart on it because the fart sticks to it for ages. Surely Ikea have invented something to prevent this? (You should see Adam when I say the word Ikea. It’s like one of those key phrases such as ‘pasta with chicken’, ‘kung fu movie’ or ‘I just found some new legally questionable websites with suspect fighting techniques’ that gets him all excited).

*****

The cafeteria at my work issued every employee with a questionaire this week. It was fairly stock standard stuff like our opinions on the food and stuff like that, so I wasn’t going to bother with it. That was until I noticed if you filled it out, you got a free drink. I’m a sucker for anything free (illnesses excluded).

I walked to the cafeteria to redeem my free drink, when to my horror Cafeteria Woman jumped out of nowhere. It’s been a while since I encountered her, so I figured the psuedo sexual tension between us had totally disappeared.

‘I’m just after my free drink,’ I said politely. I gave her my questionaire and quickly wondered if she’d draw any wrong conclusions from my answers. Did I say anything that would suggest I was pursuing a relationship with her? Things had been good since I first stopped having lunch at the cafeteria (granted, I did get hit in the leg by a flying hubcap that afternoon, but I’m fairly sure the two incidents are unrelated). She didn’t seem to be making a pass at me, so all was okay. At times it had been getting to the point where it would have just been easier to tell her I was gay and leave it at that.

So I redeemed my questionaire without any evident problems and claimed a free Coke. When suddenly, from out of nowhere:

Cafeteria Woman: Ooooooh, we’re cooking something today that we haven’t cooked for a long time.
Me: Oh, great.
Cafeteria Woman: Seeing as you’re one of my favourite customers, why don’t you try some?

I couldn’t really refuse. After all, she’d done me a favour by providing me with a free beverage, although I did have to reveal some personal information first. Perhaps I should have forced her to complete a survey of my own first.

1. Are you trying to crack on to me?
a) Yes
b) No
c) Yes, because I’m really a gay man as well

2. Have you noticed I don’t eat lunch here much anymore?
a) Yes
b) No
c) Yes, and we’re considering cooking fried chicken here to lure you back

3. How come whenever I eat lunch here, you buy exactly what I buy and sit opposite me?
a) I always thought those spring rolls you kept buying were some sort of phallic reference
b) I’ve always wondered what chicken with tomato sauce tastes like
c) I was hoping we could be come the new Two Fat Ladies (you’re not a female, but you could pass for one with those boobs)

Unfortunately, I hadn’t prepared any questionaire at all, so I gave in and agreed to taste her concoction.

Cafeteria Woman: It’s corn fritters!
Me: (trying to contain my excitement) Yay.

She then leaned over the counter, waving her fritter around like it was the only final obstacle between us and a fully-blown relationship, and I reached out to take it. When she shoved it in my mouth.

Totally uncalled for! Putting food in other peoples’ mouths is a boyfriend/girlfriend thing to do, or a really good friend thing to do at the very best. I don’t even like corn fritters. And even if I did I’m now going to associate them with the Cafeteria Woman. I’m not sure the whole ordeal was worth a free drink, to be honest.

The corn fritter was really hot, so I decided to open my Coke and drink some. I thought that maybe I’d try to look really cool and take advantage of the first female ever interested in me since I was in high school, so I walked out bouncing slightly on my heels. Which seemed like a good idea at first, but the execution wasn’t as spectacular as the inception. As I took a swig and imagined myself riding off into the sunset (well… walking through the Cafeteria doors), I missed my mouth entirely and poured around a quarter of a can of Coke down the side of my shirt. I’m not sure if she saw or not, because I tried to amble out the door as if nothing had happened at all.

*****

Sexually Suspect Business Names #01: Leisure Log Pine Products Pty Ltd

*****

Can I just mention that another Greenpeace person accosted me in my lunch break today, and they didn’t even hassle me when they said I wasn’t interested? It may have had something to do with the fact I was accompanied by Walking Mark, because they simply turned their attention to him. He wasn’t interested in what the whale protection community was planning for the next few months either, so they left us alone. Maybe it’s because I was wearing a suit at the time, and they left me alone because I looked like part of “the establishment”.

I’ve decided to try and update this journal more frequently. Over the past few months, I seem to only write an entry once or twice a week, but they’re huge entries. I’m going to attempt to return to how I originally used to update - smaller updates a couple of times a week. So my entries will be shorter, but hopefully they’ll be more often.

*****

On Saturday night, Adam had gone to visit the other two Adams, and I thought I was in for a night on my own. I decided to have a few quiet drinks, and walked down to the bottle shop to buy a bottle of something.

On my way down the road, I noticed Adam’s brother up ahead of me. I called out ‘Hi!’ to him. He was too far away for me to see any facial expression, but as I walked closer towards him, I realised that it wasn’t Adam’s brother at all. It was someone else entirely, and he didn’t look that friendly.

Not Adam’s brother: Wot?
Me: Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.
Not Adam’s brother: So why’d ya call out to me?
Me: Because I didn’t think you were–
Not Adam’s brother: Fuggoff.

Go Western suburbs friendliness!

When I arrived home, Torana called me half-drunk screaming that I’d fucked up his installation of Napster. Then he started laughing, apparently because Adam had just turned up at his place. Torana and Adam ended up walking over to my place and we all went out for a night on the piss. I can’t really remember much of that night, except for:

* When we were walking to the pub, Adam was talking about how once he lost his watch when he was drunk - when Torana found a watch on the ground. This freaked us all out.
* Adam was trying to convince me that the song ‘I Think I’m Turning Japanese’ was about masturbation. I thought he was having me on beacuse I was drunk, but after I sobered up he explained why, and I think he’s right.
* Adam was drawing cartoons of myself and Torana. He drew this picture of me on the back of a Keno entry ticket, which I quite like:

* I was assaulted by Magnetwoman. This woman appeared out of nowhere, grabbed onto me, and wouldn’t let go. This was quite a problem beacuse Torana and Adam were leaving the room and I was about to follow them, when Magnetwoman latched onto me and locked on. Obviously she was pretty drunk because when I’m intoxicated I’m not exactly the most attractive guy in the world. The whole situation wasn’t helped by Adam laughing and giving me the thumbs up sign and making obscene gestures.

*****

Why Your Internet Browser is Like Your Partner:
Internet Explorer: The good looking person who’s not necessarily really smart, but is popular in social situations.
Netscape Navigator: The intellectual person. Not necessarily packed to the gills in the looks department but a good friend at the very least.
Neoplanet: A person who looks like a model, until they subliminally start trying to sell you things. You eventually realise that they’re very good friends with the good looking person who’s not necessarily really smart.
Opera: Sort of like the drunken same-sex experiment you experienced a few years back.

*****

Presenting the first in a series of Olympic reports (because hell, no other media outlets will be covering the events). Get the reports on the scene from someone who’s not even going to the games at all, but certainly plans to direct confused and lost Canadian tourists to completely wrong places.

Actually if you’re a tourist, there’s a well hidden yet easily accessible area of Sydney’s central city area which will make travelling from one end of the city to the other incredibly easy - especially at Olympics time! It’ll be free of diversions and pesky ‘entertainment extravaganzas’. The name of this area is Martin Place, so make sure you stick to it for hassle-free, speedy travel by foot!

During the games, tourists may notice that a giant illuminated version of the Olympic Rings will be attached to the Sydney Harbour Bridge. In a media scoop, I can advise that in the third week of the Olympics, this will be replaced with the Nike ’swoosh’, and SOCOG are hoping you won’t notice.

Of course, many tourists are eager to visit other areas of Sydney as well. There’s a few simple rules to follow to find the most partying suburbs around!

* Any suburb ending in ‘Bay’ is a dirty area full of poor people. Avoid.
* Any suburb ending in ‘matta’ equals party central! These are the places to be seen. Also known as the ‘any suburb ending in “nong” rule’ when in Melbourne.
* Any suburb ending in ‘ing’s Cross’ signifies a special Olympics family entertainment area.

*****

I have been accused by certain males of undervaluing breasts. It’s been put to me that the way I so casually refer to testicles being the ‘gay man’s breast fascination’ doesn’t quite match the enthusiasm that straight men have for women’s breasts.

I’m not sure how straight women feel about men’s bits, and I’m not going to say too much on the subject because I honestly don’t want to devote more than a few paragraphs to testicles on my journal. But this I will say: I easily match your enthusiasm for breasts, Anonymous Straight Man. In fact, all this week I’m not going to call them testicles. I’m going to call them BREASTICLES just to prove my point. This is the last I have to say on this subject.

*****

Torana has been catching the train to work with Adam and myself this week. On Monday when he met us at the train station, he cocked his head sideways at me as though something was wrong. He pointed to my shirt, moved his mouth around as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say, before I realised that he’d never seen me in my work clothes before - he’s only ever seen me in tshirt and jeans, I guess. He wasn’t really too sure what to say, until he erupted with ‘Look at funny man!’ and collapsed with laughter.

I used to wear a coat to work because it gets so cold in the morning, but it’s starting to ease out of the coat weather period. Nowadays I’ve taken to wearing a hooded jumper over my shirt to work, so I look like some sort of homie G on a Work for the Dole program against his own will. At least it provides some sense of normality for Torana.

Once Torana hears a new word that he likes the sound of, he stores it away in his head and uses it at any available opportunity. A short while ago he discovered the word ‘bedlam’.

Torana: (on mobile phone) Oh man, I’m just pulling into the car park.
Adam: Is it crowded?
Torana: It sure is. Why, it’s… it’s…
Adam: What is it? (knowing full well what it is)
Torana: It’s BEDLAM!

At work on Monday there were some women running around dressed up like milkmaids, carrying wicker baskets of muffins. Apparently they were from some company trying to win a catering contract with our organisation, and apparently thought the best way to get this was to send Muffin Mistresses roaming around the organisation. Normally I have no problem with free food, but I don’t really like people shoving things in my face while I’m working. Having your train of thought interrupted by ‘Apple And Cinnamon Muuuuuh-fin!’ being shrieked in your face by an overly perky woman with a skirt that is far too short is irritating.

I ended up accepting a cream bun, which I forgot about until I left work that day. I ate it on the way to the train station, and when I caught my train this guy kept looking at me rather strangely. As the train entered a tunnel I could see my reflection in the window, and realised I had cream all through my goatee. What can I say? I’m the stylemaster.

Cream on my goatee wasn’t the only food related problem I had this week. On Tuesday I had this sudden, random craving for Burger Rings. If you’re not familiar with these, they’re orange shaped crispy rings that don’t taste like a hamburger at all. The flavour is just a weird spice.

I bought a Coke as well as the Burger Rings to compliment my healthy diet. I had quite a good system going - eat a Burger Ring with the left hand, sip of Coke with the right. Burger Ring left, sip of Coke right. This system was working quite well, until I accidentally reversed the hand order. This caused my right hand, which was wet from the condensation on the Coke can, to generate a Burger Ring-y paste. The paste got all over my keyboard, and it’s just so damn hard to explain to someone why your keyboard is orange and sticky. (It’s even harder to explain to Adam why my penis is orange when he comes home… oh, alright. This bit didn’t happen)

*****

I was standing at the bus stop, incredibly impatient. I’d been waiting 25 minutes for a bus and was getting a little edgy. It was around the 20 minute mark that I’d realised the petrol fumes around me were disturbingly appetising. Surely this is a sign I’ve worked in the city too long?

Suddenly, around the corner, I saw a vehicle with two orange lights on its top rumble towards me through the darkness. ‘Finally!’ I thought. ‘The bus!’

I waved it down madly as if I was trying to detach my left hand from my body. It was when the vehicle slowed down and stopped that I realised this was not a bus.

That’s right. I’d waved down a cement mixer.

Why would any rational cement mixer driver stop for someone flagging them down? The door opened rather menacingly, and I thought that seeing as I flagged him down, perhaps he was about to give me a lift.

I realised as soon as I climbed into the cab that I’d never been inside a truck before. The driver looked rather homocidal, and grunted at me ‘Wanna lift?’ I nodded and tried not to look to awkward. He looked as if he could snap.

He then pulled out some sort of balm and started greasing up the steering wheel. I was rather worried - why would someone grease up a steering wheel? Aren’t steering wheels supposed to be grippable? Perhaps this was some sort of grip balm.

Then I realised that he didn’t tell me where he was going. Judging from the way his nostrils flared, I wouldn’t be able to change whatever set route he was on. I prayed he was driving to the city.

And the city was where we started driving towards. I have no idea what a cement driver is doing, driving through city streets, but I suppose I was lucky. Eventually when I realised he wasn’t going to stop unless I spoke up, I disembarked at the far side of the city. I must say though, for the whole trip it was very hard to not imagine myself rolling around with a few tonnes of cement, it really was…

*****

I’ve noticed that Sydney people seem to think that they don’t ever need to leave Sydney. Not even for a holiday, really. Anywhere else in Australia simply doesn’t have all of the conveniences of Sydney as far as they’re concerned. It was quite surprising to talk to a fellow employee this week about the Daimaru chain of department stores - they haven’t opened one in Sydney, but they have in a few other select locations around the country. This person simply couldn’t get their head around the concept that Sydney didn’t actually have something that Melbourne has.

Daimaru is actually a large Japanese chain of department stores, who branched out in Australia. This is quite bizarre if you think about it. It’s almost like the Australian Myer/Grace Bros chain expanding and opening stores in Estonia.

Daimaru is actually Japanese for ‘Big Circle’. Lots of Japanese logos for stores are circles for some reason. So if Daimaru is literally ‘Big Circle’, can you imagine if we started calling Australian stores by their logo shapes?

* ‘I’m hungry. I’m going to grab a Value Meal from the Golden Seagull Eatery’ (McDonalds)
* ‘My new computer is from Partially Digested Fruit Computers’ (Apple Computers)
* ‘Wow, did you see? There’s 15% off everything at the Abstract Interpretation Of A Nipple department store!’ (Target)

*****

I’ve only got 1 week left at my job. The two new guys started work this week and I’ve begun training them. One of the guys is totally professional and is learning everything quickly. The other guy (who I like to call Know-It-All-Paul) hasn’t got a clue and is the most condesending bastard… he’s actually going to get the boot soon. I’ve been told by Mr Marketing to keep a log of their progress and note any points they need to brush up on. So I present my List Of Things That Know-It-All-Paul has said to me that pissed me off:

* I can’t work with this computer, you know. It’s so damn slow. I would expect more from an organisation such as this
* I wouldn’t have worded that email you just sent in such a fashion. It wasn’t very professional
* I have to take calls from New Zealand? But they’re bastards over there…
* Hey, you. Shut down my PC for me
* If you need me to do any work, I’ll just be at my desk. I’ve brought my CD burner in and I’m copying Dreamcast games

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 17th, 2000 at 6:10 am and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.