The Name Game

On the radio, I always hear about celebrities naming their progeny after different types of fruit, or giving them six names, usually with a 'Hope' or 'Sparrow' chucked in the middle. Why? Do they love their own flesh and blood so much that they willingly condemn them to many a school pummelling?

My old man is the campest-suspect-closeted bloke around. He has great style, sense in fashion, furniture anything, but never rely on him to fix a broken shelf (once part of my Ikea bed broke and I slept on the couch for a whole week until my uncle fixed it). So how did this fruit loop come up with utter crap names for my brother and I?

Dad always wanted girls. He wanted his firstborn aka me to be called…

wait for it….

Phyllis.

Could you imagine the playground taunts? Never ever name your child something that rhymes with an STI. ' Phyllis has syphilis doo da doo da' Thank god my drugged up mother had enough sense to name me the most popular and bland name of the year.

If you thought Sheryl was bad, my father was able to boganise it even more. Unlike those sad, sad people hyphenating their children's names, he decided to go one up on them and ditch the hyphen altogether. Hence, the monstrous portmanteau 'Sherilyn' was chosen for the second child. Luckily, Sherilyn escaped this moniker by being born a boy. Fittingly, my brother is named after the devil.

If your name is Sheryl, Sherilyn or Phyllis, I apologise profusely. I am sure you are well adjusted people with many friends. However chances are, you aren't reading this anyway. 

Where do babies come from?

Taken Australia day 2010 under the Harbour Bridge

Why you should sell your soul

Remember the days when you were young and thought you could change the world? I used to think I had a stance on everything, strong opinions and more importantly, strong morals. Then…life happened.

Everyone has a price. We do things our distant self would never dream of for cash or comfort.. If you believe this only applies to gold-diggers, strippers and whores, think again. You could be campaigning for a political party you would never vote for, promoting PETA and eating fois gras on toast for breakfast, selling sustainable energy and driving home in your gas guzzling SLS AMG Gullwing, sucking up to your cretin boss or doing your enemy a favour.

It's alright because on the other end of the spectrum, when a CEO is dealing with a dickhead client, they're also selling a part of their soul. Why not just piss the client off?

We become crawlers in anticipating that one day, it will be the other way round. We do morally atrocious things, we are wretched human beings in the hope that eventually, we'll be in the position where someone else will kiss our arse. Until then, is it so bad that we keep selling pieces of our soul?

Brekkie on the Bridge

Before BOTB, I saw one cloud in the otherwise clear blue sky moving west. When I got to the bridge, said cloud was directly above us. Maybe it decided the truffle butter on our bread smelt too much like old socks and needed to be diluted, because it absolutely poured. We were given these plastic ponchos which could fit 3 people inside and you would still have room to dance. We were laughing so hard we didn't realise we had put our heads through the arm holes.

Poncho time!

Afterwards, I crawled back to Kirribilli markets where I bought a ukulele off Michelle Leslie. Yes, the Leslie convicted of possessing a few Es in Bali, 2005. The one sporting full Muslim dress crying on camera. Conversion to Islam my arse. She was no longer wearing a hijab, but a tight fitting tank and skinny jeans. Fair enough, I know I'd convert to anything to get out of jail.

He's humping the fountain!

This got me thinking, what would you do to get out of stuff, or to get something? Fake you lost your voice before delivering a speech? Pretend you're a vegetarian to score with  the hippie chick? 

Anyway, happy Halloween everyone! I went as a Liberal campaigner who had been run over by a car. What did you do?

Adventures Overseas. Warning: not for the faint hearted

When we're on holiday or in a foreign country, we are suddenly at liberty to do what we normally don't. It is ok for me to spend ridiculous amounts of money on crappy souvenirs, visit lame tourist attractions and wear hideous shirts that I wouldn't let Tony Abbot wipe his arse with (hello Hawaiian shirt, I'm talking to you). All this seems pretty harmless, except to my bank account. However, holidaying has turned into the biggest excuse for me and many others to do idiotic things, be daredevils or immerse ourselves in a perpetual alcoholic haze. Due to this...

Before

Morning After

 things like this happen…                                                            And this...

And this...









Or this...

One way or another, we always end up in hospital or a cell. In poorer countries, this means confinement in an unsanitary concrete floor with you desperately protecting all orifices whilst being yelled at in a foreign tongue.

My advice, do not play hero, do not play dares and definitely do not pass out in a gutter unless you want to wake up in a tub of ice with sutures on your back, where your kidneys should be. 

Running for junk

So... I know it's been a long time but I managed to complete the City2Surf on a very swollen ankle. Took 87 minutes. Never in my life have I drunk so much Gatorade or brushed past so many sweaty people-yummy.

It was strange when I finished. I felt like I could keep going like that Milo ad. I wasn't out of breath, wasn't sore, just numb-makes me think that I could possibly run a half marathon. After I finished, I managed to find 5 out of 6 friends that I started with. As usual I was starving so I decided to cancel out all the exercise by eating a Burger at the North Bondi Club, a sausage sizzle and  then a plate of fish and chips. Can you believe that sometimes I wonder why it's hard for me lose some weight.

Back to Base

The premier image of Spencer Tunick's Sydney Opera House installation has finally been released. Since the shoot, I've regrown my hair and my beer gut. Everyone who participated is receiving a limited edition print. We can either go back to the Opera House on the 14th or 15th of August to collect it, or have the print mailed to us. 

I'm disappointed that I will have to wait for Spencer's 'special' exhibition to see the other pictures taken inside the Concert Hall and in the gardens. Hence, I'm posting these pics. Enjoy.

See the official image at: http://www.mardigras.org.au/

2010

My friend and I made a list of things to do this year. I felt like I was in my first year of uni again, filled with sickeningly naïve aspirations and hopes. Anyway, I'm sharing some of the list with you:

- Run a marathon- we signed up for the Cirty2Surf, it's in 4 weeks and we've both sprained our ankles…fail. Guess I'll have to do the Blackmores run as it starts outside my home. I'd just rope in a few mates, roll out of bed and into a 9k run.

-get defined- ditto all we can do is weights and sit-ups

- win trivia at our local pub- hell yea once we've killed all the members of the Zazoffs, the Black Plastic Bags and Think Tank

- learn to surf- I can't believe that after hanging around and dating surfie types over the years, I still haven't gotten onto a board, how un-Australian.

There are about 15 items on the list. I'd be laughing if we accomplish 5. We'll just have to wait and see.

God I need summer.

The Harem Must Die!

I was watching 'The Circle' this morning because the television at my gym only tunes into channel 10. Ian 'Dicko' Dickson the guest host, bagged out pretty much every current women's fashion trend. I mostly agreed with him. If a king such as MC Hammer can't pull off the harem, no way in hell can the average Jane. If people wear loose clothing to hide something, wearing a crotch so low can only connote an unpleasant form of incontinence.

Dicko proceeded to claim that he likes ladies with bums( who doesn't) and I could just tolerate his preference for the tacky t-bar sticking up over the jeans. However, I will not let a guy by the name of 'Dicko' who probably has a stylist but still dresses like every other Tom, Dick and Harry, tell me a muffin top is hot. Sometimes I prefer a gal being Harry High pants because I do NOT want to see someone's excess flesh jutting out and flubbing me hello. Just like they wouldn't want to see little Dicko jutting out and flopping hello.

Sorry about the imagery and the image, I'll leave you this to help you forget you ever saw.

Baby fighting to stay awake

I hate lifts

Lift etiquette is awkward. Here we are, confined in a square metre, stuck for that tiny but agonising amount of time.

The lifts for my apartment have mirrors on four sides, but if I check myself out, the caretaker does too. I can almost feel the security camera swizzle and zoom in on my forehead.

My general rule is that if someone enters the lift, I will greet them and hold the door open. However living in an affluent suburb, my neighbours are usually too good to even bother responding to plebeians like myself. If in the odd chance I do begin a conversation, it will end abruptly with a ‘ding’. I might try to say ‘Have a good-‘, but the doors have already closed.

Murphy’s Law has it that when you’re at your most unattractive, you will encounter extremely attractive people. There is a pool, gym and sauna in my building, which means that when this happens, I’m either:

a) dripping with chlorine in a ratty towel

b) dripping with sweat oozing from every pore

c) dripping with sweat panting like an excited dog

Yum. I’m usually too embarrassed to even enter a lift when this happens, but that would mean dripping up 8 flights of stairs.

Why else do I hate lifts? Did I mention I’m claustrophobic?

Delay No More

We all have our ‘in jokes’, be they with our family, friends or in extreme cases, our country.

Back in high school, I particularly remember having an argument with a classmate over foreign films. She had seen the beginning of a French comedy “Bienvenue chez les Schtis”, and didn’t find it funny. I explained that it was a parody of French provinces and villages. All of a sudden she was outraged, calling the film ‘racist’ because it didn’t cater to a Western audience. I can only hope that she doesn’t get too severely beaten up on her first trip overseas.

On a recent voyage to Hong Kong, I visited G.O.D.- a store selling everything from clothes, stationary to furniture and cameras. Here, the slogan “Delay No More” was emblazoned across almost everything.

Whilst walking behind some young, loud and well coiffed Chinese Americans, I overheard one ask the other:
‘What does Delay No More mean? Why is it everywhere?’
‘Isn’t it obvious Nate? It’s a political slogan telling Honkies' to get moving, you know? Like motivate them.’

“Delay No More” is actually a homonym for “Fuck your mother” in Cantonese. The joke is on you buddies.

“Where are you from? I just can’t place your accent.”

I’m an Aussie who travels a lot. Unfortunately when I do, I tend to unconsciously adopt people’s accents. I have been mistaken for a Pom or Yank more times than I can count. My brother calls me pretentious but I just can’t help it.

It gets worse when people think I’m mocking their accent. I used to talk to my French ex like zis. I’ve tried regaining my accent by repeating “G’day mate how’s it going?” over and over again, but it just sounds contrived.

The upshot is, I can convincingly pretend I’m a tourist when those pesky people in the city try to coerce me into buying some dodgy credit card. When a telemarketer calls, je ne parles pas l’anglais.

If you have this problem, how do you counter it without sounding like a bogan?

Getting Base for Spencer Tunick

I woke up at 2am to wash my hair, make sure there wasn’t a thing out of place on my body and pick out a pair of seamless underwear. Spencer Tunick was in town to shoot The Base, giving me and over 5000 others permission to bare all in public without being drunk or getting arrested.

From 4-6am, I laid my head on my friend’s lap squashed between a spooning gay couple and a cross legged tattooed couple. Sleep was futile. As people pressed against my body and trod on my toes I attempted conversation with my friend.

“Wow these joggers are up early. That iThing looks chunky on his arm. I have one of those inch long ones for running, you know? Nanos?

“ Shuffle daahhhling” says the man next to me, lifting his head from the crook of his tattooed lover’s neck where I assumed he was sleeping.

At 6am Spencer was welcomed with thunderous applause and cat calls. When the call came to undress we did so hurriedly. I was already bare whilst my fully clothed friend was yanking at her bracelet as the cast of the Full Monty times one thousand shimmied past. She wasn’t the only one with difficulties as people painfully yanked out their Prince Alberts or nipple piercings.

In the forecourt, we posed standing, lying down, with our arms up, with our heads to the sky, occasionally waving at the tourists, the media, helicopters and flipping the bird at the ferries that came too close. Then came the big moment in the spirit of Mardi Gras. Spencer wanted us to cuddle and to kiss someone. Not wanting to make our friendship awkward, we opted to embrace the German men in front of us.

“ Can I have your number after this if my phone hasn’t been stolen?” asked one.

My last pose was in the concert hall inside the Opera house. This time, I was facing the camera dead centre.

“I want all of you to face a different direction and drape yourselves!” yelled Spencer.

I perched myself uncomfortably on the seat and armrests lying on my side facing my friend who was doing the same. Then wham, the flamboyant guy in front of me decided to drape himself over my arse.

“ Lift your right arms right up in the air, wow that’s weird!”

Supporting the gay community was definitely worth it, even though I needed a mountain load of intravenous coffee afterwards. It’s amazing how some people can overcome their fears to morph into a sea of human flesh, all for the sake of art.

Any of you who were here today, or have previously experienced a Tunick moment, please feel free to share it. There are more stories and pictures at the unofficial Spencer Tunick Experience website http://thespencertunickexperience.org/oldindex.htm