CABIN FEVER

God... i remember the days when packing my bags, and scooting off to the airport, to fly to some magical destination, was a thrilling experience. I would be sitting in the car, the whole time, beside myself with anticipation, at the journey that would lie before me.

What the fuck happened!!!!!

From the second I arrive at the airport.... I am pissed off. Airports PISS ME OFF.

You heave your luggage onto the curbside, while your taxi is being honked by some impatient asshole behind you. I am so sorry that I'm not as fast as Cathy Freeman, but I have a lot of luggage, and it weighs a freaking tonne, and is very expensive, so I don't want to just haul it at the pavement.... you can all just wait a minute.

The second you have paid and tipped the driver, it's then the arduace task of finding a little baggage trolley.... oh there they are, all lined up...... what...... 5 freaking dollars!!!.....

So you rummage through your pants pocket for some change, and finally manage to pay for the damn thing that should be free..... oh....... damn..... it's got a bung wheel...... you are kidding me!

You then stack all of you luggage onto the broken down little trolley, and clammer your way into the check in line, that seems to go for miles.

5 minutes pass........ 10 minutes........ 20 minutes......... the whole time, you are stuck next to someone in the cue that has never travelled before in their life. You try to shut them out God, but they are always so loud about their plans. Its usually a middle aged family from middle America who can't wait to see what food they get on board, what movie will be seen, if they have 'Taco Bell' where they are going, hoping they get to their destination in time for 'American Idol', wondering if they will be upgraded as their next door neighbours, Sid and Elsie flew Business to Little Rock to see their granddaughter in a band recital......

Let me set one thing straight.... it's 2009, there is no food on any plane any more. You are lucky to get a television show screened on board let alone a movie, and the movie system always overheats or jams. Outside America, no one cares about 'Taco Bloody Bell'. TIVO's are used now to record shows you may miss, and it's really sad that you plan your holiday around reality television. And you will definitely not get a free upgrade. So please don't be jealous of Sid and Elsie..... they were going to a band recital....... god help them!!!.

You finally get to the front of the line, and the family that have bored me shitless for the past 30 minutes, are now holding up the whole thing as they can't work out these useless pieces of technology in front of them. Why, oh why, did human beings get replaced by these ticketing machines that are so time consuming, and are not to be handled by moronic people.

How do we use this?...... ma'am....... how do we start this thing?........ we don't have a passport....... what's the confirmation number darling?......... oh damn........... i pressed the wrong button......... oh, I have to start again......... wheres my I.D?.......... how pretty is that girls dress......... hope i have a window seat.... now where was I?........ oh.......... here it is............ ma'am.............. can you help us?.......

OH SHUT UP!!!!. I don't mind stupid people...... they just should not be allowed to venture out in public.

So the one and only staff member, for 40 computers finally rushes over, and tries to help them.

"Sorry Ma'am... it seems the flight has been oversold, and your children will have to be on standby...." the overworked worker says.

Why do they oversell flights....... do airlines want everyone to hate them.

So, now we are all confronted with this dilema.... but finally a computer is free for me to start my check in. I sneak past the family who are cussing their way at airline staff.

I swipe my passport.......and.......... "try again".

I swipe my passport again........... and............ "try again".

I swipe my passport with some sort of viciousness..... and wallah....... im sent to another screen. For the first time in history, all my details are correct, but...... im in economy still. I had called 3 days before and bought an upgrade...... it must be some sort of mistake, although I'm sure upgrades are made once you check on, and they call your name out on the loud speaker. So, I press 'confirm'.

Whats that? Checking onto a plane has never been so easy. Could this be a sign of new times for me. I always get into a heated argument with someone, regarding the weight of my bags, or seat allocation....... but maybe the powers that be were smiling down on me today. You God..... were finally giving me a free pass.

I watch as my luggage is escorted away, and I make my way to the security line. Man...... this queue is longer than the one at Hugo's. I'm stopped half way down, and I have to show my passport and boarding pass. I see the security woman raise one eyebrow, as If she was auditioning for role in a Bella Lugosi film.

Before she can even comment on my passport photo, I interject...

"It's me....... with blonde hair......... The photo was taken when I dyed my hair blonde........"

She snaps the passport, scribbles something onto my boarding pass and ushers me on with a grunt.

Wow....... God. When you were creating us humans, did you give security guards a specific gene. I dont mean to generalize, but really....... every security guard I have ever met definitely fulfills the brief. It's like door bitches at Sydney niteclubs, when you have met one, you have met them all.

Before I could breathe a sigh of relief...... that 'family' from the previous line, have finally checked on and are standing behind me, their dreams of a having a fantasy holiday have been dashed and have turned into a nightmare. Gone are the conversations of Kim Kardashian on 'Dancing With The Stars', and Duty Free Shopping bargains...... now...... all they have is a standby ticket, and all there connecting flights are screwed up.

(Bahahahahahhahahahhahaha....... why other peoples misery makes me laugh, I will never know)

I finally get to the front of the queue, remove my shoes and belt, take my laptop out, and place everything in the bins in front of me. I walk through the security screen and hand my boarding pass to the guard in front of me.

'Could you please make your way into that glass booth. You have been selected to take further security screenings'........

What......... that glass booth is like some humiliating shame chamber. What's going on? People are surrounding me, with grimaces on their faces.

They place me in this futuristic vessel, with flashing lights. Suddenly, puffs of air are shot at me, and I scream like a little girl plummeting from a cliff.

The guard opens the door again, and asks to go through all my hand luggage. I agree and get taken into a little office, where all my belongings are thrown out of my bags, and searched with a fine comb. My soft toy, Pat The Bunny, is tossed to one side. I go to reach for him, to see if he is ok...... but I quickly bite my tongue, as the sight of a grown man, caring for his soft toy's feelings, may not be so cool. I would not want them to think Pat The Bunny, was some storage device for amphetamines, let alone my trusty bedtime pal.

They concede that Im not a drug mule, and start to badly arrange my things back into my bags. Suddenly their demeanor changes from Nazi SS Officer to a primary school librarian, and they begin to inquire about my travel plans and general small talk.

I am compelled to ask.... "So what was it about me, that made you need to security check me"....

"Oh it's different with every person...... but usually has to do with someone's Passport photo.."

What!

I'm being persecuted for dying my hair blonde!. My decision to look sun-kissed for a Sydney summer four years ago, has come to bite me on the arse. My golden locks are the cause for all my precious objects to be interrogated....... My bleached hair was the reason that Pat The Bunny was assaulted.

I fake a smile across my face, and thank the security guard for his time..... why in these instances do you always seem compelled to apologise or seem grateful?

I'm now through..... the worst is all over......

Airports now are like mini malls, there is a store that caters for every need. You want juice... you can have a juice. You want a seafood banquet for 10..... there's that too. You need a massage...... there's places for that too. A massage. What a nifty idea. A perfect way to loosen your muscles, before your crammed in with the masses on a long haul flight.

I decide that it will be money well spent, considering I will be upgraded to Business once i get to the gate.

They sit me down in a little chair, and Rosetta is brought over and she looks like she could massage a knot out of a concrete wall. I place my face in the little hole, and her hand starts to smooth over my back. I prepare myself for her fingers to delve deep into my crevasses......... and she's still smoothing over.

"Is the pressure fine Mr Kulik"

Ummmm....... no. You are kidding me. I pat puppies harder than Rosetta is massaging me.

"You can go a little harder if you like"

"Oh Mr Kulik...... you so strong, big man huh........ (Giggle giggle giggle)"

She then begins to apply a bit more pressure..... her fingers become pointer..... she is picking up the pace now...... she begins to dig her fingernail gently...... prodding.... harshly....... oh Jesus Christ, this bitch is now scratching the shit out of me.

I wince in pain and she giggles a little bit more. I can feel a bit of blood draw from my back.... and I'm hoping it doesn't stain my new Zara shirt.

Before i know it, it's all over..... bruised, bloody and battered...... and ironically, alot more tense than before. I thank Rosetta for the hell she just put me through and go to the counter to pay.

"Thats $50 sir."

"$50...... but that was only 15 minutes"

"No sir..... that was half an hour"

"No...... i got here at a quarter to two.... you made me wait for like 10 minutes..... then Rosetta sliced me apart for another 15 minutes...... "

"See sir..... 30 mins"

O.K...... I didn't graduate from high school, and dropped maths as a subject quite early on in my life.... but I know that by calculating 10 plus 15 certainly doesn't add up to 30. And why am I even bothering questioning my mathematics skills when I only had a 15 minute massage that should only be used in interrogation techniques.

Needless to say, I pay for the damn thing, as I don't believe the woman behind the counter has ever had a maths class herself....... oh..... and tip. Damn..... I hate being rorted out of money.

Oh, but it doesn't stop there.

Add on all the money you spend on food, drinks, magazines..... You end up spending a small fortune before even hopping onto the plane!!.

But lucky I'm a Frequent Flyer - I have officially earned the right to make my way, straight to the airline lounge, and sit with the world's elite. A place where you are separated from all the commoners, and sectioned with all the affluent.... my type of place.

I get to the counter, & I clear my card through, and I ask... "Where do I go to check up on my upgrade?"

"Just over there Mr Kulik... Just at the Customer Service desk Mr Kulik..... You will have your ticket in no time Mr Kulik"

What's with the Mr Kulik bullshit. I am not an eighth grade History teacher..... No need pushing that crap on me.

I go over to the chirpy lady at the Customer Service Desk, and she takes my boarding pass, and searches for my upgraded ticket on the computer..... meanwhile, describing every action she is making.

Mmmmmm.... yes i'll just type your name in here.... and just move this here..... and yes, you are in fact Mr Kulik...... ah..... yes a window seat........ oh........ 30 years old....... just move the mouse down here......... and I'll type in my password......... and just.......

Shut up for Christ's sake woman..... and give me my Business ticket!!!!!!!

"I'm sorry sir..... but all the business seats have been taken."

I knew it. I had such great luck checking on..... that this was your weird way, God, to get me back. I cannot have it all. I cannot eat my cake can I?

"But I can offer you a full row in Economy. I'll block the seats next to you so you can have the whole row to yourself"

Suffice with that.... I accept the ticket and journey to the amazing land of Airline lounges.

Oh..... the free canapes, the free Dr. Pepper, the free Australian Sauvignon Blanc........ it's like my version of heaven.

Having wasted so much time getting frisked and searched.... then prodded and poked...... I didn't get to enjoy the full benefits of Qantas Club life, until I'm called to my gate. I line up.... and work my way like a sheep onto the plane. There seems to be alot of people boarding.... but I don't care. I have a whole row damnit. A whole row to stretch out and sleep. I deserve it. All the times I have been packed in, and this is my reward.

What..... my ticket says 52K...... but the row is full..... just one seat left by the window...... one seat only...... 52K!!!!!! I was told 52 I & J would be kept free, but they have some weird looking people sitting in them.

Why did that woman with the overly happy vocal inflictions lie to me. This was the final straw. What did I do to deserve this punishment!

God.... please answer me. I was a good child. I did my homework, and kept my room clean. Sure... I tripped a tubby kid over once..... but surely you have taught me a lesson for that. I cannot put my finger on why shit like this happens to me.

Or does this happen to everyone...... me...... the excited little family on their way to Little Rock.......

Is it all so funny to you? Did you invent airports so that you can sit back and have a laugh at our expense? Like its some sort of 'Big Brother' for you.

I need some answers please..... otherwise, traveling to the airport will give me an aneurysm!

xxx

k

WEIGHT WARNING

Hey there God.

I have to confess something.... something that has disturbed me for so many years. For as long as I can remember, I have kept this secret fetish, hidden away from people, so that I won't be ridiculed by society.

My fetish is food.

I love it. I want it. I need it. I dream of it. I ache for it. I pine for it.

It's not like a 'Greek Salad' and 'Bruschetta' will be suffice, to compliment my desire. I need a bucket of chicken, with mash, and coleslaw.... finished with Gelato and 'Lindt' chocolate balls. God.... even thinking of what i just wrote then aroused me.

I get more turned on by a Chicken Parmigiana, then I do by human beings.

Someone could walk up to me, wine me and dine me, look into my eyes, say sweet nothings, kiss the back of my neck, massage me with oil and sing me to slumber....

But if they bring home some Sweet & Sour Chicken with Deluxe Fried Rice & Fortune Cookies.... they might as well be invisible.

I devour the food, my tongue caressing the morsels as it slides down my throat. My eyes roll back into my head, as I feel it enter my stomach. The hairs on my back stand up, as I feel it digest inside me. The swirling and grumbling sounds become hypnotic. I am in ecstasy.

Around my friends, I try and keep my obsession to a minimum. Usually, I will feed people so much wine, that it detracts from the fact that I have finished off everything from their plates. The only time I get unstuck, is when I get taken to 'Tapas'. It is like my fantasy kind of restaurant. Small plates of everything on the menu. I get to sample and taste and experience it all. I have a bit of this.... I have a bit of that. Little portions of succulent deliciousness. Mmmmm..... my blood is boiling just thinking about it.

But as I have flirted with each serving... the people around me are usually in a state of shock. They are sitting there, perplexed, at how quickly the BBQ octopus was ravenously consumed. Where the hell did all the Prosciutto wrapped Asparagus go? When were they going to try the Rosemary and Garlic Crusted Lamb Shanks!

Oooooops.

I will stop at nothing to fulfill my addictions. I can be walking down a busy street, eye ball a 'Bane Marie' at a skanky Take Away food store, and without warning, I have a plastic bag filled with a Chicko Roll, Schnitzel, Chips with Chicken Salt, and a container of Scalloped Potatoes.

After a full day of teaching... I use to have a ritual, where I would stop off at a McDonald's drive thru, and attempt to fulfill my daily requirement of consuming my 5 food groups. I would have a Fillet Of Fish (Seafood), Quarter Pounder w/ Cheese (Meats), Large Fries (Vegetables), Apple Pie (Fruits) & Chocolate Sundae (Dairy). Oh... and a Super-sized Coca Cola for my Liquids. I actually started to believe that this was a healthy way to cater for all my needs. I had tricked my mind into thinking that what I was doing was benefitting me somehow. I was the picture of perfect health.

From the earliest of years... my parents forced food down my throat. I hated eating. Food was not my thing. My mum use to put money in a brown paper bag, for me to take to school, so that I could order lunch. The menu was pretty simple back then. It was either Sausage Rolls or Meat Pies. At first, I didn't mind chowing down on these. But once you have you first experience of choking on a bit of cows asshole in one of those pies... you never wanna go back. So i used to order the food, it would arrive, and then i would put them at the bottom of my school bag, where it would stay there for weeks and ferment all over my school books. My school bag was like a compost heap of decaying carcass.

Once the smell and cockroach infestation became intolerable... I would throw the stenching food behind the spare lounge in the garage. It wasn't until my parents decided to throw a garage sale, that they discovered my little guilty pleasure.

But from that day... I suddenly wised up.

Who would ever know if i didn't put my lunch order in. Was mum and dad going to ask the canteen ladies if they had taken my order? Could I be putting the money I used to waste on those hideous lunches, and use it for something that I would and could enjoy much more.

I never put my lunch order in again. I would starve myself all day, until that moment when the final bell would ring, and I would run to the local corner store and order me up something I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into. Hamburgers, Hot Chips, Potato Cakes, Dim Sims...... the choice was endless.

Suddenly... food didn't scare me anymore. It no longer plagued my mind, because I was in control of what I ate. I wanted to try it all. There was no stopping me.

From there, I went further.

I worked as a singer in a theme park as a teenager, and that's where I fell in love with Squeezy Cheese, liquid cheese you could pump out of a container. It tasted like melted Lego, but it was damn good.

A girlfriend and I discovered this little cafe in Paddington called 'Hot Gossip'. They were famous for their nachos and jacket potatoes. We would sit there for hours, hoeing into these gigantic portions of carbohydrates topped with Bolognese, Sour Cream, Shredded Cheese, Avocado.... It was bliss.

Lately, my mind has been transfixed on lebanese treats like baklava. Mmmmmm.... Baklava. How can you beat little delicacies of mashed pistachio nuts, surrounded by pastry and drowned in honey toffee. One baklava with a cup of coffee would usually be sufficient.... but oh no..... a tray can be wiped out in seconds when I'm around.

All this may sound great, and I have managed to stay somewhat in shape, despite my bingeing. But my world turned upside down when two words were uttered to me for the first time.....

'Weight Warning!'

I'm in the entertainment industry. I'm not allowed to eat more than a side salad or californian roll. And here I was, eating like everyday was a buffet!.

I instantly put myself on a diet..... I tried the 'Jenny Craig' thing.... but couldn't get my head around 'portion control'. I upped my water intake... but water tastes so much better with a splash of cordial. I switched from full fat to skim, and regular Pepsi to Diet. I was sacrificing so much!!!!.

But those 'two words' have been on loop for the past 10 years.

Weight Warning.

Weight Warning.

Weight Warning.

Ironically, everytime someone utters those words..... I crave & before I know it, I have consumed a whole plate of Butter Chicken and four Samosas.

How do I do it God. How do I have my cake, and eat it too..... mmmmm...... cake....... cheesecake..... with caramel topping....... and chocolate flakes.........

How do you keep so in shape.... I mean...... if I lived on a diet of Wine and Bread, I'd be the size of a house!.

What's your secret. I need some answers.

xxxxx k

HIP HOP WITH LENNY

Dear God.

I don't want to ever leave the house again. I'm too embarrassed. I want to hide away forever and never show my face in public again. What was I thinking?. What could I have possibly gained by this.... and now, my reputation is in ruins. I was someone people looked up to, but now... I'm the laughing stock.

I thought it would be such a great idea.

I had finished work, and read the day sheet that tells me what was on the next day. I saw something that brought a smile to my face. This, I thought, would be my chance to show my peers that I excelled in something. This was my chance to blow everyone away with my talent. This was my chance to shine.

For years, I have been surrounded by champion Ballroom dancers. Everyday, I join them in a warm-up, but my body has never been able to shimmy, or distort or batucada like they do. Next to them, I dance like I have a bung leg, hip replacement, broken ribs and a small case of scholyosis. They parade around the dance floor like regal equestrian horses, while I clammer around them, trying to impersonate the moves that their liquid bodies are making, but come off looking more like a demented fool. But they were all begging to open their horizons, experience new styles, tackle new steps... they had pleaded with management to bring in some local teachers and hold dance classes. The week before, they 'salsa-ed' for a few hours.... but management promised that this week, would be something that these dancers had never been expected to try before.

And there it was.... written in bold on my day sheet.

'Hip-Hop' with Lenny.

I use to be somewhat of a dancer... never Hip-Hop, but hey... this is so far away from their artform, that this was going to be a piece of piss to soar above them. And how hard could it be. The teacher - Lenny - was not gonna go too full on, as he was going to be teaching people who were so far out of their element.

I had a plan. I would take the easy choreography, and embellish it with fancy arms and head pops. I would grunt like a bucking bull, and whip my body so that everyone around me would be dazzled by my creativity.

I ran to work today. I arrived and saw everyone limbering up. Some had tried to funk themselves up with baggy pants, and cut off shirts.... i mean please.... this was not an audition for a 'K-Ci & Jo Jo' film clip. I opted for something else to show off my natural groove... Sweat band, puma sneakers, addidas track suit pants.... i was so old school.

Lenny arrived, and we all cheered his presence. I stood there, eyeing out my fellow workmates who had no idea what my intentions were. Usually I would hide up the back, in fear of anyone commenting on my lack of Latin American dance skills. But I strode up to the front, as if I was Lenny's shadow.

We started with a simple warm-up stretch... the phat beats were blasting from his boombox. Every stretch I made, I forced oxygen deep into my muscles, so that I could demonstrate how in my league I was. There I was, pushing myself to a new limit, keeping one eye on Lenny, hoping that he would look up and see me on his level. I was beaming with pride.

After the soulful music allowed us to warm-up every bit of our bodies, it was time for the choreography. I was ready to pump and krump my way through it. I looked at few of my cast mates, trying to look 'cool' in front of our tutor. Who did they think they were?.

I laughed in their faces.

Look out guys... you are about to witness a spectacle. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. Sure... I was being a cocky asshole, but I had every right to be didn't I?!!

"Today, we are going to attempt to be a Pussycat Doll', said Lenny

A Pussycat Doll?

This was Hip-Hop wasn't it. I was all geared up to break it down, spin on my head, isolate like a robot.

5, 6, 7, 8.

Mince one, Pop two, spin three, squat four......

Whip five, Dip six, Jump seven, slap eight.....

O.K.... so maybe I should've dusted off the dance shoes a little earlier, as the steps found it hard to settle in my brain. But surely I was kicking ass on the rest of the cast. I spanned the room, and some, sure were struggling like myself, but some were giving it like Britney Spears pre-drugs.

Was I not the best in the room? How could this be?.

Before i knew it, we had learnt about a minutes worth of choreography in about 10 minutes. I was panting like an overweight dog, sweat was dripping out of every pore, and I still couldn't remember how the bloody thing started.

Lenny walked over to the stereo, and said 'Right... let's do it to music'.

The music kicked in, and I started to think over the choreography in my head.

Hang on a minute.... Its bloody twice the bloody speed. The beats from the boombox, equaled my heart rate. Fast.

5, 6, 7, 8

Mince one, Pop two, spin three, squat four......

Whip five, Dip six, Jump seven, slap eight.....

Oh God...... I'm popping, I'm locking, I'm spinning, I'm......

Did my tit just slap me in the face?

Oh god..... I'm physically dying. I'm breathing like an asthmatic with a Tracheotomy!.

I continue ploughing through the choreography. I'm dipping, I'm whipping, I'm squatting... well...... I attempted to squat, but didn't quite make it back up.

There I am, laying on the floor, having pulled my quad, and corked my thigh.

This was hell..... I had such high hopes for myself.... and as I lay there...... cramping..... a sudden wave of shame takes over me. I was not the Mac Daddy I thought I was. Gone were the days that I could head pop like the best of them..... I was..... a has been. I had lost my mojo...... I was now merely a mover..... not a groover. I was never going to be a Pussycat Doll.

Minute after minute crawled by, and I saw the others around me sink their teeth in their new found love for this dance. My composure went from the egotistical ass in the front of the class, to the guy who cracks the lame jokes up the back.

The lesson finished and everyone applauded Lenny who had been such a great taskmaster for us. I was the first to go over and thank him, and he politely said that I did well.

"Thankyou....... but Hip-Hop is alot harder now that I'm a big boy", I chuckled.

"You're not fat.... just alot heavier than everyone else in the room", said Lenny.

Excuse me....... heavy?......HEAVY?....... HEAVY?!!!!!!!

I was meaning that Hip-Hop was alot harder now that I have grown up..... not because I put on some extra kilos.

Now.... not only was I nursing a broken ego by not being able to give it as a dancer..... I'm now a porky pig!.

God........ where did I go wrong?. And why would someone call me heavy!. Sure, i have a slight tire, and a wee double chin..... but I'm not chunky or plump.

Please God.... save me from the scrutiny that I will surely face.

xxxxx K

TWWBITNBWEC's

Dear God.

Hope you had a great time celebrating Easter!. I feel a tad bloated from the 18 chocolate eggs that I just shoved into my mouth at basically the same time. Considering that I'm lactose intolerant, it means it's the one time of year, where I forget about the ramifications of eating so much dairy, and decide to punish myself and brave the consequences..... I guess.... just like Jesus did.

But my bowel movements is not what I'm writing to you about, God. I have a fear, that until today, I didn't care too much about. Who people are, and what makes them unique is something I have always accepted, despite the differences to my life. But God, there is a growing crop of people who are bugging the living shit out of me. I can tolerate people who are nasty and have no manners, people who are spoilt, people who say 'arks' instead of 'ask' (just barely), people who refer to themselves in the third person, people who think the 'Lowes' commercials are funny, vegetarians, people who wear the Sean P. Puff Diddy Daddy's perfume 'Unforgiveable' (i mean, who would call something that!), people who hang at petrol stations on a friday night in their hotted up cars, people who wear 'crocs', people who use a 'Shania Twain' song as their bridal waltz, people who subscribe for ringtones, people who slurp soup and even people who litter.

But God....... I cannot stand a certain breed of people.

Ever since these 'people' appeared in society, crazy things have been happening..... ice caps are melting, recession has eclipsed the world, bushfires, religious wars, school shootings, Clay Aitken came out, Mickey Rourke was nominated for an 'Oscar', Sarah Palin, Andrew O'Keefe, Australia's Got Talent and Miley Cyrus has a number one single.

Before they arrived, the world was a much simpler place. Everyone was living their lives, with little stress, and little worries...... then BANG!.... no one had a chance to even prepare themselves.

These 'people' are taking over the world, and slowly destroying the very reason for living.

I'm talking about TWWBITNBWEC's...... (Teenagers Who Where Born In The Nineties, But Wear Eighties Clothes).

You know the ones I'm talking about. You see them in packs, wearing their fluro oversized tank tops, cut off jean shorts, scuffs, $2 plastic sunglasses with red rims, hair teased and styled.......... Talking about hitting the town, and using 'rad' to describe things that are cool, while ending their sentence in 'LOVE'S IT... BEYARTCH'.......

I mean...... really...... is that what fashion and music and life has come to.

I for one, am allowed to bitch. I did all the fashion statements. I had a flat top. I used to sew patches on my acid wash jeans. I'd wear a college jacket with the sleeves pushed up. Wore a fluro yellow 'Converse' on the right foot, and fluro blue on the left. I had a smiley face t-shirt. I wore my baseball cap with the rim up at the front to expose my teased fringe. I had a pair of 'Okanooies'. I knew what 'Choose Life' meant, and i certainly knew how to 'Relax'. I wore my 'Batman' logo t-shirt under my denim jacket. I had bandana's in eight different colours and I used to tuck my sweat pants into my socks. I did all the eighties trends and you know why.... because I AM an eighties boy. I saw the whole decade go past. There was not one fad that didn't escape me.

My sister would be drowned in lace and jumping around her room to Madonna's 'Like A Virgin', while I would be in a doctor's outfit miming to Weird Al Yankovic's 'Like A Surgeon'. I cried when I saw the making of 'We Are The World'. I saw 'E.T', 'Flight Of The Navigator', 'Grease 2' & 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit' at the 'Pictures', which is what we used to call instead of the 'cinemas'. I owned a Commodore 64. I had a pair of rollerskates. I remember watching the Opening Ceremony of the Los Angeles 'Olympics'. I owned vinyl records and remember when you could buy 'Cassingles'. I read 'Smash Hits' and 'Hit Songwords' magazines. I knew every word to every BROS song. I collected stickers. I know who Simon Le Bon is. I watched 'Webster' every week. I made up dances to Bonnie Tyler and Genghis Khan. I had a 'Cabbage Patch Kid' called Joshua Sydney that my Dad had to knock out a few other parents to get his hands on, I went 'Blue Light Disco's', I collected 'Smurf' figurines, I was obsessed with 'Young Talent Time', I'd wear my 'Sunglasses At Night'. I ate 'Space Food Sticks', I watched 'Hailley's Comet' blaze across the sky, I set crackers alight on 'Fireworks' night and I went for holidays in Caravan Parks.

So, I have every right to look down on these wannabe's. They can wear their clothes, walk their walks, and talk their talks.... but they will never be 'Eighties' in my eyes. Not when they are attempting to be something from another era, yet still prefer to listen to 'Fall Out Boy' on their 'ipod's'. If they truly wanted to make a statement, they would throw away their digital devices, pop out a 'Walkman' and blast some 'Soft Cell' or 'A-HA'.

They would get rid of their TIVO's and 'Blu Ray's' and dig out their VHS or BETA video players.

They would swap their 'Adam Sandler's' for some 'Ferris Bueller's'.

They would delete their 'Facebook' profiles and get a 'Pen Pal'.

They would discard their 'Soy Chai Latte's' and opt for a 'Chocolate Moove'.

They would take off their tank tops and not wear it again until they have drawn over it with 'Puff Paint' and 'Be-dazzled' the crap out it.

Until this happens, the world is not a safe place. They will continue walking free in this world, creating havoc, and disturbing the natural flow within this fragile habitat we call Earth.

Please God... save me from the TWWBITNBWEC's

xxx K

TIPPING

Dear God.

You know me; I’m a fan of America, the land of the free. A place where you can go shopping in stores that pump their aftershave through the air-conditioning. A country that loves to batter and deep-fry almost anything. A people that love to think that because of my Australian heritage, I somehow know someone they met once who lives in Sydney…

“You sure you don’t know him?……. Darren…… he lives in Sydney…… oh you must know him…… he’s a mechanic…… nice guy…….. I’ll ask him if he knows you…… great guy, lots of fun…….. can drink me under a table…….. good times…….. Darren………. A mechanic from Sydney?……. You Sure?.... Real nice guy……..”

But of all the majestic beauty the ‘United States’ has to offer……. Why, oh why… do they believe in tipping!!!!!.

Don’t get me wrong….. if you treat me nice, I’ll treat you nice as well. God, you know I have problems with keeping money in my wallet.

But when I have to hand over 16% to a 15 year old waitress called ‘Shamona’ who has gotten my order wrong on 3 occasions, and had the ordacity to protest that it was me that ordered the ‘Sweet & Sour Duck’, and not the ‘Hawaiian Chicken Platter’ and huff her way back to the kitchen to tell the 16 year old chef to spit in my dinner…. I kinda gotta hold my ground a bit. (Spitting claim is not confirmed, and was only used for comedic purposes…… no law suit from ‘Rolanda’s Bird Shack’ is necessary)

So when it came time to call for the ‘Cheque’….. I gave her a few extra bucks and got up and decided to leave the store. As I made my way out the door, I could hear ‘Shamona’ rant and rave, calling me a few nasties, as if singing some Alanis Morrissette song about angst, and charge after me like the ‘running of the bulls’, to get her ‘expected’ 5 extra dollars.

I turned, and finally let loose, as if I was ‘John McEnroe’ after having his serve called ‘out’. It was like a scene out of ‘Maury Povich’, two people going at each other, for a measly few bucks.

I finally took out my wallet, gave her the money and said some expletetive (I won’t say what as I may not come off too good after), and got the hell out of there.

God….. I may sound like a cold, vindictive and heartless bastard right now, and I get the argument completely. The minimum wage sucks here, and people rely on their tip. But what happened to the ‘customer is always right’.

I don’t expect perfection. Yesterday I had a waitress called ‘Molly-Ann’, giggle prefuriously every time I wanted a glass of ‘Sauvignon Blanc’, as she couldn’t pronounce it for the life of her. It’s not her fault….. fine New Zealand wines are rare in her hometown of ‘Alabama’……. And she was so endearing, I gave her an extra few bucks, so she could experience the wine for herself.

I had a taxi driver called ‘Steve’, who went the extra mile for me, was so kind, funny, and expected nothing. He didn’t interrupt my conversations but was so informative. He was hygienic and took pride in his cab. He didn’t impose his political or religious beliefs, and was genuinely excited to meet a ‘foreigner’, and wanted to know what life was like ‘Down Under’. He gave me his card, and on most of my trips, he was there for me. Return Business. Good Business. And he restored my faith in the ‘taxi driver’, because for anyone who has been to Las Vegas vouches for, good taxi drivers who are not in it for a scam are hard to come by. ‘Steve’ deserved every extra cent I gave him, and I gave him well above the recommended gratuity every time.

As for ‘Shamona’.

Bloody ‘Shamona’.

How is she ever going to learn anything in life, if money is just handed to her, and not earned? Where are some of these kids going wrong?

Is it because they are not being properly educated? I grew up with parents who would give me a hiding if I didn’t finish a sentence with a ‘please’ or a ‘thankyou’. But I guess, what can you expect when you consider a life lesson to be like an episode of ‘The Hills’, where Heidi Montag can get through life via a Visa Platinum Card (OK God, you got me there….. you know I really do love ‘The Hills’ and download it off ‘iTunes’ weekly…… I really hope Heidi breaks up with that Spencer Pratt soon, and LC needs to do something about the eyebrows man…… wow……… did I just go on a tangent or what……. And did I just call ‘God’ “man”?)

I want that ‘Shamona’, and all the Shamona’s of the world to know, that she can have her 5 extra dollars…. But she will never see me again. And I’m sure that others will never return to that ‘Bird Shack’ again. And even though my saliva glands are working over time at the thought of biting into that succulent breast of deep fried, tenderness, and crispy skinned Chicken, topped with juicy morsels of mango and pineapple, with a hint of cilantro and lime juice, on top of that creamy Garlic Kumara Mash……. Mmmmmm…….. That Chicken was damn good…… I ain’t never stepping into that restaurant again. (Unless they read this, and offer me a free meal on a night ‘Shamona’ is at home, bitching to her boyfriend while catching up on ‘Grey’s Anatomy’)

And God….. Please don’t get me started on why they don’t include the tax in the advertised price!!!!. But I better stop now, as I do not want to have a bunch of angry American’s, banish me like Bush.

Until my next dilemma…

Xxx K

OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER

God...... how are you today?.

I'm ok, thank you for asking..... though, i do have some issues, not that should be surprising to you.

God... I think I'm slowly going insane. I mean... I do things, over and over and over again..... not because its fun, or I get a thrill from it. I do things, strange things..... because I HAVE to. And not the usual things.... like say 'hi' to strangers to make their day a bit better, or give spare change to homeless people.

I do a series of 'things', from the moment I wake up, to the second my head touches that pillow..... and apparently, and disturbingly so..... I have started doing some of these 'things' while I'm asleep. I have no control over it. It's a compulsion, a necessity.

I could have read the signs years ago, but I was in denial. I always thought it was just a 'phase I was going through'. I walked through life, with wool over my eyes. I was going to, in time, get over it.... move on.... build a bridge.

But God, that bridge has never been built.

It started as young as I could remember. I remember sitting on my front porch, getting ready for school, and contemplating that if I put my left shoe on before my right, I was guaranteed to have a bad day. For years, that dilemma has haunted me. And God forbid if that left shoe goes on first... my day is over!!

It was funny, that by my teenage years, many of my friends confided in me that they suffered the same problem, that it was actually quite normal. I had also read in a magazine, that many famous athletes suffered the same. Some, had their 'lucky' undies or socks, or trained in a specific manner. By this point I had accumulated more 'things' to my daily routine. I had a strategic way of brushing my teeth, I had my CD collection alphabeticalised and colour coded, I had to fall asleep on my right side, and get out of the right side of bed. I couldn't walk on grass patches, and opted for the gutter in so many instances. I had to set my alarm to a time ending in 8. I cannot handle leaving drawers open, and doors should always be shut. It freaks me out when I see my sliding wardrobe door, slightly ajar. The worst thing I put myself through, was that every night before I went to bed, I had to say to myself 'Tomorrow is going to be a bad day'.... otherwise, it would be.

I have accumulated so many 'things', that now, have turned into something so much more dramatic.

It wasn't until i joined the show 'Burn The Floor', that my secret 'superstitions' became public knowledge. As a long time smoker, who hated the smell of cigarettes, I always had to brush my teeth after a smoke. I hated it so much that I had to have a shower before every show, just so the people around me didn't smell it on my skin. I quit smoking two years ago, and even though I usually smell like a peach.... there I am, showering before the show, even if I have bathed at home only minutes before. I have an order to putting on my costumes, and if I put them on in an incorrect order, it spells disaster. I have to put my make-up on before i do my hair. I cannot turn my fold back speakers on, until my headphones are placed properly, and they must be turned on before I put on the rest of my costume. I have to say the lyrics of every song three times before I go onstage...... something that I tried to change once, but back fired completely.

I used to say the speech in the show, and there I would be, standing in the wing, saying it thrice to make sure I knew it properly. In my ear, a fellow cast member who would always try to confuse me, by changing some of the words to 'dirty' versions, hoping I would stand on stage and, instead of saying 'Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers', I would succumb to saying 'Fred Rodgering Ginger'. Every time he would make me stumble, I had to repeat the speech three more times. But this one time, I got cocky. There he was, in my ear, blabbering on with foul language, when I sharply turned to him and uttered - "You know what..... I don't need to do this. I'm gonna go on, and show you that you can't get to me".

So, there I was standing onstage, alone, in a spotlight. The speech was effortlessly streaming from my mouth. I was beaming, as I educated the audience on the 'history of Ballroom dance'. Their eyes and ears were glued to me.

I had done it. I had put a stop to an annoying pattern. I am strong, I am confident, I am....... hang on....... ummm......... what's the next word........

Suddenly, the voices in my head started there usual song. It's the last word of the speech.... and I am totally blank......

I started with the last sentence..... "Ballroom Dancing, was then, and will always be, completely"....... geez.... I know the word starts with a 'c'........ before I could send a signal from my brain to my mouth...... "COMPETENT"

Competent?

Of all the 'c' words in the English language, I had to pick 'Competent'.

While the audience all raised an eyebrow, and some chuckled at my expense, I saw the faces of my fellow cast members, reeling with joy at my failure to remember the word 'Captivating'. Needless to say, I make sure I still do everything three times before I go onstage, regardless of how much sleep I have had.

Now God..... you must think I have nearly crossed to the loony side by now, but I still haven't finished. My next 'obsessive' thing, has been the most troublesome I have done to myself. It's the 'thing' the whole cast of the show ridicule me about on a daily basis. People are afraid to walk next to me on the street, sit with me at a dinner table, share a hotel room or even catch a taxi with. People who don't know me think I have Tourette Syndrome!!!.

God..... I make sounds. And not easy on the ear sounds either. Four years ago, it would be an easy 'la, la, la, la'.... which no one seemed to mind. I then started going 'Ven Maga!' every chance I could. It seemed to amuse everyone, but did have a purpose. I start one of the songs without a melody and to help me with the key, I would say 'Ven Maga' to make sure I was getting used to the first note. But as time went on, I would be walking down the street on my day off, doing some shopping, or catching up on chores... when all of a sudden... 'Ven Maga!'...... Did I just do that to a strangers face?!!!. I would be half asleep, darkness still fills the room, and it's still hours before the alarm is to wake me from my slumber, when all of a sudden, I'd open my eyes and.... 'Ven Maga!'. Really..... is that what's become of my life?. I was this person who would randomly shout this phrase, no matter what the instance, or situation.

So.... years have passed, and despite the best of intentions of 'overcoming this phase'.... I have gotten worse!. 'Ven Maga!' was replaced by 'Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee', and now, the cherry on the cake...... i have just started saying 'Baaaah Eight!'. It's 'Baaah Eight' in the morning, 'Baaah Eight' at midday, 'Baaah Eight' in the evening...... 10 minutes does no pass in a day when I have not said 'Baaaah Eight!!!!!'. I am the laughing stock of my workplace, and my family. Someone asked me the other day... "So, why exactly do you say 'Baaaaah Eight'"...... I rattled off some excuse about finding my vocal placement, blah, blah, blah...... truth is..... I have no bloody idea. To top things off, I still say the lyrics to my songs three times, but now I have raised the bar. I have to say them in a high-pitched nasal tone that gives the 'Chipmunks' a run for their money.

When will it stop...... or is it........ is time going to travel on.... and I'm going to gather more stupid catchphrases?. Will 'Baaaah Eight' become something even more ridiculous. I mean..... look at my track record..... It ain't getting any better.

Please God, don't let me be committed. Please show me a sign that other people experience these 'things' that they have to do to get through a day. Don't let me be alone on this.

Eternally Grateful........ K xxxx

BIKRAM YOGA

God....... I am sore today. I have really tried this 'being good to my body' thing...... but i do not understand.

I have had enough of the gym..... two weeks ago, i pulled a stomach muscle and walked around for a week like i was having a permanent colonic..... so i thought i'd try that 'Bikram Yoga'. I have done Yoga a few times before, and it really did center my chakras, and re-ignite my inner celestial prophecy. Back home in Sydney, it is always easy, as I'm usually surrounded by buff looking guys dressed in 'Abercrombie & Fitch', with hamstrings as tight as their pectorials, struggling with balance as the weight of their protruding thighs topple them over. While i stand there, with my inadequate flexibility, looking like Nadia Comaneci in comparison.

But this was different. I walked along the street, a few blocks from my apartment, into an area i had never been before. As i got closer to the Yoga studio, i was starting to be submerged into another world. The street was lined with Vintage Clothes stores, Organic Cafes, Organic Bottle shops, Organic Bakeries, Organic Deli's..... might as well as had an Organic Freaking Police Station.

But there it was...... 'Bikram Yoga', spray painted across these big red doors, as if masterfully created by troubled youths. I go inside and climb the stairs. In front of me is a sign, 'please respect the space by removing your shoes now'..... oh....... thats when the odour hit..... geeez. I took my shoes off, and placed them amongst the wicca sandals and 'Crocs' (don't get me started on 'crocs'), and booked myself into the class.

I entered the class quite confident, dressed to the nines, in my v-cut, low neck 'Zara' t-shirt, micro-fibre tracksuit pants, and hair combed as if i was trying to be one of those 'dark and brooding' types. But then as i opened the door........ damn shit........ how freaking hot is it....... the steam and smell of recycled sweat abruptly shot up my nostrils. As i wiped the sweat out of my eyes, i noticed i was surrounded by ultra skinny, tattooed bohemians in their underwear. I was no longer in an 'eye-candy' yoga class anymore. As quick as i entered the room, i exited back to my locker, removed my shirt, and re-entered the class.

The teacher..... i forget her name..... 'Kosmos' or something, was actually quite nice. She had that smooth, calming, tranquil voice, like one of those meditation CD's you get for an over-inflated price from the 'Tree Of Life', and she personally welcomed me to the class. All the bohemians turned, and said something in 'hippie', bowed and resumed the class.

The first few exercises were not so bad. As a dancer...... well 'mover to music' nowadays..... i can do things that other experienced yogies can do..... ah..... wait a minute........ did i just fall. No.... i have good balance....... oooops....... fell again....... geez, this is much harder than the one i did back home. Ummmm...... why is the room spinning....... can someone turn a fan on in here....... geez...... i need to sit down and its only been 2 minutes.

I had luckily positioned myself next to the door, so whenever anyone came in late, i got a draft blast of cool air that satisfied for only a second.

I re-aligned my auras, and got straight back into it. Some things were easy, some things were hard. Some things were just plain nasty, like the heavy breathing exercises that i think the woman next to me was treating more like a Lamaze class.

But the most difficult thing i found, was being able to look at myself in the mirror, and try and concentrate on contorting my body, while my hair was boofing up to new heights due to the humidity. I was looking less dark and less brooding..... i was a 'Flock Of Seagulls' reject. Oh, the humiliation.

The class was quite satisfying, and i had exceeded my expectations.... although it took all the might in the world, not to loudly fart while i was in the 'camel' position. It is the most difficult pose to do, kneeling like a ball, with your head on your knees, arse up in the air..... trying everything possible to clench the sphincter and save myself from the ultimate embarrassment.

But 'Kosmos' was so kind, and paid special attention to me, often highlighting that next time it would be better if i wasn't so dressed..... i finally got the 'underwear' idea. Next time i will be sporting a brief pair of jocks, although that would mean overcoming a huge fear of mine, as the last time i wore jocks in public, my package popped out and made a cameo appearance.

But that is if there is a next time...... 'Kosmos' told me i would release some toxins, and that i would feel a 'a little under the weather'..... she FAILED to tell me that i'd feel like the 'Spawn of Satan'. My throat is sore, my neck is now a bundle of swollen glands, my sinus is filled with gallons of mucus, my shoulder is sore, my back is sore, my thighs are sore, and for some reason, my left wrist is as limber as a mannequin.... and to top it off, my hair hasn't quite settled down since yesterday..... truly...... this 'Bart Simpson' get up is not on purpose. And i have friends coming to see the show i'm in tonight, and all i can offer is a bad impersonation of 'Quasimodo'.

God..... if you're there. Give me at least a nostril i can breathe with, or the ability to get up from a chair without making a wincing noise. At the very least.... let me find a hairdresser that stocks 'KMS Moulding Paste', so that the fro can settle down.

xxx K