I Love It When You Say 'Crap-fest'

Okay, so for those who've seen Transformers 2: Revenge Of The Fallen you'll know exactly what this blog heading means. I hope.

After what seems like an eternity I finally got to see the new Transformers flick. I know, I know, the film itself has only been out for a few days, but I'm one of those sad cases who has been feathering my throttle for a sequel right from the point there the closing credits started to roll on the first film.

I'm not going to do the whole spoiler thing, but let me dot-point the fuck out of this shit in order to save you and I a lot of time:

• Robo-warfare doesn't get much better than this.
• The whole film is a HUGE showcase for GM (BC, that is 'Before Chapter 11').
• That may not sound positive but it is.
• Megan's Box and Shea LeDouche do look pretty hot on screen.
• Decepticons and Autobots look way hotter though.

Okay so in case you couldn't tell they were the positives, but unlike the first installment which was almost flawless this one deserves some harsh criticism:

• It takes half an hour too long for anything decent to happen.
• The love story does NOT need to be there, but I guess it keeps girlfriends interested.
• Why are the Chevrolet Beat and Trax so heavily featured and the Corvette Concept and Volt almost ignored?
• What is the deal with all the important plot points that make a mockery of the first film?
• Slapstick is great in a film like this when used sparingly, Michael Bay, take note: this was not sparing use of slapstick.
• What's the deal with the sudden drop in CGI quality for the ten minute period towards the end?

So, knowing these limitations you should have a grand old time. Melbourne it seems is gripped by Revenge Of The Fallen mayhem as very few cinemas had tickets available. The Coburg Drive-In however was the venue of choice and arriving an hour early meant only lining up for tickets for about 20 minutes... Score.

Now if you're going to see a car-based film at the drive in its best to go in either a car with awesome 5.1 channel sound, or something muscled up, hardcore and butch as fuck.

I went in a BF Falcon wagon. That is not a good start, to make it worse it was e-gas powered which takes any potential fury and replaces it with the smell of barbeque fuel. The stereo is not really what you'd call grand but at least the cargo bay is huge, or it would be if the spare wasn't mounted inside the car thanks to the gas tank living in the spare wheel well.

Never-to-mind though, I like my rides to come with excitement so when the cargo barrier decided to let go and crash awkwardly against the drivers seat you can bet your arse I was excited.

Anyway enough of that nonsense. I'd like to take a serious moment with y'all if I may. *Stands up* My name is The Mutton-chopped Mutant and I'm becoming a lard-arse.

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Awww, you pack of cunts, that's the point where you're supposed to applaud my ability to confront my problems head on, haven't you ever been to an AA meeting? No? Oh, that'd just be me then.

Okay so these mornings when I get out of the shower I'm confronted by the reflection of a man with a hefty gut hanging off the front of him. I've looked around but I can't see anyone else in the bathroom with me so it must be me stacking on the poundage.

Being the pro-active individual I am, I've taken steps to counter-act this shit before I turn into a walking Big Mac Meal. Since Thursday evening I've been lacing up my runners and... wait for it... running.

Now I'd like to explain that I'm a smoker with an aversion to any physical activity outside the bedroom, this means I usually make it three doors down from my house before I'm grunting like a convulsing pig with sweat pouring from my every orifice. Attractive, wouldn't you say?

This has to be overcome though and drastic times call for drastic measures. My goal at the end of this is to look like the emaciated young tyke I was in high school, but to have also gained five kilograms, replacing my jiggling largeness with refined, powerful muscle.

Pretty ambitious huh? I've got this awesome running schedule all worked out and I'm throwing in 25 sit ups, 25 push ups and 25 girlie push ups (from the knees) as a starting regime which will be built up over time. To prove I'm fucking delirious I also walked from Carlton to Collingwood back to Carlton then rode my bike from Carlton to Abbotsford and around Princes Park.

I know, right? In, like, a matter of days I should have thighs like a hungarian shot-putter. So, who wants to join me for a jog some time? Any takers? At all? Argh, fuck the lot of you! 

The Workings Of The Warped

Please tell me I'm not the only filthy-minded little misfit out there. I know that to be polite you'll all nod your heads knowingly at what I'm about to say, then whisper behind your hands about what a deprived little freak I really am, but here goes anyway.

A couple of nights ago I was on the tram on my way home from work. Usually I view tram-time as a great opportunity to people watch. I'm a bit of a fantasist so I like to invent little scenarios to fill in the back story of people I know nothing about.

"That tall bird in the floral blouse, she lost her job two weeks ago and now just rides into the city each day to sit across from her old office to seethe with rage and plot implausible revenge scenarios. The goth kid in the stairwell with long hair and too many piercings, he aspired to be a high end male model until his dreams were dashed by the jock-brigade at high-school delivering him into the clutches of anti-conformity."

And so it goes for anyone who takes my eye, whatever the reason may be. Usually once I'm off the tram those people are forgotten about and life goes on for me and for them, even though it's not the life I plotted out for them in my mind.

The other day though, a guy got on the tram in the city and I started my usual scenario-planning. "Okay so he looks a little bit Forty Year Old Virginesque... I wonder if this guy really is a forty year old virgin?"

"Maybe he is, perhaps he's just dying to have a little action. He'd go alright too I reckon. Okay so he's not the height of fashion, but those black jeans and that navy T-shirt aren't totally out of place."

"He's tall and thin and naturally olive skinned. I wonder what he'd look like with those clothes off? Would he he be gentle and romantic or more of a rough assertive type."

"I bet he's got a hairy chest and despite his thin build he'd be pretty well hung."

On and on the internal monologue continued - then I changed gear from thinking filthy things about a total random stranger to worrying about his welfare.

"There's no wedding band on his finger, does he have someone waiting for him to get home? Is there a guy or girl at home cooking him dinner and watching the clock, counting down the minutes until he walks in the door?"

"Does he have kids, if so how many? Does he live with them or does he only get access to them every couple of weeks?"

"I wonder what he does for a living. Is he comfortably set up or struggling to make ends meet. Does he have any family anywhere? Is he away from home and does he miss it if he is?"

Before long I realised I was staring straight at this stranger on the tram. He wasn't looking in my direction so hadn't noticed me. I began to feel guilty that I'd thought such explicit things about him earlier.

I focused on the passing cars outside the tram window, but my mind kept wandering back to this man I knew nothing about. I wanted to know more but knew better of pursuing it.

My stop came up and I disembarked. The cold night air hit my face and crept in through my coat. I tilted my head into the breeze and began to stride home.

My tram ride was over, but this time the stranger on the tram was still puzzling me.

"Where was his stop? How far was his walk home? Who was waiting for him at the other end?"

And the most difficult question of all: "Does anyone ponder these things about me?"

Dan Doesn't Live Here

So last night I was relaxing in my parlour with dinner gently simmering on the stove and the subtle sounds of elctro-euro-funk teasing my ears. I sighed a deep, relaxing sigh. After a glorious day of cruising around the rolling hills of central Victoria nothing could be better.

Then the doorbell rang. I looked at my watch for no other purpose then to confirm that a door-to-door salesman had indeed called upon me at dinner time. That’s usually how it goes.

I got up and answered the door expecting to deliver a curt ‘thanks, but why not fuck off and leave me in peace’. Instead I was greeted by a weedy looking nerdish chap with a hefty looking back pack slung over one shoulder and a plastic bag filled with takeaway food in his other hand.

“Uh, hi. Is Dan home?” he enquired.

“Sorry man, no Dan here” I replied, then pushed on “What number did Dan give you?”

“Number 36” He said.

“Uh huh” Said I “Well this is number 36, Is Dan a uni student?” I enquired.

“No man, Dan works full time” Came the response.

“Oh, my mistake, well then does Dan at least live in a share house?” I quizzed

“Yeah, that’s right” Replied the geek, desperate to get off my front porch.

“Dan isn’t a doctor is he?” I went on, the guy to my left is, you see.

“Nah” replied the increasingly nervous nerd.

“Oh, then I think you want that place there” I said, pointing to my right.

“Thanks, sorry about that” Trilled the nerd as he skipped off my front step and bolted for the house next door.

This is not the first time someone has come and knocked on my door looking for Dan, it would appear Dan doesn’t know his address. Often Dan’s guests arrive closer to midnight so I was thankful this one called at a more reasonable hour. I’m sure enough of Dan’s friends have been traumatised by having me answer the door in little more than my jocks.

I’ve spoken about Dan’s midnight visitors to friends of mine before. Their recommendation is that I tell the door-knockers that Dan is waiting for them, drag them inside, lure them into my bedroom, drop my drawers and introduce my ‘little Danny boy’. As tantalising as that sounds I can’t see it happening any time soon. Plus Dan’s friends are an all-sorts variety of seriously unattractive dufuses (or should that be dufii?).

Meanwhile I’m still waiting for a knock from the bear of my dreams offering to take me away from all this to his country estate in the rolling hills of central Victoria. Why haven’t you knocked yet?

It's Been A While

The other day I got to thinking about how it's been such a long time since I did the ol' self portraiture thing. Seeing as I'd just rugged myself up to fend off the rather offensive Melbourne winter I figured: No time like the present.

Now, as an aside - I know that within Australia, Melburnians are somewhat renowned for their fondness of black, but I'd just like to go on the record as confirming that I didn't grow up in Melbourne and, whilst black is nice, I figure it's better used sparingly.

I'm all for a splash of colour, although that said I am rather fond of grey - that could just be the pasty Irish boy inside who doesn't look good in sold black coming out though.

Of course in keeping with my new-found fondness of not smiling I couldn't help but look like scowly cantankerous prick that I really am deep down inside.

I also managed to find my old scarf from two winters ago that I thought was long gone. Gee I missed it. Wrapped one around my neck like this it's still long enough for both ends to clear the floor by about four inches, plus come summer it can be converted into a funky looking halter top. Needless to say, I don't wear it that way very often... At least not until I work my gut off.

I'm really trying to reach out to my readers lately - does it show?

Of course it aint easy trying to look good for the camera, at least not for me. To get five good photos I had to take about fifty. That really isn't much of a success rate. After all that posing and fame-whoring I just had to sit down. I was plain exhausted.

Now be a gem and go fetch your poor tired Mutant a beer would you? I can't keep up this hectic pace all night!

Anyway enough of that, maybe next time I'll show you what a bad hair day looks like. I haven't decided... I'm having one right now and damn is my trigger finger busy. grab my camera while you're up, huh?

Atta girl.

A Frenzied Fan Of Ferguson

So, whoda thunk slopping around in the mud all weekend would be wicked fun – but it was.

My long weekend back in the country was a total hoot. It rained all weekend and was cold as charity but by fuck did I have fun! I know I promised photographs, but thanks to the shit weather most of them came out as nothing more than grey smudgy nothingness… stupid digital camera. I got one photo all weekend that actually worked and it wasn’t even my bloody tractor. Next time, Gadget. Next time.

Anyway, its been a couple of years since I’ve been along to the Echuca Steam, Horse and Vintage Rally, held at Rotary Park on the banks of the Campaspe River. I used to go every year but since I moved away that got harder to achieve. It was so awesome to turn up this year though and see so many of the same old faces. People who are madly passionate about their vintage machinery and always keen for a yarn. Having not seen them for a number of years only makes then twice as keen to catch up for a chinwag.

As usual there was old John Deers, McCormick Farmalls, Howards, Cases, Internationals, Fordsons, Minneapolis Molines, Massey Harrises and David Browns along with a shitload of other old tractors. There was cars, horses, stationary steam engines, massive steam powered traction engines as well as displays from farriers, blacksmiths and country cooking too good to ignore with damper and scones with jam and cream being my firm favourites.

I got me an awesome new belt buckle too. I’ll be wearing it everywhere so if you see me ask me to show you. It’s a big heavy brass buckle from my tractor club with a grey Fergie tractor in the middle of it and the club name around the outside. It is seven kinds of awesome and I love it to bits! Also my old man was awarded life membership to the club, after over fifteen years of organising the rally site for the club as well as countless other bits and pieces he’s done I believe it was well deserved and couldn’t be prouder!

Anyway – I promised there would be photos but I can deliver only one. That there ute and trailer are the preferred modes of transport for the family tractors, the tractor loaded up there ready to roll belongs to my oldest brother, it’s a Ferguson FE 35, these were a Ferguson tractor built with the assistance of Massey Harris. The rear axle and gearbox housings have MHF (for Massey Harris Ferguson) as part of the castings. Most people are probably more familiar with the red and grey MF 35 which is essentially the same tractor but built under the new Massey Ferguson name which is still around today.




Next time I get home I’ll snap off some pics of my girl, the Ferguson TE-A 20, plus I’ll try to get Dad’s Ford Ferguson 9N included as well for good measure!

Anyway after a weekend of plodding around in the mud, of hazy steam in heavy mist, of chugging steam engines and popping old petrols, and crazed vintage enthusiasts I’m exhausted… Can’t wait for next year!

This Is What Happens When It Doesn't Happen

So, I was going to post a post about, well fuck knows what actually. I was planning in the ol’ ‘sit in front of a compter, slam my head against the keyboard a few times and see if the resulting concussion causes anything interesting to run out of my ears’ approach. However there are a couple of things that mean that won’t be happening.

For starters it’s too bloody cold. I’m sitting a big, early twentieth century shed which is open at both ends with the wind howling through in bitter gusts. My fingers refuse to move the way I want them too, so rather than backspacing my way through a whole post I’m ready to give up and sit on my hands until the feeling and colour returns.

Secondly, some people have no tact. My morning buzz was totally killed by a combination of mentally unbalanced customers and conclusion jumping co-workers. Okay I’m not going to pretend I’m without blame here. Shit went down and I started in motion the series of events that just escalated. Long story short, I broke my own rule about crying at work. Okay, so it wasn’t for a sympathy vote, I actually had the good sense to switch on my voicemail hide in my office and have a private blubber, but still – mood killer much?

Thirdly, actually I don’t have a third reason really – maybe the time ting is my third ‘not posting’ excuse. See right now I’m supposed to be washing my car, then I’m supposed to be packing my bags, then I’m going to drive 200 kilometres in a northward-ish direction to Echuca (on the Victoria/New South Wales border) for a vintage machinery rally. Sounds thrilling, no?

There’ll be stationary engines, tractors, blacksmiths, cars, motorbikes, horses and wood-fire baked scones. The air will be heavy with steam and smoke and something about the cold and the oldness and revival of yesteryear is just magical. I’ll let you in on a dirty little secret too: I own a piece of machinery that’ll be on display there. A 1948 Ferguson TE-A 20. No shit! I’ll be sure to grab a few photos over the weekend and tell you all about it.

Oh yeah, and it’s a long weekend here, with Monday off for the Queen’s birthday. Thanks Liz! So, what are you all up to this weekend? Whatever you do, make sure you do it well enough to go down in infamy should you get caught! Have fun – be safe – say no to drugs, and on that note, I’ll be off kids!