A Particularly Shit Moustache - Part III

Like buying a VCR in 2005, my Particularly Shit Moustache and I made some questionable life decisions last night. If It were able, It would bristle indignantly at the memory, but the best my Particularly Shit Moustache can do is commit to a barely distinguishable quiver if the breeze and light align perfectly enough to find the surprisingly rigid blonde strands and stir them to movement.

            My Particularly Shit Moustache seems to have little memory of what actually transpired, though the scent of beer and the feeling of self-loathing permeating It, gives away the gist of Its involvement in my activities: a slightly furry filter between my mouth and alcohol, convinced of Its own notion that it keeps out bad spirits. This morning, however, neither of us believed that any evil apparitions were successfully kept out. My Particularly Shit Moustache needs to work on this aspect of Its being if It is to be an active and valued member of my face.

            Unfortunately what can be assured, is that my Particularly Shit Moustache received no compliments.

            I placated It this morning by shaving the rest of my face, thus highlighting my Particularly Shit Moustache. It now has The Place of Honour on my face. My Particularly Shit Moustache is pleased with this development and has made it clear that It expects to always be treated so. Basically it wants to be catered for like a penguin in Norway.

A Particularly Shit Moustache - Part II

This was supposed to be a daily thing, but yesterday was the Cup. Public Holidays make the most earnest of desires collapse in pools of alcohol. 

            This was the first time my Particularly Shit Moustache had been exposed to this spectacle. Thus, we felt it prudent to ignore trying to get something up yesterday on account of the fact Its transparent blondeness was glistening with beer and wine: a lubrication which made writing difficult, but was nonetheless felt called for on account of how underwhelmed my Particularly Shit Moustache was by the whole event.

Interestingly enough, Its reaction to the Cup matched the reaction of anyone who happened to see It yesterday. My Particularly Shit Moustache is underwhelming, like a duck who you thought could do algebra, but who can only solve the easiest of fractions… at best.

            Today, however, It has emerged a little clearer, more full-bodied, like a Pinot Gris shimmering under a cloud in front of the sun. It remains Particularly Shit. It will forever be Particularly Shit. But at least today It promised to be more than just fluff hanging from under my nose, atop my lip, and seemed to strive for something greater than merely being gold. There is red in there, in my Particularly Shit Moustache.

A Particularly Shit Moustache - Part 1

Today is the beginning.

Today I have decided to let my Particularly Shit Moustache grow. Today, as I was shaving, after four days of being free of the Blade, I relented from removing the strands—the straggling blonde hairs striving, it seems, for the light—that constitute my Particularly Shit Moustache. Today I peered upon my Particularly Shit Moustache and felt a guarded pride, like a father who is delighted at witnessing the birth of his child, but also anxious about how alien this child looks … Could I have helped create that? Could it be that I am not actually its father? Do I need a paternity test?

After I shaved, I looked upon my Particularly Shit Moustache. It was Particularly Shit.

It is Particularly Shit.

Today, I wondered what adventures me and my Particularly Shit Moustache might get up to. It is currently mute on the topic. I am sure it will open up over time, as more struggling hairs arrive to give it the illusion of substance. 

things that the Abbott Government believes in instead of climate change

1. Yetis.
2. Koalas, enraged with syphilis, are savaging the domestic cat population and desperately need culling. Hence: Operation Rise & Fall of the Drop Bear.
3. Bushfires are like fairies: if you say you don’t believe in them, they cease to exist.
4. All men named Art, practice art.
5. Greythorn is a real suburb.
6. Morgan Freeman’s voice is the solution to all the world’s problems. Particularly the so-called, ‘penguin issue.’
7. Chupacabra is getting around QLD killing the banana trees.
8. Poor people don’t drive, nor do they care for education. Plus they all worship The Mothman.
9. There’s a subspecies of Gum Tree in Tasmania acting oddly: that is, autonomously. This genus is a threat and needs killing before the trees start hurling boulders at Hobart.
10. Your face went to the zoo on a scholarship funded by your mum’s moustache’s platonic fling with a professor fond of liturgies, corn flakes and dusty rooms filled with old armour.
11. Bunyips.
12. The numerous and exciting health benefits of Cocoa Puffs!
13. Sweden and Switzerland are the same country.
14. Coal is good for humanity, and, far from being a punishment, to receive a lump of coal as a child at Christmas is to be symbolically welcomed as a citizen of humanity.
15. The penguin recently knighted in Norway is now its King.[1]
16. The loch ness monster is swimming around Darling Harbour.
17. There are actually Orcs in New Zealand who are a major threat to that nation’s gentry. Interventionist action, however, has been complicated by the Orcs' Catholicism. 
18. The world is a poorer place in the absences of: Killing Heidi, Taxi Ride, The Androids, The Danni Minogue Corporation, Human Nature, Nicky Webster.
19. The government does not exist on the teat, and at the whims, of News Corp.
20. The bogeyman is real and it lives under Joe Hockey’s bed. It’s probably poor.
21. The polar ice caps are melting because polar bears breathe too much and they have a particularly warm breath. Also, all polar bears are left handed. They're failure of ambidexterity is their own issue and probably why they're failing as a species.
22. The Cosmic Duck Whose Quack Fails To Echo In Eternity.

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[1] http://www.nbcnews.com/id/26219632/ns/world_news-weird_news/t/king-penguin-receives-norwegian-knighthood/#.VFa2g_mUd8E

i suck at tinder: a true story

I wake up after another night out.

            I feel a tad worse for wear. I try to figure out what I actually got up to.

            I lean over and grab my phone from near my lamp. There are no messages or alerts or anything to give me some notion of the last evening’s activities. I keep scrolling across.

            And there it is. The little red flame, like a distorted upside down heart.

            Tinder.

            Dammit, Dave. Not again.

            Oh well, now it’s there, might as well give it another crack. I open it up and begin the soul-sapping process of judging women based on a handful of photos (mostly selfies, pics with cats/dogs, picturesque poses in front of international tropical/cultural/desert settings, or partying group shots), some Facebook affiliated ‘Shared Interests’ (a lot of ladies, it seems, like Seriously Chuffed Goats), and a brief ‘About’ description, which can be boiled down to statements like: ‘I live to travel,’ ‘I live for the gym,’ ‘I live for funny guys,’ ‘Intelligence is sexy,’ ‘Extra points for beards and/or tattoos,’ ‘I’m not DTF,’ ‘Creeps need not apply’ (as if that will stop them), ‘Not interested in your gym selfies, your abs, or pictures of you with a comatose tiger’ (guys actually do that?), ‘New to Melbs, just wanna make some friends to show me around,’ and ‘[insert inspirational/ reflective/political/Anchorman quote].’

            Let the swiping begin. Let the initially careful analysis and consideration of each profile slowly descend into the furious action of just swiping right to a) see if it’s working, or b) see if there is anyone out there at all who has judged me worthy. Let another round of few, to absolutely no, matches follow in its wake.

Well, ‘real’ matches. I don’t count it when that curiously joyous moment of physical validation which accompanies a Tinder match is immediately undercut by a message that offers the ‘full GF experience’ at reasonable rates.

Yeah, thanks, but I can do my whoring on my own time. Without an app.

            See, every time I embark on this shallow quest of left-for-no, right-for-yes, I realise that although I’m good, even excellent, at a great many things, Tinder is most certainly not one of them.

            I know this from addict-like practice instinctively and rationally. Yet, there is still some part of me that will seek out the app store when I’m not really paying attention and then, bang, its back for another round.

            It’s probably a mix of interrelated things that keeps allowing it to catch me unawares. Sudden surges in confidence (my ego is a wondrously fluctuating beast) leads me to mistakenly think, ‘ah hell, I’d be stupid not to in my current form!’ Tinder then presents itself as a really easy and impersonal option to play the numbers game: you get to faux-approach a lot of women without the rigmarole of having to, you know, ‘approach’ them. Finally, it is the perpetual inquiry from people around me when they find out I’m single: ‘you on Tinder?’ To which I usually reply, ‘nah, I’m shit at it.’ The seed, though, is again planted.

Later, despite my proclamations of being done with it, I’ll download Tinder, because it seems like my confidence, alongside an ease of access and this random assortment (of usually committed) people give me some kind of permission, bypassing both the awkwardness of being on it in the first place and the simple knowledge that, for me, it doesn’t work.

I ask myself then: why not? What is it about me that makes me so terrible at Tinder? Or at least so unattractive a prospect?

Besides the fact that I cannot grow a beard and refuse to scar my porcelain skin with tattoos—both of which are apparently mighty attractive in our day and age—I take awful photos, which is of course not ideal for a dating app designed for immediate aesthetic, skin-deep gratification, where coupling success is achieved, and measured, by means of appreciating how good someone looks in a few pics.

For me, who has always struggled when stared down by a camera, this is both a conscious and unconscious problem.

Consciously, I will often make stupid faces. Contorting my mighty large head into a variety of rubber expressions designed to shock and awe. My mouth will usually be wide open, my double-chin out and about with full bravado, one eye slightly closed, and my nostrils flared. Impressive though these photos may be on some level, I wouldn’t say that they are attractive. And there are a disturbingly high number of them. I've mastered the art of the dumb face when someone catches me unaware with a camera.

Unconsciously, my go to smile for pictures is kind of vanilla and a little bit disconcerting in its rigidness. In these, I poke my head slightly forward, rip my mouth open into a grinning rictus to expose my clenched teeth, and then freeze. It’s still and slightly unnatural, and my eyes are never quite focused. There is such an underlying intensity and concentration to look natural, that naturalness has packed its bags and said, 'fuck this, good luck buddy.' Turning around, the naturalness then says, with sincere pity, 'sorry, but without me mate, you look like a lot like a slightly unhinged manikin. Like a ventriloquist doll.'

Even then, with all my flaws at the end of the lens, I would think that some lady out there would be able to look past a couple of odd photos and mutter to themselves, ‘actually, not too bad.’

But, no.

This leaves me with only one possible option for my failures at Tinder: I’m too attractive. So good looking that it’s actually intimidating. Even in my awful photos does this sheer, sun-blinding hotness reach out and, alas, transpire against me. For who could be self-assured enough to swipe right to this?

It is my blessing. And curse.

Anyway, I’m going to delete it again.

I’ll be back in a fortnight.

Some True Facts About Quail

Over the last couple of weeks I have been lucky enough to eat some particularly fine quail. Although small, quail packs quite the flavour punch, like there are a bunch of people engaged in a lively, albeit humorous, debate in your mouth, which rapidly descends into a friendly, almost sexual, play fight that features the gratuitous use of pillows and, eventually, pies … probably made from quail. Who would have known that this small flightless bird could attain such rarefied airs of sublime deliciousness? Well I didn’t. Indeed, I realised I know very little about quail, which is clearly a failure of Australian educational practices. I had to remedy this absence of knowledge. Thus, after some exhaustive research this morning, I present Some True Facts About Quails to educate us all about this delicacy that we like in and around our mouths.

·       The word ‘quail’ is often thought to be derived from the latin, quaipollus, which essentially means ‘tiny poultry.’ However, its etymological roots lie in the French word, quaileux, which translates roughly to ‘flightless morsel.’

·       The quail can be genetically traced back to the velociraptor of the Cretaceous Period.

·       The quail’s flightlessness belies its surprizing agility and uncanny ability to locate rabbit burrows for safety.

·       Like the duck, the noise of the quail is a robust ‘quack.’ Unlike the duck, however, the quail’s quack is capable of echoing.

·       It was the spirit animal of the Mongolian conqueror, Genghis Khan, who learnt his exquisite horseback bow skills chasing them around the steppes of Asia. He ate no less than five whole quails before engaging in any battle, displays of (unspecified) might, or romps of virile fornication.

·       The quail is the unofficial bird of Scotland. They believe it espouses values of rugged freedom underneath an exterior too small to actually do much about it.

·       Although it has fallen out of use, to be called a ‘quail’ in the Elizabethan era was quite the complement. By way of analogy, to be dubbed a ‘quail’ then, is to be named a ‘total babe’ now. ‘That Queen Elizabeth is a quail, sir.’ ‘Yes, quite a quail.’

·       The first documented recipe for quail is attributed to the 16^th century German alchemist, Günter Gertler. Believing the flesh of the quail—which he held sacred—to be the key in turning base metals into gold, Günter slow-cooked it in a sauce of goat’s milk, magnesium and sodium, with a dash of chlorine. Unfortunately, the concoction failed to convert iron to gold, but, curious at the robust scent of his work, upon taking a nibble of quail, Günter was astounded to discover it was delicious to the palate. For a brief period, before the schnitzel assumed prominence and people realised it was causing them all severe heartburn, goat’s milk chlorinated quail was the dish of Germany.

·       Although the main dietary source of the quail is small nuts, they have also been known to devour insects and hunt down field mice (true to their velociraptor heritage).

·       The collective noun for a group of quail is ‘a grounded.’

·       They make terrific pets for young children as they are prolific at games of fetch, although it is recommended that twigs, as opposed to smaller marbles, are used.

·       The quail will viciously defend its eggs in March, thus the notable of absence of steak tartare with quail egg from menus during this period.

·       In BMX parlance, a ‘quail’ is the manoeuvre when a rider goes over a jump and doesn’t get any air.

·       The source of its deliciousness has been the frequent study of many fine food-science minds. Theories range from their diet of field mice, to more theological notions of their apparent godliness embodied in the universality of quail appreciation. The only common hypothesis, however, seems to revolve around the flimsy bones of the quail, which most agree imparts some measure of its deliciousness. For some excellent elucidation on the mystery of quail flesh see: White, The Bird That Wasn’t, But Was (2000), Grey, On Matters of the Tiny Poultry (1967), and Hammersmith, Quizzically Questioning Quail’s Piquant (1876).

On Why '15 Ways To Turn a Good Girl Bad' Is Just Plain Awful

In my daily tasks of procrastination to avoid PhD-ing, I found a thought-provoking article on The Age website.[1] The article was concerned with a recent Men’s Health, in conjunction with Yahoo!7, series of, um, ‘sexual suggestions,’ from six apparent (curiously, female, although the context of their arguments are never entirely clear) (s)experts in the field. The point of these hints and tips is laid bare in its title: 15 Ways To Turn a Good Girl Bad[2]—not as in naughty, but as in naughty.  

Needless to say, The Age analysis of this piece falls very much on the ‘are-you-fucking-serious?’ side of things, and probes the pertinent question about the obsession with the idea of the ‘bad girl’: the stereotypical saucy, uninhibited minx, always on the verge of a quivering overt sexual desire, which ostensibly resides in the dark, repressed recesses of every woman, waiting to be unleashed. Essentially, the Men’s Health article argues that it is man who has ultimate control over a woman’s sexuality, that it is his right to lay claim to it, and gives guidance into how this sexuality can be provoked into a series of actions that, far from being mutually beneficial, favour the sexualised ideal of the man and, thus, his desire and personal gratification over that of the woman.

In this sense of elevating the male above the female in matters of the bedroom (or wherever suits …), 15 Ways To Turn a Good Girl Bad really does open itself up to criticism. There is something enormously problematic about thinking a man is able to, through various means of subterfuge and weird mind games, with a decidedly physical notion of ownership, control the way ‘his’ woman behaves and, more importantly, how she should behave; that this mysterious sexual beast under the skin of every woman just needs the right kind of ‘encouragement’ to be set loose. In this paradigm, he comes first (pun sort of intended).

Yet, what should be really obvious in our day and age is that women are not a pet to be unconsciously conditioned through what mostly amounts to positive and negative reinforcement. And I don’t believe I actually have to write that down. Men are in no way entitled to the sexuality of women. And in no way can it be trained to do his horny bidding.

Let’s have look at some of its suspect ‘advice’ shall we?

• The by-line reads: “Six sexperts suggest 15 ways to make her great in bed (without her even noticing)”
  Um, 'without her even noticing'? That seems like rape. Or, at least, a really messed up mythical mind control. But if she is not party to the action of sex—any action—that’s mostly rape.
• On oral sex: “‘If she’s going down on you, take her hand and show her how to use as she sucks you,’ advises Allison. ‘Many women think it’s all about the mouth, not realising how much easier—not to mention quicker—the whole ‘job’ can be using hands as well.’”
  Because the man getting off, and getting off quickly, is the most important part of any act of intimacy (this is a consistent theme in the article). Plus, he’s totally doing her a favour by making it all a little ‘easier,’ and, therefore, presumably bearable.
• On matters of vaginal tightness: “If her tunnel of love doesn’t feel as snug as you’d like, sign her up for a pilates course.”
  Firstly, in an article that has already overtly discussed ‘sucking off,’ I find the innuendo of ‘tunnel of love’ slightly peculiar—why try to sugar coat it? The feeling is that the female anatomy is yucky and needs ‘beautifying’ so that it is boiled down to amount to little more than its sexual role—much as the hypothetical woman in this article is.
  Secondly, really? She doesn’t get a say in pilates? The man just ‘signs her up,’ unbidden, because he isn’t getting the ideal amount of ‘snugness’? That strikes me as insulting on multiple levels. ‘I’ve signed you up for pilates.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I’m, um, worried about your core strength.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I just think it can be, you know, tighter, I mean, stronger.’ Ultimately, man doesn’t get a say in how woman decides to treat, or live in, her body.
• On the man wearing a blindfold: “If you want to see her complete transformation from mild-mannered to minx, stop watching.”
  The notion is that a woman is more likely to be ‘naughty’ if she is free from the gaze of male appraisal. Because nothing says, ‘I think you’re sexy,’ more than ‘I don’t want to look at you while we fuck with eyes full of judgement.’ Great self-esteem lifter that one.
• On withholding sex: “‘Sometimes women become sexually defensive or shy, because their partner is always there first, asking or angling for some action,’ according to relationship counsellor Paula Hall. ‘Stop asking and you may find her sexual appetite gets the better of her, revealing a hunger that brings out her more confident side.’”
  Well, this is just plain no fun for anyone. It’s emotionally manipulative (as The Age article notes) and, frankly, kind of cruel, leading to an assumption that confidence can come out of an adopted disinterest, which I would think is more likely to do harm to any sense of ‘confidence’ than good. Yep, all that hunger needs is more starvation!
• Using toys to “Make it easy on yourself”: “‘Getting her to the level of orgasm can be a hard slog,’ admits Spurr. So stage your own industrial revolution and bring some machinery to bed.”
  This reinforces the notion that her pleasure is a task, where a man’s is a right. And if it’s all ‘too difficult’—a ‘hard slog’—best turn to toys, not cause they might be fun or different or whatever rocks your proverbial boat in the waterbed, but because they are a convenient way to get her out of the way so the man can round the bend and quickly be tended to himself. Sex, in its way, should be easy. A means to take the mind away from other matters to narrow the focus onto intimacy. But to make this ease singular—‘easy on yourself’—misses the entire point of the, you know, coupling process.
• (there is then two final bits of advice sorted under the heading ‘==if she’s lazy …’ because, clearly, a woman who doesn’t want to have sex is just being lackadaisical; it has nothing to do with her immediate feelings or desires, which means she can easily be tricked or persuaded into being less 'lazy')
• “Give her a break”
  Not because she’s tired, or sated, or had her fun, but because the quicker she rests, the quicker he can return to the important mission of getting off himself. Be careful, then, the article advises, of abiding to the principle of ‘ladies first,’ less the man is robbed of his orgasm.
  “In the past few decades, women have learnt that orgasms, like voting and equal pay, are their right,’ says Spurr.
  We can all be grateful that at least this article is aiming to amend that particular fallacy. Next, we’ll strike down voting and equal pay rights! Men will have their rightful place at the top. 
  “[The] tide of female emancipation has led to a ‘princess-and-the-pea syndrome’—her ‘pea’ gets all the attention, while everything else gets sidelined … Stand up for your rights, man!”
  Again with the innuendo! It’s called a ‘clitoris.’ And who the hell suddenly proclaimed that sex has become solely the domain of the clit anyway? Even then, so what if it gets attention? I hardly think that that puts everything else on the ‘sidelines,’ as if it is suddenly isolated from the rest of the sexual act, sitting somewhere up in the bleachers getting crudely groped by the cool kid while the rest of relevant anatomy and feelings sit uncomfortably off to the side muttering, ‘well, what a greedy slut.’ And this is what this piece of ‘advice,’ and the article in general amounts to: slut shaming. It is loudly protesting against women who dare to control their sexuality; a sexuality, the article argues, which is rightfully the domain of men to do with as they please and spur into action according their own personal whims and fantasies. It presupposes that the woman’s fair right for an orgasm is selfish; that men need to firmly realign sex so that they are back on top (pun intended) and that if they so choose to hand out an orgasm—as if it is a fucking Christmas present—the woman should be grateful. Women, though, are not tools of male sexual gratification. And, again, I don’t believe I actually have to write that down. The act itself of sex, whether it be a one-night stand or something more serious, should be a matter of two people physically, sometimes emotionally, engaging each other for mutual satisfaction. This is idealistic, sure, but also makes the firm point that it is not just men who enjoy the act, and never men who get to control the terms of the act. This is what 15 Ways To Turn a Good Girl Bad is about: control, based around the inarguably flawed reasoning that women owe men something. I would’ve thought archaic shit like this wouldn’t pass muster anymore. But, clearly, I know nothing according to this insipid, rancid skid-mark stain of writing, lost so far up its own misogynistic arse it can see Tony Abbott residing just above its lungs reciting hashtags from #notallmen while cradling a copy of The Game under his arm. 

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[1] http://www.dailylife.com.au/news-and-views/the-obsession-with-good-girls-turned-bad-sex-tips-20140922-10kb7m.html

[2] https://au.lifestyle.yahoo.com/mens-health/sex-and-women/a/10311485/15-ways-to-turn-a-good-girl-bad/