A Particularly Shit Moustache - Part V

My Particularly Shit Moustache has been singing ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ a lot recently—probably on account of It recently proclaiming some kind of Argentinian heritage. And yesterday, when I wasn’t really paying much attention, It tried to saddle a duck and migrate to its apparent South American homeland.

            Señor bye! my Particularly Shit Moustache cried before cruelly finding out that the mallard was not big enough to support my weight also on this adventure. It failed to see that I am actually a necessary component of Its being: we cannot be separated without my Particularly Shit Moustache losing all Its identity and, at best, threadbare substance. My upper lip can be Its only home.

Still, it whipped and whipped the poor duck, attempting to get the creature to soar, but it was all to no avail. It wept: pensé patos vuelan juntos.

            The Seeing had unfortunately given my Particularly Shit Moustache a misplaced confidence, as if It actually had autonomy distinct from me. But, as I gently reminded It, most people still cannot see It without prompting. The only person who really cares about my Particularly Shit Moustache—who feels it slightly itch in slightly humid weather, who examines it in the mirror, who pets it gently in moments of mild thought—is me.

            I create It and make It live.

            My Particularly Shit Moustache didn’t take this well. We’re not on great terms at the moment.

A Particularly Shit Moustache - Part IV

An amazing thing happened on my break from work yesterday.

            I was sitting outside in the sun, reading and watching Chapel St’s finest assortment of riff raff potter by, when the perfect series of almost improbable coincidences led to The Seeing.

            Firstly, it was 3.44pm. This fact, which would usually be utterly trivial, meant the sun was sitting at a nice angle in the sky—not directly above or parallel to me; rather, sort of at the angle of my hairline. Secondly, I was positioned so that the sun slanted across my face in what could be called a rakish manner.  It didn’t shine directly at me, face-on, which would have only caused an excess of light and thus blinding to the coming miracle. Thirdly, at this very moment in time I had just had a sip of beer, followed immediately by my eyes beginning their descent downwards to view my book.

            Then it happened.

            I saw my Particularly Shit Moustache. On my face.

It was The Seeing people had been telling me about, where you can look down your nose and see your own facial hair. I had not yet been privy to this experience, forlornly relegating any vision of my Particularly Shit Moustache to the mirror.

            Yet, the perfect angle of the sun, the shimmery residual moistness amidst the bristles, the path downwards taken by my eyes and 9 days of careful cultivation came together in a moment of beautiful exposure and unveiled my Particularly Shit Moustache to me first-hand: blonde and bathed in light, like a halo for my mouth.

            Hola señor! It said.

            I don’t know when my Particularly Shit Moustache decided it was Argentinian.

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.