Scroop is here, having for some reason decided that Sunday afternoon was a good time to visit me for three days.

I never thought it necessary to mention this fact while I was living with him - perhaps it's a cheap shot, or perhaps I already felt bad enough for him being vegetarian or something. But he snores... pretty loudly.

I only feel that I should mention it now because he's keeping me awake. And it feels appropriate that I spend my idle waking moments making sure he pays in some way.

I put some music on and chatted with Shauny online for a while. Now I'm gonna try sleeping lying with my deaf ear exposed. I guess now all I can do then is pray for a quick death.

I think I'm going crazy. This morning I considered the fact that I am going to have no computer in 2 weeks time. This triggered a chain of thoughts that led inevitably to a singularity: I am going to buy a MacBook.

Why am I about to do this? It goes against every ingrained instinct I've cultivated in my recent 'saving for travel mode' commitments. For the last three months I have really put myself out to scrimp and save - well, I have gone to great lengths... I guess I haven't really gone out of my way, but it has been on my mind a lot, in any case.

I went home after a pub dinner the other night instead of hanging with Shaun at a nightclub. That counts as saving.

This morning I was overcome with the woes of nerd forethought - what would I do without a computer? I need a MacBook. Foolishly I turned to Scroop for dissuading advice, hoping for some words of counsel that might pull me from this fiscal promontory:

Paul I'm thinking of getting a laptop

Scroop Do it.

In desperation I tried to consider options other than the MacBook (about double the price of comparable non-Apple products):

Paul What's the best pc alternative that you know of?
Paul I mean, if you weren't to buy a macbook

Scroop Probably a MacBook Pro.
Paul ...

Scroop or a MacBook in black

Anyway, I'm thinking the 2GHz MacBook Pro is looking pretty good. On the other hand, I challenge you to find something that costs $3,200 that doesn't look good.

My plan from here is this: I will buy the MacBook Pro. Yes, Apple can have their pound off me. But my tourniquet for my travel expenses will be in a new 6 month interest free period on a new credit card. I discovered this morning that one can get a credit card that offers 6 months interest free on transfer debts, as well as no yearly rates and free international transactions. This seems almost awesome, as even with all that the interest rate is about 3% lower than my regular altitude card.

So yes, I have done some research. This doesn't turn me into one of those money centric people though. Just an idiot.

And yes, I also should mark this date as the moment I stopped fooling myself by imagining that I am not a consumer product whore of the lowest calibre. I remember fondly the days where I walked proudly without a mobile phone because I didn't want to be a slave to the Telcos. Farewell young pinko Paul, and may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

I am giving the Internet 24 hours to talk me out of buying a MacBook Pro. I don't want to do it, so it shouldn't be hard people! Please talk me out of it.

Totally unrelated to anything at all, and not that it bares on my mind at all, but Scroop and I are gonna need a consensus on this (we've had a few wines.)

Question 1: Is the bracket for mid twenties considered to be 24-26 or is it 23-27?

For the sake of fairness (and because Scroop thinks I'm biasing the question with my wording), I will ask this question as well:

Question 2: Is 27 considered to be mid-twenties or late-twenties?

Again, for the sake of fairness I won't say which side of this fence I'm on.

Like I said, unless we have someone else weigh in here we're gonna have to count the cat's vote, and my opinion of the cat is fairly well known.

I'd provide some sort of voting machine in this post, but I reckon anyone who can't figure out how to leave a comment doesn't deserve to have their opinion included.

Things I'm proud of for some reason.

I'm not sure why I should be proud of these traits, but here you have them:

1. I haven't used an alarm clock in about 6 years.
   Like so many people, I feel special because my internal body clock is minute-accurate. This doesn't make me more punctual for work though, because my internal body clock also has a well worn snooze button.
2. I don't move at all when I sleep.
   Why am I writing this? What is so braggable about not moving? I don't know, but it means I can use the second half of my bed for books and stuff (nobody else uses it these days). Also, I assume I can sleep like a vampire all night with my arms crossed over my chest if I so choose. Sometimes I wake in the morning with dead feet, because when I went to sleep they were hanging over the end of the bed. Additionally, though less interestingly, I don't snore either.
3. I have a D& D group that I chill with on Tuesdays.
   Though we don't actually play D& D. In fact, last week we went down to the video store and rented out The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Stand back ladies.
4. I think I'm quite good at programming.
   Note that I didn't say I'm a good programmer, or that I'm good at my job - good programmers make themselves do the boring stuff as well as the interesting stuff, and being good at your job involves filling in your timesheets on time and not being cynical about management.
5. I don't like taking all the credit for things, even when I probably deserve it.
   In general, I tend towards humility. Is it ironic that I write this in this list?
6. People's mums generally like me. Not just girls' mums, but friends mums. I think it's because I care.
7. I can draw better than most non-artists.
   Though not as good as real artists.
8. I've lived with lots of people.
   Over 50 after leaving high-school, at last count. Mainly because of guild house, and I got lots of anecdotes and stories from my various experiences.
9. If someone starts telling a story, stops, and goes 'oh, don't worry' I have the ability to just forget it and literally not worry about it.
   I wasn't born with this superpower - it was instilled into me by an accident with radioactive substances and a girl.
10. I used to clean up at pool.
    At uni I was half of a super pool-playing duo (with 'Seedy' Simon Anderson) that never had to buy drinks or pay for pool because we owned the table all night. Much respect, of course, was rained down on us for being consistently better at pool than drunken pub locals.
11. I don't buy heaps of useless crap.
    But when I buy something (especially food), it's generally an expensive something.
12. I suck at fishing, but love it.
    This is just something I like to brag about - I only go fishing a few times a year and I never catch anything decent, but I really love it and have an awesome fishing rod. Possibly this is what makes me so cool.
13. I love cooking
    And I know a few good recipes too. Me and food are like peas and carrots.
14. I have an almost quintissential bachelor house
    Having lived there for a year and a half, I only last week bought a mop. There is no art on the walls and no indoor plants, and most of the furniture we have came with the house. The bathroom only gets cleaned when we think a girl is coming over. My bedroom is an organic mess that only gets stronger over time. And for some reason, I am proud of being this sort of person.

Things I'm not so proud of.

I have character flaws that I'm too lazy to deal with. First off the rank is probably laziness, though I only now realise that I haven't put that in the list. And I probably wont.

1. I largely started paying attention to good movies and music because I was sick of not knowing what my best friend was talking about.
   The old Paul: 'Fincher eh? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I like his old stuff'. 'Nah, I preferred Kurasowa before he sold out'. 'Um, yeah, Lost In Translation was a masterpiece for some reason'. About 8 years ago I started wearing black skivvies and sporting a van-dyke and started sprouting sentences about movie directors rather than actors. When Mostyn's left, he took care to make sure I'd continue to feel humbled in the movie trivia department by leaving his arguably more knowledgeable little brother.
2. I tend to get belligerent when drunk.
   Well, mainly towards my friends. I have been known to get verbally abusive towards those I respect the most, though fortunately not so much with strangers. Hence my new catchism: lets go get belligerent. I've told Bob to tell me when this starts happening, and this system seems to be working out. Luckily my friends are by-and-large either quite tolerant or abusive alcoholics as well.
3. I retell stories ad nauseum.
   This is because I have a terrible memory. To make up for this, I almost always start my stories with 'have I told you about this before?' and, unlike most people, I generally don't retell it if the person says 'yes'. Why do people do that? People, don't retell stories if someone says 'yes, you have told me before.' Oh look, I turned one of my 'not-prouds' into a 'proud' - it's my list.
4. I can't grow good facial hair.
   I know there are good genes in my family, because both of my little brothers can grow good beards, but my face is a landmine of bare spots.
5. I don't keep in contact with people I don't see on a daily basis, or who don't try to contact me.
   Sadly enough, this includes family (immediate and removed) - I told my relatives in Germany, who were kind enough provide me with accommodation and free tours of Cologne, that I would definitely send them photos and call when I got home. That is where this story ends.
6. I have an iPod
   and I spend my nights weeping about my sold out soul while I listen to emo music, dimly lit in a pool of soft light cast by my iPod screen.

What a cleansing exercise. I know I'll think about other things, and I'll add them to the ends of these lists when I do.

Yesterday Mostyn and I visited the British Museum. This place is an imposing structure that we could not have possibly hoped to fully explore in a single day - my tourist book says I should pick any two rooms (of the hundreds) in which to spend all my time, else I'll be rushing around not taking anything in.

Anyway, we decided to coast through the Egyptian section taking in what we could. At closing time, in fact, we were probably about halfway through the Egyptian section, drifting through a room of Predynastic (about 3500 BC) artifacts.

Looking at a few wicker baskets and sharpened flint stones I heard a soft bump and 'ow' beside me. I turned to find Mostyn rubbing his forehead - a small forehead smudge on the glass.

I imagined my backpack sitting in a display cabinet 5000 years in the future, with a small sign above it proclaiming that 'in the Cechnerian period the ability to carry many things was a sign of virility.' Some hairless, large eyed and grey skinned evolved species of man meanders on by, kinda interested. He stops and unconciously leans forward to take in some detail, somehow surprised when his head impacts with the glass display cabinet.

Scroop and I had a discussion that involved Bonnie Tyler's 80s hit Total Eclipse of the Heart. Since that time 4 days ago I have had that FUCKING song running stunt circles on its motorbike, inside the confined cage of my skull. The deafening roar dulls my other senses, and I just can't stop the plaintative whisper "turn around briiiiight eeeyes!" repeating like a broken MP3.

I think it's because the song doesn't ever end. Next time you have it playing in WinAmp or iTunes or whatever, or perhaps while you are watching the Video Hits clip in Media Player, keep an eye out for this. It was a very distinctive part of many 80s songs (Hangin' Tough by New Kids, for example.) After the incredibly intense climax, where the performer stands above the camera with fists clenched looking incredibly emotional towards the sky, with some unexplainable bright light directly behind them transforming their [fe]mullet into a stunning halo, the song naturally winds down to a simple piano tinkling over the singer's whispered spent passion. The singer slowly looks down at her fists before clutching them to her chest. At this moment take a glance at the progress bar - you'll notice the song is yet half way through... a false ending, if you will, that then proceeds to build up to another climax.

This is the problem. In the stormy depths of my mind a thin layer of conciousness floats directly on top of my subconcious like a rainbow-coloured oil-slick. It is here the song is trapped, looping indefinitely, and I have no direct control over its movements - the general process would involve my subconciousness pushing up another song after the completion of the current one, you see, which is often a happy arrangement. But every time it seems the song comes to an end, my subconciousness seems to mistake the ending for the false ending that comes halfway through the song, and pushes up the second climax!

Yes, this rant is a jumbled maelstrom. It is a reflection of my tumultuous mental state.

Some people have the great fortune of living a movie. The chick from Gorillas in the Mist lived in a movie, as did Lawrence of Arabia. OK, these are bad examples of people who have great fortune living in movies, but I hope I didn't lead you too far astray of the thesis of my introduction - that some people know what it was like to be there...

Brother Matty and Bob, in happier times...

Recently I've had the feeling that I've been living some self-referential movie, or a documentary. I'm living a documentary about the making of a movie, that itself may or may not be becoming a thin allegory of a particular person's life. Or perhaps I'm watching a preview release of that documentary. Anyway I won't tell you who that person is, other than to say it is Director Bob.

Bob is making a movie about a girl who I feel reflects his own inner hip chick. She's a kinda op-shoppy suburbanite; a cartoon drawer with awesome chubby and weird friends. She's a little estranged of her (eccentric) dad, and likes men. She once meets a computer programmer named Paul, who decides he doesn't like her. I'll let you decide which of these aspects reflect the warm glow of Bob's personality, and which are polished reflections of his hopes, fears and relationships.

I've always imagined that perhaps writing a novel, or any creative fiction, would involve sitting outside myself, shoehorning an aspect that isn't a part of me into an imaginary entity that doesn't exist. Bob has shown me that such a creation can be a result of experimenting with personal expression, when even the characters you don't have in you are defined by relationships in your life.

I've watched the sometimes funny, sometimes sad and sometimes uplifting saga of his movie rise and fall, harden him as his personal trial by fire as I would watch simple strokes on a once blank canvas resolve into a thrilling work of art.

I need an easy friend...
I'd say Bob would have had this character brewing in him for a long time now, as none of his creations so far have approached the richness and depth she flaunts. Anyone who needs convincing of Bob's feelings towards his young light need only read his web site.

She turned her head when Director Teja walked into Bob's life, smiling as she smiled and cutely assuming new mannerisms and hair styles. She accepted this new lady by reflecting Bob's vision of her.

Bob brings her round some times for a script reading, and in many ways this has become our chance to have a talk. We interact with her through Bob, making suggestions and pointing out inconsistencies or whatever. Bob gives her a chance to interact with us through other characters in the script. And many of us are in the script in one way or another. It's a fascinating thing to ruminate on.

Other than that I don't really feel qualified to commentate on the creative experience. While we often offer advice and plot ideas, our cool new characters and twists usually get gently set aside, as they are often stupid.

You hang me out to dry...
An important part of making a film is realising which responsibilities are yours and which must be delegated to others. Problems became apparent when the delegation went awry and one wily 'producer' gets the idea that producing involves telling people how important you are at parties, and nothing much else. A recent conversation after a successful public script reading went something like:

'Producer' Gesturing expansively and breathing wetly in Paul's face
See this pub? Those benches? That big fucking sign over there? I could make this anywhere. You need this somewhere, tomorrow, I'd make it for you! Man! I'm going to fly to Melbourne next weekend to start making two more movies! I'm gonna make so many movies!
Paul quickly finishing his beer, looking at his watch, grabbing his girlfriend's attention
wow...
'P' Hey! You know... you... you know I got a fine the other day! At the university! What fucking bollocks!
P I see... what did you do?
'P' I rang them up! You have no fucking idea who you are dealing with do you! I said. I'm never working with your university again! Not even if you come crawling back to me on your hands and knees! I said... Then she called me back five minutes later all like: s... s... sorry sir! It was my fault! We are giving you a free lifetime pass to our parking lots!
P That'll teach them to inspect their parking lots...
'P' You're fucking right! Fucked if I'm paying a $25 parking ticket!

Subscribers to Bob's blog will know that this 'Producer' is assuming the rights to the script Bob wrote, and wants to get another director. The injustice is plain, theres not much more to be said about that. There are recourses and possibilities - Bob will never give up, and every new corner both uncovers new promise and closes open doors.

But anyone can tell why Bob's really worried - he brought his Lady into this mess, and now he's starting to think she's not going to be there to help him move on. But the truth is that Director Bob will always have his Lady with him. One way or another I get the feeling that she will always be in his movies in some form.

I can see you every night...
It is one thing to have your creation taken from you by some Machiavellian plot planned ahead by some cunning cold-blooded strategist. It is quite another for your own naïveté to place it into the hands of a bumbling egotist. It seems from my standing point that Bob makes the large (curiously warm) section of the talent pool in his production team. The chances of someone like Inept Producer pulling a worthy name as director are slim, and I'm sure a less worthy name will soon have the rest of the production team sidling over to Bob's corner with platitudes and Free Cake.

Let's not let this get out of perspective; let's let our faith lie where the talent is.

I wrote this entry on the 24th June, 2005. Subsequent events (documented herein) prompted me to forget to post it. I'm posting now to fill a gap while I compose a horrifying account of recent events... startling!

As a computer geek, I have a mandatory video game persona. I explored this fully before and during my university years, but wantonly smothered it in the middle of the night just before I entered the workforce. The kind of late-night self abuse one subjects oneself to is just not viable if one must maintain steady working hours.

A unique opportunity arose a few weeks ago when I learned that I would be bedridden for a few weeks due to some head-altering surgery. I knew I'd have some serious me time ahead of me because I'd probably have bloodied bandages wrapped around my battered cranium, and would probably be on all types of perscribed drugs.

So I decided to coax my little gamer child out of his dark closet. I went down to EB and purchased World of Warcraft. I knew perfectly well how addictive this game could be, and I knew that it would totally consume me in a way that was only safe in an environment where I could hermit myself for weeks on end.

Little did I realise how much pain I would be subjected to post-op, however. After sleeping a good 40 or so hours straight (though annoyingly enough being woken for drugs and checkups every hour) I managed to drift off home somehow and found myself in my own bed at home. But if I forgot to take my pain-killers every three hours I'd be subjected to the kinds of cranial torment you would only expect those 'Whack-a-Moles' to suffer.

I struggled into the computer seat and hooked myself up where I knew I needed to go. I connected and started playing. And now I constantly find myself losing all track of time... yes, I am subjected to a weird kind of masochism where I immerse myself until my head fells me, when I go and take drugs and suffer for the next 45 minutes until they kick in, whereby I jump back onto the machine and start the cycle all over again.

I dance around in a semi-lucid state, mumbling to the various well wishers that come around and try to suck them into my Warcraft world. So far Director Bob and my two brothers have acquiesced.

My character is buff, and my ear is killing me.

My treacherous body has put me through a lot in the last few years. I've had bits removed, sewn together, broken off and malfunctioning. I've paid for synthetic bits. I've been on long and strong courses of anti-biotics to combat chemicals my body has seen fit to course through its various ducts. I'm more machine now than man.

Furthermore, I've had friends with various serious illnesses that have forced them to seek professional help so that they may deal with the abuse their body puts them through.

So I feel fairly comfortable in saying that I'm familiar with our medical system, and doctors in particular. I'm equally sure I'm breaking no new ground when I say they both suck.

'But what about our Oooorgaaaans!?' I hear you wail; 'Doctors protect our precious internals!' And you may reasonably believe you have some statistical data to back that shit up. Why else would we have an aging population of people scrounging for every second of longevity that modern science can provide? Why don't people drop off from plagues or whooping cough any more? If we lost all our doctors, would we not descend into third-world conditions?

Sure, these all may seem like fairly obvious justifications for the existence of this lofty profession of Doctor, but anyone who has been churned through the health system, been left hanging at the end of an expensive line for months in expensive waiting lists only to end up with an expensive bill and no real explanation for their malady will probably have this same lurking suspicion that they just don't know what they're doing. That's right - we have no real way of challenging their diagnosis, and they have no real incentive to ensure we get the best treatment that will ensure we never need to come back and line their pockets again. Perhaps if the Medical Board wasn't run by a bunch of back-scratching doctors they'd feel some professional inclination towards observing their duty of care more closely.

This is why the last ten years or so have led me by the nose to the conclusion that most doctors -- expensive specialists included -- are nothing more than overpaid anti-biotics dispensers. If I were bold enough to liken myself to a house with severe structural integrity problems, manifesting in long crumbling cracks along my (attractive) supporting walls, a series of visits to a specialist I subjected myself to a few years ago resulted in: an expensive series of rock-band posters covering said cracks; and renewed gold-plating on my doctor's toilet-roll dispenser. In other words, five visits to one specialist at over $100 per visit, plus pathology expenses, and the result was a strong course of anti-biotics: precisely the same as a free visit to a bulk billing doctor.

Dentists are no better - they too seem to have backed us up into a cul-de-sac where we have no recourse. When I visited a dentist on the subject of a broken tooth, and happened to mention that I hadn't had my teeth looked at by a 'professional' since I was a kid, he had to have a little quiet time. His eyes widened and I swear he started whispering prayers of thanks under his breath. From that moment on, I was his best friend. He still calls me from time to time (well, his secretary does) to warn me of the assured DOOM waiting around the corner should I miss another six month appointment.

So this coming Monday I am subjecting my broken frame again to the tender mercies of some guy I've only met a few times, who I trust is worth his pay check, who I hope feels some inclination to excel at his chosen profession. He seems nice enough, but one stranger looks pretty much the same as any other when you are at the sharp end of the scalpel...

But I'll survive as long as I retain one hand for jammin', one eye for reading and half a brain for conversing with Scroop.

You are not tired, because you are no longer technically awake. You are no longer aware of time. No longer right or wrong, there is no longer a you.

Your mouth, having lain dormant for hours, has a warm tang. The dull hum of computers lulls you comfortably like the steady beat that is all an embryo ever knows.

A feeling that can be sustained for hours, or days, as you move through the desaturated ebb of humanity in which you play no part.

There is a euphoric sense that you are progressing, moving forward, as you accomplish the task you are performing. You are engrossed in the process of creating, and you bend your entire existence towards this feat. Your conciousness has shifted forward to your eyes and your hands.

And then the phone rings. You could perhaps quicken your conciousness, drag it back into the world, but lack the inclination. Sentences are difficult to form, and the yabbering coming down the line is muted into the background. Something has been lost, but no emotion yet exists to encompass your reaction. Something is lost...

I spend a good deal of time in this state.