Thinking: 10 tales

Tuesday
6 December 2011

R.I.P. Good Manners?



A middle finger here, f#@$% idiot there, let me in the lift before you get out annoying pregnant lady, I don’t care if you were waiting for the bloody car space clearly I’m in the biggest hurry, no… I was first in-line arse-face, you’re not old enough for me to offer you my seat on the bus saggy hag, just wait dumbo pedestrian this crossing shouldn’t be here, get your own God-dam bags outta the taxi tourist…

Good old-fashioned manners have clearly left the building.

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Friday
11 November 2011

Self-improvement Syndrome



What’s your ultimate procrastination? Emptying the dishwasher? Cleaning out the turd-o’clock kitty litter? Calling your nut-ball mother? Losing the belly bulge? Sex this month… this year? Having your balls or boobies checked (this is a non-negotiable… Google the self-check now boys, girls book that mamogrambo).

Self-help evangelists squeeze bestseller billions out of aspiring to be more proactive people’s pockets every year. I’ve a few dozen ear-marked 7-day improvement volumes lining my bedside shelves. Everything from The Art of Mindfulness to The Four Hour Working Week… I’ve eagerly devoured, preached and procrastinated them all.

“Live life with Passion”

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Thursday
27 October 2011

A Long-haul Addiction

[caption id="attachment_1320" align="alignnone" width="514" caption="Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia"][/caption]

It’s great to be back. The magic of Sydney's summer is just around the corner. Although, a quick jetlag-induced 5am flip through Gourmet Traveller this morning had me scribbling the next yet-to-be itinerised takeoff. Some find their happy place in pub footy finals, others trawl eBay for super soft Japanese denim, drop their under fives at the in-laws on un-returnable loan, get that 10% return on a well-diversified super-yawn portfolio, spec a pure-analin leather option in an oversized stupidly taxed Euro all-terrainer… I can happily Kennards the whole lot. Shove me in a taxi with 13 kilos of don’t-care-if-it’s-stolen luggage airport-bound. With noise cancelling headphones and the latest Monocle in hand? Josh is in smack’d out stratospheric Valium-free happy-land.

Why the continual need to long haul? It’s an addiction. I’ve always put coffee in a lick the toilet bowl category (recently re-affirmed by a rather handsome Barista’s attempt to bring me back… it wasn’t his deft frothing skills that held my interest). I can give or take a glass of grape once a week. My grandmother handed me the virginal ciggie chug at age five and ever since I’ve coughed at the inhale. I sleep like Dumbo so have never taken knock-out drugs… ie. I’m Captain Vanilla when it comes to the up in headlights addictions. Check-in at 1am though and you’ll find me scouring skyscanner.com for the cheapest minimal stopover sky-express to Mumbai.

My name is Josh… I’m a flight-a-holic.

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Thursday
28 July 2011

To breed or not to breed



The clock is well into its tick for many of my peers traversing the propagate trail as they dive headfirst into the latter echelons of ‘the 30s’. Right now within their ranks a mixed bag of non-refundable decisions are being made. For some it’s Swiss time’d perfection… everything’s in place including the Danish cot which thankfully matches the fluffy flocked Marimekko wallpaper. For the other lastminutewantbaby.com’ers it’s a trawl through Craig’s List’s (I think that’s double apostrophised) personals for a ‘you’ll do’ shack-mate.

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Friday
15 July 2011

Materialism maketh the man

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It was an early Sunday’s winter eve. I reclined in a blissful, perhaps slightly frozen state of weekend unwind enjoying a rather delicious Tasmanian Pino at a mate’s terrace’d Woollahra abode. I panned the interior that oozeth its hombre. Surrounding me was a quintessential object d’art assembly of collectable Eames coffee tables, sleek vintage leather and chrome lounges, a mortice and tenon’d Parker-era sideboard, pinchable Mud dinnerware, crystal decanters, billboard-sized fashion prints, sultry lighting and the immersive aromas of a wintery Moroccan tagine finessing the sensory experience. A truly beautiful Victorian abode of desirables. It all represents the culmination of years fossicking and curating. A ritual that maketh the man… defines his finely-tuned taste… gives him ownership of his hormonal habitat.

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Friday
1 July 2011

The Ethics of International Surrogacy

Pack your bag, passport, significant other, sperm count and credit card... you’re baby-making vacation bound. Is cash flow a little tight? Perhaps you're genetically taller than the average bear, German-esque, blue eyed, blonde and abundant in eggs. Get yourself to the front of the queue ‘cause your little waiting-to-be-fertilised ones are currently in super high in vitro demand. Looking to rent a womb? Grab the Amex and jump an international flight to Delhi... there's a few thousand bargain priced incubator pit-stop options available.




OK so I begin in jest. Yet this is a serious choice made by 1,000s of singles and couples around the globe each year. Families today are a mixed bag of technicolour’d all-sorts. The matrimonially joined can skip down the isle, be self-committed, life partnered, divorced, de facto’d, monogamously gay, open relationship transgender’d or be interracially shot-gun’d with seriously limited conversational skills. Long gone are the religious and societal constraints of a traditional family unit. Today, with our (apparently) more evolved thinking and acclimatisation to these newer kindred units, there still remains a strong innate desire to pro-create.

The thing is, no matter how much love and commitment exists between two humans, or anything else coupled in the mammal world… two penises or two vaginas draw long straws when it comes to producing a baby. It is for now an 'Adam and Eve still required' process. Perhaps this is why surrogacy has seriously kicked in as a viable propogative option in the last 30 years.

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Thursday
12 May 2011

Yes… Sydney does winter



I’ll never be walking winter hand-in-hand down the knot-tie'd aisle. Our relationship is strictly seasonal and based on mutual understanding. We maintain our reluctant association just long enough until finally we both break and say our mutual ‘bugger-offs’, awaiting the next toe-numbing groundhog chill-filled on-set.

My other half is Swiss. We’ve only ever hiked his home-turf Bernese Alps in the warmer months. Think escarpments layered in daisy-filled ascents, over-pudge’d Swiss-bell’d cattle, rolling valleys of super-green, and mountaintop chalets dishing up plates of blue cheese ‘tato rosti. The thought of living in double figured depths of snow, my day-to-day existence confined to a triple-glazed glass igloo, staring out the window dreaming of t-shirts and just above the knee shorts is my idea of self-imposed purgatory.

I think you get it. I utterly loathe winter.

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Thursday
5 May 2011

The Road More Travelled



I’ll never forget the watermelon-sized lump in my guts on a nail crunching rapid descent from 30,000ft aboard Air India’s museum worthy Boeing 747-300 into New Delhi. You may remember the yesteryear winged super-tankers with cyclonic blue-loo flush and stethoscope headsets, shag pile carpet, projected flicks and the spiral stair’d Captain’s Club? Yes… that one. We were on final 70s tribute approach to Josh destination numero uno, and I was crapping my panties. Would this oversized dog-box survive the tarmac slam? Would I successfully negotiate the 3-page Lonely Planet warning of getting oneself from airport to hotel without being double shafted for every last virginal pocket lining rupee?

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Wednesday
27 April 2011

Eaten, Prayed & Loveless

[caption id="attachment_1041" align="alignnone" width="514" caption="Eat Pray Love - Sony Pictures 2010"][/caption]

I’m perched semi-lotus’d at Bali Buddha, the brilliant mung bean eatery on most Ubud visitors’ munch list. I look around and realise I’m outnumbered by a collective of semi-cloned thirty-ish to forty something women. They sit alone, shoulders draped in layers of freshly haggled sarongs and retreat daywear with bleach-free shoulder bags by their sides. Long manes of hair glow from 4hr morning coconut treatments.

Post their Yin Yoga class, super green smoothies clasped in one hand, carbon neutral hemp diaries and hibiscus pink encased iPhones in the other running hot with conversation like “I’ve found this great space for my next Salsa Chakra enlightened self retreat… uh huh… yep…yep… this trip has meant truly awesome enlightenment for me too… totally… yes… TOTALLY!” Others are engrossed in SMS or journaling with distancing looks of ‘I’m here on my journey. I own this journey. No one can take this discovery from me. And you… yes you… man with penis… don’t even think about talking to me. You’re an appendix to the human condition. We are Eat Pray Love’d women… hear our silent roar.’

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Wednesday
16 March 2011

The right to having a life

“I can’t keep up with myself at the moment!” a friend SMS’d me this morning. How ironic. She’d just given me the perfect opener for this week’s article focusing on the busy factor that’s rapidly consuming our right to having a life.

On that note... how is your week going? Are you barely managing to cope with the obscene amount of ‘to-do’ parked in your unread email box? The last thing you have right now is the time to read another self-ranting article by Josh. The next 5 minutes could be far more efficiently used to re-check your email you just checked, re-schedule another very unimportant meeting, cancel your dreading it in the first place lunch date, update your ‘Places’ in Facebook, watch a hilarious dog dancing clip on YouTube and log-in to review your well diversified but slightly bullish share portfolio.



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