Walter Wallace - Chapter 9

Lucy Blues was sitting in the back seat of a Channel 8 limousine. Her hands had fallen limp at her sides, her neck slung to the left, her head resting against the window and her mouth hanging open. She snored rather loudly and twitched occasionally. In her dreams she was running across a long grassy plane. Long in the distance she had a goal. Something she was heading towards. She had no idea how close or far it was; only that it was glorious to run through this field. She felt light as a feather; able to cover huge distance with each bounding step. Her heart raced and instead of growing tired she felt stronger by the second. The grass was soft on her toes, but suddenly it shook like an earthquake and she tripped and fell flat on her-

“We’re here, Ms Blues.” It was the rushed girl.

Lucy was disorientated and took in a deep breath as she straightened up in her seat. “Wha- Where?” she said dreamily.

“At his house,” the girl said, “Walter’s house. Don’t get out just yet.” Lucy was about to open the door and get some fresh air. It was a clear summer night and the stars were out with a half moon. The rushed girl slid across the seat and began to tidy up Lucy’s dishevelled hair. “There are cameras outside and they are hungry. Walter isn’t at home. Nobody can find him. They are desperate to keep the show rolling. They are going to come back to you and, I’m sorry, but you look like shit.”

Lucy let the girl brush her up and imitated some of the facial exercises the girl gave her in an attempt to wake up. The girl had no mirror and Lucy didn’t ask for one as they eventually decided to open the door. The feminist and the comedian who were sitting opposite the other two hopped out first. The feminist in a foul mood apparently after Walter turned out to be a male and because the comedian had been making snide remarks about it the whole way to his house.

It was a mild stroke of luck that the feminist, who looked shabby at the best of times and terrible right now, exited the vehicle before Lucy and gave her a few extra points in the looks department by comparison. But Lucy was starting to come back to life after the blinding flashes of the cameras receded from her vision. Why did she care how she looked? If she looked tired and unwilling they would avoid putting her on camera; she could go home.

She was now leaning against the outer wall of Walter’s apartment with an assortment of other guests. The media circus that had set up camp was almost sickening to see, let alone to be a part of. There were 5 metre high flood lights illuminating the parking lot, as if they were preparing for an amateur street brawl – no holds barred. Cameras and microphones were pointing in all directions and headsetted individuals were racing everywhere. No one had any idea where Walter was and Lucy secretly hoped he wouldn’t show up so that the whole fiasco could come to an end promptly. How long could they keep this up before people started changing the channel?

“Well I changed the channel the moment I saw the result,” said the man in front of the camera, as if reading Lucy’s mind and answering her question. He was a chubby individual who was apparently a neighbour of Walter’s. “I mean he is a nice person and all, but if he is the happiest in the world then we have a real crisis on our hands. I mean surely he isn’t as happy as me. I have a family. I have a better apartment – he basically lives in the janitor’s closet. I’ve never seen him driving, or wearing nice clothes or-”

“Thank you Mister…uhh?” the presenter, Manny Holdsworth – son of the famed hannel 8 figurehead - said in an attempt to cut this man off.

“Cowan,” the man said proudly, trying to reassert himself after being interrupted.

But the presenter had already pivoted away from this man to face the camera directly, “I think the mysteries of Walter Wallace and his happiness may be rather complex. We will keep searching for the answers here, but for now we will be heading back to the studio with you, Tony.”

The presenter relaxed and let out an irritable moan, “This shit is never gonna end.”

“I don’t appreciate being cut short like that!” exclaimed a red faced Mr Cowan.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” Manny began sarcastically. “Try not telling people to switch off the TVs because the new hope is a fraud next time you want to brag about your shitty car to an international audience. We are trying to work here so please clear off, Mister…?”

“Cowan,” he said in subdued anger.

Lucy stood, light headed in the circle of special guests. She wanted to return to her dream; to run away with that endless energy. Now she felt she could barely stand, and any fresh air was drowned out by the clouds of cigarette smoke emanating from the circle. The rushed girl was organising the group like a sheep dog arranging its herd. They were passed on to Manny one by one for more empty comments but not before a few more neighbours and the doorman were interviewed. These people also had similar doubt-inducing stories, including one about Walter regularly drying a wet two week old newspaper on the buildings ventilation system.

“Well you may be right, Tony,” Manny said, taking a lead in from the studio, “We have heard from the neighbours and the doorman. They didn’t have too many niceties to say. But it may be testament to the resolve of Walter to be so happy with neighbours like Mr Cowbell.” Manny was perhaps stepping over the line but nobody seemed to care anymore. It seemed as though everybody wanted this to end – even the home viewers – but all were compelled by some indescribable force to push forward. “So now we are going to talk with the lovely Ms Blues, the creator of this device. Without her, this whole scenario would not be possible. We will see what she has to say in the face of some recent doubts about the authenticity of the result.”

If Lucy wasn’t already feeling terrible than this was not about to help her cause. She had a stroke of luck though, because she was not there to hear this introduction. She was halfway down the street, having managed to slip the watchdog eye of the rushed girl and ran as fast as she could just as she had in her dream. But, unlike her dream, she was running on the coarse asphalt, her clothes and high heels restricted her, the dark street continued on into and endless abyss and she was fast running out of energy. She stumbled as one of her high heels gave way, grazing her knee. She got back up and kept running. She had to keep running. If she tripped as she did in her dream then she would fall and wake up from this nightmare into something even worse. Or maybe she would wake up in the dream again. And as the temptation of the thought passed over her, whether by will or pure exhaustion, her body gave up. She fell onto the harsh concrete and passed out.

Fan Rant Tennis

SIX

I love all sports but tennis has to be one of my favourites. It has so many unique features that give it a unique postion in the sporting world. Here a few of the reasons why I love it.

Scoring: Tennis games can go on forever (literally). You could win 1000 points but not even end up with one on the scoredboard. That is because in tennis you have to win to win. I know that sounds obvious, but think of most sports. Usually you can start off on a hot streak and then rest on your laurels, wait until the clock runs out. But in tennis you have to win the last point of the game, set or match to win it. Technically no match is ever over if you can win half the points and if you win the next point you are still in with a chance. The games leading to sets to matches mean that a lot of hard work can often render little reward. Losing a set 7-6 is in essence the same as losing 6-0

Psychology: It is this cool scoring system which gives way to the next cool factor in tennis. The strength of any player’s game lies in the mind games that he is playing with himself and with his opponent. The scoring means that there are certain points that become so critical and someone has to win them. A break point is a rare chance to gain a massive advantage. A set point even bigger. And a match point that isn’t taken in the fourth set of a grand slam final and ends up with a loss in five sets? That’s a killer.

The other side of the psychology is the mano e mano nature of the sport. It is one guy out there (or girl but women’s tennis sucks) versing another. They have no coach pep talk at halftime, no strategic advice. They just have themselves and a racquet (or 20). If you ever watch a match with Lleyton Hewitt you can witness the strange mental effects of momentum swings, self doubt, missing a crucial point, or firing up when all looks lost. Then you watch Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal and you see the benefits of having an insurmountable self belief. They face the big moments with strength and poise and relish any chance to crush an opponents will. Sometime they will go toe to toe with the strengths of an opponent to mess with their heads just like a ju jitsu specialist standing and striking with a boxer.

Live: I also recently witnessed how much fun tennis can be to watch live. It is a different atmosphere to most sports I have ever seen. The way the crowd will remain silent during a point and then fire up once the point is won is strangely respectful. It also has that feel that most sports do when you see them in real life. TV seems to water down contact and speed in every sport and the speed and power of the shots in tennis are no different.

Whether it is straight sets win 6-0 6-0 6-0 or deuce 15 in the 10th game of the fifth set. You gotta love tennis.

- Eden

N.B. Since writing this both Nadal and Federer have lost and I probably won't watch the Australian Open final anymore...

What a weirdo

Being Australia Day and all I think we should celebrate this great country. We are blessed with the freedom of expression and the choice to do a lot of things in life that many other countries don’t permit. Sure you could say we are enslaved by the monetary system and fed propaganda from “free” media but I am just talking in the non conspiracy sense. We can choose religion, way of life, people, jobs, study, blog subject, etc and even if it isn’t perfect it is better than just about any other societal system to date.

But how come in this freedom I still feel like a complete weirdo so often. There are always situations where I am simply too scared or embarrassed to do non harmful activities. Examples:

The other day I was walking home from the station and I saw a busker playing a mean violin and I decided to give him the $2 in my pocket. But I didn’t want to just walk past and only enjoy his playing for 5 seconds so I stopped and watched him. It was interesting to see an instrument that I have never seen played well up close; more so because I have only recently started playing music myself. But I found myself feeling awkward and eventually blushing a little as everybody else walked past.  “What a weirdo!” They all said to me telepathically. They stared at me with snide, scoffing expressions, even though my back was turned and I couldn’t actually see any of them. After about 30 seconds it was too much for my fickle self esteem and I gave the guy the $2 and left saying, “That’s awesome,” with a thumbs up. I walked off thinking of a different life in which I stayed til he finished the song and then we spoke for a few minutes about cool stuff and I left enlightened and free.

Other situations where I have felt a similar cheek flushing sensation have included doing stretches at the station in the morning. In reality everyone should use this valuable spare time to warm up and limber up and loosen up - Everybody should up themselves. But instead we stand hunched and staring vacantly at the ground. I only do vague stretching where it could be debated that I am even doing anything, all out of the ordinary for fear of…for fear of what? Some person I have never before and may never again meet will think I am a weirdo.

Kids dancing around at a party like fucking idiots. Out of time and uncoordinated while I stand with the other adults smiling and rigid. Why don’t we express ourselves more after that fateful period in which we feel the burning glare of a crowd’s silent disapproval? Does it exist? Should it exist? Should it matter? I took a shit the other day in a public toilet and I stopped myself from making too loud a fart sound or too frequent a plopping sound because someone might hear it. They are in a toilet! Who gives a fuck if they hear it?! I take longer and shit with less efficiency because the steady flow is interrupted. I am in cubicle and can’t be seen…I mean why don’t I just let rip?

I’m going to go ahead and shoulder at least 50% of the blame in all these cases, but the other 50 goes to the people who conspire in their silent groups to stare at me and judge my every move, my every air drum or obscure T-shirt. But then again, aren’t I just as guilty? I will stare at a goth for as long I think I can without them looking back. At the bar I work at, once someone gets up and dances it is the first step towards being cut off for drinking too much alcohol.

In the end I guess I just need to stop giving a shit about other people. As long as I am not hurting them then I am sweet, but I should also make sure they aren’t hurting me. It’s my choice. Now off to the tennis.

- Eden

NB This was meantto be posted yesterday but I had technical issues. I will still try and make 7 blogs in seven days.

Indifference

I find myself at the moment in a strange position emotionally. From a young age I have journeyed through a natural shyness, older brothers that bullied me a little bit, a general fear of failing or appearing bad at something. All of this has lead me to be fairly averse to showing too much emotion. It could only take a super funny joke, or a day at the football get me to sway from the middle and express some joy.
On top of this I have spent the last few years learning practices such as meditation and yoga that have helped me quell any negativity and maintaining a positive attitude in most situations. This practice has also improved my expression of positive emotion a little bit but I still generally only emote through sarcasm, backhand compliments and faceless blogs.

I have been quite proud of this for most of my life. It gives me that centred calm that helps me stay rational and make important decisions under stress. It’s helping me become a man! But that centred calm could also be called an emotional vacancy and I am starting to crave a little more liberation with my true feelings. I think another contributing factor was missing out on sex for so long.

The only time I can really let loose is with alcohol but I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t let this be my only outlet. I don’t want to become dependant on any substance and alcohol fuelled nights rarely ended well.

So now I have to ask myself: Is it a benefit or a hindrance that I can be so unfazed by so many things. Sure it helps me take a risk or do a dare but it also encourages a caged soul. I guess it is important to consider the fact- ahh you know what, who cares…

Failing Health

I have always been quite proud of my health. I have long been working on the assumption that if I let my body heal itself then my immune system will just get stronger and stronger. This coupled with a healthy diet and regular exercise will keep me out of the nurse’s office. If I ever got mildly sick on those rare occasions I would refuse to take medicine or to break from routine. I would simply let my body deal with it and learn how to beat the disease. The final line of defence is a strong mind. Any sign of a cold would just be a morning cold. Past 12pm? Day cold. Three days in? Third day of a day cold.

But third day of a cold is really just a cold. In the last year things seemed to take a turn for the worst. I found myself getting sick much more than in recent years. I was more susceptible to the cold and my mind of steel was cracking much too easily.

I started to search for reasons. I shaved my head and therefore was not protected by my mop of curly hair.  It was an extra cold year. Irregular sleeping patterns. There were plenty of reasons that were out of my control. But really if I am going to accept those reasons then I am giving away half of my defences – My mind.

The other side of the argument is the things I can control. I stopped taking cold showers. I stopped going for regular runs. I stopped yoga. I stopped meditating. I pretty much just let my body live on the glory of its past and expected no different. If my body is a bit underdone then I can always rely on my mind. But it's off fighting its own losing battle and in the end I lose my mind-body confidence and get sick.

One thing I will still always stick to is not taking medicine (unless it's really serious). I know that this will cost me if I don’t step up my game but uh, yeah that’s about it.

My Idiot Mind

Girl. Girls.

When I spent the majority of my youth as a single stud sizing up the ladies but never quite getting any, I would always end up wishing I could have just one girl and I would be forever content. Forget the dreams of double digits and threesomes and fourgys; just one girl to have and to hold. But then once I get the one girl I imagined myself restricted, bound by this ball and chain. I could have my way with any girl I wanted. “Yeah, I’d still fuck her”s, 10/10 models with footballer boyfriends and everything in between; they could all be mine!! Somehow I can’t imagine that if I were single my love life would regress back into the abyss of loneliness and youporn on the family computer at 3am every Saturday.

Nervous = Nervous

When I have to make a speech or presentation I get nervous. What if my hands start to shake? My heart races and my breathing approaches hyperventilation. My stomach turns its contents to liquid like a trick staircase that suddenly becomes a slippery slide and I feel the need to sit on the toilet while small acidic droplets of brown green- actually we don’t need to go there. These symptons all spiral into shaky hands. Then when my hands shake I begin to get more nervous. This process is compounded exponentially until my entire being is consumed into a black hole fear and self loathing. This continues for a few weeks and then the teacher says, “Next speech will be by…Eden Clarke.”

Seven

Since my big news and new job I have been striving to make the most of any free time that I get. Right now I am using my half hour before working til 3:30 at night to churn out a blog instead of taking some much craved sleep. One of my tricks to keep myself producing the goods on a higher scale has been spending every train ride with a pen and paper and trying to force myself into writing out at least five ideas. Most of them land in the scrap heap but every now and then I get something that becomes blog worthy.

But lately I have just found it too hard to think up anything good and I realized that it was because I have too many half baked ideas that need to be left in the oven a bit longer before the next batch can be made. It’s like I bought a recipe book for some light reading but with no intention to cook. Or like I ordered the lobster just because I thought it looked nice but never planned to eat it.

Walter Wallace - Chapter 8

“So…uhh…Mister Whisker is your real name?” Walter sat along side his “accessory to obtaining illegal substances” as Stevie had put it – Taylor had added “I looove accessories and you are no different, Mister” - in the jail cell and the atmosphere was so tense that for the first time in his life he felt like he should break the ice. He had always felt rather cool around ice, though not cool enough to come up with a play on words to express this tendency. Had he come up with this play on words he would probably have an easier time breaking the ice should he ever want to. Sadly the anecdote continued to evade him when it may have served him well.

“Yes.”

“Ok. And…” Walter had nothing after this. He retreated and decided to regroup. He thought back to their time together to find some more to talk about. How do people do this every day for hours? The ride in the back seat of the cruiser was uneventful. Walter had found it exhilarating beyond belief but in terms of revealing the purpose of his curious circumstances he had not learned much more. He figured he should now because he was under arrest after all. That’s it! “Have you ever been under arrest before, Mister Whisker?”

“Yes. Call me Whisker.”

“You don’t like Mister Whisker, Mister- I mean Whisker?”

Whisker exhaled heavily from his nostril.

“I guess it does sound a little…umm…” Walter had dug himself a hole.

“Sound a little what?” Whisker asked with something almost resembling annoyance if it weren’t for his uncanny ability to disguise emotion.

“Well, like cutesy-” Whisker flinched slightly, his first sign of canniness, “-or…umm…you know, like…Taylor would like it as a name,” he blurted out the harsh truth after thinking he had it wrapped up in a neat package but he realised too late it was not very neat at all. For a moment Whisker looked ready to snap but within a second he shook it off with a spine chilling twitch of his neck and recentred himself to staring blankly.

“I’m sorry if I offended you…Whisky isn’t that bad- I mean Whisker. Actually,” Walter paused and thought a moment before speaking slowly and appreciatively, “Whisky isn’t that bad.” Whisker didn’t react - but somehow he didn’t not react either. “Yeah. Whisky. How do you like that…Whisky?” Whisky shrugged and smiled rather timidly (he actually started to look more like someone named who would be named Whisker), before twitching his neck once more and re-centering once more but settling with a relaxed look to his perfectly straight shoulders.

Walter felt he was on a role and decided to take a chance, “So why did you want to kidnap me?”

“Can’t tell you, Walter. What I can tell you is,” he paused to consider, “nothing.”

“Ok,” Walter wasn’t one for being persistent. He had overheard stories of telemarketers and thought that an intrusive call like that would be horrible if he ever had to deal with one so he wasn’t about to start drilling Whisky for something he didn’t want to share.

Suddenly a shuffling sound came from the corner of the cell and a sarcastic voice spoke in a false whisper, “Did you say...Walter?” A skinny youth in his early twenties emerged from the shadow, “As in ‘Walter Wallace’?” as he said the name he looked up, motioning vaguely with his hand as if he had just seen the name in the distance, pumped out of a skywriter. “The Walter Wallace? Nah way, man. I thought to myself ‘Who’s called Walter these days? What a ‘days gone’ kinda name to have. Must have been tough to grow up with that name, if you ask me, and yet...here you are: Happiest Man Alive...or in the World or whatever the corporate slugs want us to say- but I guess that’s it,” he turned his head to gaze into a different distance before giving a sideways glance back to Walter and Whisky, “Originality,” he said philosophically, “I get it…I get it,” his voice trailed off into a softer whisper and he sat back down.

There was a necessary silence as Walter tried to absorb this hippy’s ramblings. “What’s he talking about?” Whisky sat silent and pensive. “This is starting to get pretty weird,” Walter said, though more in observation than caution.

“You’re telling me, man. Who woulda thought I would wind up in here with you. Must be some forma destiny if you ask. I’m just sitting here while those oinkers have a squabble and go off hunting down more innocents like myself. They leave the TV on and the door open and I hear fat old Papa Holdsworth – more like Puppet Holdsworth,” The hippy snickered cynically at his quip (though it made little sense as Tony Holdsworth had never once been referred to as Papa Holdsworth) “That fat troll announces that some sorry sucker called Walter Wallace is here to save the world. ‘Watch em suck him dry first.’ I said it then and I say to you now:” he let the words linger in the atmosphere, “Watch em suck you dry first, Walter Wallace.”

The hippy succeeded in delivering a dramatic performance and received a curtain closing cut as the cell door slid open with a thunderous applause. Taylor appeared at the door, “Sorry to interrupt the party, boys. Whisker,” he said, lisping only on the s in Whisky’s name, “you’re coming with me. A handsome young buck named Chips has paid bail.” Chips also managed to earn a lisp and Walter wondered how his last name would hold up in Taylor’s tell.

But now wasn’t the time for such distracted ponderings; he had one last chance to talk, “Whisky, tell me what’s going on.” For the first time in a long time he heard a worried tone in his voice. “I need to get out of here.” He seemed to have forgotten that Whisky had recently tried to abduct him, seeking solace in his assailant

“Don’t worry. They can’t keep you in here. You’re Walter Wallace now.”

“HE WAS ALWAYS WALTER WALLACE YOU PIG FUCKING PIG FUCK!” The hippy was back for his encore. “NOW YOU’RE JUST GOING TO BLEED HIM DRY! BLEED HIM FUCKING DRY AND TELL US ALL IT WAS HIS FAULT! COME BACK AND TELL ME I’M WRONG! HE WAS ALWAYS WALTER WALLACE!”

Notes to the text

Walter Wallace - Chapter 7

Boss Citadel sat in his charcoal black Versace suit in his platinum white penthouse suite on the second from top floor of Citadel Towers. Despite being in the company of several people he felt quite alone. He sat with Talk and Tank his advisor and muscle though sadly not respectively. Ricky Talk stood with a slight hunch to avoid damaging the chandelier that hung low from the high ceiling, breathing heavily. Sammy Tank sat knee high to Talk, browsing the financial news while considering how to correctly tell Talk to shut the fuck up. Further along sat the cleaner, though the fact that she was naked and sitting meant she was probably creating more of a mess. She winked at Talk, flirting for the sake of it while he stole nervous glances back at her, blushing more each time. To Boss’s right was an empty chair that would usually be occupied by his wife; she was downtown at Channel 8 studios offering the opinion of the wife of the richest man in the world while playing along to the charade that the man next to her was Boss himself. Boss had sent this man as a decoy to hide his true identity but found himself growing furious with jealousy and was imagining Talk’s gigantic hand crushing the man’s skull.

The four sat watching the most watched TV event in history with vague interest. Boss was restless and shuffled in his chair. He was a naturally slim man but had thought that any head honcho should be heavy set in order to demonstrate their gluttonous wealth. Unfortunately, he had landed somewhere in the middle, lacking both the health benefits of a skinny man and the respect of a man who took it upon himself to over indulge in life to prove ascendency.

The phone had rung a few minutes ago. It was another annoyance that caused Boss even more stress. He had dealt with the matter efficiently, with a slight referral to Tank for confirmation. Tank had given a single inclination of his head, barely a nod without even looking at Boss to communicate – preppy little shit – and the issue was resolved. Of course now he had to await the call from his idiot brother who would ask what he should do. This was a necessary evil. On her death bed, Myrtle Tanenworth had asked Simon (Boss) to look after Mark and make him feel important. Mark was error prone so any actual involvement in the business was not on. Boss decided to let Mark act as his second in charge - A middle man for dealing with the street men.

The phone rang again.

“Hey Simon, I have some bad news.”

Boss hated being called Simon. He wanted a mob name like Don Corleone so he stole the name of a small time drug dealer that he killed in his twenties. “What is it?” he asked with impatience.

“Whisker got pulled up by the cops before he could get the me.”

“The what?”

“The me. Mark…Before he could get the mark. Get it. Cos I am Mark and I am me and-”

“Yes I get it. Call Chips and tell him to get Whisker back.” Boss’s temperament was as short as Talk tall (or simply: as short as Tank)

“What about the me? Shouldn’t they bust in and grab im as well?”

Boss couldn’t take much more of this. “Leave him. It’s too late now. Look at the TV” - Walter’s mug shot was flashing on the screen seizurally- “We’ll have to bide our time. Tell Chips and Whisker to report when they are back in action.” He hung up the phone despite being sure Mark was still on the line talking. He looked at the three people to his left and finally his temper cracked. “Sally if you want to be a whore and not a cleaner then you can go and fuck the behemoth and see if you’re still proud to show off that fap catcher. Tank, don’t sit in front of the TV and read, you’re giving me the shits. Piss off.” He looked at the TV and a quick shot showed Decoy Boss clapping pompously. “And Talk come back in 5 minutes after your breathing even heavier and she’s lucky to be breathing. I’ve got a job for you to do.”

The room cleared – Tank looking annoyingly inoffended and Talk looking more intimidated at the thought of sex than Sally. Boss felt at ease, pleased with his outburst and feeling more in tune with his title. He was just starting to calm down when he heard a knock on his window. Mark was scaling the fire escape to get to the elevator below. He looked in and waved genially before slipping a little. He regained his footing and gave a ‘thumbs up’ to Boss. He then mimicked his close call with death like a party clown and laughed. Boss considered throwing a chair through the window but remembered his mother and waved back with annoyance. Mark continued his descent and Boss watched the parade on TV and tried to think of how soon he could get his hands on Walter Wallace.

Notes to the text

Walter Wallace - Chapter 6

Mark Tanenworth sat in a light brown suit in his light brown home office at the top of Citadel Inc Towers. He had thought himself quite clever after he had bargained his way into the top floor of The Citadel. He thought that the stature of being even higher in the tower than the Boss himself, he would be thought of as a big player by every Tom, Dick and Harry - And more importantly, women. Of course he made this deal without inspecting the apartment first. Sadly on his first visit he found that the elevator stops at the Boss’s penthouse suite which he has no right to enter - despite being second in charge – and therefore he must get off a floor below and then climb the fire escape escape on the outside of the building up to his home office. This is a terrifying experience and the altitude often gives Mark nose bleeds. Furthermore, the apartment has west and east facing windows to capture the sunrise and sunset. But the windows were so broad and the apartment so small that the excessive sunlight, which had so long been exposing the deep red oak finish of the walls, resulted in the hideous light brown colour scheme. As for the hideous light brown suit, that is simply proof that Mark makes bad decisions even if he is well informed beforehand.

UFC Eulogy: 125 - Frankie Edgar v Gray Maynard

It may have seemed tough for a PPV to follow UFC 124 and still be considered a great one, but UFC 125, opened the new year with a bang, managing to deliver plenty of excitement itself. When writing about 124 I mentioned the UFC’s inventory of fighters generating a name for themselves by becoming more of a character in the eyes of the viewers. Well once you have great characters you can develop some great stories. I have a friend who has tried, on numerous occasions, to get me into Pro Wrestling. He explained that besides the fake fakey fakeness, the wrestlers were telling a story with their fight. Well it seems the UFC has become somewhat of life imitating art in this respect.

Beyond the crushing KOs, and cringe-worthy submissions, 125 had some international flavours, big name comebacks, budding superstars and of course the rematch of the undefeated challenger aiming to take the belt off the champion whose only loss is against none other than the challenger! So just as a good documentary can induce tears better than the most tragically scripted drama, UFC 125 had that uncanny knack to tell a tale or two that noone could predict.

Success Breeds Success

Sometimes it is a tough job being a blogger. I sit down without any fresh ideas in my head to write, and set myself the goal of creating something interesting. This is the hardest way for me to write though. Often my mind just isn’t able to come up with anything relevant or clever or funny; it just stalls on random thought trains and blanks out and starts thinking about watching TV or playing guitar. There is no foundation upon which greatness can build.

Of course we all know that my blogs ooze greatness like Alexander the and the GOAT LL Cool J had a baby and called him paradise. This is because my typical methodology revolves around a constant inner monologue of observation and self assessment that spawns an idea. This is then built on with bullet point guidelines, followed by a first draft and an edit and a photo in case the subject matter is still lagging. So when I try the method in the first paragraph I am usually out of my depth and not very productive.

But one thing I have noticed is that once I crack that virgin idea I get on such a roll that it culminates in more and more ideas and one of those can plant a seed and impregnate BOTM with a beautiful Peruvian/Australian baby boy. It’s funny how things come in bunches. It reminds me of a recent camping trip with Luke: “It comes in waves, man”

So a trick I have learned to exploit this is to simply start writing about a random subject. Just hope that it turns into something useful itself otherwise it can spark up some other idea. I started writing this blog on whim on the train, just a skeletal draft (the humour was spliced in later) and while writing I stopped halfway through and jotted down the makings of another blog. This one!

Pretty clever, maybe, but I actually hoped to have three or four blog ideas spawning out of this one just to prove the point. But then again, sometimes our expectations aren’t always met. Sometimes they are exceeded. The trick is you just gotta take the good and the bad. Like the other I was- actually, you know what? I might save this for another day.

- Eden