People are driving around with reindeer antlers on their cars, grown men are in shopping centres with fake white beards and my neighbours have started their annual 30-day stretch of being nice to each other – either Christmas is days away or marijuana has been legalised in Victoria.
Once upon a time, a young Dom Ciconte, full of optimism and hope, thought that Christmas morning was the Holy Grail.
Us Ciconte kids would battle through school, Mum’s torturous Saturday ‘clean-up days’ and the utterly ridiculous, unnecessary daily demand to have our beds made up, all for that sprint to the lounge room on December 25th so we could un-wrap our presents.
My mum was once a brilliant gift-buyer. She would somehow know everything I wanted before I even had a chance to throw around hints. Transformers, Lego, Super Nintendo games, a new footy – that was my childhood in a nutshell.
Unfortunately, my memories of Santa were not great. The guy gave us average gifts every year, almost like he was trying to make my mum and dad look even better.
A wooden dinosaur that I have to assemble myself? What the hell is this guy smoking? Mum, next year, tell Santa not to bother.
Christmas day would only get better from there. We would travel to our big family lunch, go wild with our cousins, get more presents from relatives and literally overdose on happiness.
And then we went and got old. What a stupid thing to do.
The 6am sprint to the lounge room has been replaced by a 10.30am stumble out of bed. The toys replaced with CDs, DVDs, clothes and vouchers. The overdose on joy replaced by an overdose of food and my Nonno’s wine.
No matter your religion or belief, we have a great excuse to come together, eat, drink, argue and look back on the year.
Even though it’s not as fun as it use to be, Christmas is what you make of it.
Just don’t force me to make another wooden dinosaur.
Merry Christmas
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Shopping - A sad tale
I could be the worst shopper in the world.
I’m impatient, I’m ignorant, I refuse to hold onto hard-earned money and I don’t put enough thought into what I’m doing. Shop owners see me enter their store and their hearts skip a beat.
I can be talked into buying anything: “What are those, suburban driving gloves? You think they’d look good on me? How much? Only $350? Ok, I guess I should.”
If shopping was like trying to stay sober, I’d be Charlie Sheen. If it was a swimming event in the Olympic Games, I’d be representing the People’s Republic of Congo. If it was a test of sanity, I’d be a Scientologist.
Unlike some, I can’t wonder around a shopping centre without a purpose, trying things on and looking for a bargain. Once I get in, I need to get out. I make a bee-line for what I want and then get the hell out of there while I still have my money and dignity.
This kind of attitude leads to clothes that don’t fit properly, wasted money on things I don’t need and a bank account that shudders every time I reach for my debit card.
Honestly, I would rather continue wasting money and making bad purchases than do the required leg work to improve. I just don’t have it in me and I never will.
But, having said all of this, I admire great shoppers. People who buy good gifts are harder to find than my mates when a taxi fare has to be paid.
Good shoppers are the people you want buying for you in a Kris Kringle. They think outside the box, they spread their money around wisely, they use coupons, they shop around and get the right price, they try things on, they keep receipts and they have a great rapport with retail staff.
I put knowledgeable shoppers right up there with people who can kill spiders for me — invaluable in a time of need.
We are now entering the crazy shopping season. Everyone knows its coming, but few prepare themselves.
Shopping centres will soon be packed with stressed out mothers ready to kill at the drop of a hat. Every store will have an amazing special that you MUST take advantage of. B-grade musicians will have moderate success with Christmas albums featuring the 345th different take on Silent Night.
This is the time of year where my terrible-shopping brothers and I get found out. We get confused by the bright lights and attractive girls in Santa hats. We buy something, only to find it 20 minutes later at half the price. We walk in planning to spend $300-400... and leave owing a loan shark named Bruno $2,000.
With all this in mind and in the spirit of Christmas, I’d like to give an apology in advance to the people I’m buying for this year. You know who you are, you’ve politely pretended to like my gifts for years.
I’m going to try and do better this year. I promise.
Socks and undies are still in vogue right?
I’m impatient, I’m ignorant, I refuse to hold onto hard-earned money and I don’t put enough thought into what I’m doing. Shop owners see me enter their store and their hearts skip a beat.
I can be talked into buying anything: “What are those, suburban driving gloves? You think they’d look good on me? How much? Only $350? Ok, I guess I should.”
If shopping was like trying to stay sober, I’d be Charlie Sheen. If it was a swimming event in the Olympic Games, I’d be representing the People’s Republic of Congo. If it was a test of sanity, I’d be a Scientologist.
Unlike some, I can’t wonder around a shopping centre without a purpose, trying things on and looking for a bargain. Once I get in, I need to get out. I make a bee-line for what I want and then get the hell out of there while I still have my money and dignity.
This kind of attitude leads to clothes that don’t fit properly, wasted money on things I don’t need and a bank account that shudders every time I reach for my debit card.
Honestly, I would rather continue wasting money and making bad purchases than do the required leg work to improve. I just don’t have it in me and I never will.
But, having said all of this, I admire great shoppers. People who buy good gifts are harder to find than my mates when a taxi fare has to be paid.
Good shoppers are the people you want buying for you in a Kris Kringle. They think outside the box, they spread their money around wisely, they use coupons, they shop around and get the right price, they try things on, they keep receipts and they have a great rapport with retail staff.
I put knowledgeable shoppers right up there with people who can kill spiders for me — invaluable in a time of need.
We are now entering the crazy shopping season. Everyone knows its coming, but few prepare themselves.
Shopping centres will soon be packed with stressed out mothers ready to kill at the drop of a hat. Every store will have an amazing special that you MUST take advantage of. B-grade musicians will have moderate success with Christmas albums featuring the 345th different take on Silent Night.
This is the time of year where my terrible-shopping brothers and I get found out. We get confused by the bright lights and attractive girls in Santa hats. We buy something, only to find it 20 minutes later at half the price. We walk in planning to spend $300-400... and leave owing a loan shark named Bruno $2,000.
With all this in mind and in the spirit of Christmas, I’d like to give an apology in advance to the people I’m buying for this year. You know who you are, you’ve politely pretended to like my gifts for years.
I’m going to try and do better this year. I promise.
Socks and undies are still in vogue right?
Monday, November 8, 2010
A proud legacy...sort of...
Having dinner with my grandparents is usually the highlight of my increasingly-boring weeks.
I enjoy keeping them company, deciphering my Nonno’s english and the look on my Nonna’s face as her husband of 60 years tells me how Deal or No Deal is rigged.
The last time I sat down with them, enjoying my Nonna’s cooking a little too much, we got to talking about what life was like when they first came to Australia from Italy.
They told me about how no one understood a word they said, how they had to overcome poverty and sickness to raise a family, how they taught themselves a new language, toiled on fields and made a new home.
By comparison, it makes my lifestyle today look like a walk in the park – which in reality is an understatement.
My grandparents have seen a fair bit in their time: World War 2, the first TV, the telephone, man on the moon, the Cold War, the Vietnam War, the medical revolution, the internet, reality TV, the Sopranos finale, Avatar, a black president and a female Prime Minister.
How did they manage to go through life without mobile phones, Facebook, Twitter and 38-hour work weeks for those first 70-odd years?
While we’re on the subject, what would my beautiful Nonna twitter in 1952?
Nonna_CoolJ: Just walked 22 kilometres to do some shopping, am off to cook for my husband, fend off snakes and pick peas in the farm. Thank God I was born in this era.
Every generation works hard so their children and grandchildren can have a better life.
In 20 years, I’ll be sitting down with my little son Dominic Jnr or daughter eBay, trying to get them to respect me and my plight and I’ll have nothing.
“I never copped a beating, fought in a war or faced any real hardship, but during my time… ummm… petrol prices were pretty high.”
“WOW dad! Tell us again about that horrible day you had to iron your own shirt!”
What legacy will we leave?
We were able to successfully justify laziness? We had the combined attention span of a three year old child? We stood idly by and let Paris Hilton become a celebrity?
I've had enough. I'm putting a stop to this. I'm going to stand up and do something memorable. Something my grandchildren can respect me for… right after I’m finished watching this show…
I enjoy keeping them company, deciphering my Nonno’s english and the look on my Nonna’s face as her husband of 60 years tells me how Deal or No Deal is rigged.
The last time I sat down with them, enjoying my Nonna’s cooking a little too much, we got to talking about what life was like when they first came to Australia from Italy.
They told me about how no one understood a word they said, how they had to overcome poverty and sickness to raise a family, how they taught themselves a new language, toiled on fields and made a new home.
By comparison, it makes my lifestyle today look like a walk in the park – which in reality is an understatement.
My grandparents have seen a fair bit in their time: World War 2, the first TV, the telephone, man on the moon, the Cold War, the Vietnam War, the medical revolution, the internet, reality TV, the Sopranos finale, Avatar, a black president and a female Prime Minister.
How did they manage to go through life without mobile phones, Facebook, Twitter and 38-hour work weeks for those first 70-odd years?
While we’re on the subject, what would my beautiful Nonna twitter in 1952?
Nonna_CoolJ: Just walked 22 kilometres to do some shopping, am off to cook for my husband, fend off snakes and pick peas in the farm. Thank God I was born in this era.
Every generation works hard so their children and grandchildren can have a better life.
In 20 years, I’ll be sitting down with my little son Dominic Jnr or daughter eBay, trying to get them to respect me and my plight and I’ll have nothing.
“I never copped a beating, fought in a war or faced any real hardship, but during my time… ummm… petrol prices were pretty high.”
“WOW dad! Tell us again about that horrible day you had to iron your own shirt!”
What legacy will we leave?
We were able to successfully justify laziness? We had the combined attention span of a three year old child? We stood idly by and let Paris Hilton become a celebrity?
I've had enough. I'm putting a stop to this. I'm going to stand up and do something memorable. Something my grandchildren can respect me for… right after I’m finished watching this show…
Monday, October 18, 2010
Now I can die in peace
Ever since I was old enough to walk, talk and complain, there's been one thing I've wanted above all else.
Like every other kid, I pined for video games, bikes, toys and complete immunity from unloading the dishwasher, but I would have given all that up for something much more important - a Collingwood premiership.
Rightly or wrongly, my parents brought us up with a passion for all sports, especially football. This never correlated into any physical talent to speak of, but the scene was set for a lifetime of entertaining ups and downs.
The older I got, the more the passion grew. The more the passion grew, the more desperate I got for success. The more desperate I got for success, the more I had my heart broken.
This vicious cycle continued to haunt me until October 2, 2010.
At 24, masquerading as an adult, I had seen a fair bit in life, good and bad, beautiful and ugly, breathtaking and heartbreaking. Nothing would prepare me for the day that I finally got what I wanted.
Here’s what I remember…
9.30am: Awake. I complete my zombie walk from bed to the shower and slowly become a human being again.
10.15am: The usual morning routine – Brush teeth, sneak a quick gulp of milk from the carton and wonder around the house aimlessly for 10 minutes.
10.30am: Crisis. I can’t find my lucky Collingwood scarf. Crisis!!
Collingwood can’t win without the scarf!
We’re ruined!
Wait...wait…crisis averted, it was right in front of me.
10.35am: Get picked up by great mate Brendan, throw drinks into his eski, make our way to the MCG.
11.15am: Get to the mighty MCG, open up my first cold beer and take in a perfect spring day in Melbourne.
There’s a buzz in the air. I love that moment before a big game when everyone at the stadium still has hope and excitement.
11.30am: We take out a football for a kick. With hundreds of people sitting around enjoying barbecues, I decide to go up for a big mark, slip and start my big day by eating a mouthful of dirt.
It wasn’t bad enough to fall, but I think I seriously injured my hip. With everyone watching on and small children laughing at me, I soldiered on.
12.00pm: We make our way inside the ground, put some bets on and find our seats.
1.00pm: Lionel Ritchie headlines the pre-game entertainment. 40+ year old woman are uncontrollable. The rest of us were just happy we didn’t have to sit through INXS again.
2.00pm: The nerves are unbearable. After such a long season and the drama of a drawn grand final, I don’t think I’d ever recover from a loss.
2.30pm: First bounce! Collingwood start like a house on fire, putting the first two goals on the board. The crowd is unbelievable.
2.45pm: The Saints go forward, break the Collingwood zone and the ball makes its way to Nick Riewoldt in the goal square. Point-blank-bloody-range.
No! Smothered on the goal line! Heath Shaw! What the hell!?
Collingwood fans look at one another, hope in their eyes, too scared to say the obvious for fear of reprisal – That’s a sign. This is our day.
3.50pm: After the Saints squandered chances in the second and third quarters, Collingwood kick clear. Dane Swan runs into an open goal, putting Collingwood up by 46 points.
I let myself believe.
4.20pm: The last quarter is party time. After a Dale Thomas goal, I hug everyone around me.
At this point I look down at my phone. No signal. Thanks so much Vodafone. Way to let me down.
It’s very hard to believe this is actually happening. I get Brendan to hit me to make sure.
4.45-ish-pm: The final siren goes, Collingwood win the premiership.
Collingwood fans embrace. Everywhere I turn people are crying. I start tearing up.
We sing the song 25 times, watch the players do a lap of honour and decide to head back to the car and begin our celebrations.
Still can’t believe it. Still waiting for the world to explode.
5.45pm: The scenes outside the ground are unbelievable. A guy steps up to me and says, “YOU, hug me NOW!”
There is no such thing as strangers now. If you’re wearing black and white, get ready for a deep, meaningful embrace.
6.30pm: We get back to Brendan’s jeep, open up the eski and I have the sweetest-tasting beer of my life. With the MCG in the backdrop and pie fans in song everywhere, we start making phone calls to family and friends.
8.00pm: 40,000 fans pack into neighbouring AAMI Stadium as Eddie McGuire addresses the faithful on stage.
Every loss and dissapointment is forgotten as he says proudly, "Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Collingwood!"
The rest of the night was a haze of singing, drinking and one very expensive taxi home.
Following a premiership team… I could definitely get use to this.
Like every other kid, I pined for video games, bikes, toys and complete immunity from unloading the dishwasher, but I would have given all that up for something much more important - a Collingwood premiership.
Rightly or wrongly, my parents brought us up with a passion for all sports, especially football. This never correlated into any physical talent to speak of, but the scene was set for a lifetime of entertaining ups and downs.
The older I got, the more the passion grew. The more the passion grew, the more desperate I got for success. The more desperate I got for success, the more I had my heart broken.
This vicious cycle continued to haunt me until October 2, 2010.
At 24, masquerading as an adult, I had seen a fair bit in life, good and bad, beautiful and ugly, breathtaking and heartbreaking. Nothing would prepare me for the day that I finally got what I wanted.
Here’s what I remember…
9.30am: Awake. I complete my zombie walk from bed to the shower and slowly become a human being again.
10.15am: The usual morning routine – Brush teeth, sneak a quick gulp of milk from the carton and wonder around the house aimlessly for 10 minutes.
10.30am: Crisis. I can’t find my lucky Collingwood scarf. Crisis!!
Collingwood can’t win without the scarf!
We’re ruined!
Wait...wait…crisis averted, it was right in front of me.
10.35am: Get picked up by great mate Brendan, throw drinks into his eski, make our way to the MCG.
11.15am: Get to the mighty MCG, open up my first cold beer and take in a perfect spring day in Melbourne.
There’s a buzz in the air. I love that moment before a big game when everyone at the stadium still has hope and excitement.
11.30am: We take out a football for a kick. With hundreds of people sitting around enjoying barbecues, I decide to go up for a big mark, slip and start my big day by eating a mouthful of dirt.
It wasn’t bad enough to fall, but I think I seriously injured my hip. With everyone watching on and small children laughing at me, I soldiered on.
12.00pm: We make our way inside the ground, put some bets on and find our seats.
1.00pm: Lionel Ritchie headlines the pre-game entertainment. 40+ year old woman are uncontrollable. The rest of us were just happy we didn’t have to sit through INXS again.
2.00pm: The nerves are unbearable. After such a long season and the drama of a drawn grand final, I don’t think I’d ever recover from a loss.
2.30pm: First bounce! Collingwood start like a house on fire, putting the first two goals on the board. The crowd is unbelievable.
2.45pm: The Saints go forward, break the Collingwood zone and the ball makes its way to Nick Riewoldt in the goal square. Point-blank-bloody-range.
No! Smothered on the goal line! Heath Shaw! What the hell!?
Collingwood fans look at one another, hope in their eyes, too scared to say the obvious for fear of reprisal – That’s a sign. This is our day.
3.50pm: After the Saints squandered chances in the second and third quarters, Collingwood kick clear. Dane Swan runs into an open goal, putting Collingwood up by 46 points.
I let myself believe.
4.20pm: The last quarter is party time. After a Dale Thomas goal, I hug everyone around me.
At this point I look down at my phone. No signal. Thanks so much Vodafone. Way to let me down.
It’s very hard to believe this is actually happening. I get Brendan to hit me to make sure.
4.45-ish-pm: The final siren goes, Collingwood win the premiership.
Collingwood fans embrace. Everywhere I turn people are crying. I start tearing up.
We sing the song 25 times, watch the players do a lap of honour and decide to head back to the car and begin our celebrations.
Still can’t believe it. Still waiting for the world to explode.
5.45pm: The scenes outside the ground are unbelievable. A guy steps up to me and says, “YOU, hug me NOW!”
There is no such thing as strangers now. If you’re wearing black and white, get ready for a deep, meaningful embrace.
6.30pm: We get back to Brendan’s jeep, open up the eski and I have the sweetest-tasting beer of my life. With the MCG in the backdrop and pie fans in song everywhere, we start making phone calls to family and friends.
8.00pm: 40,000 fans pack into neighbouring AAMI Stadium as Eddie McGuire addresses the faithful on stage.
Every loss and dissapointment is forgotten as he says proudly, "Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Collingwood!"
The rest of the night was a haze of singing, drinking and one very expensive taxi home.
Following a premiership team… I could definitely get use to this.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The final day
Strange things happen to grown men who follow football.
Logic, decency, maturity… They’re either ignored or never there to begin with.
For the whole of 2010, I’ve attended and watched games, spilling beer on myself, losing all my bets and repelling women.
Something’s been different this year- we’ve been winning. There’s been less stress, more fun and a lot more hatred thrown my way.
With a grand final appearance just days away, it’s got to the stage where a premiership is finally a genuine possibility.
This has me nervous, excited and scared.
I’ve built a personality around near misses and heartbreak. I have no idea what to do with success and happiness.
What do successful people wear? Should I learn how to smile? What do I do with my hands?
What happens to people after success? Do we enjoy our moment and then disappear into obscurity like Will Smith? Or can we carry on and have long-lasting success like an Australian Idol winner?
Do I rub it in people’s faces? Do I wear a smug smile on my face for 6 months?
I’m so lost.
At the very least, if we cop another heart-breaking loss, I’ll know what to do with myself – Cry into a pillow, post a rhetorical depressing Facebook status update and tell myself that everything will be ok…Just like every other Friday night.
Logic, decency, maturity… They’re either ignored or never there to begin with.
For the whole of 2010, I’ve attended and watched games, spilling beer on myself, losing all my bets and repelling women.
Something’s been different this year- we’ve been winning. There’s been less stress, more fun and a lot more hatred thrown my way.
With a grand final appearance just days away, it’s got to the stage where a premiership is finally a genuine possibility.
This has me nervous, excited and scared.
I’ve built a personality around near misses and heartbreak. I have no idea what to do with success and happiness.
What do successful people wear? Should I learn how to smile? What do I do with my hands?
What happens to people after success? Do we enjoy our moment and then disappear into obscurity like Will Smith? Or can we carry on and have long-lasting success like an Australian Idol winner?
Do I rub it in people’s faces? Do I wear a smug smile on my face for 6 months?
I’m so lost.
At the very least, if we cop another heart-breaking loss, I’ll know what to do with myself – Cry into a pillow, post a rhetorical depressing Facebook status update and tell myself that everything will be ok…Just like every other Friday night.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Georgie
Dogs aren’t for everyone.
They bark, they smell, they seek, they destroy and they have a never-ending appetite.
You need time for a pup. Time usually reserved for raiding the fridge, watching Simpsons re-runs and plotting against people who refuse to give the ‘thankyou wave’ when driving.
Dogs need exercise, they need attention, they need food and from my recent experiences, they also need socks, lots of socks.
Only a dog owner knows the fear of seeing one shoe where there should be two.
Only a dog owner can look past poo where there should never be poo and continue on living.
When you add it all up, logic tells you not to bother. But, logic and I get along like my Nonno and the English language – rarely on the same page.
So, I give you the story of the newest member of the family.
Five months ago, my sister and I found ourselves in the home of a Beagle breeder. After all of three seconds, we decided we wanted one.
So, the breeder pointed us in the direction of the boy pups and we picked one, naming him George.
After 24 hours of dog-proofing the house and listening to the pup cry and cry and cry, we got an interesting call from our breeder.
“All of our boy pups are still here. I think you have a girl.”
Upon checking, we found that George was indeed a girl.
Why did we not check beforehand you ask? Well, it turns out I’m an idiot.
In hindsight, I should have seen the signs. The complaining in the car on the way home, the confident strut into the kitchen, her inability to parallel park..
So George quickly became Georgie and, like all women, has gone about stamping her authority around the home.
Sure, I’m amazed at her ability to complain, find things to destroy and jump directly into my nether regions on a daily basis, but the pup has her bonuses.
There is something to be said for coming home and seeing someone there so excited to see you, their whole body shakes.
Georgie has been a breath of fresh air to a family that, let’s face it, was kind of getting bored with our last addition - my sister.
She fetches, she sits, she shakes hands and if we can get her to bark on command, she will have contributed more to society than Paris Hilton.
Having someone to sit next to in the sunroom and listen to my many tales of woe is refreshing.
Georgie agrees with me about all the big issues on life, she barracks for Collingwood and not once has she teased my receding hair line.
Dogs aren’t for everyone, but this one suits us just fine.
They bark, they smell, they seek, they destroy and they have a never-ending appetite.
You need time for a pup. Time usually reserved for raiding the fridge, watching Simpsons re-runs and plotting against people who refuse to give the ‘thankyou wave’ when driving.
Dogs need exercise, they need attention, they need food and from my recent experiences, they also need socks, lots of socks.
Only a dog owner knows the fear of seeing one shoe where there should be two.
Only a dog owner can look past poo where there should never be poo and continue on living.
When you add it all up, logic tells you not to bother. But, logic and I get along like my Nonno and the English language – rarely on the same page.
So, I give you the story of the newest member of the family.
Five months ago, my sister and I found ourselves in the home of a Beagle breeder. After all of three seconds, we decided we wanted one.
So, the breeder pointed us in the direction of the boy pups and we picked one, naming him George.
After 24 hours of dog-proofing the house and listening to the pup cry and cry and cry, we got an interesting call from our breeder.
“All of our boy pups are still here. I think you have a girl.”
Upon checking, we found that George was indeed a girl.
Why did we not check beforehand you ask? Well, it turns out I’m an idiot.
In hindsight, I should have seen the signs. The complaining in the car on the way home, the confident strut into the kitchen, her inability to parallel park..
So George quickly became Georgie and, like all women, has gone about stamping her authority around the home.
Sure, I’m amazed at her ability to complain, find things to destroy and jump directly into my nether regions on a daily basis, but the pup has her bonuses.
There is something to be said for coming home and seeing someone there so excited to see you, their whole body shakes.
Georgie has been a breath of fresh air to a family that, let’s face it, was kind of getting bored with our last addition - my sister.
She fetches, she sits, she shakes hands and if we can get her to bark on command, she will have contributed more to society than Paris Hilton.
Having someone to sit next to in the sunroom and listen to my many tales of woe is refreshing.
Georgie agrees with me about all the big issues on life, she barracks for Collingwood and not once has she teased my receding hair line.
Dogs aren’t for everyone, but this one suits us just fine.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Writer's... Block
For a while now, I’ve been thinking about this blog business.
I’ve always enjoyed having my random thoughts heard and occasionally-appreciated.
I’ve got little interest in cars, I’m useless with my hands and I’ve done nothing constructive with my life to date, so I guess this is my chance at getting some much-needed attention.
I enjoy the process of writing; Beginning with an idea, procrastinating for three days and then finishing with the odd half-decent piece.
What I enjoy more than anything else is the phenomena of writer’s block.
Writer’s block – I laugh every time I think about it.
We have the entire world duped.
I’m sorry, I can’t do my job today. I am mentally unable.
Can you imagine this in any other profession?
Sorry boss, I have police-block. I need inspiration before I catch crims today.
Or…
Sorry boss, I have air traffic control-block. These things are just going to have to land themselves today.
Even though writers are the only ones that can lay claim to it, I think we’ve seen this before.
-Lleyton Hewitt seemed to have decent-human-being-block for a decade.
-The girl making my sandwich at Subway last week had good-hygiene-block.
-My dad has TV-remote-block
-Every guy in the world has attractive girl-induced-brain-block
So, how do you tell the difference between writer’s block and laziness?
It’s quite simple. One person will sit in front of his computer screen and get frustrated, the other will sit in front of his screen and get a high score on Bejewelled.
How do you beat writer’s block?
You write. Even if it’s absolute rubbish, at least you have words on the screen. Write something, delete it and then improve on it. Some of the best crap you’ll ever write comes after the throws of a supposed block.
I think that is what has drawn me to this noble profession. The beautiful ability to look at my screen, not do anything and be completely content in my laziness.
Now excuse me, I have to go get myself a drink, I should be working
I’ve always enjoyed having my random thoughts heard and occasionally-appreciated.
I’ve got little interest in cars, I’m useless with my hands and I’ve done nothing constructive with my life to date, so I guess this is my chance at getting some much-needed attention.
I enjoy the process of writing; Beginning with an idea, procrastinating for three days and then finishing with the odd half-decent piece.
What I enjoy more than anything else is the phenomena of writer’s block.
Writer’s block – I laugh every time I think about it.
We have the entire world duped.
I’m sorry, I can’t do my job today. I am mentally unable.
Can you imagine this in any other profession?
Sorry boss, I have police-block. I need inspiration before I catch crims today.
Or…
Sorry boss, I have air traffic control-block. These things are just going to have to land themselves today.
Even though writers are the only ones that can lay claim to it, I think we’ve seen this before.
-Lleyton Hewitt seemed to have decent-human-being-block for a decade.
-The girl making my sandwich at Subway last week had good-hygiene-block.
-My dad has TV-remote-block
-Every guy in the world has attractive girl-induced-brain-block
So, how do you tell the difference between writer’s block and laziness?
It’s quite simple. One person will sit in front of his computer screen and get frustrated, the other will sit in front of his screen and get a high score on Bejewelled.
How do you beat writer’s block?
You write. Even if it’s absolute rubbish, at least you have words on the screen. Write something, delete it and then improve on it. Some of the best crap you’ll ever write comes after the throws of a supposed block.
I think that is what has drawn me to this noble profession. The beautiful ability to look at my screen, not do anything and be completely content in my laziness.
Now excuse me, I have to go get myself a drink, I should be working
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