The Time Machine

It's a funny thing traffic.

Thousands of people, starting and finishing their day, coming together in shared frustration for a brief moment in time.

Or, if you're on Punt Road in Melbourne, not so brief.

Last fortnight I was stuck on the iconic traffic magnet at its worst. This happened because I never learn from my mistakes and I continue to believe I can beat this thing.

There was no movement ahead and I had resigned to being in my car for some time.

After waiting five minutes, there was a blissful period in which I got to take the foot off the brakes for 15 seconds. 

Yes. Almost home now.

As I made it under a passing bridge, I looked to my left and, like I usually do, studied the dozens of torn, faded, graffiti-covered posters promoting gigs around town.

Among the group was what looked more like street art than a poster. A lone white board painted on crudely with the question:

Why do you listen to music?

It piqued my interest. There wasn't much else going on in my mind – I had just enjoyed the sweet, sweet bliss of another five metres of car movement.

Apart from the obvious things – the shared experiences, the magic of live performance and the universal joy it brings – I've always thought about music as a time machine – each song unearthing a different memory from any time and place in your life and taking you right there.

With every listen, the memory can change. Some memories, featuring family, travel and women – can be more powerful and longer-lasting than others.

So, with that in mind, I threw my phone on random play and hoped to go somewhere else. 

Somewhere away from Punt Road.

Frou Frou – Let Go

I was sitting at my desk, working up the courage to quit my job. 

I hadn't typed a thing for hours. I was doing my best to look busy while reading the news and arguing with my sister on Facebook over whether or not I'd stolen her phone charger.

I definitely did take it without telling her – but that wasn't the point. The point was, I was angry that she accused me (of the thing I'd clearly done). Where was the misplaced sibling trust?

I couldn't bring myself to do anything constructive. I couldn't concentrate on anything any more – I hadn't done good work for weeks. My mind was elsewhere and nothing motivated me.

My life had stalled. I was 25 and had made some of the worst mistakes of my life.

This song started and by the time it ended, I'd made a decision. I got off my chair, walked towards my manager's office and changed things up.

Eddie Vedder – Rise 

I'm lying under a tree in Central Park by myself. It was a stinking hot day – the kind that seems to give fatter, older, awkward European men the opportunity to walk around topless. Pot bellies, grey hair and sagging man-breasts were just glistening in the sun.

Among the crowds I spotted what looked like a Buddhist monk just sitting quietly and completely still for hours. The whole world moved around him and he didn't budge.

I wondered what it would be like to shut out the world – to not notice the families, the fun and the pot bellies going on around him.

I wondered what was going through his mind.

Season four of Game of Thrones, surely.

Bon Iver - Holocene

I'm at the Sidney Myer Music Bowl.

It's a stunning autumn afternoon and a huge, beautiful crowd has assembled to see Bon Iver.

Beards and drugs are everywhere. The vibe is so peaceful, so happy. 

There's not a hint of anything but absolute love for what's happening on stage.

This song starts and you can feel the breath being taken away from the crowd.

This is one of the best shows of my life.

People are hanging on every word. Everyone is smiling. They're in the moment.

They're making a new memory.

Surprisingly, there are not that many people with a phone in front of their face. Good sign.

Half way through the song, just when you think you've reached a high point, the guy on the saxophone goes on an incredible two-minute solo. He refuses to take a breath throughout the whole thing and somehow doesn't faint. How the hell did he just do that?

When it's over, the crowd goes wild. 

I never want this night to end.

This could have been cheesy, but it wasn't - it felt like I was at a campfire.

A simple, intimate, perfect, 10,000-person campfire.

Noah and the Whale - Blue Skies

I'm on a beach in Vancouver, struggling to breathe because of the power of an intense hangover. The previous night was the stuff of legend. Sweet baby Jesus. Ouch. 

I'm slowly getting burnt as I underestimate the bite of a Canadian sun, taking in the beautiful surroundings in a world that doesn't seem real, even though I'm seeing it with my own eyes.

I'm fighting my stomach, aching for water with every fibre of my being, wondering if I'm going to make it back to the hostel. 

This song came on and lifted me out of the mire. It made me feel better. The best songs have a way of doing that – a way of making you happy, in any situation.

Frank Sinatra - Moon River

It's the beginning of a long weekend and my family is on the way to my grandparent's place in country town Wonthaggi.

Because everyone in Victoria has the same plan to escape to the coast for a mini-holiday, the traffic is absolute hell. 

It's a little like Punt Road. A little.

We're in Dad's new car - the first car the family had with a CD player - a magical wizard tool that we were fascinated with.  I still remember thinking we must have made it as a family. We were CD-player rich.

As owner and operator of the CD player mobile, Dad had control over what we listened to. 95 per cent of the time, it was the greatest hits of Frank Sinatra. Moon River always stuck with me.

I'm fighting with my brother. He's moving too much and touching my side of the chair. A criminal act on a long drive.

I complain to dad, but he's not paying attention to me at all. He can't even hear me.

We're moving 10 metres at a time and we've been on the road for two hours, but the traffic isn't bothering him. His kids aren't bothering him. There's a smile on his face. 

He's happy.

He's gone to another place.

The Holiday Strut

The sun is slowly setting on a beautiful summer day in Melbourne.

This sunset is different than most. It’s transformed the blue sky into a fiery shade of red – illuminating a city in its prime, sending a message;

This is a day to get outside and do something with your short, ridiculous life while you still can. Listen, idiot, you're here for a second, then it's all over. Your couch, no matter how comfortable, understanding and forgiving, can wait till tomorrow. Run as fast as your legs will take you. Give the next person you see a cheeky smile and high five. Don't forget to put some oil and water in your car. Start thinking about another overseas holiday. Call your dad for no reason. Make sure you download that episode of New Girl I told you about, I love that show. Now GO!

The stupid sunset was right. I got off the comfortable couch, I downloaded the episode, I rang my dad – but with a reason – he had to remember to put oil and water in my car the next time I visited.

Son of the year. I know, I know.

When you remove all of the obvious benefits, advantages and blinding hatred-causing repercussions of running, I think the thing I like most is that it's time away from everything but the little voice in my head. It's just me, my childish thoughts and the city.

As I started my run, realising that numerous muscles on my legs no longer work the way they used to, I passed by a high school – one of the most beautiful and expensive schools in the country.

Students were finishing for the last time in 2013, walking over to their parent's incredibly-expensive cars and leaving for home – the summer holidays had begun.

No matter how old I get, I think summer will always be defined by that same walk to my parent's car.

I loved that walk, dressed in my ill-fitting school uniform, lugging my school bag that was bigger than me. I had worked hard all year for a break. The holidays had begun, filled with freedom, promise, backyard cricket and parties – much like they still are today, two decades later.

That walk – or what I like to call the holiday strut – is the most exciting time of year.

Whether it's finishing school for the year, stepping out of your office for annual leave or driving home in the sun with the window down and music blaring – it's a time when you truly believe that the days will soon belong to no one but yourself.

As I passed the students, reminiscing on those days, the first thing that came to mind was that giving the next person I saw a cheeky smile and high five was probably out of the question. On a scale of 1-10 on the creep scale, a stranger trying to give high five to kids outside of a school is a solid six. It's not as bad as people I've seen walking their cats on a leash (7.8) and certainly not in the realm of people who walk their children on a leash (a solid, unwavering 10), but it's still not cool.

People, if you're so hung up on having something to walk, stop living in denial and get a dog.

The second thing that came to mind was the magic behind the holiday strut.

Characterised by an improved posture, arched back, high knees, raised chin and enthusiastic arm swinging, the holiday strut is a thing of true beauty. Designed to inspire your fellow man and be the beacon of happiness.

I saw it all the time when I holidayed overseas. I loved watching it in airports when people were minutes away from boarding a plane. I remember my Dad used to break it out before a long family road trip. When I walked through Disneyland many moons ago, I didn't see one non-strutting person. Not one.

My Nonno has that same strut in summer, not because he's on holiday, but because it's tomato season – much more important.

Just as happiness cannot be defined without sadness, the holiday strut is nothing without the rat race crawl. Those suffering the rat race crawl will often feature blank, vacant eyes, stooped shoulders, dragging feet and a beaten, sullen overall look.

We put ourselves through the crawl to reach the heights of the strut. Those heights are nothing if you don't earn them and when you have earned them, hold onto them for as long as you can.

With that thought, I ran a little faster, a little harder – exaggerating the 'injured penguin' style that has become my hallmark. If the path to happiness – that feeling as I strut back to my parent's car at the end of a school year – was found through hard work, I was going to run until I couldn't feel my own legs – which won't be too long, as they were struggling to begin with.

Strut proudly friends. The days now belong to no one but us.

Push the envelope

When I was younger and filled with enthusiasm, optimism and Tiny Teddy biscuits, I used to love getting mail.

Mail represented hope. It represented fun, excitement and a connection to the outside world. 

There was something amazing about the potential in every envelope. One piece of paper could change your life in an instant.

Maybe I had won that cool prize-pack on Cheez TV. Maybe Luke Skywalker finally got my letters. Maybe the girl I had a crush on tracked down my address and was about to confess her love. Maybe, just maybe, Nintendo were going to hire me as their chief game-tester.

But, the dream that held a special place above the others was that one day, the Collingwood Football Club would write to my parents, asking if I could play for the Magpies.

"Mr. and Mrs. Ciconte, we’ve seen incredible potential in your son Dominic’s backyard kick-to-kick sessions and we’d like him to train with us and be a Collingwood footballer."

Fast forward 20 years and last week, filled with scepticism, bitterness and Tiny Teddy biscuits, I checked the mail

The mail now represents despair. It delivers bills, fines and bizarre religious pamphlets that offer to save my ‘eternal soul’. The fun and hope has been stripped away with the burdens and responsibilities of being an adult. 

Worst of all, there’s still no letter from Collingwood.

With every year that passes by, the chance of receiving that letter becomes less and less likely.

I'm starting to get old, my knees are not what they used to be, I haven't played football competitively for almost a decade and I’m not sure how comfortable I’d be coming in and easily taking a spot from professional athletes that have been training their whole lives for that opportunity – it would be selfish of me.

The dilemma made me think about the other things that may have passed me by. 

• Yesterday robbed me of the chance to drink the now-expired milk in my fridge.
• Last week saw me cross the vortex when non-contact for 12 months turns a friend into an ‘old friend’.
• In my working life, I’ve had seven opportunities to legitimately use the excuse “it’s my first day” and I’ve wasted them all.
• Last week I heard a sound bite of myself singing – I’ve since cancelled my plans for a world tour.
• Almost a decade ago, I lost the opportunity to speak to the man I was named after ever again.

Every day provides an opportunity to do something great, something amazing, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life. But, for each opportunity you gain, one slips away.

 
The trick is to make sure that you are taking more from each day than it’s taking from you. 

For many of us, most of our (realistic) dreams will be achievable until the day we die, but, there are some dreams that will slip away well before we’re ready to let them ago.
 

I guess knowing the right time to let go is a skill you gain while growing up – somewhere in that time period between being excited by the mail and being disappointed by it.

There are some dreams I’m willing to let go of, but, it’s going to be a long time before I give up on that letter from Collingwood.

Say goodbye

In between the monotony of our lives in the rat race, every now and then we have a day that passes by like a dream.

Be it an incredible day that feels more like fantasy than reality, or a nightmare you’ve taught yourself to forget, these days provide an overload to the senses and experiences that we register differently to the rest.

The trick is to have as many of the good dreams as possible before the bad ones catch up.

The bad ones will always catch up.

Quit the job you hate, spend a day at the beach doing nothing, take your wife out and make her laugh until her stomach hurts, go on an adventure around the world and take as many stupid, exciting risks as possible.

Because, when the bad days come, you need to be content with your lot.

Last week I watched on as someone’s bad dreams caught up.

Relatives and friends from around the country had come together on a beautiful spring day. Everyone was dressed immaculately. People that hadn’t seen each other for years embraced, old stories were re-told and, as is custom with my relatives, the appropriate levels of guilt were sent my way because of my inability to visit everyone in the room on a weekly basis.

“Is there something wrong with your car Dominic?” asked my Uncle Cosmo, filled with genuine concern.

“No uncle, it runs fine,” I responded, like a sucker.

“Ah, so you just don’t visit me because you can’t be bothered!”

“No uncle! It’s not like that… I… ummm… I’m actually very busy and important at work!”

“Bah!”

I’m convinced that this older Italian generation was born with a special talent to create guilt. It’s a tool of oppression that works way too well.

It was a picture-perfect day. The perfect atmosphere for drinking, laughs, games and photos.

But, you can’t do those things at a funeral.

A much-loved and respected member of the family had passed away, leaving behind a great legacy and a loving family.

Throughout the day at the church, cemetery and wake, I took in all of the old traditions and thought to myself:

I wonder what Clarinda would say if she could have looked forward in time 60 years ago and seen all of this. 

I wonder how I’ll be sent off when it’s my time to go.
 
Wait a second… Why is there a statue over there of an adult Jesus holding baby Jesus?

What would a 26-year-old Italian girl, fresh off the boat in Australia, think of all this?

There was a packed church filled with people who loved her, four sons with great families of their own and a husband who was completely lost, looking into the distance, longingly, without the love of his life for the first time in 60 years.

What would she say if she could look forward and see this?

All of this is for me? What could I have possibly done during my life to deserve all of this fanfare?
 
What the hell are those metal flashy things people keep checking in their pockets? What’s with all the tattoos?
 
Wait a second… Why is there a statue over there of adult Jesus holding baby Jesus?

What would anyone say if they had a chance to say a few words at their own funeral?

This train of thought lead to my idea of the future funeral video – a film shot today for my future funeral, whenever that may be.

Here’s the script I’m working on:

Welcome to my funeral!

Firstly, I don't like the word funeral, so, let's call it Dom’s Deadsie Party.

I’m going to operate on the assumption that I survived to be old and grey – old enough to have my pants comfortably sit around my belly button and to have an opinion on the pension.

I’m also going to assume I managed to keep a few friends and family around– people who put up with my bad jokes and shit along the way. 

A few quick messages;

Any Collingwood supporters throw your hands up.  Can I get a high five for the 10-15 premierships we’ve clearly won by now!? Woo!

To my future, mythical wife:
If you exist and I didn’t die alone like the kid at McDonald's prophesised last week… you married me? Seriously? Wow, did I not warn you about my phobia of spiders or how easily I can get lost? Did you see me dance sober before the wedding? What was it that got you over the line? My awkward charm?
Thanks for coming on this ride with me, I’m sorry about my general cluelessness on most things in life – I can only assume that got worse than it is now.

If you exist, I'm sure the guy in the coffin over there would say you were the best thing to ever happen to him. I'm sure he would say that some of the best moments of his life featured sitting on a couch, doing nothing with you. I'm sure he would say that you're beautiful – that you’re a star. I'm sure he would say that he loved you... Or... he could have been a jerk and complained about your cooking. No one likes their eggs overdone, so if you’re keen on re-marrying, clean up your bloody act.

To my future, mythical kid/s:
I'll tell you what the guy in the coffin may have kept to himself:  there is a great chance you were 'pleasant surprises' – a drunken accident between your mum and I. Don't worry, we loved you anyway, except when you cried at 3am – I genuinely thought about donating you to scientific research during some of those nights.

Some of my happiest days in life were spent watching you play that sport/activity/hobby you love.

If I won the argument with your mum, you should be named Wheels, lightning or Flash – no need to thank me.

Just in case the old me left you nothing cool in his will, I have a backup plan for you. When I was 9 years old, your uncle Anthony and I buried 50 cents in our backyard. If my calculations from 1995 are correct, it should now be worth thousands of dollars. Break into the backyard in the house we grew up in, start digging behind the tool shed and buy yourselves something nice. You're welcome.

To my siblings, parents, cousins, uncles, aunties and any other family and friends that stuck by me throughout this whole life – especially that mid-life crisis I plan on having in my 40s – I always prided myself on surrounding myself with great people and you guys… were pretty great.

Have a drink tonight, take photos, play games and please, no one mention the story of how I walked into a streetlight pole in Rome.

Thanks chaps - my happiest days were spent having fun with the people in this room, when the days passed by like dreams.

The Lost Art of Confrontation

It’s said that every person we meet in life has at least one important lesson to impart, whether they mean to or not.

Your grandparents will teach you what it is to love unconditionally. Your Mum will teach you what it takes to raise a family. Your Dad will teach you how to be a man. The people you meet while traveling the world will teach you to make the most of life. A string of beautiful women will teach you all about dealing with disappointment and rejection – the special girls may even help you realise just how big of an idiot you really are.

There are some lessons you’ll learn all by yourself too; like the repercussions of mixing vodka with scotch… and beer… and sambucca… on the same night. Oh boy.

Now, I didn’t expect it when I first saw him, but a young lad who jumped on my train last week had a lesson of his own to deliver.

It was early in the morning on a classic Melbourne winter’s day. As per strict Metro guidelines, I was listening to music on my iPhone with a blank expression on my face, looking out the window, pondering the big questions in life:  

Why do British people never sound British when they sing? 
Who decided the freezer wasn’t worthy of a door light?

My train stopped at Oakleigh and on jumped my new teacher, who sat himself directly opposite me.

Twenty years of age at the most, he was wearing a thick black hoodie, wrap-around sunglasses at 7.42am and sporting one of those looks that said; “My flaming neck tattoo will teach society that I’m my own man and I could totes take anyone in a fight.”

Oh captain, my captain.

When he sat down, he took out his phone and threw on his headphones.

That’s when it began.

This guy was playing music so loudly that I could hear it over my own tunes. He had some cheap earphones that worked more like two concert speakers attached to his skull.

I took my own earphones off to make sure and yep, it was him, listening to what can only be described as a mix between speed metal and cat-torture (I’m more of a Bon Iver man myself, but each to his own I guess).

I turned my own music up and attempted to tune him out. As I sat back, I was wondering; how could he think it’s ok to subject everyone to this? How could the people around him, without their own music to listen to, sit there and put up with the horrible white noise?

Two women and another man sitting around me were clearly upset, shooting a number of quick, angry looks, but, they refused to say anything to this guy – no one thought to quietly ask him to turn it down. This went on for another 30 minutes and the music just got louder and more torturous. Every person in the carriage was exposed.

Why weren’t they saying anything? What was wrong with calmly letting this guy know he was making you uncomfortable? What were they afraid he would do on a packed, peak-hour train?

That’s when it dawned on me – the art of confrontation is dying, right here, right now on this very train.

Society has bred a population that avoids these things like the plague. We are a people filled with repressed anger. Why face a problem? It’s much easier to suffer in silence, then Facebook or Tweet your disgust and frustration right? That will solve everything!

When did we stop standing up for ourselves?

On the spot, while I was having this epiphany, I came up with a new law of physics – I called it Dom’s theory of confrontation.

If left unresolved, confrontation will gain momentum and mass the same way a rolling snow ball does. Confrontation will always grow or multiply into harder, more awkward, confronting moments – it’s science.

The thing you’re all avoiding, that you’re all so scared of – the confrontation – will become worse every time you shy away from it.

• Don’t confront your girlfriend about her crazy, awkward dancing? You’ll end up having to explain to your parents why your date accidentally broke your grandma’s leg at your brother’s wedding.
• Don’t confront your boyfriend about your relationship doubts? End up with an affair and a messy break up two years later.
• Don’t confront your friend about his iced coffee addiction? In 8 months time he’s unemployed on the streets, looking for his next hit.

In every case, if you don’t confront the problem at the first opportunity, it grows into something bigger for not just you, but also those you love.

So, with all of this in mind, I braced myself to face everything these people around me feared: An assault of anger, denial, rejection, ridicule and the chance of violence.

I was ready – my hands were already in secret karate mode. I had positioned my body so my vital organs were pointing away from a potential knife or concealed baseball bat.

I readied my fragile self esteem, waved and grabbed his attention. He took his earphones out and I sat there, ready to confront my fears…

Bravest man in the world: “Hey buddy, not sure if you’re aware, but your earphones are ridiculously loud. By the way, the guitar solo on that last track was missing a D-minor. Do you mind turning it down a bit?”

My fate was now in God’s hands…

Noise terrorist: “Shit, really? I’m so sorry mate, I’ve only had them for a little while and I had no idea. Guess that’s what I get for buying a $5 pair!”

I relaxed my hidden fists of fury, checked my body for stab wounds and I was clean! I’d done it!

Could it be that simple? Did I survive the dreaded confrontation?

Apparently so.

So, the next time you’re thinking about ways to avoid confrontation, remember my theory and the important lesson this guy passed on to me - Don’t buy the new cat torture album – it’s horrible.

Till life do us part

You’re standing at the altar of a church.

Flanked by your groomsmen and surrounded by beaming family and friends, you look down the aisle and see her – the dream girl.

Everyone gasps as she begins walking towards you. A beam of light from the glass roof hits her at the perfect moment and she lights up the whole room – just like she’s been doing since you met her.

She’s wearing a flowing white dress, has a nervous tear rolling down her cheek and may or may not have gone overboard on the fake tan for her big day.

She’s arm-in-arm with her proud father – the angry, scary man you nervously asked for permission 16 months earlier.

As she reaches the altar and looks you in the eye, all of life’s little worries disappear.

She is still that fun, beautiful girl you met four years earlier while arguing about football on the train. This is the girl you’ve never had a dull moment with, the girl who inspires you, the girl who makes every conversation interesting, the girl everyone wants to be around.

And, for some unknown, idiotic, crazy, ridiculous reason, she wants to be with you - even after the whole forgotten birthday debacle of 2009, even after meeting your family, even after seeing you dance while sober.

You would do anything for this girl. You’d quit smoking, you’d give away your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle collectable toys – you’d even sit through an entire episode of The View.

You can’t hear the priest talk as you look into her eyes.

Apart from Collingwood winning the flag and that day you found $100 in your jeans, this is the best moment of your life.

Nothing will ever tear you apart – this is the girl you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. The girl you’re going to start a family with. You’re happy. You’re certain.

Then… you wake up.

Five years has gone by and you’re living in a unit alone. There’s nothing in your fridge but expired milk and your car keys. Your dream girl or,‘she who shall not be named’, got the house, the car, the dog and your dignity.

Things turned ugly after you promised you would stay friends, but you did manage to keep your collection of basketball cards and Scrubs DVDs.

You still sit down every day and ask yourself – what the hell happened?

This is the tale of the unlucky 50-odd% of people who tie the knot in the modern age.

As a single, immature man looking in, it’s very easy for me to sit back and judge... so, I will.

We live in an age where we are taught to avoid long-term commitments and contracts like the plague. Phone contracts, personal loans, mortgages - as a community, we've woken up to how evil these things are. I think that realisation has subconsciously affected how people are looking at marriage.

Don’t like where your commitment is heading? It's never too late to cut the cord and find a better deal right?

Reading some football news last week had me thinking: Would performance-based contracts used in the sporting world work in a marriage?

“For better or worse, in sickness or health, till the summer of 2017 when we’ve agreed to sit down and re-evaluate where we are as people.”

Could the short-term marriage contract re-ignite passion and lower divorce numbers? Struggling couples get a taste of marriage and can peacefully part ways and test the free agent market. Couples still going strong get an extension and ‘bonuses’ in their next deal.

I can already imagine hiring a wedding agent to broker your new deal.

"Listen, she's really close to signing on the dotted line, but we need you to include soiled nappies to the list of new chores for 2013."

It’s not just marriages that could be improved with this system. Imagine what it could do to parenthood.

“Timmy, your mother and I are not satisfied with how you are gelling with the rest of the family. We warned you about the clothes on your floor and stealing cookies from the pantry. I’m sorry son, but we’ve decided to go in another direction. Go pack your things.”

We could be on to something here.

Personally, I still believe in the ‘till death do us part’ bit.

50 years down the road, I want to be sitting on a park bench with my wife, discussing my last reverse parking job, not caring about the noises my body makes. I really do.

I bet that when I’m there with this theoretical wife, she’ll be sitting down, watching me yell at young park hooligans, wishing she signed that 5-year deal.

Off the rails

No place provides a more accurate commentary of our community than a peak-hour train.

Rich sitting with poor, showered with un-showered, black with white, Collingwood with Carlton - The coming together of people of all ages, demographics and sanity levels on those creaky, sweaty trains is a thing of beauty.

Melbourne’s train service gets an unfair rap. The design of the line is flawed - no one thought to cater for population growth and the city’s wild weather. As a result, trains will always be late, there will always be delays – unless the Government spent a squillion dollars and re-did the whole thing.

Train commuters get a bad rap too. Everyone remembers the crazies, the loud and the oafish. The mild-mannered, normal and well-centred people (which cater for at least 95% of your surroundings) leave you with nothing memorable, nothing worthy of a dramatic or funny Facebook status update.

No one comes home from work and tells his wife, “You won’t believe how quiet and well-mannered the man next to me on the train was today! My train was on time too!”

Those days are forgotten faster than the last winner of Australian X-factor.

I’ve caught the Subway in New York, the Tube in London, the Go in Toronto and the… uh… the le’train in Paris - some have better timetables, some have better air-conditioning, some have better cushions on the chairs, but, basically, they’re all the same. We really don’t have much to complain about.

On the very odd occasion I’ve caught a train to work, I’m usually in shock. In shock at how tired I can be at 6am and in shock at the price I pay for a ticket. But, I’m never in shock at the people - people may entertain, but they never surprise.

Dressed in work attire, carrying my ‘business bag’ that has nothing in it but gum, earphones and a book I have no intention of reading, I pass the time listening to music, doing my best not to stare at people and playing the ‘people profile game’.

The people profile game is an exercise in educated guess work. You are only allowed to glance at someone for 5-10 seconds and then you have to come up with a short life story.

This game was perfected while sitting in airports alone around the world. It's guaranteed to stave off boredom for 30-45 minutes.

Let's play.

Bill, 32, is an I.T consultant who makes 150k a year doing something that comes as easily to him as breathing. He’s reached that happy place in his marriage with Nicole, 31, where he can stop caring how he looks in public. He’s looking forward to the next season of Big Bang Theory and wants to put off having kids till he’s finished the new Call of Duty video game. His wife dreams of going overseas and having amazing adventures – he doesn’t see the appeal.

Jess, 27, hates her job, her boyfriend and her life, but, will never stand up for what she wants. Jess thinks that everyone is miserable and she just has to ‘love the one she’s with’. She once studied to be a veterinary nurse, but gave that away. Unfortunately, she’s terrified of the confrontation that comes with change - she’s also terrified of clowns. Her favourite show on TV is Beauty and the Geek and she cries while watching animal documentaries.

Ricky, 19, is wearing his new flat-peaked hat and sunglasses on a cloudy, overcast day. He finally finished off his new sleeve tattoo last week after designing it with his friend Nathan. The tat will finally give him that cool, unique edge he’s been looking for since he grew his fringe out. Ricky wants to know why the elderly people sitting around him have been giggling and holding in a laugh for the entire trip.

George, 72, is fighting the urge to tell the teenager sitting in front of him that there is still a sticker on his hat and the tattoo on his arm is spelt incorrectly. George despises taking the train and relying on someone else to get him where he is going, but, he has no choice – his wife always did the driving for him. George has been a shell of a man since losing Jude four years ago. He writes a letter to her every year on her birthday and leaves it at the root of her favourite tree.

Josh, 22, wants people to take him more seriously. He studies the mannerisms and posture of his hero, George Bush Jnr, while pretending to understand what he’s reading in the Financial Review. His goal in life is to be a CEO and one day talk to a girl about anything besides work and politics. Josh once made a noise complaint in an Amsterdam backpacker’s hostel at 9.30pm – he was laughed out of the country.

Rahul, 38, has lived in Australia for the last eight years after relocating from India. He likes the way the streets don’t smell like death in his new home. Rahul makes enough money to live comfortably and buy the exciting gadgets he sees everyone using on the train, but he sends every spare cent he makes back home to his ex-wife and children. Sending that money away doesn’t anger him nearly as much as watching India lose in the cricket.

Jack, 81, and Pauline, 78, catch the train together on Fridays to babysit their grandchildren who live in Clayton. They’ve been holding hands and slow-dancing in department stores since they got hitched in 1956. They whisper in-jokes to each other and play their own version of the people profile game. Like George, they’ve noticed Ricky’s tattoo is spelt wrong and Pauline almost lent over to peel the sticker off his hat. Jack and Pauline love shocking young people by taking out their iPhones and discussing new apps.

Now, occasionally, looking into the foggy, graffiti-covered windows, you’ll catch a glimpse of the easiest profile target there is.

Dominic, 25, will one day base his fatherhood on what he has learnt from Ray Romano, Phil Dunphy and Homer Simpson. He’s scared of spiders, horror films and the return of the TV show Big Brother. He loves his Beagle, his Nonna and spring. His favourite dish is broccoli and pasta. He doesn’t understand why people enjoy burning their mouths with chilli. His next adventure will most likely be his first house and he’s still trying to work out how to conduct himself like an adult.

Dom is waiting, with less and less patience every day, for his real life to begin.

The next time Dom catches a train, he’s going to sit closer to Jack, Pauline and George. He wants to hear some old tales, listen to the in-jokes and, most importantly, be there when Ricky finds out that the letter Z shouldn’t appear in the word ‘established’.


Yep, these are the people you’re catching your next train with.

Enjoy.