Author Archives: Judd

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Is it still a journey if you’re not moving?

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Took this for Age Verification on INSTAGRAM.

Took this for Age Verification on INSTAGRAM.

A few years ago, at the height of my “poor” health, I hit 149kg. I’m tall enough to make it not that bad, but it’s still pretty bad. Pants don’t fit, shirts don’t fit, and there’s the series of minor inconveniences whose shared foundation is walking around feeling like a Fat Bag of Crap.

We po’, I’ve never hidden that, and we’re on the Public Health System. This means no Private Health Insurance, which is Australia’s best attempt at being America (again), and making it a Pay 4 Play system of who ends up getting “quality” healthcare and who ends up waiting an interminable amount for the barest of attention.

So I was limping, in constant pain, sweaty, overweight and extremely unhappy with my body. I was on three separate waitlists to be seen for my back, ankle and hip. My ankle was the oldest injury, happening when I was 18 (thanks again, Norty) and my back was next oldest happening when I was 28. The ankle wasn’t as prevalent as the back, but the hip was apparently getting worse and worse. They tried pills, then injections, then went all in and said they’d just cut the old one out and put a new one in.

More waiting, then a few false starts where surgery was postponed for a bit of high blood pressure, an ingrown toenail that had gone infected, then finally I got a new hip. Yay! I can stop being so fat now!

Nope, ankle still hurts, back still hurts and is getting worse every day. But fuck it, I thought, let’s see what I can do. I got one of those stationary pedally things from Kmart for $35 and I unfolded it out and put it on the floor and would play Minecraft while I pedal-pedalled on the thing. I started with only 15-minute segments, tracking them on my Smart Watch and Samsung Health, and waiting to see what would happen.

Nothing happened.

Well, not nothing, I just didn’t see anything yet. But I kept at it. Because it was what I could do, after all, no reason not to.

Then I got an ankle surgery, and Double Yay! I can walk again! Well, without a limp anyway, so Yay! Whoops, arthritis has permeated the ankle, so the clean-out they gave it really just meant that the pain I normally felt wasn’t structural, it was just arthritis.

So I started walking normal, for the first time in about 6 years, and when pain flared up and I wanted to cry I just repeated my mantra of, “It’s not structural, it’s just arthritis…” Which actually did make me feel better. The psychology of it all was really starting to sink in, in that I realised a huge part of my ability to deal with all of this, to work around it, to power through it, to sometimes just sit on the toilet and cry, was all connected to how I felt about it all and not necessarily about what was actually wrong with my body.

Oh, and I stayed at 149kg.

Went walking. Every night, first just a lap around the block, and if I missed a night it was because the pain was pretty bad, and I still tried my best to do pedal-pedal at least every other day. I even bumped up the time to 30 minutes and would sometimes go over depending on how immersed into finding diamond ore or building a barn out of obsidian I was.

Weight stayed the same. 149kg, and depending on clothing or time of day, as heavy as 153kg, or as low as 147kg.

I quit drinking. Well, I quit drinking every day. Only on weekends and never more than 4 Standard Drinks in one sitting. And if you’re drinking red wine and going by that tiny shotglass they’ve got on the side of the box of Cab Merlot, ONE of MY “standard” drinks in an HJ’s glass was technically about 3.5, so shit man. That meant a glass of wine and a splash on a Friday Night. Wasn’t easy.

My weight stayed the same. 149kg. My blood tests after that were fucking GREAT though, and clearly not drinking every day was much better for my body.

My LDLs weren’t great though, so the doc told me that I had to cut down on White Foods like pasta and bread and shit and eat more Green Foods like salads and veggies and shit. Well, while I often crave pasta and bread (and they’re about fifty times more-affordable than fresh vegetables) I still fkn LOVE fresh veggies. LOVE ’em. So I’m eating salads and when I’m saucy I put mayo and a small tin of tuna in it and I’m eating less pasta and bread and more salads and microwaving broccoli and cauliflower and LOVING it.

I’m still walking nearly every day, a kilometer at least, I’m pedal-pedalling at LEAST 30 minutes a day, I’m eating salads and haven’t touched a thin-mint biscuit or Tim-Tam or Snickers or Doritos or Chips or any of that for at least TWO MONTHS.

And I stayed at 149kg. Depending on the time of day and what I was wearing, sometimes as low as 146kg but never lower than that.

Fuck. Me.

I got some elastic bands from Kmart, with the foam grippy bits on them, and was “working out” at least twice a week, trying to strengthen my arms, shoulders and back. And you know what? I felt a difference in my legs. They were HARD. My hip surgery scar and associated buttcheek were (are) still too soft, but my thighs (where I unfortunately store a disproportionate amount of fat) got smaller and less-soft in the inner bit and were rock hard to the skin on the outside.

The inner-thigh and inner-knee areas where I’ve been packing cellulite since I was 11 years old got smaller and the knee one nearly disappeared. My legs were fantastic, and if I could stand looking in a mirror while naked I would’ve been satisfied with them. I loved (and still love) feeling the hardness under the skin though, it makes me feel solid. Sturdy. Like this shit can’t take me down.

Then the Final Waitlist came through and I got an appointment to see a Physiotherapist, a proper one (sorry Ollie), at Royal Perth Hospital, and they were FUCKING FANTASTIC. I loved the doc, I loved the therapist, they taught me breathing and stretching and relaxation methods that actually HELPED ME. I wasn’t going to need surgery, I just needed to do exercises and learn my range of mobility and work within that. It was working, and my back felt better for the first time in DECADES.

All fixed, right?

149kg. No change.

Exercises, kettlebell-shaped sandbag weights of only 8kg that I got for $5 from the op-shop, and stretching, and nowhere NEAR as much pain. All this was great and all, but nothing changed.

I’d like to say something clever about how I declined, or how I “took a fall” and that somehow signalled this New Era of Inactivity, but it wasn’t any one thing and it wasn’t that romantic. But I DID give up.

I gave up.

Even though I found one of those computerised exercise bikes on the verge and fixed the bad wiring to make it work. And by “fixed” I mean “got Jo to do it” and by “bad wiring” I mean “got a new adapter cord”. Even though I bought Stevia to cut down on sugar. Even though my body was about as “fixed” and un-broken as it was going to get.

149kg. No change.

The drinking started to ramp up a bit. Not every day, but now the occasional Wednesday Night. Sometimes a Sunday. Did my best not to drink on school nights as that makes everything in the morning WAY harder, but still. Sometimes everything just felt shit.

Sometimes everything STILL feels shit.

And I get sad. And I am sad. More than I’d like to be, and way, WAY worse when I forget to take some of my pain pills. Because of course, the lowest dosage possible for one of them is STILL addictive, and you can’t just miss an SNRI or quit them because it’ll fuck you up. So I have to make sure my pills are right. And I have to remind myself that the structural problems with my body aren’t enough to make me stop functioning.

Yet sometimes I just don’t function very well. And the 100% Inactive Days started. I quit pedal-pedal, both big bike and little one. I stopped walking. If it wasn’t to go to Woolies and get our online order, I wasn’t going anywhere. I stopped exercise of any variety.

Then I started eating whenever I felt like it. Sugary sweets like cookies or salty shit like chips, didn’t matter. Hungry or not, I’d destroy whatever leftovers somebody didn’t finish the night before and when I’d make Boo his meals and snacks I’d make them for myself too. Tim-Tams, mint slices, Snickers bars, never more than one of these per day (unless I was really sad) but still. I didn’t keep track, I didn’t restrict, I didn’t care.

Still not drinking every day, taking at least 3 days off a week, but still. Not watching what I eat, not caring what I drink, not exercising at all.

After two months of this, I got on the scale expecting to see something. ANYTHING. I certainly felt like a fat sack of crap. I certainly thought I looked like a fat sack of crap. I hated my body and I hated how clothes fit and I hated the rounding of my face and if I trimmed my beard too short I looked even rounder and certainly the scales would reflect that, right. RIGHT?!

148kg this morning. This. Morning. PJs and shirt, no phone in my pocket and no houseshoes on, and right after taking a huge shit. But still.

And all I’m left with is: What. The. Fuck.

It’s not whether you’re TinFoilHatted…

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So I’ve been posting on Substack, like a blog, instead of here. The reason for that is simple, I wanted to see if people would see it when I then posted links to my writing on Social Media. And they did.

If I post links to this website, people won’t see them as much. A Scientific Experiment and while not 100% scientific, it told me enough of what I needed to know.

But I digress…

I’m here to talk about a specific incident on Youtube that warrants documentation. It’s a microcosm of what’s going wrong in our Society right now, and something that I believe won’t make an appearance on anyone else’s radar provided they’re out of my Circle of Influence (or whatever the shit it’s called).

So I’ve subscribed and followed and quite liked this content creator, 74 gear, on Youtube. He’s a pilot, of BIG planes, and while not ex-military is also from the south (Dallas) and prone to conservative views along with a leaning toward blindly following authority.

I’ve never had a serious issue with his content before, even when he’s played dumb about certain global events or their impact on innocent people in society. Then he posted this: Stupidest Way to Get on No-Fly List

It’s essentially showing a video of a woman “causing a scene” on a jetway as ICE agents are detaining her friend.

Kelsey (74gear), before he starts repeating himself, clearly thinks that the ICE agents are fine, what they’re doing is fine, the woman they are arresting must have been in the wrong and the woman protesting this arrest is the clear and obvious problem.

He tries to relate it to his main content theme by talking about what a disruptive presence this woman would then be on his plane, but that (to me) is far beside the point. He openly and unabashedly supports what ICE is doing in this video. The implied support of ICE, in general, is even more troublesome.

So I was highly bothered by this video and his attitude. Then I started reading the comments. Oof.

At the time I started reading, it was still on Day One (11 days ago) and there were 2,200 comments. I left a comment shaming both Kelsey and the cesspit of commentors, to this day it was 7 likes, and then I moved on. I told Wifeage about it, she left her own comment and moved on. She DID reassure me that there were more like me and her, people that disagree with Kelsey platforming and supporting ICE and denouncing not just the content and its nature, but the overall MAGA-ism in general.

Then I went looking for these folks, and what I found was TROUBLING, to say the least.

Today I loaded up all 2,461 comments, opened the majority of the replies (~25% of the comments had one) and looked for patterns.

The first pattern I noticed was that while the post was still fresh, on the day, the majority of comments that get replies are comments AGAINST ICE.
Another pattern was that the majority, over 90%, of comments were in support of either ICE or were against The Woman in the video.

But with the comments that garnered replies, I found the vast majority weren’t just coming in to defend ICE. Over 90% had little or nothing to do with The Woman, some were about The Friend, but ALL were about ICE when defending anything that was denouncing Kelsey or ICE.

Of these, the majority were from SIX accounts:

TWO of them have zero information and highly unique usernames that exist nowhere else on the internet.
TWO show open support for Nazi/North Korean songs on sonichits.com.
TWO have content on their channels, though both are highly-specific (nothing but playlists made from Cars songs/film clips, etc).
ONE has a presence online as a DJ, Author and Famous Gynecologist from Mexico City.

So I’m just going to come out and say it. These are either AI accounts, powered by or supplemented by AI, or they are humans that are contracted to target specific posts and specific comments.

Oh, and the replies from these accounts are 90% vague and show little to no relation to the comment they are replying to other than open and complete support of ICE. They don’t argue specific points, they don’t argue with specific anecdotal information and they don’t even account for more than a short sentence unless they are copy-pasting things that only claim the original comment is “Nonsense” and 100% rebutting anything said about ICE.

Bearing in mind, of course, that the comments denouncing either Kelsey’s support or ICE openly have many and varied takes, with many and varied ways of stating such support.

OF NOTE is that the comments that were highly-articulate and well-written received NO REPLY (including mine). Wifeage got a reply from a suspected BOT which read as follows:

Wifeage: You do know ICE has ki11ed people indiscriminately… right?
@rhynosouris710: The interfering with ICE is just a really bad idea

None of these accounts replied to anything replying to them, with the exception of vague and undirected things like saying to me, “You’re a complete fool!” with lots of emojis.

No debate, no point-making, no rebuttal of specific incidents. Nothing of substance, nothing of anything remotely-intelligent.

**

So if I come right out and state that my very-unscientific findings show that BOTS and MAGA-funded puppets are targeting specific comments that are openly-against ICE, then I can also come right out and ask a follow-up, very important, question:

WHY? Why does ICE need to have BOTS and supporters reply to comments with useless and empty statements?

Nobody on this post that’s against ICE and their kidnapping, murder and torture of innocents needs a BOT. None of them need to have a small handful of accounts go through a post like this and target any of the comments in support of ICE. Why do they need to do this?

Media Manipulation is Real.

We’re at a point in history where it’s more and more obvious to us what is being done to us. Those In Power openly lie, cheat and do corruption, among other Very Bad Things, and then they tell you that it’s not what they’re doing.

For example, ICE shoots someone dead. An unarmed human attempting to comply with ICE’s orders is shot. KILLED. And they are later branded “terrorist” and “criminal” and their actions are described as “dangerous” and “attempting harm” despite contradicting video and personal evidence from multiple sources.

Good, Pretti, Johan Sebastián Durán Guerrero, they were not terrorists. None of them were attempting to harm government agents. ALL of them were shot, point-blank, and killed. NO charges have been filed, NO ONE has been held responsible and NO enquiries have been brought by superiors. NOTHING has been done about any of them. Yet we were all told differently by The President and all of his loyal underlings.

And now they need BOTS in YT comments.

It’d be embarrassing if it wasn’t FUCKING HORRIFIC. It’s fucking horrifying. I am horrified. I am disgusted. And I am writing this shit down here where no one can delete it, control access to it, or to otherwise censor it.

FUCK ICE. It’s wrong, it’s bad, and if you think otherwise either educate yourself or be Wrong and Bad too.

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So, like, not THE stack. The SUBstack.

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I don’t know if it’s like writing in Livejournal instead of Blogger back in the early oughties, or like kids using Wapslap or Smeaderbeads to spread their influence these days, but I’ve only recently discovered SUBSTACK.

Despite the constant, ever-annoying reminders that I should be giving them my money (if it existed, I would!) I’m really enjoying just reading somebody’s thoughts in what I would otherwise consider a “blog post”. I can comment and share and it doesn’t feel like I’m doing it all old-fashioned like on Shitbook or something.

It kind of feels like… community?

Dunno, it’s early days yet.

I’m juddexley.substack.com, I think. I believe I’ll be writing stuff there that I don’t feel like putting here. Which, to be fair, could be just about anything.

MWAH!

How Do We Fight This?

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There’s been a feeling brewing for quite some time, and I don’t know if I’d ever have been able to put voice to it without watching Jessie Gender’s latest long-form essay “The Stories Fascism Fears Most.”

There’s a LOT in there, but what moved me most was the parting words. The passion, the truth, the wisdom in what was being said.

Essentially, while many of us feel we’re at a precipitous point in the path of modern humans, the way forward isn’t necessarily about waging a war against whatever it is that’s being a big, stupid, dummy, dumbfacehead right now.

Fighting them, right now, is fighting them on their terms. And, as somebody famous and dead once said, “Only a fool enters a fight with fair terms. I’m not even engaging unless I have several clear advantages.”

So, fighting them now is fighting them on their terms. And the game is rigged.

 

So we all roll around in despair, bleating about election results and crying loudly about each and every human rights violation perpetrated by the most powerful in the entire world. And we think this is what we can do, ALL we can do, because we haven’t seen clear examples of ANYTHING ELSE.

What are the options? Vote? Is that it? To choose The Lesser of Two Evils? In an atmosphere crying foul at every turn while never acknowledging the irony of these things being “rigged” (in one form or another) since their inception.

The Warriors Among Us say to fight. Hell, we want to fight. Some of us have been gearing up for a fight our whole lives.

Okay, so we know WHO to fight, but HOW? We’ve tried shaming them, relentlessly calling out their every transgression. Pouncing on them for their hypocrisy at every opportunity?

Right, so we did that, we’re doing that, every chance we get. To what end? Have we driven them back underground? Shamed them into hiding away, being cancelled, the thunderous cacophony of our disapproval pinning them in their hole?

Nup. They’re louder than ever. We shamed nobody. We’ve changed nothing. In fact, they’ve only come back in bigger numbers, because now the cowards (which comprises most of them) have seen that their hidden secretive bigotry and selfishness are shared with the Big and Powerful, and they’re empowered.

 

So public shaming didn’t work? What now? Back to that voting thing again?

I think most of us are resigned to live by that old axiom, “This Too, Shall Pass.”

We’ve altered that one for our purposes based on a meme.\

“This too, shall pass.
But, like, holy fuck.”

We can bury our heads and rebleat our blurts and think we’re doing something. And maybe we are, but I believe whatever it is we’re doing, that seems the easiest and most-readily available is precisely What They Want You To Do. Because they’ve thought about this, and they wouldn’t be letting The Game go this way if it didn’t benefit them. Trust me on that.

So, what do we do? How do we FIGHT?!

 

WE CREATE.

Create and Communicate. Make things that are beautiful, real, true and beautiful. Maybe they’re words, maybe they’re pictures, maybe they’re just messages like posting on Social Media somewhere to anybody, nobody or everybody about how you, a person, LOVE this one thing, purely and completely, and how loving that thing has improved your life.

Just create something. Something from the heart. Something simple. Something complex. Something light, something heavy. Share it. Or don’t. But share SOMEthing.

Be SOMEthing. Do SOMEthing.

Because the light at the end of this tunnel, and this tunnel DOES have an end, is going to be the enduring power of humanity seeing the humanity in itself and in each other. Because the way to a better world lies in the changes lying in the hands of those that care about each other.

Because, and let’s be honest here, there are only two types of people in this world: Those that care about other people and those that care only about themselves.

And right now, the latter is in charge. They have been for a while, I suppose, perhaps for so long that it’s intrinsically tied to The Human Condition, and we’ll never escape it. Not until we EVOLVE ALREADY, anyway.

But there’s a way to be a part of the change, to take part in the change, to affect a change. And that’s to continue to be the GOOD in the world, to be real and human and flawed and share those flaws and For Fuck’s Sake CARE ABOUT OTHERS.

I mean, I suppose I should’ve opened with that one. Yeah, you’re going to have to be one of the types of people that Cares About Others. So do that first.

Then create. Share. Live. Breathe. And do what you can, it all helps. And remember: This too, shall pass.

But, like, HOLY FUCK.

A Bit About The Writing World – as i know it

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Types of Communities

There are all kinds of communities for writers in Australia, I’d reckon, but mostly what I’ve found is either Facebook Groups or actual organisations. My experiences with both are hit-and-miss.

Groups

Hits happen when I’m on a FB group that does more than just post memes about how writing makes you crazy or how writers procrastinate. I do like those, and will sometimes even share them on, but it’s not like that advances my writing career in any way.

Some groups will share writing opportunities, short story competitions and whatnot, but it seems rare. Mostly they seem to be about advice or events, really. And by “advice” I mean really, really simple shit. Writer Noobs, for lack of a less-snobby-sounding term. Events can be anything from Meetups to Author Talks at libraries and such.

Which is all pretty good, but I have yet to find one that encompasses all these things. Mostly they tend to be one or the other.

Orgs

Writer’s organisations can, for the most part, fuck right off. I know that sounds rather surly but I can’t remember the last time one of them sent me an email offering me something of value for free. Sure, they dribble tidbits of “advice” (again, for noobs) in there, but they only community they’re interested in building seems to be the ones that will pay to attend their workshops or online classes.

Which is fine, I suppose, in lieu of Creative Writing Courses at a community college or something, and if you can afford it. But what about those of us that can’t? They’re all easily in the three-figure range for just about anything you’re wanting to do, including being a member. There’s not many options for a tiered scheme.

I was lucky enough to find a Perth-based group called “Out Of The Asylum” and they were only about $40 per year. I can’t remember the competition, but I was entering a short story piece for something and it required that I was a paying member of an official writer’s group in Australia, so I went with the cheapest I could find in OOTA. Awesomely enough, I got to enter their Spilt Ink Competition and I actually took second place!

But the other organisations, especially the big ones, all want too damn much. There’s one here in Perth, the KSP Writer’s Centre, that is always putting out competitions and such, always with a cost for entry, but always limited to members. I can get the Concession rate of $70, but all that really gets me is access to their meetings and whatnot, and the ability to enter (and pay of course) their contests.

The seemingly most-popular national body, the Australian Society of Authors, wants $160/year for an “Associate” membership (and one-off $25 fee) and $215 if you’ve published a book (same sign-up fee). When I initially asked them about a concession rate, they ignored my question and pointed out that I could pay them in monthly instalments if I wanted.

Then, when they published an article about how sad it is that Australian writers don’t make very much money, I wrote them another email that pointed out the hypocrisy of crying about authors not getting paid enough, then not even offering a Pensioner’s rate on their membership page.

It was about six months later that I saw another push for joining up and lo and behold there’s now a message at the bottom of their Membership Page that says to get concession rates you have to ring them. So I rang them and it ended up being only about $15 cheaper.

Why did I have to ring them to find out their concession rates? Why gatekeep that information from concessioners? Odd. Still haven’t figured out how it’s worth it either. Other than saving on competitions, there’s no real benefit unless it’s the thing that they all do: Offer discounts on their stuff. If I’m not going to pay for your workshop or writing class, then I’m not going to pay you for membership.

Australian Writer’s Guild seems to be more about screenwriters and such than anybody else, but that’s alright because they’re still $185 joining fee, plus whatever it is per year for various levels, coming to about $350 a year. Best for pros, is my guess.

The Australian Writer’s Centre is pretty good for their contribution to the community as they hold monthly writing competitions that are free to enter and offer you recognition from around the globe. The prompts are usually highly-entertaining and they give you a weekend to write 500 words, and it’s a heap of fun. Plus a great way to engage with the community. I’ve longlisted a few times, but never made it to the shortlist, though I will keep trying.

Aside from the big ones that focus heavily on pimping their own courses, there’s a few book/author/library-centric newsletters that I’ve found that I just love. The Writing WA newsletter is where I get most of my competition/event news as well as neat articles about local authors. They seem more community-minded than just about anything else I’ve seen out there and will happily pimp big authors or the space opera romance author who’s just self-published her thirteenth book. I’m a huge fan of this group.

Types of Opportunities

If you’re down for entering short stories or are a poet, there’s actually quite a lot. I’m happy to write short stories of any length or genre and submit them just about anywhere I can. While I still don’t quite grok why we had to call it “Flash Fiction” for yet another category, I’m happy to write that one too.

In fact, there were so many comps that I started keeping track of them in a Calendar Plugin here on my own site.

Aside from the short stories that you could write and comps you could take part in just about every month, there are the occasional call-outs for manuscript submissions from publishers as well as a couple of big awards.

The ones I’m keen on entering are usually centred around emerging authors, some of them even marginalised voices, and they often have a hefty cash prize.

The Hungerford is done by Fremantle Press and is $15k I think, as well as the Richell too. Both give an opportunity for those of us that have never gotten anywhere with our manuscripts to get a chance to not only get noticed, but to get published too.

Of course, once you’re published there’s the Miles Franklin and the Ned Kelly’s to enter your book in, but that’s a whole next-level thing and I’m looking forward to having to figure all that out someday.

Types of Writers

Demographics

Okay, here’s where I start to spout unpopular opinions about the industry. I am never, ever, going to have a cry about how someone else has more opportunity than me because of inclusivity and I refuse to use the word “woke” unless it’s to make fun of people that say it as if it’s a bad thing.

BUT… I’m a white, Western-culture, cis-het, educated, middle-aged male. I’ve got privilege running out my ass, and I have no room to complain, but I’m a decent writer and I’ve written some decent books, and I can’t help but wonder if I’d have been offered a contract by now if I were a BIPOC woman/non-male.

The vast majority of the authors I interact with and/or see being spruiked by both publishers and organisations alike are women, nearly 99% of the agents I’ve found on QueryTracker are women and nearly the entirety of the local writer’s groups here in Perth are women. This seems to be the way of the industry.

And you know what? I’m okay with that. If my writing needs to work just a bit harder to get recognised while people that have bore the brunt of my privilege for thousands of years get a solid crack, then that is as it should be.

BUT… it also means I’ve got slightly fewer opportunities for friends and engagement. Not that I’m actively searching for friendships, but I know that the writers I reach out to or engage with on social media treat me differently because I’m the demographic I am, and I kind of wish that weren’t so.

Class Divide

There’s also the fact that I am poor. We live on Disability/Carer’s Pensions and can’t work, so it becomes a matter of not being able to afford things like editing and cover design for the books I’ve written, or memberships for competitions I wish to enter.

Plus there’s the matter of finding the freedom to actually write!

Not being able to work doesn’t mean life isn’t work enough. With two kids at home and one of them severely Autistic, there’s not a lot of room to find that headspace to crank out novel after novel. If I’m not looking after wife’s issues, she’s looking after mine, and just helping run a household when you’re disabled is already a sizeable portion of your day.

Couple that with the fact that pain is a constant distraction and suddenly you’ve had nearly all your motivation sapped. This shit is hard.

While I wouldn’t swap lives with anyone for anything ever, a part of me does wonder what life would be like if I were the semi-retired, empty-nester wife of a dentist or lawyer or something, where my only “duties” during the day would be to organise the housekeeping service and walk Chester, our Labradoodle and the rest of my day could be spent sipping Chardonnay and writing whatever the blue fuck I wanted.

I try not to be bitter, but I just see too much of this, and I’m envious as fuck. I occasionally see these Fellowships or Mentorships where somebody can get some cash for their writing projects, maybe something to make the load a bit lighter. I even qualify for one as I’m technically disabled, but I just can’t imagine taking away the opportunity from somebody truly deserving.

Yeah, I know. Don’t I think that I’M “truly deserving”? Yeah, I do. But I’ll get up that hill on my own, I reckon. Until somebody comes along and says, “Hey, you’re precisely who I’ve set out to help, so here, have some money, and I’ll sit back and await your brilliant work.”

I mean hell, aren’t we all out for that kind of thing? Like painters and artists-in-residence and such way back in the old days in Italy and shit. Somebody rich benefits from your creativity, so they pay you just to be around and being creative. What a life, what a dream.

Where I Fit In

Right now, I’m pumping out short stories for nearly every competition I can. Wifeage and I figure our already-tight budget can withstand the minor hits it takes every time I enter a comp, so I’m going to spend this year hitting as many as I can.

And yes, there have been times that we have been too broke for me to afford the $15 “reading fee” that most comps have. But if it means an opportunity, a chance at recognition and another feather in my writer’s cap, then it’s got to be worth it, right?

I’m never going to be able to drop the $450 they want for a Writing Class, nor do I really want one right now. Memberships to things are out because of lack of perceived value and most editors want way too much money to do what me and Wifeage can handle 95% of. I have a hard time finding the value there, no matter what the standard advice is.

As with most things, it seems you have to pay to play, and I’m stuck on the outside trying to find a way to DIY my own setup. Most folks wouldn’t bother, I suppose. But then again, as Wifage and Offspring keep reminding me, I’m not most folks.

Easier Every Time

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It’s one thing seeing your childhood irrevocably changed after a flood, the fishing and swimming holes and the camping spots all gone, the blue of the water gone brown, your memories all that are left. It’s another thing entirely to not remember where you buried him, the first one. The worst one.

You fight down the rising panic. After all, it’s not like the flood washed away a metre of topsoil, right?

It’s well after dark, no one’s been down this trail for weeks but you find yourself moving faster than is necessary, reminding yourself to calm down and do this right.

Memories come flooding back. You’d gone to pull him out and had only pulled his shoe off, sending your ass backward into the grass. Putting his shoe back on had been painfully triggering. But you’re here now, and it’s nearly done, all of it. Twelve years and four states later, this is the last one.

You’re more than relieved that digging will be easier this time as the climate-catastrophe-level flood cleared most of the trees. The one before in the desert hills, the first one’s brother, was out there with nothing but red dirt and rocks. Your shirt and hands were redder, he’d given quite a fight even as his life sprayed across the two of you. Digging after that was the worst.

Not easy like the banks of that river basin over east. That one was cake. You didn’t know him in person, but you could tell that he knew you the second he saw your face. He’d seen plenty, hit burnout, and he took one look at you before closing his eyes and tipping his head back. Easy ending, easy burial.

This one you drag with the rope, easy as. The hole is easier than the first time too. It all is, especially now that it’s nearly done. Tree branch raked over, shovel pitched into the river, and you were never there.

But you head back up only to find a park ranger’s ute right next to yours. An odd calm settles over you and your weary smile for the ranger is one that means it.

She smiles back. “I thought that was you! What the hell you doing out here?” Her words bubble out. “When did you even get back? How long are you back for? How have you BEEN all these years?”

You don’t even lie. “Good, been good. Just got in. Long drive, but I wanted to see what was still here for myself. You know, unfinished business.”

“Ah yeah, the flood. Yeah… hey, so good to see you! Fancy a beer? My shift’s over in an hour. We can catch up.”

You were never sure, but you thought she might have been like you all those years ago. There was always a connection, of sorts.

“That’d be great.”

You take in the blue of her eyes against the brown of her uniform and smile and mean it, because it would.

Great Quote

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So I’m just stumbling through a forum thread while looking for information on the “tsuba”.

See, I figure I can make a katana from scratch. Well, a wooden one anyway. Y’know, for display and such. Hell, when I mentioned it to Jade she got excited and asked me to make a Lesbian Sword. I can’t imagine a better or more inspirational challenge!

So I’m thinking about the parts that make up a katana, and how I’m going to completely do My Own Thing in My Own Way, but I don’t want to ignore any useful functionality or anything like that. So I remember seeing these holes in the DIY Katana adverts on stuff, like a li’l blorpy-bit in the “tsuba” which is the handguard of the sword.

I ended up on a forum where a guy answered the question, talking about how they’re there to quickly draw the knives that are typically hooked to the outside of a katana’s scabbard. OR, for a “peace tie” where you’d loop something through the hole and secure it to show that you’re not down for fighting, you’re just wearing your sword because swords rock and are purty.

So I read the guy’s signature and it goes like this:

“Storytellers and writers are all gods and goddesses, to a one. Musicians are their host, painters their scribes, and actors their saints–but all arts start with a story to tell.”

The guy’s name is Vincent Dolan on the forum, but when I search up the quote it appears to be a quote from writer Julian M. Miles, who seems quite interesting. Here’s his website, I think he sounds pretty cool.

Honestly, anybody that can make such a great quote about us writers MUST be pretty damn cool. I kind of love it, that quote, and I kind of love it pretty hard. Makes me feel a bit… I dunno, important to the world. Like my stories are something that are necessary and needed, and special and good.

Anyway, I’ll have stories later. For now, a great quote about being a storyteller.

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Macca’s, a tale as old as time, or at least as old as the bun on that shitty burger.

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It’s bad enough that the kiosk errored out when I tried to change the drinks from Coke to Vanilla Coke, then barfed on printing. At least the order got through to the staff.

SPOILERS: Not that it mattered!

After an 11-minute wait, they call my number. I know it was 11-minutes because there’s a timer on my crossword puzzle app. I don’t even need to reach the counter to know they’ve forgotten food. I know it like I know that 12-across’s clue about a Terrible Muriel is “Toni Colette”.

I don’t even look, I just start taking food out of the bags and arranging it across the counter. I can hardly believe my eyes, as it would appear the fine folks of Sunday Night Crew were going for a new record of Shit They Forgot.

Ignored were three of the four hamburgers, two Big Macs and all four apple pies. Both Big Mac sauces too, but hey, I’m not going to be an Ass about that.

I stand at the counter and watch all of the very thin teenage females zip and zoom around filling orders. NONE of them pay me any mind. The only non-skinny one (sandy-blonde hair) is filling orders at the other counter and actually looks at me to make eye contact, but mostly she seem to be weighing my unhappiness, and trying to gauge the chances I’m going to go Ass on them.

No one approaches, no one asks me about my order. There is NO ONE else at the counter.

“You forgot some food!” I call out before ANYONE will regard me, but I said it loud enough so I ended up with three of the thinnies coming over.

Thinnie #1: “What’s missing?”

The food is neatly clustered categorically on the counter. Big Mac, QP, Cheeseburgers X2, Nuggets, fries and drinks off to the side, making it easy to differentiate Food That Is Here versus, well, the other kind of food.

A lonely little hamburger sits in the middle of the other burgers, waiting for three more of his friends so he can finally join the rest of them in the bag with the Big Burgers.

Me: “THREE hamburgers, ALL FOUR apple pies, ONE quarter pounder and ONE Big Mac.”

I’m not being an Ass yet. I’m speaking up on the numbers so that they won’t ask me to repeat myself.

Each Thinnie takes a look at the little display I’ve made and two of them zip away as if they’re going to get my food.

SPOILERS: They weren’t.

Thinnie #2: “How many hamburgers?”

Me: [SIGH] “Three. I’m missing three hamburgers.”

Thinnie #2: “Three hamburgers?”

Me: [Wondering what would have changed in the last 3.1 seconds, looking around suspiciously] “Yes.”

She hustles off. I wait. Another 90 seconds pass. NOBODY has brought a hamburger, nor any pies, nor anything else. None of them have looked at me except SandyBlonde, who keeps giving me wary looks as if I’m already going full-Ass on them.

I’m not, of course. Not yet.

Thinnies #1-#3 are still zipping and zooming around the main pit area, filling bags and being busy.

“Um, can I get those burgers?”

Thinnies stop and look at me, fear in their eyes. Manager Thinnie gives a cursory look to the Thinnies as they stand there Not Helping Me, then comes over.

MgrThinnie: “SorryAboutThat, what’s missing?”

Me: [SIGH] “Three hamburgers, FOUR apple pies, QP and Big Mac.”

She at least turns around talks directly to the Thinnies, instructing them to get me the burgers I ordered. I figure she got that Manager gig because she’s got a better chance than I do of getting them to actually GET MY FOOD.

SPOILERS: I’m wrong.

Minutes pass. I finally figure out that 38-across clue was a Beatles reference but I couldn’t remember if it’s Sargent or Sergeant. The Thinnies return without me calling out. Between the three of them they are carrying a solitary Big Mac. I reluctantly put away my crossword.

Thinnie #3: “Here’s the Big Mac, but you say you’re missing a Quarter Pounder? It’s right here.” [she points to the lone QP on the counter as if I’ve got a rare eye disease that can’t make out colourful burgered-boxes.]

Me: “Yeah, TWO Quarter Pounders, two Big Macs.”

Thinnie #3: “Ah, there’s three Big Macs and one QP here.” [shows me my receipt]

Me: “Ah yeah, your kiosk borked on me. Sorry, I meant to order two and two for those burgers. Is it cool if I get a Quarter Pounder instead of another Big Mac so I have two of each?”

Thinnie #3 stops and stares wide-eyed at Thinnie #2. I’ve apparently asked for something Highly Unusual. Time passes as they look at each other and wordlessly try to figure out a way to get away from me without committing to giving me food in any way, shape or form.

Me: “If it’s going to be an issue, I’ll just have the three Big Macs. Really I’d just like to get all the food I ordered.”

Thinnie #3: “No, no, we’ll get you a Quarter Pounder.”

Me: [friendly] “Cool, thank you.”

They walk away and go back to zipping and zooming. Thinnie #4 brings me the Quarter Pounder.

Me: “Thanks. Any word on the other food?”

Thinnie #2: [stopping and turning slowly] “What are you missing?”

Me: “Still need those three hamburgers, and the apple pies.”

Thinnie #2: “Three hamburgers?”

Now, do you people train them on the repetition thing? Is that in the Be A Macca’s Manual before they learn how to pack an order with less food than on the receipt but before you teach them the passively-waiting-for-death stare into oblivion?

Me, sighing but still not being an Ass: “YES.”

She zips away. Minutes pass. 23-down was a hard one but a reindeer clue leads me to “antler”. Despite my height (tall) and body shape (heavy) and the fact that I’m standing at the counter, food out of the bags and in little rows, and the fact that EVERYTHING about me SCREAMS that my order isn’t complete yet, NOBODY approaches me.

I see a new Thinnie and recognise her from the artful way she earlier declined a stack of ten-cent pieces from a full-face tattoo’ed example of Armadale’s Finest, explaining to him that she couldn’t give him anything for fifty-cents because of “policy”.

Me: “Um, I still need some Big Mac sauce.”

Despite the fact that I’m FOUR FEET away, three Thinnies look at me and blink wordlessly as Thinnie #4 asks: “What was that?”

Me: [same volume] “I need some Big Mac sauce.”

I don’t ask them why the kiosk would let me choose sauces if they don’t put them in the bags. I don’t ask them why they keep asking me what I’m missing when I’ve got it all on display and my receipt is happily parked in the middle, nearest them, even turned around for their ease of reading. I’m not going to turn into an Ass, but SandyBlonde is still giving me looks while she shoves fries into bags.

Thinnie #4: “You need some Big Mac sauce?”

Again with the repetition. I am NOT soft-spoken. I do not shout but am not someone people don’t hear and I still don’t know what could have possibly changed in the situation from the time that I said I needed Big Mac sauce to when Thinnie #4 repeated it back to me. Clearly this crew is used to some random and weird shit happening At Any Given Time. Order quantities must be like New Math or Quantum Physics and Dark Matter where shit is changing CONSTANTLY.

Full Disclosure: Now is when some Ass started coming out.

Me: “Yes. [pointing to receipt] It’s there on the bottom, see?”

Thinnie #4: “So one Big Mac sauce?”

Now I’m wondering what would happen if I changed my answer. Would time stop and a voiceover would say something wry about how “Now is when the aneurysm burst”? Would her head explode and I’d get done for manslaughter if I’d said I needed TWO?

Me: “YES. One Big Mac Sauce.”

Sandyblonde raises her eyebrows to Thinnie #2 and thinks I don’t see it. I can’t believe that I’M going to have the stories told about ME later. They’ll be on a smoke break and be like, “Can you buh-leeve that guy today in the hat? Kept going ON and ON about wanting the food he ordered. Geez. What an Ass.”

Thinnie #4 gets hung up near the kitchen by a manager with a horrific spider tattoo down his arm. Apparently there’s been a spate of unsanctioned Big Mac Sauce removals and the Boss needs to personally approve each little cardboard dippin’ container. He says something to her, turns to go, then turns back and says something else.

Thinnie #4 grabs two containers and I get excited, because I’m actually missing BOTH the ones off the receipt but I hadn’t been an Ass about it yet. Was it possible she read the receipt and actually paid attention to What I Ordered? Could it be even the barest, remotest hint at competency?

Nope. This spot, this place on the counter reserved for Ubereats drivers, is apparently where Hope Comes To Die.

She puts the other sauce near The Pit and walks the other one over to me. MgrSpiderArm, for some reason, suddenly comes out and watches over her shoulder as she puts the sauce down on the counter. Then he leaves having said nothing to me. He’s clearly the manager tasked with cracking down on the rampant Big Mac Sauce thefts. I wish him well.

Thinnie #4 looks a little scared, then leans in conspiratorially: “Sorry about the wait.”

Me: “All good, I got some good crossword time in.”

Thinnie #4 glances back at her co-workers, rolls her eyes a bit and smiles at me: “Was there anything else?”

I’m totally unprepared for this. Could she tell? What gave it away? That I was still standing there, leaning up against the wall wondering why the app won’t let me put a “C” onto the existing letters of “UNT” for 53-down’s clue of “Thrill of the __”? That my food was still in little piles out in front of the bags?

Not gonna lie, this person is 100% Manager Material. I expect you to promote her soon to the vacant managerial position for the person in charge of NEVER giving napkins unless someone asks for them only to then give them exactly THIRTY-SEVEN.

Me: “Yep, still need those apple pies.”

Thinnie #4: “You need apple pies?”

Me, wondering if I’ve accidentally started speaking Swahili again (because I’m so silly like that): “Yep, three apple pies.”

I’d glanced down to see that while the group of Thinnies (collective term is actually a “zipzoom” of Thinnies) was delivering a Big Mac, one of them snuck an apple pie into the bag of fries. Not FOUR apple pies, just the one.

Thinnie #4: “Three apple pies?”

Me, wondering what the word of affirmation in Swahili is: “YES.”

I’m back to not going Ass at her. She smiled, she’s trying, she’s even pretending to share my belief that her inept co-workers are a drain on us all. I’m just relieved I don’t have to repeat it a third time.

MgrThinnie pokes her head around still packing a bag for the drive-thru: “We’re just waiting on those apple pies…”

I don’t answer back that I’ve got the whole waiting-on-the-food thing figured out by now. I should just be happy someone acknowledged that I was waiting for food I ordered and didn’t have me repeat it twice. Instead I accidentally let a bit of Ass out.

Me: “YES, still waiting on the food I ordered.”

SandyBlonde actually looks worried, like I’m going to Hulk Smash and lay waste to the still-empty counter. She looks to the Zipzoom at The Pit and rolls her eyes. I do not like this.

How is it that I’M the asshole for actually wanting the food I actually ordered? What is the average Macca’s customer like? Do they just pay whatever and eat whatever? Is no one concerned when they pay for food and then don’t get it? Are we that much of an over-indulgent, affluent Western culture that we just ask for food, pay heaps of money for it, get most of it and then just shrug and move on?

Me: “Hey look, I’ll just slip back there and make the burgers myself, cool? I promise I’ll wash my hands!”

SandyBlonde looks at me with a mix of bemusement and discomfort, like I’m actually going to do it and she can’t WAIT to see how difficult I’ll find it to read a receipt and place items whose description matches what’s printed on the receipt into a paper bag. Oh, the Humble Pie I’ll have to eat!

I’m joking, obviously, I wasn’t going to jump the counter and make my own food. I have no desire to instantly become General Manager of the entire store when everyone sees my positively glorious skills at READING and then translating what I read into the actions I then perform. They’d watch me read “No onions” and then NOT put onions on the burger and they’d make me Shift Manager on the spot. I bet MgrSpiderArm would rip his nameplate off and pin it on me himself!

Hell, if they stuck around to see me read “Tomato Slice” on the receipt and then ACTUALLY PUT IT ON A BURGER, they’d want to make me their king! They’d carry me around in a sedan chair, one Thinnie per corner, and they’d only put the chair down for me to demonstrate, live and in-person, the oh-so-subtle difference between ONE hamburger and FOUR.

Crowds would form, people would cheer, and all the Thinnies would smile and each of the Managers would ask me what was so incredibly unique and special about my ears that they were able to discern customers’ speech patterns the FIRST TRY without making them repeat it twice.

It is then that Thinnie #2 then stuns me. Shocked. Awed. I’m still recovering. She approached zipzoomily, precisely THREE hamburgers in her hands, and she put them on the counter next to the others. This both pleased and infuriated me. Pleased because I actually got the food that I ordered in the quantity I ordered, but pissed because SOMEBODY SOMEWHERE remembered that I was missing three burgers and did jack shit about it until I started being a goofball.

Maybe this was all a test. Maybe this is how you McDonald’s people choose your leaders. Well keep looking, Manager Seekers, I’m a busy man and can’t devote the entire afternoon it would take to successfully fill multiple drive-thru orders in a row and thus get a framed-picture up in the Macca’s Hall of Fame.

Nah, more likely this is some sort of cost-cutting measure in that it’s cheaper to train 15-yo Thinnies (non-thins too) to act brain-dead and short people the food they ordered (and PAID for) than it is to actually serve people THEIR ACTUAL ORDER.

Which, really, is genius. I mean, people are already going to complain because people are, for the most part, sewage mud. May as well give them a reason for when they complain! May as well make 95% sure you’re NOT giving them their freakin’ food, because you just saved 45-cents unit cost per burger, and that can really add up.

I’m onto you Maccas. I’ve discovered your secret. There’s no way it’s coincidence that you’ve only gotten ONE of my orders right in the LAST TWO YEARS. We’re there at least once month too, sometimes more, so we’re talking at least 30 or so visits.

Seriously, we put it in our family-shared Google Calendar and every July 18th we celebrate Macca’s Got It Right Day with a feast fit for a king (or Maccas Manager).

That we get from Hungry Jacks. Ha.

But wait… I have yet to FINISH THE F*CKING STORY.

Thinnie #4 now comes out, and she has all THREE missing apple pies in hand. After she puts them in the fries bag, I take a couple of fries and pop them into my mouth. Cold, and I make a face. I check my watch again, much to the terror of the eye-rolling SandyBlonde and I thank Thinnie #4 despite my crossword showing 17-minutes of clue-guessin’ and food-missin’.

It was an adventure, Maccas, and while I’ll never wish to relive it, I’ll never forget it. And I know that if ever comes a six-letter word for “Fast food chain known for its consistent f*ck-ups” I’m nailing it first try!

Oh yeah, you owe me $1.20 for the tomato slices you left off.

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Ourselves

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Hard to believe that one of the biggest things to happen to me in my Writing Journey is something I haven’t talked about in here at all.

I recently had the honour of being included in the 100 Micro Memoirs from 100 WA Authors. Ourselves, the first anthology of its kind in Australia, Put together by the awesome people at Night Parrot Press, it includes 750-word stories from some of my absolute favourite authors/people too.

Seriously, I cannot state it emphatically enough the honour I feel having MY NAME and MY STORY published by a REAL PUBLISHER alongside so many people whose writing and accomplishments I admire and am inspired by.

They include (but are not limited to), In order of appearance:

Scott Patrick-Mitchell – I know SPM mostly through his prolific prize-winning for poetry but also he just seems a genuinely wonderful person too. I believe we cross paths occasionally when I comment on Holden Sheppard’s FB or something similar.

Katherine Allum – I’ve only seen her about the traps but liked she’s a fellow Murcan Expat (like Laura from NPP) and a beautiful writer. Her entry in this anthology is heartbreaking and beautiful.

Melinda Tognini – Another somebody I’ve seen around but I enjoy her through her blog and her newsletters. Great writer, neat person, Her entry in this is also heartbreaking and beautiful. I think I’m sensing an theme.

Sarah Moredoundt – Seen her around the newsletters and whatnot, recognised her name from something I’d read a while ago and can’t remember, but her story is simply beautiful. Heartbreaking only insofar that anyone who has ever been a parent knows That Exact Feeling she describes so thoroughly in the moment.

Gillian O’Shaughnessy – I’ve known Gillo for years, having interacted with her during her midday radio show on the ABC. Always through text, I would sign them using a fake name and she’d often read them on air. I remember once she wanted people to call/text with simple, three-ingredient, recipes and I said something about pasta, fresh basil and extra, extra virgin olive oil. Now, I have no real idea what makes olive oil virgin, extra virgin or what, but I know some of it tastes better, and if it’s a hero of a recipe you want the good stuff. So that’s why I said, “extra virgin olive oil too. I mean, the kind that’s never even seen a boy naked before.” or something equally irreverent and slightly-naughty. I was rewarded by Gillo snorting while she read it and saying quietly, presumably to her producer, “I can’t say this on air…” Achievement Get. Years later I’d email her and tell her I very much enjoyed her writing and congratulating her on the transition from ABC Radio Legend to author, even admitting my secret radio-text-name. When I found out she was in this anthology too, I emailed her my excitement and she told me how she was looking forward to meeting her “anthology buddy” at the book launch.

Andrew Tetlaw – This name tickled me because I knew I knew him, but it was only after Googling him that I figured out it was from my time with the Australian Web Industry Association and the Port 80 events here in Perth. Awesome to see he’s in this anthology too. His story is short and aching and reminds me of my wife’s stories of her mother and step-father. Sad that so much can be said about a generation in a few short words.

**

The ill-fated Book Launch for Ourselves was on the same night our youngest became a teenager, and only a few days before my hip-replacement surgery was scheduled. Wife’s body wasn’t co-operating in going to this launch and mine wasn’t either. Even after I’d emailed Laura Keenan (NPP) and she was so gracious and sweet about providing accommodation for somebody like me that would need somewhere comfortable to sit and need to bring along a cohort of children and spouse instead of the simple “+1”.

I wish I could have gone. It would have meant a lot to me to meet these people that I’ve only known through text and media for so long. I would have loved to have shared words, thanked them for what they’ve brought to my life, make them smile, make them laugh.

But I’m hardly me any more. I’m 25kg heavier than I would normally ever be. When I walk, it’s with a cane. I’m in pain a lot. A lot of the time. My mood is understandably affected by this. Which is a nice way of saying my mental health has suffered quite considerably.

Not to mention the impending house move as well, a stress that’s clouded over our heads for a while now. But the surgery, my new hip, my new lease on life, was something so hugely on our minds. We just couldn’t really focus on anything else. Except our boy, that is, and making his favourite meal and cake of course.

The surgery didn’t go through, an ingrown toenail had gone infected and they wouldn’t risk it. I’m still… processing this, and only yesterday was offered another date. My anxiety renews. As does my excitement.

Regardless, for the SECOND TIME I am a “published author” and I remain so incredibly excited that I’m immortalised in literature along with people whose writing (and achievements) I admire so much.

It really does mean the world to me, and I could not be more proud.