This week I started a new job which sees me working full-time for the first time in a few years. Not working a fulltime job, instead two part-time ones. The first is two days a week working as an adviser to NSW Greens MP Lee Rhiannon, which I started doing about three months ago after having volunteered one day a week in her office in NSW Parliament House. The second is working with the NSW Greens on communications for the upcoming federal election.
Just this morning I saw the under-siege Peter Garrett on the front pages of the abc and smh websites, and had mixed feelings I thought would be worth exploring. The nutshell version is that at first I felt sorry for him, but after thinking about it I don’t.
It’s a pretty obvious time of the year to write about food. December is the one month of the year where I barely need to go to the supermarket. As long as I have some fruit or milk or muesli to have for breakfast, all of the other meals seem to take care of themselves. It could be work parties, catching up with friends, family, lunch in the shopping centre food court as a break from the obligatory Christmas shopping, Christmas Day, the leftovers from Christmas Day… I never go hungry in December.
I don’t know if women have this problem, but for a guy there are few more annoying things than this: rushing into a public toilet, sphincter squeezed tight to avoid crapping pants, pushing open the cubicle door, hands on your belt ready to unbutton your fly, ready to shove down your jeans, turn, sit and shit all in one smooth motion. And there on the toilet seat are the generous yellow splatters of the guy before you. Gross. Continue reading The Zen of the Toilet Seat
Like many my age, I grew up with Star Wars. I wasn’t old enough to see the first film at the cinema, but The Empire Strikes Back is one of my earliest cinema-going memories. Actually, my dad got hold of the book before we saw the film, and he used to read it to me in the car on the way to the train station in the morning. I remember my horror on hearing those six fateful words: “No, Luke, I am your father.” Continue reading My First Crush
I‘ve never really liked using or receiving nicknames. In my time I’ve had plenty of variations on my name: Marko, Maco Polo, Marky, Marcus, Marcus Aurelius, Markus Farkus. Markus is probably the best of the bunch, the lesser of many evils. Marky is the absolute worst. Only my closest friends can use that without receiving vitriol in return. One girlfriend called me Sparkles (short for Markle Sparkles). I didn’t mind that, but it’s not really appropriate for anyone else to use. Continue reading What’s in a name?