The temporal nature of irresponsibility (and why the Wonder Years are wrong)

Just to finalise my trip to Melbourne, one thing I forgot was that I actually said something really stupid, and it was under sales pressure. The twat behind the counter was trying to sell me some kind of idiotic loyalty card, under the relatively simple guise of me buying a T-shirt with an iron on transfer (oooh, aren't I fashionable) and I did have things on my mind, I had finally got the new Britney single on my IPOD and I was a bit excited, the caricatures of the staff members at JBHIFI and their totally outrageous recommendations were creepy and wrong, and I had been rattled by sales pressure at Virgin, but he's gone "Do you want me to tell you about the Myer loyalty programme!" and I said, and I hate these things now get recorded for posterity, "No thanks, our Myer burnt down"...now, I know what I meant, it was that we didn't have a Myer anymore that did loyalty programs, but it was a cue for the Curb Your Enthusiasm music to start playing - it was completely a stupid thing to say, and I haven't said anything that stupid for a long time. I was also distracted by the Bangles concert, and by whether or not to get a Syrup Sucks T-shirt made, but in the end I decided not to bother, since ironic T-shirt commentary isn't my strong point. Maybe once I get fitter, stronger and happier (a Britney reference and a Radiohead reference in one post, quite the scope) I can wear T-shirts with far more pride. Incidentally, I am completely against loyalty programmes anyway - one of the things I always remember from my childhood was the deep, squirming embarrassment I would feel whenever some kind of old woman would take out a battered old card with seven of the required eight stamps to get a free housecake from the bakery, and her wizened little fingers would hold everyone up as she demanded the eighth stamp...that's not to say though when I'm old, I won't be going mental with my loyalty cards. Prepare now bakeries, I demand my muffin...

Anyway, enough about that, I'm back in Tasmania now, and have done the usual exciting things like washing the dishes, mowing the lawn, yelling at Chris Iwelumo, the usual things. As I get older, I am aware of my responsibilities a lot more, that I'm rapidly approaching the point where going to Syrup or listening to Britney Spears songs is probably going to look a little bit sad - I have always been accutely aware of the shifting sands of age, ever since I came home from school one day when I was about twelve and found Mum had thrown out all my toys and wrestling figures, even the really awesome one that was a man who was shaped like a giant bee with the removable sting. Sure, it was done for my own good, since twelve was probably a little bit too old to be playing wrestling battle royals, but it was still a terribly sad day. I had a long conversation with my friend (the one with the dog and the nagging wife and the famous AFL friends and ambition) about one of my other friends that almost bordered on sneering because he likes to go out and drink, and I was kind of sticking up for him because it's what he wants to do and all, but he was certain that there was just no way people of our age should be going out and getting drunk and rolling around at nightclubs hitting on people on the fringes of hens parties no matter how hot they are (sorry, me again) - now, this was a fine and noble sentiment since yes, I no longer like getting absolutely blind drunk, but that has more to do with the fact that in Tasmania getting blind drunk means you aren't getting in anywhere but casualty when the bouncer punches you in the head, and the crippling illness that Guinness induces in me. As for the first friend, it was fine for him to discuss the temporal nature of irresponsibility and it's roots in youthful ignorance and the way that time has passed us all by, but the last time I went out with him, he was pounding on a table trying to get us all to go to the Mens Gallery to get quote "titties in our face"...as much as America loves a redeemed sinner, that was only about a month ago, so I'm not taking his conversion to Amish life seriously just yet...

All this discussion about acting my age has really been buzzing in my head all day. Not just because of the rapid dislocating nature of time and things being so two decades ago, but because I don't feel that old, but I'm sort of acting a bit older. The last time I went out in Hobart, I went out about two hours later than normal, had a responsible meal and a glass of wine, and remained tremendously sober and was only refused entry to one bar (a record in Hobart) on account not of my drunken state, but because I had an Adidas tracksuit on (obviously Irish Murphys is a Nike bar). My female friend was out with us, and if I'm perfectly honest, I'm a little reluctant to go out drinking with her, because she is a massively big drinker, and there's no in between. It's either a 4am get into the taxi with no shoes night out or you stay at home. However, even she packed it in at 1am, and was asking for a water (or as she put it, "a tall water"). This was a perfectly respectable night out, but christ it was boring. I did kind of miss the glory (box) days of a few years before when on a night out in Dodges Ferry, I decided to go and meet everyone in the town and sort of drunkenly knocked on peoples door and introduced myself to the home owners - funny how many people own a shot gun. I don't know how many more of those adventures I will have, and whether my life is now going to be more about dinner parties and Dean Martin records on the stereo. Of course it's not, I love being the age I am now, it lends so much moral authority to telling damn kids off, and while I do miss the joy of lying by the side of the road pretending to be dead just to see if cars stop, or throwing little fire crackers at people on skateboards, I quite like that I'm a fantastic age when I can still get into Syrup, and not look mental and I can collect toys and write it off as irony but if I want an early night or a nap I can claim that I'm old. Mine you, I wouldn't mind being a kid sometimes, but that's just because I got a whole summer off to roll down the hill and play in the pampas grass we exotically had in the back garden. Yes, who needs a mortgage when you can be cut in such random and bizarre ways across the hands by strange grass...

That said, I always thought the Wonder Years was complete rubbish - who would spend that much time chasing Winnie anyway - because it caused a lot of mental misconceptions about childhood. When I used to watch that show (and when I watch the re-runs) it always makes me convinced childhood was brilliant and that I want to go back and be ten again. Being ten was a nightmare, I was horribly unpopular, embarrassingly awkward around girls and wore shell suits (google that and see if you still respect me). And all those family outings, all those parties you didn't want to go to - when I was 10, we went as a family on the Puffing Billy train in Melbourne, which if you don't know is a train where you can (or you could, pre public liability insurance) sit on a rail on the windowsill, face the window to see what was going on, and dangle your legs out as the train puffed up to five ks an hour - you know, complete drivel, but fun if you were a kid I suppose. You might have seen out of the window two people have sex in the bushes for instance. Or was that just me? Anyway, over the course of the day, I had actually met a girl I went to school with back in Tasmania, who would later grow into Burnies most wanted (and wanton) woman, but back then was just a girl who was really nice and had time for everyone (boy that faded) and I was working some pretty awesome ten year old 1988 flirting about, I don't know, whether Kylie and Jason were more than just friends. This was all great, until the time came to get onto our thrilling and exciting journey along the tracks at warp speed, and after some excellent pre teen angst and faux cynicism along the lines of "trains are so lame!" in her direction, I got on, sat down on the window sill...and my Mum decided that it was horribly unsafe, and that Dad had to stand behind me holding me on the rail so I didn't fall off, both hands around my waist like I was mentally unbalanced. I don't know if you know what it's like to be culturally and coolly dismissed by carefree unheld four year olds kicking their legs out in the air, but it's not good. I don't know if she saw me, but if she did, I think she would have brought it up many years later during our brief, unspiring snob filled one word conversations...

So I guess this post began with an embarrassing moment and ended with one...and that's why people still get drunk isn't it...sobriety, like blogging, just keeps things too fresh in the mind...to hell with maturity, it's too much pressure...and you end up with a nagging wife, a dog and golf days...