The Think Circus

Me and Vivian

She deludes herself that I’m not creeping around inside her, methodically and confidently. I was the one who got her into a state that everyone tells her she should be ashamed of - the state of drunkenness. She turned to me, and I convinced her to turn to Mr Johnny Walker. That’s right! She called for me, she needed me, she begged for me. And, here I am.

                                             *****

Vivian is the first to get out of bed, she wakes the kids, makes breakfast, prepares lunch, kisses them good-bye, and cleans the house, cleans the house, cleans the house. Everything is systematic and organized to time; to be on time to open the door to welcome the kids home, to welcome Barry home, to make dinner, to wash the dishes, to prepare for tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the same as today, but she’ll make it feel different. She’s supposed to make it feel different from yesterday, everyday, for everyone.

                                              *****

It’s ten o’clock in the morning, and I know she’s been thinking about it since she woke at six.  No one is around. Go on, drink the scotch. Go on, no one will see you. Scull, scull, scull! And just like Alice from Wonderland, she drinks. No one could live such a predictable lifestyle - her lifestyle - without some act of rebellion. I am that rebellion. I like scotch. Now she loves scotch. I double it for her, make it stronger, make it matter. As me, she becomes real.

All alone at a party?

You’ve been invited to a party and the only person you know is the host. So, what do you do when you don’t know anyone at a party? Don’t worry, I’ve got five clever ways to help you maintain your ‘friendless’ dignity. 

1.     Pretend to have diarrhea.

Let’s face it, if don’t know anyone, you need something to do and what you do needs to look natural. Well, what’s more natural than diarrhea?  Not only does this give you an excuse to go to the toilet numerous times, it also gives you an excuse to spend a considerable length of time in there, and you won’t seem awkward in the least. Think of all the activities you can do in there: you could Twitter what’s inside the medicine cabinet, you could take photos of yourself in the mirror and post them on Facebook, you could fill shampoo bottles with hair dye (come on, we’ve seen this in screwball comedy and it’s pretty funny right?), and you could even sprinkle the toilet seat with water for the next person.  But, when you leave, don’t forget to clog the toilet or your game is up. So, come prepared with your own bag of brown elixir. Me? I tend to save my cat’s but you could save your dog’s or your own if you prefer. 

2.     Fake a slip and spill a drink.

Indeed, there are several ways to meet people; there’s the “Hi my name is *insert name*”, the “Hi, so how do you know the host”, the “Hi, you have some chocolate on your nose, oops sorry that’s a mole”, but my personal favourite because it will guarantee you won’t be ignored is to say nothing and pretend to slip. Then, as you slip you ‘accidently’ spill your drink on someone. You can see the conversation opener already, can’t you? “Oooh, I’m sooo sorry”, to which they’ll reply “No, that’s fine”, to which you’ll reply “Here, let me help you”, to which they’ll reply “No, really it’s okay” to which you’ll reply “I’ll get you a napkin”, and etc, etc, etc. It works every time. Hey, you might even get a compo claim out of it. Win for you.

3.     Call a nerd.

Contrary to popular belief (and clichés) getting on your iPhone/Blackberry is the perfect way to appear important and popular. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t a single person to speak to at the party, the truth is, you don’t want to talk to them anyway - you’re too cool for them. This is why keeping in touch with nerds you’ve met along the way is important. They’ll be so happy to hear from you that they’ll talk to you for however long you want. And don’t feel bad about using them, the fact is, you are indeed doing them a favour by calling them every now and then. And they always answer, trust me.

4.     Take up smoking.

Everyone knows that smokers are lonely people. They prefer to be around people who can join them on their journey towards death, and all you have to do is go outside to the fresh air. There is always some wanna-be dragon who is happy to instantaneously become your lifetime buddy (a very short lifetime, but a lifetime nevertheless). So, go on, grab a cigarette and live a little (do you see what I did there?).

5.     Turn up high

Nothing, except crack and heroin, can give you friends as quickly. Besides the fact that you won’t ‘give a shit’ but could simultaneously shit your pants (see how it all comes full circle), you’ll be seeing a plethora of friends. There’s Red Grape Bandit, who seems to be in every glass you hold, there’s Rainbow Spotsman, who seems to sprinkle himself on every yeast inspired blanket, and there’s also Minnie, Marge, Kenny and Johnny Depp all vying for your attention. Calm down, I don’t know, that’s just what happened on my trip, okay. Sure, you won’t see them tomorrow, but they were there when you needed them – and that’s what friends are for - and you know how this goes… “Keep smiling, keep shining, knowing you can always count on me……….etc, etc, etc.”

A special thanks to my all-true friends; diarrhea, alcohol, nerds, cigarettes and drugs. I love you all!

In gratitude to Laura Hughes, who, through her on-the-field reporting, made this post possible: check her out on www.thelaurahughes.com

The argument that Cats are smarter than Dogs.

Cats are smarter than dogs, and quite frankly anyone who has ever lived with a cat can verify this.

Sadly, there are humans - usually those that insist on living with canines - that keep rejecting this simple yet undeniable truth. And these lovers of ‘man’s best friend’ may stubbornly refuse to admit a feline’s superiority, but if we simply observe the different reactions between a cat and a dog in a similar situation then we are able to prove Cat’s superiority over Dog.

Take this scenario:

A Human sits on the lounge watching a mindless reality TV show (obviously a dog lover), or reading an intellectual book of poetry (undoubtedly a cat lover). In a moment Human will get up to go to the toilet and Dog, who has sprung to attention, follows Human to the toilet. Once there, Dog waits before simply following Human back only to resume his original position. Why did Dog follow Human? There was no purpose to his rousing, he didn’t need to use the toilet; he followed because he is simply stupid.

Cat, however, wouldn’t bother following Human; instead she takes this opportunity to re-position herself in the most comfortable seat – the one Human has just vacated. Why? Because it’s been warmed, and it’s cushier. What a smart, Cat. 

So, here we have a clear scenario that demonstrates that Dog (interestingly similar to the proverbial Sheep) is simply a follower - and ‘follower’ is actually the euphemism for ‘stupid’. Therefore, based on this result, one can surmise that if Cat is smarter than Sheep - which irrefutably she is - and Dog has the same mental capacity as Sheep (who is indeed stupid), then one can conclude that Cat (meaning all cats) is smarter than Dog (meaning all dogs).

One can indeed conclude that Cats are smarter than Dogs. One CAN conclude that, yes?

The Poppyseed Strudel

Poppyseed strudel, or Mohnstrudel as it is known in Austria (I’m not sure why that’s relevant, I just know it is) is a misunderstood dessert. It is part of the Strudel (pronounced Stroooo-dl, well, no, not really, I’m just marking up my word count) family and it looks very similar to the more commonly known Apple Strudel. It should be noted that the main ingredient of the Poppyseed Strudel is in fact poppy seeds and not apples - of any variety. 

This relatively unknown obsidian coloured dessert is often haphazardly pushed aside in favour of some more popular, yet inferior neutral flavoured and coloured, desserts by self-labeled dessert lovers. When confronted with a choice of lamingtons, custard tarts and date scones, or more extravagant desserts like cream buns, iced finger buns and fairy bread at their local bakery, it is a surprise the Poppyseed Strudel is left behind. Of course, these aforementioned desserts are visually more appealing with their decadent and explosive whiteness, as opposed to the unfamiliar poppyseed concoctions, which are wrapped in sweet buttery filo luxury but simply look like burnt flaky papers stuffed with crushed ants. But, do not let appearances get in the way of superior flavour reserved for those with distinctive taste.

These delicious miniscule roundish greyish seeds mind their own business, and although they go relatively unnoticed, they have found a strong and solid marriage with bread rolls and orange-flavoured muffins. Sold in five-gram sachets in the spice section of the local supermarket, they are harvested from inside the Poppy flower. This is also where their trouble started. The poppy seed has donned a very bad reputation because of its cousin - Opium.

Opium also comes from within the Poppy flower, but unlike the innocent poppyseed, Opium is associated with drugs. The poor innocent poppyseed, and by default the Poppyseed Strudel, is therefore overlooked because of just one delinquent family member.

Don’t penalise the poppy seed for this but instead try a Poppyseed Strudel today.

Yes, I may be bias, I may even be pathetic, but we are the world, we are the children and therefore, we need Poppyseed Strudel.

Observations: At my local cafe.

     The navy coloured sandals, one slightly in front of the other, waited patiently under his chair until they needed to be used again. He sat cross-legged and superior above them. His ink hair sprouted from his cranium falling like water spurting from a fountain. A circular hollow earring the size of fifty-cent coin with a pentagram welded in the centre stretched his lobe creating five holes that allowed a view right to his neck. The hood of his primary red sloppy-joe relaxed around his neck and barely hid a tattoo that cunningly crawled up his neck. When he turned to the left, his skin reached up and I could just make out the tattoo. A tattoo of Haro Kiti.

     The fat man didn’t care that he took up more space than the slender thoroughfare between the tables and counter could handle. He loosely swung his arms anyway. He wore a white polo shirt with green, navy and red stripes that encircled his balloon frame the wrong way. His breasts were breasts! They rhythmically bounced off his gut with each step and his pants squeezed him so tight they cut him in half. I could have mistaken him for a fat woman if I didn’t see him confidently scratching at the scrotum that was under his over-fleshed escarpment.  

Short Story: 300 words

My mother pressed me close to her, and my aunt, who was bottled beside her in the car, held my sister just as tightly. I was five and my sister was seven, and we didn’t know we were witnesses to a crime. I certainly didn’t know my mother and aunt were the criminals. The length of my mother’s sentence, for it would undoubtedly be prison, is anyone’s guess. My sister and I would be shuffled back and forth until she was freed, if they let her live, that is.

But they weren’t the only criminals in that car. There were two others - a sanguine couple in their early twenties fleeing for freedom. And there were still two more, making a total of eight, but these weren’t criminals, they were the drivers, the heroes. The car was a Volkswagen. One of those small ones you swore had a lawnmower for an engine, and we were crammed in and it was muggy. The smell of my mother’s sweat was soothing to me as it drenched my blouse so I nestled my head deeper into her armpits and tried to sleep.

I listened as her heartbeat synchronized to my blood flow. At first it was the soothing sound of a single piano key tapping to the rhythm of a metronome. But it started to beat faster and harder and it drummed in my ear so fiercely I pulled away. I perused for the cause of my mother’s anxiety and beyond the windscreen I saw a narrow dirt track and a worn sign beside it.

                ‘What does it say?’ I asked my mother.

                ‘It says Welcome to Austria.’

                ‘Why are we going there?’

                ‘To be free’, she said.

When we crossed the border my mother and aunt and the young couple beside us weren’t criminals anymore. They were refugees.

The Women in Black by Madeleine St John

This is a fabulous book about six women in 1950s Australia who work in a department store. It follows each of their struggles in a time when women were expected to be a certain way and how they cope with their differing lives. This is a classic.

Get it and read it, asap. 

Here’s some excerpts from Chapter 2 which shows St John’s witty style and clever word play with a touch of irony:

Mrs Williams was a little, thin, straw-coloured woman with a worn-out face and a stiff-looking permanent wave. Her husband Frank was a bastard, naturally.  [ …]

At the weekends she visited her mother or one of her sisters; Frank drove her there and fetched her, and while she was ‘jaw, jaw, jawing’ he played golf on the public course at Kingsford or drank in the pub. He was a bastard of the standard-issue variety, neither cruel nor violent, merely insensitive and inarticulate.

[…]  as she left the surgery, the physician looking idly at her back view thought, she’d clean up quite well with a new hairdo, some paint on her face and a black nightie; but the husband probably wouldn’t notice, the bastard …