Note From The Things They Won't Tell You In Orientation Week: Part 1 Desk.

Orientation week at university is something of a farce. Usually in one of two ways; a cute little fun tour or an all out piss-up. While both these can be fun and informative, key things are often left out. Such useful information might not be realised until a senior year, or never. Some things are for your own good, others for the benefit of your co-students. Likely a lot of it will have already occurred to you as critical thinking, logical studiers. In the event it hasn't this is what has occurred to me in five years and three tertiary institutes (I could say universities, but that would be giving a false accolade to one of the tertiary institutes).

Where to shit?

While this is unpleasant and we all love to pretend it is not our problem, it is, I assure you. I am no advocate of public toilets, particularly in tackling the 'dump question'. But it's a reality and something that bears thinking about. It will likely cross over to your day-life, but will be pertinent at university. Long hours studying, bad food, frantic class schedules, stress smoking, stress coffee and a pack a day prune habit (#studentlife). Unless you are a hot chick in a yoghurt ad, the odds are you will have to deal with your godless deed on campus at some point.

What you are looking for here is the least awkward place to do the devils work. Isolated buildings, disabled toilets, a staff bathroom (stathroom?) or the little porcelain palace on the edge of campus. The obvious thing here is to dodge the chance of running into ANYONE. Or, if others chance to have the same tactic, to be as far from the scene of the crime as possible when they show up to commit. Deny responsibility, avoid detection.

This varies extremely from campus to campus. Libraries are a traditionally anti-brown zone, though the library at Sydney University is 8 stories tall and each has a personal, and lockable, toilet with a floor-to-ceiling window view of the ANZAC bridge. Just joyous.

In a general sense though they will be seldom used lecture halls, neglected floors of tall buildings, underground retreats that are not known to the general pooping public. Your best bet is to explore with an empty colon. I do, every time! Happy hunting true believers.

Where to sit?

Class is a nightmare for the socially awkward. If you consist on a diet of meat and tobacco, as I do, or consist on a diet of regular phone calls and texts or chat snaps (A thing?) and such, this is a thing of careful consideration.

The conventional wisdom is to sit near the door. It ensures easy escape when the boring teacher quits being dumb, or when your bestie calls cause Jamie likes her or whatever. But conventional wisdom is just that, an idea shared by the masses.

It really depends on the two schools;

If you are expecting a phone call, or know you will get one because you are cute or dreamy, sit by the door. But not right in front of it; the rear corner nearest the door will ensure a quick turnaround and might have the perk of no neighbours. A seat in front of the door will put you between two others who have similar theories. The chance that you will all get bestie calls at the same time is too great, do the wise thing.

If, like me, you are smell conscious. Sit as close as you can to the teacher. As a 24 year old male I am comfortable enough to sit near an adult (#totallamewad) and understand the dynamics at play amongst my fresh-out-of-high-school comrades. People will actively avoid sitting that close to the dumb teacher and you can breathe easy, knowing that your stink cannot possibly jump a desk-long barrier (CAN IT!?!?).

The only problem is with a crammed class or a mature aged student. A crammed class will ensure a neighbour, who is often late and wants to redeem themselves. Mature aged students have the equal comfort near the teacher and, apparently, bloodhound like noses.

When To Talk?

Questions opened to the open forum of a classroom are a two pronged sword:

The first prong is the 'I might be wrong so I will wait until someone else says something'. This is by far the more noble and logical choice. No-one likes being torn down by their peers and, in any case, you can be only ever be kinda right. The risk to reward ratio is a fools errand. So sitting on ones hands is the logical course of action for those whose esteem is holding on by a thread. Also, if they make fun of me Jenny won't think I am kick-arse.

The second is the 'no-one is talking, my time to shine', the anti-thesis of the first. It's a thunder-stealer, the realm of teachers pets. OR, a big or, it is the realm of people who got confidence from the silence of the squad. If the quite-types had a valid inclusion, aka any reason to tear you or your thoughts down, they would say something in the first place. This is someone who isn't letting their parents pay several thousand dollars a year for quiet time.

But to the thunder-stealers, the silence is not an invitation for you to air all of your thoughts on the topic. Every question has an answer. If you have one, come forth. If not, be super uncomfortable like everyone else. The problem is that you don't just throw a verbal spanner into the works, you throw everything at it and don't know when to quit.

The key here is; try to gain enlightenment by benefiting the greater good, not just allowing them the benefit of everything you ever thought about.

A Note From The Grass Is Always Greener Desk.

Since I first left the merry ol' land of Aus, I have been frustrated every moment of my foot-setting on Australian soil. It's true enough I am no patriot, as true as it is that I love this country, in some respects. Since I was 19 I have wanted to leave and never, or scarcely, return. Objectively I do not hate Australia, but as an Australian with my sensibilities I am frustrated by it.

I fit in and so I can rest on my laurels. I am the supreme example of a laurel-resting type. If I don't have to strive for it, I won't. If I desire a change or something new in my life, I will let it melt in to the ether as something not attainable. I am a cynic, a skeptic of almost everything and will naturally follow the path of least resistance.

I moved interstate some years ago hoping to provide the same fire under my arse that a trip to Europe had done, to no real avail. It's too similar; there is the stress to find accommodation, employment, friends, a niche. But once you do it becomes home and 'home' is a trap. A trap some people are content in. Like my brothers, who never want to leave but I digress.

'You never really feel at home' is ponied up as a negative. Why should you? If you don't feel at home, you will live differently than you do at home. The point is not to feel at home. Melbourne, my current city is renowned as a great city; of pubs, clubs, live music, entertainment, comedy, theater, sport and culture. Yet I feel no need to properly partake. Why? Because Melbourne is forever and I will forever be able to access those things.

I was in Dublin two and a half years ago, two weeks coinciding with my birthday in June. For those fourteen days I went out every night. Why? Because I may only be there once and wanted to do all I could.

This is a flaw in me and my attitude. But traveling provides the well heralded new experience. Which could be seeing the Taj Mahal, or simply finding a bed. Necessity and desperation drag you out of your comfort zone, in which you can dwell but not live infinitely, and into the adult world of interaction.

It is this world I crave and it is this world, eyed from Australia's distant horizon, that the grass is greener. Or looks greener. And if you get there and it is much browner and more dead and in no way pleasant?

Notch it up as another experience and move on, it's greener over there.  

The Start Of Something...Maybe

The Merger.

By the time of the merger John Prescott had fallen in love, or whatever was close to it, with Margot Frieche'. He had fallen in love though it was only a guess, he had fallen in love though his family hated her almost as much as they did him, he had fallen in love in spite of himself. What a horrible thing. He had never forgiven the French altogether and Margot was so undeniably French. She ate pastries in tiny bites and sipped wine with vigor and smoked cigarettes so thin that the vice seemed pointless. Besides, he was now dependent. He had to watch her and be infatuated and spend money on the silly things that women liked and be happy to do so. It seemed to him that love or being in love, was something close to insanity.

But there he was, stuck in the mud, stuck with her. It turned out John Prescott was the only heterosexual man in county or country that was disappointed with an exotic knockout.

The day the merger began he was shopping for a night dress which Margot was set to wear to a dinner party with his family. It didn't really matter that the Prescott idea of a dinner party was toast or cereal to soak up the booze or booze to drown the toast or cereal.

She was eager to turn their image of her. She had never been anything but loved, adored, admired and wanted so badly for them to be enamored with her. John could have helped and explained that dress sense meant nothing in the Prescott good book. But he wanted to be rid of her and wasn't under his own power, so he had to let bad things happen.

Margot examined every dress in the store; holding them up to her bosom and pivoting. Then she examined them again, and again, excluding one or two with each rotation. He watched this routine and wondered what the fascination was to him, yet he couldn't deny there was one. All else that had excited him could be logically explained, yet this couldn't.

'Oooh dis one' she said with luster.

'Alright' he deadpanned.

The thing was a deep purple that did nothing for her or anyone. He painted the underside of his boat the same colour and was glad he didn't have to look at it. It was awful but he didn't know what made women look good; she was the only one that had ever looked good to him.

'That's four hundred and eighty-nine dollars' said the wide eyed woman behind the bench.

Prescott looked at her like she'd given him a life sentence. He never thought in dollars and cents, people who did were fools. Rather, currency was just the yard stick to improve his practicality or provide the tools to facilitate ones own self-sufficiency. It was a chain that began in a mans hands and ended when his dependency was at a minimum. There at the counter a decent rifle was being traded for a cloth sack and he would rally against it.

'No, that is ridiculous' he said.

'What is?' Margot laughed.

'The price, I won't pay it'

'Oooh....too late' she laughed again.

Prescott was standing outside the store holding the bag and the receipt. He had jumped an important pocket of time and thought this as clear a sign as any that love was dangerous. She was elated and sang in French until a thin cigarette occupied her lips.

She sang all the way to dinner, messes of words rounded off and smeared together. He maxed out the volume of a Christian country music station trying to drown it, but on she sang with defiance. She was overdressed; the purple sack, blood red lipstick, hair pulled into a modest behive beneath a tiara, long dinner gloves and the smell of perfume at war with that of stale tobacco. She reminded him of Audrey Hepburn and how he had never cared for her.

He was in sharp contrast; a contained mess of flannelette  

A Small Piece of Insignificant Garbage

 It took more motivation than it should have to write this. Just this. This small piece of insignificant garbage that's sole purpose is getting words down as I have some small shred of esteem when I do. I am sick of being the drama queen, really sick, but my head isn't right and I have less motivation to fix it than I did to begin this strenuous piece of insignificant garbage.

I find myself repeating Brandos bit from Along The Waterfront ; 'I coulda been a contender'. Great line and I believe I could have, shit maybe still can. But not while my head is wrong and I have no willingness to fix it. It is not a willingness not to be better, to feel better. I want that more than anything, but that mountain doesn't seem worth crossing.

I am increasingly skeptical of therapy and that initial push is the hardest fucking thing. Its coming into me and out of me in strange ways- clinical depression, anxiety, whatever. I feel sorry for people to extreme levels over something they probably don't and I am having weird crying spells in the car. I am losing control of myself and I don't know how to get back hold of it. Trying hard to crawl out of a hole but the bottom is dropping, all the time dropping.

But its when you don't even try to crawl that you let it in, you let it get you. And once it has you, its a bitter marriage of convenience. It might be the worst possible feeling, but trying to fight it in vain might be worse. Besides it all you're used up and the worst of the worst is you don't know what to do about anything. Except maybe tap out a small piece of insignificant garbage.

Note From the Needy Desk 1:20 A.M

I shouldn't talk about the plights of women. One, I am not sufficiently educated in the subject, two, I am sufficiently educated enough to know my problems don't measure up and three, I am a man after all and everything is considered. But more and more I identify with the housewife of the 1950's. Or, more correctly, the prospective housewife of the 1950's.

I could call myself desperate or hopeless or unlovable but that's a code for 'hopeless and or cowardly at talking to women'. My big problem (or one of the bigger ones) is that I am afraid. As a bastard child of the 21^st century I only want one thing, but every girl everywhere knows I only want one thing. Truth is, I want more than one thing and , even less I want one other thing, one thing that is not the prime objective. My trouble is, even being chatty gets dangerously close to being sleazy, something I never want to be seen as. Nice guys finish last, but weak guys die before the end...

Note From The Forever-Alone Desk.

I remember a good friend told me:

'I was content to be alone forever until I met her'.

What a revelation! It got me thinking. The words 'alone' and 'forever' put together can be daunting. But his attitude was nonchalant, which led me to think of it in a nonchalant way. I had never considered loneliness to be a positive. If everything has a positive and a negative aspect, which is something I believe, then loneliness should be no different.

The problem was I spent too much time letting my lack of companionship define me where the surplus of myself should provide definition. To some I will always be a pathetic or hopeless person because I lack the other half to my supposed whole. But I counter that with my own assertion that if I needed to be whole as society deems fit, I would find myself a woman for my usual neurosis of doing what is 'O.K' in the eyes of others. The fact that my laziness overwhelms that tells me that I too am content to be alone forever. And that is one of the few aspects of myself I am ok with.

Note From The Namer Desk, Freezing Sunday 7:23 PM.

It is an often quoted piece of Shakespeare, or Bill as I like to call him (friendly, familiar), that there is, to paraphrase, fuck all in a name. Substance is the thing and the label you put on it is fairly unimportant.

I have not historically been a big fan of my own name, for a few different reasons.

    For one, there aren't many good things named after 'Toms'. You have Doubting Thomas who was a skeptical shit-head, Peeping Tom the pervert, Tomcats are horny cats and of course TomBoys (or as I like to call them, lesbians in Embryo form). Tom was Jerrys antagonist, Tom Cruise is plain terrible (or maybe 'Fancy Terrible') and Tom Green is an awful piece of human garbage.

   If we ignore the non-ignorable (Morello, Hanks and Waits) it seems like Tom has pretty bad connotations. History is littered with Toms who were complete dicks and thats just part of it. Thomas is no better and may be infinitely worse. I always think people are pissed off when they use it, also it seems kinda soft. As I mentioned in my last post, there was a time I thought Jason was the winning name to have, though I have changed my tune some. And heres why....

It Sounds Cool When Said With An Accent

My Polish (and crazy, though not in a sunglass-wearing-rocking-out-on-electric guitar kinda way, in a sad way) Grandfather likes to call me by my full name. Though with his accent and spelling (Tomasz) it seems a lot cooler. It makes me feel like a mountain man, working steadily through a series of more ambitious wood-working projects while readying for the winter that the townsfolk got word to me late of. A guy can dream.

  My Greek boss has a similar pronunciation but his makes me feel like a Disco King with flares and enormous sideburns. Sort of like an Australian John Travolta with a gun. Point is, its got a nice rhythm and sound when said with an accent.

Its Short and Simple.

I never, ever, have trouble fitting my name on the display computer when I go bowling. Just one of the many advantages to having a short name. (Full Disclosure, I have had trouble doing that, but its usually because I like to make my name 'Terrance', Terrance just seems like a better bowler). No-one ever has to ask how to spell it, or if it is with any other letter. I did once go through another 'fashionable' period where I spelled it with an 'H', as in 'Thom'. People called me 'Thom' (like Thong) and I regret it with ever fibre of my being, but for the most part I have never had to explain its detailed letter pattern.

I also am glad I got out of the womb in the nick of time, before the trend of naming people after where they were conceived or born, or the parents favourite flower, or the quality they most hope the child to have (I would be 'Wallang' or 'Tulip' or 'Adequacy' if these were the case). I have a normal name and that is enjoyable.

It is After a Grandparent.

While I am no proponent of naming a child after you, it is nice to shout out to your ancestry through your children. My name comes from my Paternal Grandmothers father, and thats kinda cool. A tall guy who loved horses (which means we are both tall guys). I don't know why, but I like that. Carrying it on and such. It is a further guard against the names of today becoming further entrenched in irony or eccentricities. Something simple, a mans name....

It Sounds Like It Could Be On A Street Sign (Or Menu).

I have always wanted something named after me. Not a human child, star or library. But maybe a small street or sandwich (which would definitely feature the unlikely friendship of egg and chilli flakes, also a lot of salami) and with a simple name like mine it doesn't seem impossible. Why not enjoy an open faced Tom while cruising down Tom Boulevard (also the name of my upcoming R&B album/seniors clothing line). I have also considered putting out a line of cocktail hot-dog buns to go with cocktail frankfurts, Toms Thumbs, anyone?

It can take time to learn to live with your name. While Jason still has its appeal to me I have been gradually getting used to being in The Tom Club (I have said too much). Now its time to reach peace with my middle names, which is another story for another day.

NP.