Cereal. I love the stuff. Maybe a little too much, depending on which of my friends you ask. Their reactions to my cereal antics vary from mild amusement to utter disdain.

Let's get one thing straight, I never have cereal for breakfast. I don't exactly know the reason for this. I think it's because it doesn't go well with coffee. Maybe it's because my highly evolved (cereal loving) tastebuds need some time in the morning to wake up, but whatever the case, you won't see me eating cereal to start the day.

But you'll see me eating it any other time.

Lunch, dinner, afternoon snack. Dessert, late night fridge raid, you name it. It's all fair game as far as I'm concerned.

Old flat mates that I bump into often ask me if I'm "still having Rice Bubbles at 10pm when I get home from a long day" with a curious grin on their face, as if it were some stupid little faze of which I'm destined to outgrow.

This isn't a faze or a passing trend. Yes, of course I'm still eating the Rice Bubbles at ungodly hours of the night. Some things will never change. Here's a picture of me as a kid for proof. Most kids ran around their yard with an orange or banana for sustenance. Me, I had a bowl of you know what. This made cricket harder than necessary, but it was worth it for the cereal.

What's more, I also cop it from family and friends because in winter I often heat my cereal in the microwave. People who see me doing this react as though I'm jamming a fluffy little kitten in there.

Observer: "What are you doing?!"
Bonestorm: "Erm... putting my Honey Wheats in the microwave."
Observer: "What for?! Get them out of there you insane idiot!"

Some people just don't understand the finer points of cereal, I suppose. Try a bowl of mushy hot Rice Bubbles on a cold winter's night and you'll never look back, I say.

Posted by Bonestorm at 3:51 PM | Permalink | Comments

I live in a housing complex, and last night I had my first committee meeting. I'm on the committee, but I have no idea how that happened. I think at the last general meeting I was asleep and they voted me in without my knowledge. I don't even know what title I hold, but I think it's treasurer.

I went to the meeting at 7pm with high hopes of being back by 7:15pm and set for a good night of Counter Strike. I failed to overlook the obvious flaw.

The committee comprises 5 old people and me.

The chairman had the agenda before her, and I could see the items flowing down the page. Every 30 seconds or so I'd glance over at it. After an hour of this, with no progress made, I knew I was in for a long night.

So what was discussed? Well there was one old grump who seemed keen to interject with an irrelevant story at every conceivable opportunity. Like the one about the nurses he knew once who used to throw spanners over hospital gates to get them to open. Don't ask for elaboration on that one. Also, nearly every story involved him digging a trench. That's right, a trench. He had some morbid fascination with them. His other great love was an unusual catch phrase, "A pain in the pinfeathers." It appeared without fail in each story. "Those roofing tiles are a pain in the pinfeathers." "Digging that trench was a pain in the pinfeathers."

A couple of the ladies were also fascinated with a young woman in number 35 who, to their way of thinking, was a tramp. A hairdresser had visited her recently and stayed for a couple of hours. This meant they were having sex, because a game of bridge couldn't possibly go that long. There was also a case of her removing fence palings at the back of her residence to admit an entire football team in secret. Suggestions were then made and discussed about how many she "had relations" with.

And before long those agenda items started to look as insurmountable as a trip to Jupiter by skateboard. When I finally did get out of there, I had only one question.

What the crap is a pinfeather?

Posted by Bonestorm at 9:20 AM | Permalink | Comments

It seems as though I'm being relocated from the city to the burbs for work and so my bus travelling days are coming to an end. This reminds me of a particularly harrowing bus trip last month.

I'm not sure if the bus driver in question was new, a former Nascar driver, an escaped mental patient or a combination of the above. Whatever the case, he had serious issues.

The first thing I noticed was that he couldn't work the doors. At stops, there'd be people waiting to get out at the back door, and he'd open the front. When people waited at the front door for entry, he'd open the back. After one lady seeking exit at the back door repeatedly mashed the bell to get his attention, the door jerked open. As she went to step out, it whammed shut again, pinning her like a gerbil in a rat trap.

At this point I decided smashing a window might be my safest way to get out of the bus alive.

Even worse, he had a lead foot. After each stop, he'd ease the bus forward for the first hundred metres or so. Then he'd hit the afterburners, leaving passengers clinging for railings and handholds, and in many cases, sprawling backwards down the bus. He'd annouce this manoeuvre with a cheery 'Moving now!!'

As we approached stops, he'd temper his breakneck speed by shouting "Brakinggg!!" and slamming on the brakes. Once again this resulted in passengers lurching forward and toppling over one another. At one stop I saw an old lady tottering down the aisle, unable to arrest her momentum. I'm not sure where she ended up because she never came back.

At each stop the driver would wave happily into the mirror, shouting "Goodnight folks!" Unfortunately, my stop is the last on the route, so I received a prolonged taste of his driving and door-opening techniques. When it came time to leave, exiting the door was like psyching myself up for a bungee jump. Except there's less chance of dying on a bungee jump.

Petrol prices may be shocking at the moment, but it's times like these that make me glad to be going back to my car.

Posted by Bonestorm at 9:20 AM | Permalink | Comments

'The Butterfly Effect' is a Brisbane four-piece band who yesterday released their second album, Imago. They are also one of my favourite acts, so I couldn't pass up the chance to see them at their instore appearance at Skinnys in Brisbane. Weirdness ensued.

The first order of business was paying for my pre-order of Imago. I handed over my pre-order docket to the clerk, who seemed to be noticably swaying where he stood, and who blearily stared at the docket for around 10 seconds before turning to me and saying: "How much have you paid so far?"

Personally, I thought the 'Paid $5' part of the docket was a dead giveaway. Apparently not, so I filled him in.

He then placed the album on the counter, produced a receipt (full price of the album $25) and proceeded to drop the receipt on the floor three times before placing it beside the album. He then stared at me again foggily.

"You... you just gave me $20, right... man?"
*Bonestorm stares at him quizzically*
"No."
More staring. More swaying. A wolf howls in the distance.
"Oh. Sorry man, it's been one of those days."

Anyway, album purchased, I got in line to have my stuff signed by the band, Ms B in tow. I first reached Kurt, the guitarist, who had been celebrating the release of the album with a beer or ten. After a discussion about guitars I made a joke about dragging Ms B along to their concert next month, because she hasn't quite caught the Butterfly Effect bug yet.

Bonestorm: "This girl has to come to The Arena next month, right?"
Kurt: nods enthusiastically.
Bonestorm: "Because the cast of McLeods Daughters are making a special appearance, riigght?" Ms B is a big fan of the show.
Kurt: Stares at me. Foggily. Deja Vu. Turns to Ms B. "You work for McLeods Daughters?"

Glenn, the bassist, came to the rescue and acknowledged the joke politely, which made me feel a bit better.

I moved on down the line and had a great chat with Clint and Ben and overall I was struck by how down to earth the guys were.

Kurt I hope the hangover isn't too bad. If I'd made an album this good, I'd be celebrating too.

Posted by Bonestorm at 10:08 AM | Permalink | Comments

Vandalism. It's not in my neighbourhood, or my street. It's inside my very house. The perpetrators? Two adolescent punks who think they own the place.

They go by the names TJ and Ash. Being 3 years old, you wouldn't think they could do much harm. But they do. The vandalism of which I speak isn't of the spray can variety, but spraying is certainly involved. Lots and lots of spraying. So much spraying, in fact, that I wonder how large the bladders of these cats can be. I have a picture in my head of their anatomy - there's a stomach, and a bladder, and that's all. They are basically furry water balloons.

It started a month or so back and I wasn't too concerned. The first target that came to our attention was one of Ms B's pot plants. Heck, I may have even applauded the aim on that one. But then things got serious. My cd rack was sprayed. Soundgarden through Tea Party copped it, as did U2 through Unida. Miraculously my special edition Tool cds were spared. They were immediately moved to higher ground, a shelf out of reach.

Then came my computer keyboard. What a lovely surprise that was as I sat down for a game of Counter Strike.

Trying to find the answer to why this suddenly began is exceedingly difficult. A quick google will tell you it's: their age; being outside too much; not being outside enough; how much Oprah they watch; the feng shui positioning of their food bowls; the number of professional jugglers that reside in the residence; or insert your own reason here.

We think we have narrowed it down to a furry visitor from next door bothering them. Closing windows, blinds, isolating them for periods of time seems to have lessened the frequency. At the moment it's tolerable. But there is still a nagging apprehension I can't shake.

I just know they're going to find a way up to those Tool cds.

Posted by Bonestorm at 9:30 AM | Permalink | Comments

Ok I have a problem. Usually I'm pretty self-sufficient, I sort out my problems myself. But this one has me at my wit's end. See, there's this dog.

Wait a minute, let's back up.

I have an mp3 player that I listen to on my way to and from work. This is a handy little device as it not only pipes music into my brain but also shuts out all of the other garbage that tries to get in. Like the odd smell emanating from the 150kg guy who just sat down next to me on the bus, or the fact I've been waiting for 17 minutes for a break in traffic so I can cross the road. The music is a kind of insulation that keeps me from reflecting too much on stuff that would otherwise start ruining my day.

So on my route home, there's a fence next to a walkway. As usually happens when I'm in my music coccoon, I'm oblivious to almost everything else that's going on around me. That's where the dog comes in.

See, the dog lives behind the fence. I never see the dog. But I hear it, because it is loud. It crashes through the music coccoon like a bull through an ice sculpture and scares the absolute shit out of me. I can only imagine how it looks every afternoon as I go skittering sideways across the footpath like a horse on roller skates.

Initially, it happened about 4 times in a row. Every day I was back in the music coccoon, forgetting everything else around me, and every time I reached the fence I'd get my sudden, abrasive welcome from the invisible dog. Conditioning eventually kicked in, and by the 5th day I was ready for it. I approached the fence, music blaring but aware of the dog, only to have the dog remain silent and aloof. The same thing happened the next day.

The day after that, I was back in the music coccoon. And you guessed it, my vociferous friend returned for an encore.

This pattern has gone on for weeks. I consciously think of the dog, and it doesn't show. I forget about it, and it barks and scares the living shit out of me. I can only conclude one thing, that the dog is not only invisible, but psychic as well. It knows what I'm thinking. I'm a pawn in it's little game of self indulgent scaremongering.

Either that, or this is all in my head. That's probably a more reasonable alternative.

Posted by Bonestorm at 3:16 PM | Permalink | Comments

This is destined to become one of those blogs that people start with the best of intentions, then lose enthusiasm for, then forget where they placed, then rediscover 7 years later, and finally delete.

See you in 2013!

Posted by Bonestorm at 1:53 PM | Permalink | Comments