Unceremoniously stripped and beaten of my celebrity Man Hero status not only as an Australian but THE Australian. A piece of novelty colonial outpost candy living large, almost Van Halen-like amongst a smoldering, heaving mass of Latino devotees. The prodigal Man Among Men, the Exotic Traveller, the Quintessence of Quintessence, the Other Hemispherer. I was the needle in the haystack. I put the awe in awesomenessness. I was my own avatar. But now, thrown back into the dirty Fish Tank of Normalness from whence sprung, I am floundering pathetically upon my re-acquaintance with averageness. The nauseating aroma of being Bog Standard. Middle-of-the-road-kill. A lackluster blockbuster. Remarkably unremarkable. The vanilla end of the spectrum.
Welcome back indeed, motherfucker.
You aren't different, you aren't special. You're just a regular, leather clad, hipster Wank Master like everyone else here. What's that? You're bilingual? Who gives a shit — this is Australia mate. The power to impress entire races of people just by opening my mouth and spilling a few phrases smothered with a previously unheard of nether-regions accent; gone. Just fucking gone.
Like a luckless albino child with elephant ears and an obscene case of hirsutism forced to wear coke bottle glasses; I feel outcast and side-show-freaky, struggling to see ahead of me through the inches of glass.
Like a topless celebrity caught on camera shitting against an alley wall. I'm pretty low at the mo. My fancy pants are ruined but I can't afford new ones.
Like a poor defenseless shark stabbed in the back of the head by an amphibious ninja; I feel vulnerable and exposed, even in my own neighbourhood.
Like a ghost heinously molested in a dark alley; I feel hollow and alone, pale and useless.
Like a parent being handed their newborn for the first time and realising it's a complete and utter mongrel — the disappointment is tangible; a mat of furry disillusionment.
Like an irony hating missionary forced to watch Naughty Housewife Missionary Madness Volumes 1-7; lines have been crossed from which I can never return.
I spend most of my time under a tree in variations of the classic Seated Fetal Position, trying to imagine the smell of freshly oven baked empanadas in one hand with cheap-as-shit litres of working class beer in the other.
And when not there, I'm down at the jetty in standard, dramatic Man Crisis Pose. Milking it like a little dairy maid for all passers-by. Is he going to jump? Is he going to heave his aching heart into the churning ocean? Or is he drunk and demonstrating an impressive case of Public Stand-Sleeping?
The glass isn't half full or half empty; it's half smashed on the toilet floor — I dropped it when I mistakenly tried to switch from the toilet to the bidet that we don't use in our "more advanced" culture (we are so filthily filthy and dirty). There's no place like home? Guess again fuckface. Like sands through the hour glass John Doe are the days of your lives. You think Robocop really wanted to be a man again after he got upgraded to semi-fucking-invincible-cyborg status? You reckon Pinocchio actually wanted to be a real boy when he could break somebody's arm just by high-fiving them? Do you truly believe that Donatello and his crime fighting brethren weren't ecstatic that they got smeared in toxic goo and magically turned from sewer dwelling turd munchers into badarse, humanoid-ish suburban ninjas? You are a fool, only fooling yourself by being foolish.
But to Captain Arse Hat & His Goober Troopers, I insist; Worry Not. As they say, you can't keep a good ego down, especially not an alter ego. I can feel it already, deep in the pits of my Man Bowels. There are buns of optimism already firming in the oven — they just need a little longer before I set the table and serve them.
So, be that as it may or may not probably be like, stay posted for extreme, over the top, hanging from the ceiling, wailing Man Ecstasy coming your way soon. An extravaganza of awesome shooting you in the face as you try, in vain, to run for cover. If necessity is the mother of invention then surely excess is the second cousin's step-cousin of superfluousness. Don't count your chickens before they hatch unless, of course, you a reasonably sure that they will. It takes two to tango but only one to break dance naked in the bathroom. When the going gets tough the buff get the good stuff. As the old Toaist saying goes; Once at peace with yourself you will be at peace with the world, only then can you force your will upon it.
And as that chick that looks like a dude holding a breakfast bar once told me through the boob tube; If you dream, you believe, you create, you succeed.
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