Who Is James Bogan?

Well, readers, this is really just for the sake of breaking a personal record.

The Olympic Games should really be about competing against personal records rather than just poxy little world records...I mean, when you think about it, how boring is that?

And what about my personal record? Well, so far, I've managed one new blog post a week at my absolute, very best. Today, with a good 45 minutes to spare, I've managed to break that record. Thanks very much. Forget steroids or whatever other performance-enhancing drugs there are. Forget freezing your piss. I've shattered this record with a six pack of the very smooth James Boag's Premium Lager.

"Who is James Boag?" That's the slogan that features on many promotional posters that usually feature some black and white, film noir-like scene of dangerous lust between two faceless characters. Often featured in the shot will be a cigar relaxing on an ashtray, still firm and smoking in it's own vigour.

But seriously, what fucking bullshit is that? I don't know about you if you're reading this in another part of the world, but here in Australia, most guys don't exactly need enticing when it comes to drinking beer. You don't even need to say "beer", just point to the stuff.

Anyway, it's twenty minutes to midnight now, I really need to break this record and I need to allow uploading time etc. So here's my version of what a James Boag advert should be and I will see you very soon.

Cheers!

Pancakes & Ninja Training

He told me to make him look "stately and/or presidential", the vain little fucker...

My cat, Licorice, is a ninja. No, really. Most nights, he can be heard doing his tumbling exercises that he studiously practices up and and down the hallway of the house. If he's not in the mood for pats, you'd better have a damn good reason for having your hands anywhere near him, because stroking him can end in tears. Your tears, to be precise.

He even has a Japanese code name, Kanzou, which translates, among other things, to both spellings of Licorice/Liquorice. Some of those other translations include, liver, liver cancer, liver transplantation, tempered distribution(click here)(for the mathematicians out there...I actually have no idea what tempered distribution is and I didn't understand a single word of the Wikipedia article to which that highlighted link is) and my personal favourite, beefsteak fungus(also beefsteak mushroom but the former is way cooler and would actually make a good name for a band).

When I was a kid, I was completely obsessed with Garfield. I even made sure that there were always Garfield books stocked-up in the toilet. I was quite keen on drawing and writing. I decided that writing and illustrating a hugely successful comic strip about a domestic ginger tabby was the way I'd like to make my living. Thanks, Jim Davis for making it look a million times easier than what it actually is, not to say that your comic is shit...far from it. People have criticized Garfield for not being cat-like enough, or for simply not being very funny. I disagree with the former. I think that Garfield is not only very cat-like, I also think that Davis is spot-on in regards to one important and rather profound aspect of them: Cats are remarkably self-aware creatures. I think that Davis illustrates this well when you see his protagonist admiring himself in the mirror or staring out the window while he contemplates his world. Garfield might not be the funniest comic of all time, but it has a philosophical side to it that I've always appreciated.

Jim Davis' Garfield also has an alter-ego: The Caped Avenger. When Garfield is in this mode, he can do things that his natural self might not do so well, like stealing his owner, Jon Arbuckle's pancakes. I thought that all of this was mere exaggeration for the benefit of the comic strip until I sat down with my pancakes this morning. They disappeared in a flash of black shadow.

Licorice, I love you, you little bastard. Don't ever change. You'll get all the pancakes and maple syrup you want.

Ripping On A Prayer

This happily passed for "sexy" back in 1986



"Okay, all you drunk fucking idiots singing along to this shit, listen up."

It happened at work the other night. I was shoving greasy cutlery and wedding cake-smeared plates through the ancient, nearly-broken washing machine in the pub kitchen. It's quite a lonely job by this point in the night as the chefs have always finished and the front-of-house staff tend to be gathered together in the bar, polishing cutlery and wiping tables in the atmosphere of the piss-happy, bullshitting punters, the 73 flatscreen TVs facing every direction, playing every type of sport you've never even heard of and a stereo screaming Powderfinger songs at everybody whether they like Powderfinger or not. Right next to the scullery section of the kitchen are two doors that lead out to the restaurant floor. Taking place on the restaurant floor that night, was the drunk and desperately sad dance-along, sing-along final hour of an ugly wedding reception attended by beautiful young idiots...

...Macarena? Oh, yes. That's what you want playing on one of the best days of your life, isn't it? Fucking Macarena. That's what you want to remember. Let me tell you something. If I hired a DJ to do the music for my wedding reception and he played Macarena, I would kill him. I'm not joking. I would crush his skull with one of the PA speakers...crushing the skull is the only way to release the demon...

...Better Man...What the fuck? I have no problem with Pearl Jam, but a song about a girl with no self-esteem who's trapped in a relationship with a man she doesn't love at your wedding reception? "She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man..." Happiest fucking day of our lives, honey!

The dishes were finally done. I had pulled apart the old beast, descaled it, hosed it all out. The benches were clean and all I had to do was mop the floor. As the mop bucket filled, another familiar noise came through the dining room doors...a drum and bass guitar intro...Richie Sambora's talking guitar...oh...shit...Living on a fucking Prayer.

The crowd were jumping around, screaming along to the words of the song when I punched out the DJ, grabbed his microphone and made that noise that they included somewhere in every episode of Ally McBeal where the record comes to a scratching halt, "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr."

And that brings us to what I began this story with.

"Listen to the lyrics of this song, for Christ's sakes! Nevermind the fact that it's a shit song, listen to the lyrics: We've gotta hold on to what we've got, 'cause it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. That doesn't even make any sense!" I pointed and stared right at the bride and groom. "And if this is the way you want to start your lives together, then your marriage is going to fail. I'm sorry. I'm not bitter. I just think that if two people are going to get married, then they need to be a hell of a lot more sure about it than just leaving it to a fluttering, lonely prayer of all things, don't you?"

I don't think I made a lot of sense to the bride and groom, or anybody at the reception for that matter. You can't always get what you want, I suppose. Plus, I only had about thirty seconds to make my point before the bouncer came and UFCd me to the floor. Everyone in the room cheered as I was dragged out of the dining room. The bouncer shoved me back in the kitchen. The duty manager had words with me. The hotel management only just scraped out of having to reimburse the newlywed couple and their parents for all costs. As I resumed my floor mopping, the sounds of the partying came back and everyone was soon singing and dancing to Matchbox Twenty's breakthrough single, Push.

Your future, losers, I thought to myself. I knew that I had done my best.

And now, here's my new video, Questionable Song Lyics.

Enjoy!