5 reasons NOT to run a marathon

29 12 2007

Only a person who has slipped in some idiot juice and fallen face-first into a vat of “I’m off my tree” would even consider it. Insanity clean-up on aisle three!

Think about it: driving for 26.2 miles is a pain in the arse, and you’re thinking about running it with 40,000 people in your car?

Here’s a suggestion. Slip a stone into your shoe and walk around for 6 hours. Then see how on top of Ol’ Smokey and covered in failure you feel. Oh, and don’t forget to surround yourself with other insane asylum escapees who will happily throw little paper cups of sticky liquid in your face and call it “aid”.

‘Cause that’s a marathon.

And if you’re still going to do it, you’re playing footsies with your own delusions. You’re slick with the idiot juice. Practically pickled in it after four months of training.


And you’ll know you’re insane at Mile 18 of your precious marathon. You’ll shake hands with Mile 18 and discover it has a cold, wet-fish handshake that lingers a little too long.

But there’s more. Over mile 18’s shoulder, you’ll spot something else. In the distance. Here comes Insanity Check, riding over the horizon on a ruddy great mare. This sinewy thoroughbred will pull up right in front of you and snort in your reddened face. At which point Insanity Check will dismount and stick a fork in your thigh to see if any juice comes out. And none will.

‘Cause that’s a marathon.

That’s why insane people scream.

Which brings us to the second reason NOT to run a marathon. Read the rest of this entry »

Anything can be anything

20 04 2007

The brain is such a wonderful pudgy, squidgy, gooily amazing thing. Pinkish grey and full of volts and zaps and doodads firing in every direction. Everything about it rips open its shirt and screams from the rooftops, “Potential!”

Not mine.

I don’t know how to say this, but I think the shelf life on my brain may have expired. It’s traveled well past being ‘on the turn.’ It’s already transmogrified into that bag of green soupy liquid that was once a lettuce and now resides at the back of the refrigerator, only to be found by an unsuspecting hand looking for the margarine.

Hey, I’ll give it its due. It still does ok on all the basics. My legs can still get me across the street before a cab hits me. My arms can still push tourists out of the way in Time’s Square, no worries. I blink when my eyes get dry. I don’t put my hand on stove hotplates, even when dared. So, it’s doing ok.

But when it comes to stirring up a hearty stew in the old ideas cauldron…well, let’s just say that Old Mother Hubbard has been to my cupboard and the song remains exactly the damn same. I’m not entirely sure when it happened, but I can pinpoint the exact moment when I finally noticed it. Read the rest of this entry »

Nice piece of art

16 04 2006

I saw a penis.*

I know what you’re thinking: Well, Noodle. You are in New York, surely they’re as common as ciggie ends on the street.

But hold up. Let me clarify. I saw an ‘artsy’ penis.

In showed itself in the name of art, I mean. Not porn.

For the sake of art. You know, on stage. Acting. Well, the penis wasn’t acting—unless the stage direction was ‘disinterested’—but it was part of the act that I was watching. A bit part. Very brief fly-by. A penis. I think. I didn’t have the luxury of TiVo 8-second-rewind, but I’m pretty sure it was a pee pee, wee wee, John Thomas, wang, thingemee.

You can tell I’m very mature about these things.

It is the subject of today’s noos.

Not the penis. Not maturity either. But creation, and the art of it all.

I will illustrate my pyroclastic cloud of thought with three stories about things that have been birthed into the world in recent times.

Some, I have witnessed first hand. These led to me pose serious questions to my psyche about art, purpose and life. Others led me to simply send a gift. Read the rest of this entry »

Torn between two Noodles

29 01 2006

I am split. I am hewn.

I am both solid and hollow. Light and dark. Coated and bare. All at once.

I am a blob of oil paint, roosting on a painter’s palette. I am being broken down by turpentine. Added to. Transformed into a color to be used as an accent shade, or perhaps for mysterious shadows in some grand masterpiece, or even minor work.

If I am blue, am I now grey?

Put on your hard hat. I’m about to hit the panic button.

I’m scared. My accent is slowly packing its alphabet into a haversack and plotting a course back to the mainland. And it’s leaving without me! And I never suspected a thing. I didn’t get advance warning. Not a blackmail note from cutout letters. Not even a text message on my phone. I had to take a trip back to Australia to learn the ugly truth.

I am losing it. I am losing my accent. I am losing myself.

Read the rest of this entry »

Cultural oddities and other probing questions

28 12 2002

Question 1:
When driving from Singapore to Malaysia you must:
a) Get a Gurkha to take your photo at the border
b) Have at least 3/4 of a tank of petrol
c) Crack jokes to the immigration officer about the terrorists hiding in the boot
d) Be at least this tall (indicates roughly 1.2m) to enter

Ok, before anyone gets all narky about the discrimination against vertically challenged people; there are no height restrictions when entering Johor Bahru. So, if you answered d) you may not be smart enough to participate in today’s Noos. Click away now!

But on with the story…

I scored an invite to Crazy Val’s mum’s house for lunch on Christmas day. This entailed a skip across the Causeway into Johor Bahru, Malaysia. It seems so weird to skip to another country on Christmas day, get the passport stamped and then come back, but hey, that’s the kind of exotic life I’m leading now. My exotic life. Oh, how the exotic Noodle lives!

Two years here and I’d still never done the trip into Malaysia, so this jaunt was an attempt to rectify this grave oversight AND score a family-type Christmas gig. Even if that family was not my own.

Singapore and Malaysia are only separated at JB by a bridge. There are lots of signs before the checkpoint. One of particular note is a rather puzzling image of a fuel gauge with the needle at 3/4 full. Meaning? Well, there is a $500 fine if you get caught with less petrol than that. Can’t have those bargain-hunting Singaporeans ducking into Malaysia for cheap petrol!

So, if you listed b) as your answer in the quiz, you may collect 1,000 ringgits. Read the rest of this entry »

The cult of self help

7 08 2002

If you’re the kind of kid who believes you can tell a lot about a person’s frame of mind by simply looking at the books they’re reading, then cop a load of this. I just spent my lunch hour reading a literary masterpiece to rival The Grapes of Wrath titled, I could do anything if only I knew what it was.

I picked it up in the bargain alley of the Kinokuniya bookshop for the princely sum of five smackers. When I sat down at Starbucks to flip through it, I realised the reason for the dramatic price cut from $25 to $5 was because the first 30 pages are actually from a different book called The Schools We Need And Why We Don’t Have Them. But no matter.

I mean, who cares if my first step on the road to finding out what I’m supposed to be doing starts with 30 pages concerning the state of the education system in America, then switches rather dramatically to a half-written sentence stating, “…parents who thought lawyers were certain to be safe and prosperous?” Cryptic, no?

This is my first self-help book.

Read the rest of this entry »

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