Googlebook Plus

This week I cheated in my social media relationship. I just had to tell Facebook, "I'm seeing someone else." We talked, we yelled, we cried, I explained it just happened, Google Plus is younger, has new trendy circles and all my friends love hanging out with her. I was also worried that Facebook was following me around when I wasn't with her, keeping tabs on me so she new what to get me for Christmas and could sell things to my friends. This freaked me out a little, talk about putting the "IT" in “Rabbit cooker.”

It is a big decision to move social media provider, a lot like moving house across the city to another suburb. You first of all want to check that some of your friends live out that way and that you won't be completely isolated, so you jump on the new site and see which friends are part of the early adopter, bleeding edge uptake initiators. It is usually the type A personality friends, with a dash of ADD who, when you say have found this great bar in the city," will always comment how they used to go there last year when it opened and was trendy.

In any new suburb, you are going to want to check out the restaurants, sports facilities and public transport. With a social media site, it is all about the applications, usability, and interoperability with hand held devices. On this front I rate the Google Plus application very highly, however when it comes to activity and people logged in and adding content, I give it a big fat Google minus. It may have circles, but definitely doesn't run rings around anything at all.

After trialling Google Plus I have come to the conclusion that it is like moving to a trendy new one-bedroom apartment with no furniture and no address. The old Facebook from back in the day may stalk us when we leave her, may track our location. It may send a banner add barrage of target marketing at me depending on my profile, status, likes, and check-ins, but all my friends are there and it is always has activity and updates. It has reached a level of critical mass, which will not easily be challenged or toppled. Somehow I have more friends on Facebook then friends IRL (in real life)

Switching networks did provide a good opportunity to trim the friendship fat and reinvent myself without having to D-Friend people. "What comes after ABC Friend? Yes, de-friend, the cyber equivalent of throwing a hissy fit or e-tanty.

Facebook is a great way to set up a shrine to self, a narcissistic temple to let the world know "I spilt Champagne on my Rolex watch in the members area at the Races, lucky its water resistant to 1000m." Keeping up with the Joneses used to be confined to the same street, now the Joneses all have smart phones and are constantly posting pictures of their X6 Diesel towing Jet Skis…bastards!

So I am breaking up with Google minus and going back to old faithful Facebook. She may track me on the web, but what can I say, you and 20 million others “Like” Facebook.


Jonathan is an MX reader who may have D-friended you already

Honest Applications

Charles Manson, Joseph Stalin and Adolf Hitler all probably lived in shared houses at some stage. I’ll bet they were quiet, kept to themselves. Maybe they were bouncing ideas off their pet mouse Pinkie for plans to take over the world, but at least they didn’t eat other people’s food from the fridge.

Finding a flatmate is a very difficult task. People hide behind the mask of best behaviour, layering assurances of being trustworthy, clean and fiscally responsible. We tend to seek the perfect person, when really if they are not a psycho killer - ques que c’est, don’t pee on the toilet floor, and steal your things.

Honesty is the best policy. “In vino veritas” or “in wine there is truth,” and by that logic, all interviews of potential housemates should take place and the pub with four sheets to the wind, hopefully realising who needs to walk the plank early in the piece.

When letting people know that you are looking for a place, why not be completely out there and truthful,
“Room Wanted: Twenty-three year old male mental teenager with pitiful material goods apart from a bike (which I will leave in the hall) seeks, preferably female share housemates. I am unable to use an ATM, washing machine, dishwasher, microwave or dishcloth, but can drink for an entire day straight. I will shamelessly try to bed all your friends, scratch your vinyl, step on your cat Lionel, drink the orange juice out of the bottle, drink that special shiraz magnum you put away. I will leave freaky amounts of curly hairs on your lavender soap your sister gave you as a present, I will be late with everything including rent, appointments, coughing up for bills, in fact I will only ever be early when it is awkward and you’re making out with a new date on the couch.”

There is a flip side to the coin if you are advertising a room for rent in a shared house there is a reality that should be conveyed. Let’s call it a residential disclosure. If you are trying to rent out a cupboard under the stairs to get some extra finances to pay for the meth lab ingredients so you can cook ice in the messy house with the long grass where the stereo is never off and the fridge contains three unidentifiable fury things on plates on each of the shelves. If this is the case the advertisement should read “Cupboard under stairs for rent in trainspotting house. Recent tetanus shot advised but not essential.” It should not however read,
“Lively, social and upbeat inner city apartment with a liberal, musical, university group seeks a flatmate to share the fun, chemistry majors preferred.”

I guess a majority of problems in a shared house come from people being in a different space. One studying for exams while the other wants to party. I guess the solution is not to advertise, but to find someone in the same course or within the group of friends. At least this way you can be somewhat assured you won’t find them watching you sleep, it’s less likely they will shag your sister, and there is a slightly diminished chance of them selling your flat screen at Cash Converters to buy armour in World of Warcraft.

Top 10 Ten Travel Tips

Following a recent trip to Europe and Asia I have put together my Top 10 Travel Tips the books don't tell you. Enjoy.

Plan Ahead
Print out Google Maps and directions ahead of arrival. This will assist in spotting the cunning plans of dodgy taxi drivers to separate you from your money. Remember you are a mark, looking around at the buildings all wide eyed and excited. They all want to suckle at the naive tourist teat. A recent example in Italy..
"How much to go to X Hotel? Do you have meter?"
"No meter, is public holiday today, for you 28 Euro."
"It's 2km away, are you serious?" [awkward pause... with a sort of OK you got me now move along so I can try it on the next chump.

Toilets
Go before you leave your hotel!..always. A good bathroom is a rare and beautiful thing. There is no telling what sort of disgusting, unflushable, shower looking, piss riddled, squat hole awaits you...for a fee.(See the next point)
Also have a drink before committing to a meal and use the bathroom before asking for a menu. Sometimes you return, "This place is nice" other times, "Holy shit, quick we're leaving and I need to burn my thongs."

Change in the Pocket, Backpack on the Front
Always have change on you. Throughout Europe you will see beggars, buskers, need money for toilets, and have "helpers" who will; tell you the time, find you a car park, or any small task they can perform for a fee of a euro.
Backpack on the front relates to pick pockets. Never stop to sign a petition, never allow yourself to be too distracted by a performance, you will be fleeced. You are not likely to be robbed at knife point, and the vibe of Europe is super friendly and Bohemian. You will never find money on the streets, and there is a lot of poverty. If you leave your bag for a second, or leave your wallet exposed they will be gone before you can say "I need a police report for my Travel insurance"
Watch out for people bumping or brushing you, especially on transport as this is normally when your wallet goes.

Travel by Train
Train around Europe is awesome! 250km/h, beer serving, cheep, WiFi enabled glass and a half of happy. You can save money on accommodation by overnighting flights or trains. You can also Check out of a hotel at 12, leave your bags there, day in the sun, return at 10, collect the bags and head to the station.


Language
The basics you will need are...
"Hello, What is the price?, I would like, 1-5, Thank you, Goodbye, No Thankyou.
"Bonjour, Quanto Price, Je vous dre, Un deux, trois, Quatre, Merci, Au vois, Merci
This will get you through and you get a different..respect or appreciation for having attempted. As opposed to "I WANT CHIPS AND EGGS, WHY DON'T YOU SPEAK ENGLISH FRENCHY" I had a humble appreciation of my butchery of the silk dipped and elegant language that is French, as opposed to Americans, who had a sort of pity for the french that they couldn't speak American very well.

Other important phrases to learn are:
"That is my wife's cocaine, not mine"
"Where is the Australian embassy? It has happened again"
"Are you a lady boy?"
"Where is the ping-pong show?"
The Lonely Planet quick guide contains all your important translations such as "Fuck me: harder, softer, faster, slower." All displayed hifanetiklee for ease of use.

"Find the Festival"
Find the festival, ride the bull, doing the bull dance, feeling the flow, drinking the Mojito, all good things, good energy, circular.
http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

Just be careful you book accommodation at least three weeks in advance if it is high season and there is a festival.


Talk to Friends and new Friends
As there are currently about three-hundred thousand Ozzies currently pulling beers and backpacking all over this beautiful globe. It stands to reason that at least some of your friends will be able to impart knowledge of that Mexican city where they had Peyote and woke up in a bath without a Kidney. Ola! Advice is gold.

Also if you see a hot girl with pig tails and a back pack this is a great way to get her into [ C E N S O R E D] don't forget, if you can't be good, be good at it, if you can't be good at it, take pictures. The Dalai Lama tought me that.

Travel Light and buy a Suitcase
Thongs, Shorts, and Three times T-Shirts, Jocks and socks is all you need. Buy the rest dirt cheap along the way.

Check in and Check it Out

Check in online the night before your flight or you will queue with the sheep. One our early for check in will usually let you get the emergency exit, especially if your an Ozzie who has been brought up on hormoned chicken and antibiotics and is 6'2 or bigger this can make travel more comfortable. Remember to get pissed on the plane as this assists in thinning the blood and avoiding DVT. Sir David Boon taught us this with his two slabs from Australia to England effort. Great work looking after the body.

McDonald's, Train stations and Air Ports have free/cheep WiFi for checking in, or checking out hotels on Trip Adviser.


Make the Deal Prior to Sale or Departure

Every one will try to rip ya caus they gotta get paid, "Man I've got five kids to feed!" so agree to terms before the trip. This applies to taxis especially

"The world is a book and if you don't travel you read only a page"

Dubia Curious and the French Lack of Resistance

If you could go back and forward in time simultaneously, Dubai is where you would find yourself. There is an old Dubai and a new Dubai, a dichotomy of sandals and sports cars, prayer time and Rolexes, bartering and Bentleys, somehow off the coast like a capitalist Hong Kong to an old world China circa 1997. Gold pillars line the palace walls. Monorails snake their way to the setting concrete of massive towers that pierce the sky and beckon trade, suits and Rolexes. In the shadow of the towers is the spice souk (market), where the salt of the earth trade saffron, ginger, and cumin. Pausing like clockwork to pray in a cycle of life that expects no promotion, no change in status, no fame. A respect exists for the natural ebb and flow, the yin yang, the birth to dust, with a seemingly gracious acceptance.




There is a wide eyed wonderment for the new world, encroaching like polished concrete into sand, previously under foot for centuries.
Crowds of men stare at the western woman who has arrived from a brave new world brandishing; Prada and a right to vote, Dolce & Gabana and free will, Este lauder and self esteem, a short skirt and a long resume, a flood of emotions and a dry white.
Eight hours short flight away, four hours behind, and thirty years in front lays Paris. Very bohemian, and at the same time chic (tres bochician). The mannerisms, traditions and old world charm of a Napoleonic era gyrate and pulse to the beat of a tribal drum. They mix beautifully, but at the same time are both distilled and contrasted against iconic architecture. There is little violence and a vibrant mood of celebration in the streets, however blink and you will be fleeced by a professional opportunist who will lift your wallet, clone your credit card and charge you ten euro for a string bracelet you were unaware was being made on your wrist.

France is all about the baguette, cheese and great wine. What Australians consider an expensive delicatessen, the French would see as an average supermarket or intermarchet.





A nationalistic pride is predominant and pronounced, and the cheer for the French rider, beaten in the last few days of the Tour de France was louder than the cheer for Cadel Evans who won. And so I stood on the Champs Elyse, baguette and beer in hand, waving the Eureka flag as the first Australian was adorned with the yellow jersey.


Jonathan

My first beat poem

There is a yin and yang, a dark and light that plays on my mind and keeps me up late at night. An up and down, a positivity, negativity, both of which hold so much gravity. There are shit storms and rainbows, gold rush and low blows, but you would miss it if the pain of life ever goes. There is tragedy and amazing triumph, sometimes apart, sometimes combined, something to keep in the back of your mind. There are odd couples that walk hand in hand; suffering and happiness, loneliness in a crowded room, wealth in a poor souls hand. All this you will learn by the time you are old. Sometimes sooner if you listen, or if you are told.

There is power in tears, there is imprisonment in fears, mostly wisdom in your years . Occasionally a small cracked window in which you view the world remains, set with the concrete of inflexibility and an inability to change.

There are the majority, the herd, and the early adopter, and the special few who invent things like the helicopter. There are those that change worlds with only a word, and those we forget who will never be heard.

There scientists, astronauts, and those who reach for the starts, but the majority are parked in traffic on the freeways in their fuel efficient cars.

The difference is the way you look at the world, is it a problem or a challenge you have been hurled. Do you blame it on a childhood regression; have you cleaned your window of perception?
I use Gestalt therapy to make me feel happy, scream at a chair while wearing a nappy. I lie on a couch telling stories that sour, I feel a lot better at three-hundred an hour.

There are desperate immigrants on boats, people who forget to vote, politicians safly in the middle with lumps in their throats. There are good people on speed, bad people on the ski slopes, some of the best people cant read, and complete idiots who have the second book they’ve wrote. A chaotic cacophony of humanity ensues, yet a baby in a microwave appears in the news.

One of my personalities is a guidance councillor with allergies, who can understand his penchant for anomalies. We are to astute to be a destitute prostitute, hold to much of a grudge to ever be a lawyer or judge, my writing has too much of a twist to ever try to drink with a journalist. A jack of all trades, yet a master of none, a sharp shooter without a gun. I consolidate, procrastinate, obviate and mitigate, all the while longing for something great.

If you have enjoyed reading something away from the norm go to youtube and search for Tim Minchin, storm.

Place on Starboard Hold (POSH)

I am a fan of the Races, the formula one and basically love any competitive sport. I especially enjoy a flutter on the Gee-Gees (Horse Racing), or even betting two flies climbing a wall. A group of friends and I attended the Portsea Polo recently at Point Nepean on one of the few beautiful days this summer. If ever there was a gathering of the beautiful, the privileged, the fit and the well dressed, this was it. A plethora of pastels, peaches, a bouquet of botox, a decadent feast of Dolce, a glut of Gabana, a surplus of Sass and Bide, the odd prancing pony and the occasional horse. There were bold stripes, outrageous crevattes, a BMWX5 Diesel boot load of hair product, a regatta load of Ralf Lauren and a third world countries deficit worth of Prada walking around sipping bubbles and uploading photos of themselves in real time to social sites where others can 'Like' the socially distinctive trophies of success.

As I walked past the helipad, to accommodate those with the coin to allow a lack of tolerance for taxis or travel time, I asked a few random people how many Chukkas or periods there were in a game. Not one person could tell me any details about the game. I guess it has become a largely social event, a lot like the Spring Racing Carnival. I did eventually meet a person who could word me up on the intricacies of the sport. An immense amount of skill displayed by the players. To be able to position a horse beside a small heavy ball, and at speed, hit it behind you with a flick of the wrist, on the half volley is very impressive. The horses are changed at each break, and usually the game is free of serious incidents, however on this day a beautiful horse went down, breaking a leg. This is a fatal wound for a horse and the players and officials moved the animal into a trailer. "He's off to the vet," a member of the crowd commented. I imagine the same number of people who were unaware of the number of chukkas in a game would also be unaware that this beautiful animal was to be destroyed shortly.

At half time a race was announced, interrupting my cigarette, corona and observation of the rampant totty on parade. At that point I could not imagine anything that would convince me to participate in the contest. The announcement of the prize of a new range rover sport quickly changed my tune from "the best things in life are free" to "If I was a rich man, da da di da da di dum." Salivating, while contemplating cream Italian leather interiors I took my place on the line. Twelve champagne bottles lined across the field, one unknown bottle held the magical ticket that would win me the Rover. There was no gun to signal the start of the inebriated sprint, and I missed the start, I was also laden down with four coronas and a smoking habit, and ten years on the field. I feared one of the twenty-one year olds would best me. And so they did, hurdling those that had tripped, bounding over the fallen without a thought, one goal resinated with them, “If I can win the Range Rover Sport and will no longer have borrow daddy’s Jag or mummies X5 Diesel when I go skiing.”

Giddy, sunkist and full to the brim with giggles, bubbles, sangria, tia Maria, Bordeaux, château, merlot, and well and truly sponsored by Stella Artios, we moved towards the bus queue home.

When you have four hundred people queuing for a bus, all having have gone though life privileged and being told they are beautiful and special, a funny thing happens. Everyone believed they deserved to be at the front. An amazing tumbling sea of queue jumping, jostling and cajoling ensued. Alcohol fuelled chest beating was not uncommon, and some of the accents and class, or lack there of, shone there true colours, any camouflage washed away along with the fake tan, with drowned in social lubricant.

All carrying a silver spoon in a back pocket that they cut their first tooth on, the crowd migrated back to the houses lining the bay and to the private schools. I caught the bus, which alas did not have an Italian cream leather interior.

Jonathan