Monday, 30 May 2011

Todd Carney: TickeddyBoo

"Sometimes, instead of dying or killing myself I just go to bed for a couple of days. Shades down, swilling in the swill"

Bukowski said that.
Goddamn if Bukowski didn't know what was up.

Still, sometimes there are rare and unexpected rewards to be had beyond the bed. At the post office, for example. Who knew?

I'm in the habit of letting my mail build up over the course of eight to ten days. I'm lazy, and trivial things like collecting mail wear me to shit.

Napoleon had a policy of ignoring all mail for a minimum of two weeks while he was out doing his despot warlord thing. I think his theory was that the minor matters, say, the crumbling of another of his overthrown territories, would take care of themselves and anything else could be put on ice until he was damn well ready to deal with it. Not that I'm aligning myself with Napoleon. I'm not nearly as interested in European domination, for a start.

Anyway, it's really of no benefit to me because I end up approaching my P.O. box with trepidation. Dread, even. This comes from the very real expectation of the arrival of infringement notices demanding retribution for the various misdemeanors that are an inevitable part of daily life.

Basically, I live my life bathed in unspecific guilt. This is why whenever I see a cop, in any context, be they in a bakery or weilding a baton, I flinch and flee the scene. I have an edgy nature, alright?

Today the post box offered up a mysterious item from Albury with a 'personal' warning on it, cue the cold sweats. It turned out to be the ATO amending my last two tax returns and giving me more money. I nearly dislocated my jaw, it took both hands to close it.

So, a windfall from the ATO. All very nice if you're a fan of this kind of thing, which I am.
This paled in significance when I went inside the post office and was given an expendable tough bag with my girl's Sharpie scrawl on it. I got a hot flush, which I'll take over cold sweats anyday.

Now, doesn't just have her finger on the pulse, bitch is the pulse. This is obvious. How else to account for the signed, mounted and framed photo of Todd Carney, circa Raiders 2008, inside the parcel, which she'd inscribed and dated 1/5/11 on the back, ie. the day before We Need to Talk About Todd was born? That is some wiggy synchronicity right there.

Nor is in the habit of giving me footy merch*, which makes this present all the more odd and awesome. She was also the one, apropos of nothing other than my occasional league-soaked letters, who suggested I start a blog, not knowing that my 2011 to do list consisted of only two things, the first one being to blog. Goddamn!

Who could predict that I'd start a blog and appoint Todd Carney as my muse and patron saint and name the whole operation after his good self? Well, could. It is because of her foresight that a sparsely tattooed Todd Carney looms above my head right now here in the We Need to Talk About Todd head office (my sunroom), forever frozen in the act of booting a ball aimed right at my head. Incredible.

*My brother is. Well, if you consider doing something once a habit. Last year he gave me a whole bundle of Raiders footy cards from various years gone by. The creme de la creme was a 'Top Prospects' card from 2009 predicting Josh Dugan as one to watch. 

Is he ever.     

It's all officially authentically signed and stamped and certified and it's number 052 of only 300, which I appreciate because I am nothing if not a fan of exclusivity. My brother is totally ahead of the curve. He bought the same card for himself over two years ago when Dugan was just a gangly rookie hiding his hot under headgear.

Years ago I said something about him getting on some bandwagon or other and he boomed "I DRIVE the bandwagon, baby!" and it's true, he totally does. I trail in his wake.

If there's a moral to this story, it's that yeah, trivial things may wear me to shit, but sometimes, from the trivial comes the treasure.
By which I mean: from the trivial comes the Todd.

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