I exist on the Internet, therefore I am.

( This is Kate, you will meet her later)

Fame is the new black.
Ask any human aged 30 and below and guaranteed 99% of them will tell you that being famous is a job.
Ever since Paris Hilton popped a couple of E's and opened wide, being known for something, ANYTHING, is the ambition of an entire generation....or two.
Strung out and star struck these 'i-everything' hipsters, that together make up the collective spend of the average GDP of a small African nation, are a social phenomena of breath-taking speed and savvy.
They want you to know who they are, and they know how to do it, and they are NOT fucking shy about.
Now I have a friend, a man I privately call 'Mr 65%', who spends his life getting Brand Recognition into the marketplace.
It's a multi million dollar industry.
And in my time, I have written enough 30 second commercials to fill all the dead air on the planet.
But in both of these cases, what I am talking about here is the 'Advertisement and recognition of a product'.
Something to sell, something to buy.
A market force.
What the 'famous for being famous' guru's are all about carries none of that baggage.
It does not mean 'wealth creation' or ' creation of product', it means being talked about, recognised, popular and discarded for the mere purpose of being talked about, recognised, popular and discarded- often within the space 48 hours.
To this younger, faster generation, those 48 hours may be the ride of a lifetime, and they are happy to take the ride without pause.
Not so much " to be famous and beyond", and just the "to be famous" part.
This week on the Internet- specifically on facebook- there came the phenomenon of 'Kate's Party'.
If you did not see it, do not feel bad. I happen to be the proud producer of 3 very Internet active young adults, and it is only through them that I live vicariously in the etherworld.
Kate's Party- for those of you who missed it- was an event originally posted as a Birthday Party Invite for a small bunch of friends of Kate, a real girl who lives in the sleepy Australian city of Adelaide.
Kate's mates had decided to throw her a Birthday bash. In the invite, sent only to a small number of people, the organisers stated something to the effect of " please let us know if you are bringing someone as our flat is not so big, and we need to know how many we are catering for".
A reasonable request.
But then they made one fatal- and as it turned out hysterically funny- mistake.
They left the administration of the event open.
Anyone could invite people.
And so SOMEONE on the list, SOMEHOW send the invite to 400 of their closest friends, who sent it to 400 of their closest friends, who sent it to etc etc etc..........
By the time I was invited to RSVP to Kate's Party, some 300,000 people had agreed to come, and another 300,000 were awaiting reply.
Only a few said that they were not attending.After all, who doesn't like a party? And Kate looked friendly enough in her photo.
Unlike other facebook disasters where the police are called and it all ends up on a current affairs show, there was never any chance any harm would be done. The organisers had never disclosed the address.
It was all done, by stealth and with stealth, in the safety of the interworld.
But by now, both Kate and her party were famous.
Other groups sprung up.
Groups inviting people to 'Pre- Kate's Party Drinks', a group dedicated to buying her a card from everyone, a group suggesting how best to secure parking, a group suggesting that everyone will score at Kate's party except the Storm ( an Australian football reference) a group discussing what to wear to Kate's party, a group talking about what to do if you meet someone who wasn't invited -VERY awkward- and even a group discussing the fact that Kate's Party was the epitome of Internet power.
In all,within 4 DAYS some 300 groups had arisen with a total membership of well over 1.5 million people world wide all dedicated to a young girl from Adelaide, who never even sought fame in the first place.
Ask any salesman and they will tell you, those are good numbers.
The ACTUAL organisers of Kate's Party called for calm on facebook, they even cancelled the original event, but the cat was well and truly out of the bag, and Kate's Party will go down in Internet legend as what can be done to raise awareness of an object /an idea/a person in the blink of an eye, with the click of a mouse.
In commercial terms, it's what's known as the 'tipping point', and the book named as such went on to sell many millions of copies. If you haven't read it, read it.
I discussed the force behind Kate's Party with my 19 year old son Kip.
Kip is THE PERFECT example of the generation I am talking about.
He sees fame as a job, he is never without access to the internet, he has cash.
I suggested it was the words " our apartment is small" that made the difference.
I think it appealed to the ridiculous side of most peoples sense of humour.
"OK, your flat is small, lets see how many people we can squeeze in".
Kind of like the obsession with VW's and Uni students in the 60's, only in a virtual world.
He doesn't care.
He just thinks it's great.
He thinks Kate is great, and he thinks it's totally cool that now she is famous.
I suspect he would be over awed to meet her.
So what can you do?
The idea that you must achieve something to be someone is long gone.
And I sound, and feel, like an old person when I suggest that the creation of matter, matters.
Fame is it's own reward, and from here on in, the end truly justifies the means.
Ask Ms. Hilton.
Like millions of others I sat glued to the computer screen waiting to watch the sexual acrobatics of a lifetime such was the hype.
Instead I was confronted by a thin chick with a wonky eye moaning like a drunken fur seal speaking in a voice that sounded like a 3 year old sucking on helium.
And yet, to this day, she gets paid tens of thousands of US dollars to turn up to events and squint at the camera.
Excellent.
At least she knows how to 'work the angles'.
In Kate's case, her future is wide open.
She may go into politics, she may release an album, she may write a book about her experiences as a former celebrity.
And in here we find the painful truth, because next month, or indeed next week, Kate will be gone.
Replaced by another set of sweaty hands grabbing for the spotlight.
Forget 15 minutes Andy, these days it's 15 seconds.
Fame- all fame- is fleeting.
Blink......and you'll miss it.

Time on my hands is time on my hands.

Would it be rude to talk about masturbation here?
I only ask because it has been on my.....mind......today.
I work weekends, but as a small business owner I get to choose my hours.
A bit.
As a small business owner, I work for a tyrant.
But one of the advantages of sleeping with the boss, IE: me, is that if I need some time out, I can take it.
When I take some 'me time' the question always arises as to what to do with my hands.
Some days there is no choice.
With routine monotony, every month , bills must be paid and groceries must be bought.
Hideously boring, I attempt to do these things with Cheetah like stealth.
It is the only time I run.
Running is for people who are unaware that the planet is round, and that they are not actually going anywhere, only fast.
Outside of being avoiding being evicted, and feeding my cat, my 'down time' is totally mine to waste.
My children live overseas, I currently have no S.O....( although you may want to watch this space)....and my part-time hobby of hiking the hills is dependent of dozens of factors that make it less than routine.
Ispo facto, when the days I mark as 'OFF' in my diary eventuate, I often find myself standing there with my pants around my ankles, so to speak.
Now, I am going to have to tread carefully here, lest I scare the children, but I wonder, would it be considered wasteful to spend the day 'laying in'?
I mean.
The Day.
For years I have bleated on about a book I am currently writing called " Fuck yourself thin: a woman's guide to masturbation and weight loss" ( which is copyright so don't even fucking THINK about it).
I have been writing this book for almost 7 years.
Actually it's finished, I've just never shown it to anyone.
I wrote it when I was thin. I had been fatter- like now- and then I was thinner.
I was thinner because I stopped eating and was feeling wretched because I was unhappily married but didn't know what to do about it.
At that time, in order to make myself feel happier I practiced lots of very safe sex.
Lots and lots of it.
Lots and LOTS of practice.
By myself.
Chemically, 'self love'- as with all love- releases endorphins into the body.
Endorphins and Serotonin work together to make us feel good.
I was battling with very low levels of Serotonin, so I self medicated.
Sexual self medication.
Sounds like a defence for Tiger Woods- except he's just a twat.
Later I medicated myself with drugs and alcohol.
These things did not make me thin.
When I stopped all of that nonsense and sorted out my serotonin levels with the help of a doctor, I was left with what to do with my hands....again.
I grew up going to Sunday School, and I have talked here about the magnificent effect the 'Show Business Aspect' of The evangelical Church had on my disturbingly creative developing mind.
I never once believed a single word spoken over the pulpit, but I did like the costumes.
So sex has never been a taboo for me, I have no areas of squeamishness, nothing surprises me, or shocks me, or revolts me.....with the obvious exception to people who hurt children, or involve animals.......you, my friends, will have your day in hell and I will be there to supervise.......
But back to my rant, I have seen 'Two girls One cup'- I gagged, I did, I threw up a little in my mouth, but it didn't SHOCK me, I just thought it was yuck.
When you have seen as much porn as I have, you become completely anaesthetised to what some people are prepared to do with their orifices and bodily fluids.
Ever seen any Japanese porn?
Death defying.
Literally.
Thank God those fuckers didn't win the war is all I can say ( with love and respect to all my Japanese buddies).
My lack of prudishness in this area has given many the misconception that I am, indeed, vulgar when it comes to talking about sex.
This is a misunderstanding.
Vulgarity appals me, in fact rudeness and base behaviour of any kind is an anathema to me.
I just feel comfortable talking about sex and I enjoy sex.
I see sex as a natural part of being alive, and I know that just as there are a plethora of different genres of writing styles to be read and appreciated, there are hundreds of different ways to enjoy being sexual without shame or guilt.
So back to masturbation and whether or not a day spent 'relaxing in bed' is a waste of a day?
To give credit where it's due, the weather today WAS shit, and I managed to do all my grocery shopping on Monday. My bills have all been paid, and I am feeling very positive generally, so it's not 'self help'...( OK well it IS 'self help', but not the Chemical Need kind).
Plus, I have nothing to read, and my hiking partner is in OZ.
But is it selfish?
And am I spoiling it for others who come into my bedroom and mess up my sheets?
After all, I'm pretty good, even if I do say so myself.
And I should be.
I've had enough practice.
Perhaps I'm over thinking it.
Tomorrow I will be putting all my energies into saving the world from bad public speaking and under-confident leadership.
As I run through my mantras of 'eye contact, diaphragm breathing, projection, projection, projection' I shall allow my mind to wander, as it does regardless, to the lazy hazy days spent in happy self fulfillment.
Perhaps a bit more of that, and a bit less of me, is what most of my clients REALLY need.
I could always suggest it.
The only trouble is, what would I bill that as on the invoice, and how could I be sure they wouldn't try to fudge the hours on the time sheet?
There is nothing worse than being played.
Especially when you prefer playing with yourself.

You Are Whatever B.S You Eat.

Dear Peerless Deities,
I am writing on behalf of my Socio-economic demographic to complain about your handling of my happiness.
Normally I would not bother to take such action, however it has come to my attention of late that there has been a total lack of concern for the details that affect my life, and the lives of countless others.
Therefore, I feel the time has come to speak up on behalf of my group in the hope that you and your kind will sort out these discrepancies in fair practice as soon as possible.
I have listed below a number of the complaints that have come to my attention.
You will note that there appears in some places to be a theme, and I can only surmise, on your behalf, that the reason for this apparent " Sameness" is due to some enormous oversight in the planning and implementation of your so called 'Grand Plan'.
We are, after all, merely mortal.
Yours be the glory etc etc etc..........
Before I get to the list, however, might I just point out that it is not for lack of effort that we- the so called 'Top Ten Percent' - find ourselves in this predicament.
A straw poll conducted by myself and countless others over the past couple of decades has uncovered an almost unparallelled desire and motivation to sort out the question of 'happiness' ourselves.
Personally I have tried Yoga, Self-Help Books,Self Absorption Books, The Desilverer Method, Landing Marks, Sex, Drugs, Alcohol,Lymphatic Drainage,Extra-marital affairs, Having Sex with 24 Year Olds, Having Sex with 80 Year Olds,Meditation, Reiki, Re-Earthing, Re-Birthing and, for a brief period, the Church Of Later Day Late Comers.
All to no avail.
Amongst my friends there are those who have also tried such methods as Silent Retreating, Primordial Screaming, Star Gazing, Shopping, food, Plastic Surgery, Navel Gazing, Plastic Navel Gazing, Career Changing,Guru Worshipping, Bowel Flushing, House Buying, Really Big House Buying and Goat Sacrifice.
None of it seems to work.
It's as if our desire for happiness is kept deliberately out of reach, and for this, I am afraid, the blame must fall entirely on you.
Because it is not without a certain sense of cruel irony that we observe happiness in others, even amongst those not considered in the 'Top Ten Percent'.
Quite how, or even why, a poorer and less educated person would achieve this state is difficult to imagine, and must therefore be the work of some external force such as yourselves.
In my case, for example, having been born into a middle class family in a free and democratic society and having been blessed with good health, an amount of intelligence and being granted a well funded Tertiary Education, the fact that I must clutch at straws to feel fulfilled is both an anathema and an insult to me.
Why can't I just be happy?
Is it too much to ask?
Why does everyone else get to be happy and I don't?
It's not fair.
I pay my taxes.
I want to be happy like everyone else.
When is it going to be MY turn?
I'm ALWAYS the last one to get ANYTHING nice.
All my life, everyone else has had it easier than me.
I was NEVER the favourite.
It's because my mother never REALLY wanted me, she wanted someone else to be me.
When I was growing up I was NEVER picked first, and when I was, it was only because everyone felt sorry for me.
Everyone else gets everything they want all of the time, they just get it given to them, and they don't even care.
I want more things, and I want more things that make me happy.
I want you to make me happy.
I want you to give me happiness.
I want you to fix it.
I want you to fix ME.
I want you to fix me NOW!!!
And if you don't, I'm going to hold my breath until I turn 60.
And then you will be sorry.
All of you.
I will be away from my desk for a week as I am spending some quality time with my new life partner ( 4th attempt at commitment, wish me luck).
We will be backpacking through Touristastan with a group of Vegetarian Namibian Buddhist Jesuits. The days will involve walking through villages and giving pens to poor children. Nighttime will be centered around marvelling at the lack of facilities in a 3 star hotel, and buying rip off DVD's in street markets.
It's all terribly bohem.
Therefore, when you reply to this message you can either send me an email- I have my Satellite Blackberry and i-phone, or you can just leave your number with my P.A and I will call you on my return.
Cheers,
Robust W. Anker.

P.S- It appears I have not included a 'LIST' per se, but I will do that later today as I am running late for my Pyramid Scheme Shareholders Meeting.
R.W.A.

Suck on these.

What is it about breasts?
This is not a trick question, it is an honest desire to understand why certain men obsess about fatty chest tissue.
I have large breasts.
I have had large breasts since I was 10.
At ten, it's not sexy, it's humiliating.
My first bra buying experience was painful enough for me to not wish to share it here, and for the next couple of years, the bra strap snapping, the sports day dilemma, and the swimming carnival Crucifixion were enough to set me up for a lifetime of negotiation with my mammories.
Basically it works like this, we can be friends so long as I get to decide exactly how they will be dressed on any given occasion.
I talk to my breasts. Our lines of communication are open and clear. We understand each other.
And if I put them away, it's for a reason.
There are thousands of photo's of me on the web flashing parts of my chesticles, and just as many with me dressed like a nun.
Good boob day/bad boob day.....and only I know the difference.
For all of my teens, and most of my twenties I remained slim and Dolly Partonlike in proportion.
At five foot two, guess where most men are looking when they are chatting with you.
For all those years I felt like I was standing there with my legs wide open and my knickers pulled down. After all, breasts make up one of three parts of sexual organs on a woman, where as men have only two, their balls and their penises (woman also get a brain).
In my serious years I took very real offense to being objectified by my tits. Then I gave up, and spent a few years getting them out- a kind of beat them/join them attitude.
These days I alternate, but I have blossomed into a more well rounded figure, which oddly enough means that my breasts are no longer the focus, and frankly, I am more comfortable this way.
Funny isn't it?
And you all thought it was because I was lazy.
When I was feeding my babies with milk- the surprisingly forgotten and much maligned reason for nature giving us funbags in the first place- I could have taken out and entire armoured division simply by entering the room, so large and hard were the mounds of milk maker attached to my chest.
I shall bore you now with a true story about me and making milk.
3 days post delivery of my first precious child, and with the milk 'in' as the maternity staff like to call it, I wandered down the corridor of my small community hospital, naked other than underwear.
My milk had been pouring- and I use this term in the literal sense- out of my plate sized nipples since lunch time. My bed was wet, all my clothes were sodden with curds and whey and the room I was in smelled like a yogurt factory.
Plus my tits now came up under my neck and were rock hard, and it fucking well hurt.
Convinced I would never be dry again, and that my baby would never love me and that I was a hopeless mother - the third day baby blues, so hysterically funny- I wandered into the nurses station bawling my eyes out and dripping milk like a badly routed Rubenesque Italianate statue.
A kindly midwife sat me down, stroked my arm, fed me Anzac biscuits and attached me to a pump.
I fed the premi babies in that ward for a week in one sitting.
The weirdest thing about the whole experience was that breast pumps only go on one boobie at a time, but my 'new-to-the-whole-feeding-process' boobies didn't know that, so as one breast released milk into the milking machine ( you see how charming motherhood is, it's just like on the farm), the other one took the hint and released the rest. It literally sprayed out at a hundred miles an hour in a kind of demented shower-head pattern, and covered the uniform of the now lactated matron sitting beside me.
Nursing is the saints profession.
There are other grosser stories about the eternal leaking of the spotty minefield of motherhood, but I shall spare you those for now.
And so, back to men and breasts, because I have a friend- and he knows who he is- who said to me the other day that he would love to get a 'titty wank' off another mutual friend of ours.
This lady is totally racked up. And totally barking.
This appears not to be a problem for our friend. He is not looking to move in and assemble Ikea bookcases with her, he just wants to use her breasts as friction posts and her cleavage as a penile water park.
"Yeah", I said, because what else could I say?
"What's wrong with your hand?" came to mind, but then I thought better of it. After all, he is not The first man I have met who thinks this way, and he will not be the last.
Men have come out and said the same thing to me. And not just single men, but married men, and more than a few gay men have all expressed the desire to use my tit's as adventure playgrounds for their genitals.
I guess I should be flattered.
Strangely in 40 years, I have never heard a of a woman approaching a man and saying the same thing about his soft fleshy round bits.
" Jesus, I would LOVE to rub my clitoris in between your balls" is not a term commonly heard in either good or bad company.
Of course this does have something to do with the physical practicalities involved, but to be honest, man bits- though useful- are not always beautiful.
Whereas breasts- apparently- are.
And worth obsessing about, and not just that, but worthy of an array of industries of their own.
Enhancement- in the form of surgery/pills/creams/teas/exercises/diets/hydraulic clothing.
Reduction - in the form of surgery/pills/creams/teas/exercises/diets/hydraulic clothing.
Plus there's porn, even the stuff that's so soft it's barely there, which focuses on breasts far more than any other part of the body.
Like they are some kind of exciting secret.
Which leaves me bamboozled.
I spent 2 hours in Marks and Spencer's the other day trying on bras.
Not that there was a lot of choice.
In Hong Kong having a chest my size is like being blessed with an extra head.
"WOW- your boobs are SOOOOOOOOOO big".
Why thank you helpful Young size 4 Chinese shop assistant, I hadn't noticed.
"We don't have anything in your size, Hey Wingki, come and check out this Gweipo's huge tit's".
Um, Wingki, lets not.
Or maybe I should have invited Wingki in, and charged a dollar.
After all, if these puppies aren't going anywhere other than south, they may as well earn their keep.
The free ride is over boys ( my boobs are boys- I don't know why- ask my therapist) and from here on in, if you want to continue to live swaddled in imported silk and lace, you had better start paying your way.
Either that, or get ready for a whole new career involving tubs of Vaseline and family packs of tissues.
Strap in lads, this could get messy.