Pineapple juice

When I was a kid, we drank a lot of pineapple juice - the brand that came in the big blue tins. My sisters and I loved to watch my mother open a new tin. To us, it was a ritual as solemn as any tea ceremony. First, Mum would take out a plastic funnel and an old white-handled can opener whose end vaguely resembled a fleur-de-lis. After upending the tin a few times like it was paint, she'd place it - label the right way up - on the kitchen bench. She'd then make a triangular hole at some point around the rim of the shiny silver top, followed by a smaller one directly opposite, so as to ensure an even pour into the funnel. The next part was our favourite: how many plastic bottles (which we'd hold steady) would be needed to store the juice? That obviously depended on the sizes of the empties available, but our goal was to guess the number - to the nearest fraction - before anyone else did. Not a drop would be wasted in the pouring, and that went for the frothy dregs caused by the shaking, too. If you'd overestimated the amount of receptacles necessary, you'd will the liquid to magically keep flowing, but when you saw the froth you knew it was almost done. And now that I think about it, the guessing game wasn't our fave part of the process. No, our real favourite was waiting until the second the big blue tin was empty, then asking for a glass of pineapple juice, please. Even though Mum said, "But it isn't cold," and even though she'd gone to all that trouble to bottle it.

International dweeb of mystery

The 68th World Science Fiction Convention is taking place in Melbourne from September 2-6. The AFL finals should have begun, guaranteeing a super-atmospheric game or two at "The 'G". There's bound to be a hit stage musical running that hasn't visited Sydney (and may never do so). Famed tapas and wine bar MoVida won't be temporarily closed like it was two Xmases ago. And cuz GH2 will feasibly (a) be in town, and (b) have a spot in his schedule to hang out. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Post-modern drunkard

I'd always suspected that drinking alcohol was big and clever, and my relentlessly creative chum SC proved the theory to be true with - drunkphotos.tumblr.com

Needs more Eigenharp

So I'm in Sushi Train, doin' my gurgitatin' thang, when the waitress seats a businesswoman next to me. Immediately, my nasal passages are assaulted by an awful sour smell. I look this lady over and she's well dressed, seems not to have come straight from the gym without showering, and is carrying a handbag, a gossip glossy and an iPhone set to "make an annoying noise every 20 seconds". And there's the acrid pong again. Wasting food is anathema to me, but I honestly consider ditching the rest of my karaage donburi and sprinting to the counter to settle the bill. Instead, I put my head down and switch from chopsticks to ceramic spoon in order to speed up the process. Every now and then, I'm cruelly lashed by another tendril of stink and - I kid you not - the intensity goes beyond eau de vagrant and into the realm of "unholy gas released when stray bolt of lightning cracks open marble doors of centuries-old crypt". I scoff my rice and narrowly escape before I become physically sick. Being crammed into the aisle of the 373 on the way home is bliss by comparison.

As someone who wouldn't dream of going anywhere public after work without spraying on extra deodorant and popping a breath mint, it blows my mind that a professional person could be so oblivious to their flower-wilting, wallpaper-peeling reek. On the other hand, if it so happens that the odour in question stemmed from a tragic medical condition, then I apologise to the unnamed woman and to baby Jesus for the preceding rant in its entirety.