It’s the last day of 2009.

I don’t reckon I’ll miss the year, since it was a bit of a flat one, with a lot of time spent pushing at nudging at stuff that may or may not give out in 2010. There’s years like that, but it doesn’t mean you want to be living it, really. But, oh well. The year will be done shortly. On the news this morning it said that people had slept overnight in Sydney to watch the fireworks that happen at the Harbour. It told me that Charlie Sheen was apparently the world’s highest paid sitcom comedy star. And it finished with a moment where a security expert in the US advised that Middle Eastern men between the ages of 18 and 40 be targeted in airports by security. The news reporter said that he meant Muslim men.

This is the year we’re leaving.

Remember when Guy Ritchie made films that were funny and entertaining?

Okay, so that was roughly around eleven years ago, but the promise of Richie’s second film has been on diminishing returns ever since, having given us the flawed Snatch, a film with Madonna, and devolved into things such as RocknRoller. Sherlock Holmes, his first big screen, big budget film, completes the downward spiral and presents the audience with what can only be called one of the most boring cinema experiences I’ve had in the last six months. Admittedly, this isn’t such a big thing because my film going has dropped to nothing, but I would tell you that your cash is better spent buying Murder She Wrote dvds, and watching as Angela Lansbury solves case after case, each episode filled with more actual detective work and mystery than Sherlock Holmes.

There’s not much of Sir Conan Arthur Doyle’s original vision in Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes, but that’s not a real problem. Cutting here, slicing there–interesting things can be done with adaptation. However, Ritchie’s Holmes–played by Robert Downey Jnr, who we now all forgive for whatever he did in the past–is an eccentric, but brilliant man who cannot handle not being in control. This characterisation is not given much play, however, as Watson–played by Jude Law, who I think we’re currently punishing for something–and Holmes’ relationship becomes one of a buddy cop action film. Think Jackie Chan and Chris Rock in the Rush Hour films. Think Will Smith and Martin Lawrence in Bad Boys. Think Mel Gibson and Danny Glover in the Lethal Weapon movies…

In fact, you should really think of the Lethal Weapon movies, since not only does Downey hold a passable resemblance to Gibson, but his life is meaningless without his non-sexual life partner, and he too has bad kung fu and meets all the wrong women. I can only imagine that the sequel will have Jet Li as Fu Manchu or something like that.

So, stripped of anything that might be interesting–cocaine usage, for example–Holmes and Watson become buddy cops involved in solving the mystery of Lord Blackwood, played by Martin Strong, and resembling a time lost Nazi. In fact, at one point during the film, I began to imagine a second plot line running in the back of the film. Bare with me here, because it’s actually interesting. In this plot, Lord Blackwood, whose real name may or may not have been Fritz, was in the final days of Nazi Germany. He was a bad man. A man prone to burning. To black magic. To leaving the toilet seat up. But, this man, this Fritz Blackwood, is brilliant, and so he creates a means to escape his death at the hands of the Americans, and he creates a time travel machine. Unfortunately, something goes wrong, and he ends up thrust back in time, and born in an orgy of a cult that may or may not bare a passing resemblance to the Freemasons, and is forced to grow up rich and powerful and involved in black magic. From there, he decides that he can get his revenge on the evil British, who thwarted the Nazi plan by enlisting the Americans–and its okay, because he’ll get to kill an American during the film–he begins an elaborate and detailed plot to assume control of Britain to change history and result in a Nazi victory, years from now.

Which, really, is what this film should have been about.

Where’s my ten bucks?

I did it.

I ate Christmas ham for two whole weeks.

I had a salad with ham cubes last night. Gimme my fucking ten bucks.

That I did.

Thank you.

You know, it’s not that hard. You just cube up a bit. It’s light. You pick a nice cheese and it’s not too bad.

Yeah, that was the deal. I’d cook some up for breakfast, work in a nice sandwich or jaffle for lunch, and then fix something nice for dinner. I had baked macaroni with ham one night.

Yeah, things got a little out of control about half way through. I started swapping recipes around.

No, but there was ham tacos, ham spaghetti, and in one large mistake, ham black bean sauce.

No. It wasn’t as bad as the time I added ham to my wheatbix, though. I kinda knew that wasn’t going to work from the start.

Well, sometimes, in the name of science…

Probably.

How’d your Christmas go, anyhow?

How’d you go with that?

Well, it’s the same end, even if it’s a different path.

Fucking cold, though.

I just ate ham for two weeks. My life is not a grind.

I think everyone deals with that.

Yeah, that’s the modern life: get the fuck numb and get through it.

There’s a line for hating on it. Me, I just eat ham for two weeks.

A little, but mostly, it was damn tasty, and that means something in life as well.

(The 12 Days of Christmas was something I made up 13 days ago. I wrote each one of the day, kinda free form. Sometimes they worked, sometimes I think they didn’t. Either way, I hope you enjoyed them. Have a nice end of year.)

Merry holiday, peoples.

I hope you had a good one.

The last of my dialogue things will go up tomorrow, cause it’s Xmas, and I got lazy with the day.

Be cool.

So, I saw this video today–

I saw a video today of Wall Street. In the video, they had Darth Vader and some Storm Troopers sitting up the front of the exchange, and ringing the day or some shit like that.

It kind of blew my mind. I mean, here was the focal point of our capitalist empire, and on the days before Christmas, they had Darth Vader come in, perhaps the most well known villain in our society, to ring the fucking day in.

One can only hope, but–

But given our current situation, I can’t help but think that the irony is a little lost.

…

Christmas eve shopping. We ought to fucking know better.

We all ought to know fucking better.

What’s your brilliant plan this time?

Like, remind people to go to the store and buy presents?

And some wrapping paper.

That’s a dumb idea.

I think I need to wash myself.

Fuck yeah. We should have used the internet for this stuff.

I thought it was just about Christmas?

That sounds we’d be living in perpetual holiday moment.

It sounds awful.

I’ve heard your crazy idea. The last thing I want to do is subject myself to this kind of behaviour all year round.

Islands?

So… like, we’d be free?

…

…

Jesus Christ.

You realise that everyone around us heard your plan.

That little old lady, she has a note pad. I think she wrote it down.

That kid! That kid has a fucking phone! He recorded the whole thing!

And there’s a whole family over there! How will we fucking deal with eight of them! One of them has a t-shirt that says he knows Kung-Fu! What if it’s true! We’ll never stop them!

Shit! The dogs in the pet store! They’re a threat!

Haha.

As long as I have a bucket I’ll be fine.

(The 12 Days of Xmas. Day two. One day left!)

How you feeling today?

That’s good.

Yes. I’m afraid there’s no easy way for me to say this, but–

You have asbestosis.

It’s–it’s an inflammation on the lungs–

That’s probably around the time you contracted it.

Unfortunately, it would have just been passive exposure for you.

That would have exposed you to the asbestos back then.

It can have a thirty year incubation cycle–

Would you like some tissues?

…

It’s nothing.

Until a month ago, I would have said you were the healthiest 83 year old woman I knew.

Well, you’re not the sickest.

…

I’m sorry, that was not the best thing to say.

It’s not.

There’s lots of things we can to make things easier for you, specialists I know who are very good in their field–

No.

(The 12 Days of Christmas. The woman in this story is called Jean. She’s my mother’s neighbour.)

Can I guess?

Is this about Christmas carols?

Cause you bitch about Christmas carols all the time.

It better not be or I’ll drown your puppy.

Guess what you’re getting for Christmas if this story sucks?

Alright.

In the middle of the store?

…

What the fuck she say?

What you do?

What?

…

Shit, man, that’s uncool.

How was the lady?

It’s pretty fucked, man, I got to agree.

I got another.

Brittany Murphy.

Heart attack.

Totally.

Update the List.

Look, how many times do I have to say this, I thought I saw a notification of his death. Swear to god.

Sure.

…

How’s work?

Just tell them that they can have a place on your list.

Did you see the bit about a husband not wanting an autopsy?

It’s kinda sad.

She was alright in some of her films.

The dude from that TV show?

See, that’s just personal bits. I mean, as sad as its going to be to here myself say this, the year was really defined by Michael Jackson, Patrick Swayze and David Carradine.

Yeah, but come on–the Jackson had a funeral on TV where little boys stood over his coffin and cried.

People forgot all about the child sex stuff and the many, many locks on his bedroom door.

I kinda felt something for Swayze. He was so public and seemed so nice and–

You’re such a cynic.

I still got my doubts about that–like, I thought coyotes were shy and weren’t up for attacking hikers on public trails.

It’s the age?

Like being killed by coyotes.

He wasn’t very tragic, though. Just age got to him.

It’s not really what I look for. People like Malden don’t have spectacle in them.

I mean, I thought JG Ballard dying was terribly sad, because I loved his books, ever since the Drowned World–

–But there wasn’t much of an event to it.

David Carradine, however.

Tell me it wasn’t awesome?

Lorraine even made those cookies after he died. Guaranteed to Choke You, she called them.

…

…

That’s the year right there.

Take care, dear. I’ll see you Wednesday night for the List meeting.

Will do!

Bye!

(The 12 Days of Christmas has been going for a while now. Hows my driving? Don’t tell me. I think I ran over your dog.)

Hey.

What, you come over just to drink my beer?

I should never have started making my own.

That’d be nice if I used apple.

Nah.

They’re playing in W.A. so we get it prime time.

Nah.

How was work?

Naked?

How does a guy working in a supermarket have a bad naked day at work?

That sounds romantic.

Oh, I’m fairly sure it’s not me whose in line for a fuckin’.

Man, this is romantic.

All I need to do is insert witty comments, don’t I?

Haha.

What’d you do?

Because then it would be romantic, right?

And afterwards, when she’d sobered up, she could find you and tell you how understanding you had been, and how she admired you for only taking advantage of her just a little bit, and how it was the best time and the most feminine she had ever felt, and oh, could you marry her and rescue her from this tower she lived in?

Except, you know, when she was drunk and stealing and naked.

I’m thinking of taking up a career in romance writing, it’s true.

Yeah.

That’s just naked man you can taste.

(The 12 Days of Christmas, day six. I wrote this a couple of hours ago, then went and lay on the couch and fell asleep. So I’m not late, it’s your imagination. Also, you can thank Cas for this one.)

Hey.

Yeah, I wanted to talk to you before my shift starts. Catch you before practice tomorrow night.

Yeah.

It’s just–this is difficult to bring up, man.

No, no, it’s about the band, man.

I totally agree. I think our album is going to be fucking awesome, and I think going to well, but… Well.

I think we might need a new band name.

It’s just–I don’t want to start a fight or nothing but–

No, no, cause they came up with the name, and I’m just–I think it might alienate some people.

It’s just, some people, most chicks, man, mostly chicks–they might find–

…

…

Okay.

Do you see Cum Stained Panties in this store?

Here me out, okay? I got a fucking point.

I love our band. I think its awesome, but take a look round this store, man. There is no way a band called Cum Stained Panties would be sold in here.

Target will sell anything popular.

I am.

You wanna be fifty and working for fucking Target?

Think about it.

But if we keep going this way, we’re just going to keep building an audience for Cum Stained Panties, and its going to have a ceiling on it, man.

Dude.

We could be–we could be a little more sly about it, man. This is what I’m saying. Insulting, but still in a position where our band name is presenting an image that we aren’t, which is that we’re not for chicks.

Dude, have you seen our audience?

…

Suicide.

This is my idea, man. I need you to support me on this, but yeah, this is my theory. I’m taking it to you first because I think you’ll understand more than Brad and Mick. Those two are smacked out of their mind half the time and they’re not the future of the bad.

Dude, lets be honest, if they don’t clean themselves up…

Look, I’m not saying get rid of them, I’m just saying we could change a little. Have a future that isn’t Target.

Celebrity suicide.

A lot of celebrities kill themselves. Pills, shotguns, cars, all that kinda shit. If we can tap into that feel, man, that energy that surrounds dead celebrities, we’ll be able to reach an audience that better suits us, and one that has a longer life span. I mean, what’s the one thing people go shit over? The lives of celebrities.

I thought you would.

Ready?

The Courtney Love Conspiracy.

Yeah, people say that his–

Don’t–don’t fucking say that, man.

Shit!

See, this is my point, you asshole.

Well, when we start looking for new work tomorrow, perhaps you can try children’s parties and branch out.

(The 12 Days of Christmas has entered Day Seven. Yesterday, Tansy said the entry was romantic. Hi, Tansy.)