…I’m thirty. No big deal. Just another birthday. Does it bother me? That’s not the question. Well, not the question I’ve been pondering lately. Make that questions, plural.

Here’s the thing; I don’t feel any different now. So how long before I do? And will I notice? I’m putting the remote down for a second, staring into the abyss of my soul and asking one important question:

When do I start start wearing socks and sandals?

Seriously. I mean, its inevitable, right? When do polo shirts go from business fashion to casual wear? When do I start working late, not to get on top of work, but to avoid socialising?

When do I decide that not one single new piece of music produced in the past decade is worth listening to? That I can and should call people “Tiger”? That its ok to hit the “answer” button when someone calls while I’m taking a crap?

The basic question I am asking is: when does one resign from the human race? Sooner or later everyone gives up, decides life’s too short for social behaviour, busts out the fluffy slippers and starts shouting at skateboarders. I visualise a see saw; you rapidly approach an apex of well-being, only to round the hump and find your way on a ski slope to checkered shorts and a ginger beer spider.

At least I’m not Hamish. Sucks to be those guys… they’re, like, born that way.

I had an unbelievably good time at the party, thanks everyone who came along. Favourite moment: Marty lifting me in the air while I posed Torville and Dean style on the dancefloor. Kylie had to help lift me of course, and I think Marty put his back out for the rest of the evening. And thanks to the girls from the hens night who wrote Alan I such a beautiful, if somewhat sexually explicit, birthday poem. I’m such a nonce I forgot my camera though. If you have photos, any chance I can get a copy (at non-facebook resolution)?

I managed to wind down on Sunday night with some Iskender Kebab from a Turkish restaurant on King St. After reading the paper this morning I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t hungry for pizza.

(there, just wanted to clear that up)

And so, my blog rises zombie-like from the rain sodden earth, sporting elegant white and orange piping on a svelte black background. What’s been happening for the past six months??

For starters I moved to a new one bedroom flat, above a kids’ fashion store in Newtown. Yes, kids need fashion too! It’s across the road from a pub (the Courthouse Hotel), which means only a short crawl home on a Friday night. I would show you a picture of the place but those bastards at Google Street View turned right instead of left on my street, so no photo for you.

The only other significant detail to note about this particular topic is I now do my washing at a laundromat, and no, they are not a great place to pick up chicks. You lied to me, TV. Why did you lie to one who loves you so?

A significant forthcoming event is my imminent 30th birthday. I have teamed up with Alan, Voltron-style — I am the elbow, and he, the solar plexus — to organise a big shindig in the city. Some amount of planning has gone into this, so I am in the strange position of keenly anticipating my 30th, as opposed to, say, sticking a loaded shotgun in my mouth. Ha, ha! So I suppose now would be an opportune time to mention the addition of a wish lists page to my blog? (subtlety, thy name is Dan!)

There’s some other stuff going on but I’ll leave it there for now… OK one more thing. Naught but 20 minutes ago, I was walking by the newtown community centre and witnessed a guy conjuring some amazing chalk art on the footpath (photo below). He thrust a flyer into my hand, proclaiming the Chalk Urban Art Festival, from 4-7 September in Darling harbour. I’ll be there with bells on…