Effing hacks.

You know when you do something against your better judgement and the result equals your worst nightmare?

You know you should not be surprised or disappointed but you are and can't help it.

You hang your head in shame at your stupidity at being duped.

Well, that is how I feel after shelling out the clams to see Indiana Jones and the kingdom of the crystal skull.

The reviews were ok, even enthusiastic that they had pulled it off. I think they were paid or drugged or are sad fanboys who don't know a descent screenplay from used toilet paper.

It sucks big hairy balls. George Lucas is a fucking hack and deserves to have all his pencils confiscated lest he ever attempt to put them to paper again.

Sure, the first movie was the only really good one in the now quadrilogy and if there is another man out there that seems capable of making mountains of money out if shit sequels then Lucas is the man.

I should not be surprised he stuffed this one up too.

Harrison Ford must have needed the cash and Cate Blanchet (My Cate, what were you thinking?) should have known better.

I was bored. I actually turned my phone on to check the time and prayed for a call so I could leave the theatre. I laughed at one joke and only because it had nothing to do with the actual story on screen.

There was no need to jump the shark with this movie Mr Lucas. Fans would have enjoyed the ride with so much less.

Sure I sound like I have had a bad day and some may say I was not in the right mood for it.

Not so. Until 15 minutes into the film, I was having a great day. A fine meal with a fine woman after a successful day/week of work. I was looking forward to this movie. I was relaxed and had my sense of disbelief suspended and stowed in preparation for the 125 minute ride.

It was not me, it was the movie.

Do not spend your money.

Do not see the film.

Do not sully your eyes with the crap that is Indian Jones and the kingdom of the crystal skull.

/RANT

The scent of a woman

I have gone a bit dance crazy of late with upwards of 12 hours a week spent pushing myself around the floor in classes, training for a routine, training for a competition and also a fair bit of good old social dancing.

I am loving it and the ache in my feet, calves and knees is not about to slow me down.

I am lucky to have some great friends and some wonderful ladies that are amazing to dance with. There is a level of sensuality and trust bordering on the erotic at times and the sexual tension can be powerful.

Tonight hit a new level.

Her scent pulled at my loins. My pulse was thumping in my ears and there was a lump in my throat.

We were so close, she in front and me behind. My hand pressing down on the top of her hips - fingers spread over the top of her thighs.

Her body was pressed against mine, leaning back into me. My head resting on her shoulder. All I could smell was her light musk of perspiration.

I wanted to gently taste it. To lick, tenderly from her exposed shoulder to the back of her ear.

The desire to make contact was intoxicating.

She could read my thoughts, or it felt that way. She leaned back into me a little harder as we gently squeezed down together in a lunge.

The end of the phrase in the music was rushing towards us. It was time to break the spell and send her spinning out and away to safety.

At arms length we locked eyes. She smiled a wicked smile.

With a spin and a dip the song was over and we left the floor hand in hand as friends not lovers and she returned to her group of friends.

A mate approached me.

"What the hell happened just then?"

"What do you mean?" I asked innocently.

"Dude, you just had a massive moment. The whole fucking room could see it - you may as well have just had sex right there in the middle of the floor."

Sprung. Some things you just can't hide.

Did I tell you I like dancing?

Tech gone wrong

I am, or should I say was, always pleased that there are very few things with buttons and software that could outsmart me.

Today however I got publicly humiliated by my new mobile phone.

Standing in the middle of a busy coffee shop waiting to order my lunch I hear the familiar ping of an inbound text message and the comforting vibration in my pocket.

I was pretty chuffed, here was an excuse to pull this shiny new bit of hardware out in public.

Now this was not about showing off or anything but just to casually look loved, needed and connected with a very sexy new phone.

Sliding the phone open and selecting the message I noticed the stunning girl with olive skin and green eyes behind the counter catch my eye and give a little nod approval at my phone selection.

Then it all went wrong.

I bumped a button on the key pad while eye fucking the chick.

I still am not sure which one. Which button, not which chick that is...anyhow.

The phone started to speak in a crazy, slightly English but very robotic female voice.

And a very, fucking, loud, voice at that.

Heads started to turn.

At first I did not realise that the noise was coming from my phone. Like everyone else I was wondering if there were ever female Darleks and if Captain Jack and the Doctor were going to turn up and start snogging.

By the time it registered that it was my phone, reading out my text message, it was too late. People had stopped to listen in.

I fumbled for the right key to shut it up - not realising that sliding the phone shut only locked the key pad and added another 4 seconds of torment before I got another go at shutting it up.

I never got there. The entire message was played to a captive and disturbingly quiet audience.

I now know, down to the very last second how long it takes to make a great flat white.

The barista was true pro. Not a smirk or a role of the eyes, not an opening to explain or a hint that even she had heard it above the pumping heart of the espresso machine. Until I reached for my coffee.

The corner of her lips curled up, just enough to say that she heard and more than enough to say that there was not point trying to explain.

I hope you enjoy the message as much as my fellow caffeine addicts did today.

Identity crisis

I had an odd text message exchange yesterday with my dance partner.

"Hey, you wanna come to superdance with me tomorrow"

"I am working on Friday until 1:30 and WTF is superdance?"

"Cool, it opens at 2 - I was not going to spend all day there.."

"So what is it?"

"A shoe shop silly :)"

"WTF makes you think I want to go shoe shopping with you? I have never even gone shoe shopping with a GF before let alone a mate!"

"They are dance shoes!"

"Uh ok, count me in."

And there it is folks, with five little words I have been relegated to the roll of a straight man playing the gay shopping partner for a 21 year old hottie.

Here is hoping I find some new dance shoes, get laid or both...