I got my wishes. I get to have this baby w K around! I am v happy w that. I got text from her on the 12th of Feb, saying it was over w the crazy jealous gf. Praise jesus, friends again!
This is the danger of being paranoid n jealous, frankly. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
so.............. SUCKED IN, ya Carnegie bogan sparky w yr personalised plates that make no sense! ELCCHCK DOESN'T MEAN JACK! Arse. ARSE. You lose!
Its lovely, frankly, spending time w a girl I know so well as K. It is a massive treat. I feel like I shou ld revisit the original plan of inserting K into Ali's name, so Ali K Harper. For example.
Ali K Harper Beckerling. She's my baby. She kicks all the time, and she swells out the front. Its 6 months now. I am absolutely loving it. I'm happier than I've been in forever ever.
Life is sweet, and I am full of grateful.
This is my sister Jess and her baby Luca, who was born at 3.38 on Sunday AM. I was there, it took forever - 36 hours of full on labour, and contractions on and off for 4 days before that.
We seemed to have spent the entire holiday waiting for Luca.
Then ta-da, she came.
Jess has a gravitas about her, a weight and focus I never saw in her before. She is stellar. They're back home together today, the three of em, Jess + Craig + Luca, and I'm sad as hell that I won't see them for probably another year.
There's a lot about living in Melbourne that is a loss, mainly cos babies change every day. In the 3 weeks I was in Perth Leo learned to sit up from laying on his belly, and is beginning to crawl - but only backwards so far - I'll miss out on this year's all-of-that, and it sucks.
My own family will be real tho, when the baby comes. In June. I can't even help wondering a lot lately tho, what kind of parallel life the girl who was nicer to K is having, and what perfectly queer family she's looking forward to.
I wish I wuz her.
Perth in 5 days, was the plan. Is the plan. 2 days in the city, then down to Walpole for 3 weeks of nuthin much, and Jess's baby coming, and my dad's 60th birthday (w a side-dish of Very Hot Lauren to hang out w also).
Then new nephew Leo's little friend went over to the Fremantle house for a play date last Wednesday, and went home, and got FUCKING CHICKEN POX.
Thus causing the entire house-hold of my mum, 2 bro's, Gaby and the thwarting nephew to begin a 21 day incubation period.
Chicken pox isn't that big a deal - it makes you sick and get boils etc - and then it goes, but if you get it when yr pregnant it is a whole other different kettle of fish entirely.
It can cause congenital birth defects such as an abnormally small head.
All I can think of is the scene in Beetlejuice where the guy shrinks inside his suit til his head is marble-sized.
Welcome to the world, Brutus. Sorry, I REALLY needed a holiday, so I took a punt - is lucky you have such a winning personality.
Fuck man. How is my luck.
So I had a blood test today, and on Friday, or ideally Saturday, which is leaving things absolutely to the last minute, thus adding deliciously to the stress of the whole situation, I find out the result, and then, inshallah, I can start the fun and games of trying to reschedule my ticket w Jetstar and Virgin.
This is something I am very much looking forward to.
I've been reading a new celebublog, which is much funnier than perezhilton.com. Its called A Socialite's Life, and this is a bit from it:
Remember back when everything was elegant and Bette Davis said things about Joan Crawford like "that feather in her hat, it's sticking out of her brain" and there was the Algonquin Round Table and everyone wore gorgeous tailored outfits, and had an air of sophistication about them? Now we live in savage times when Mystic Tanned junkies get really popular for next to no reason beyond luck or coming from money and we're forced to endure their sluttish antics because the world is a terrifying, doomed place and this is what we're forced to turn to for a distraction.
http://socialitelife.com/
my friend bec said a week ago, that pregnant women turn her on cos she is a lesbian, and she loves woman, and women are never sexier or more woman than when they're pregnant.
im pregnant.
bec saying that caused me to start noticing women again, after 4 yrs w my sexuality in a box, seriously, 4 yrs of just not noticing how hot we are, how many different KINDS of hot. tall, thin, smiling, curved, dark, pale, broken, happy, cycling, walking, in their cars - t shirts, singlets, skirts, with babies, alone, with men, with each other and i am FILLED w gratitude to bec, who is 23 and in love, and queer.
queer like me.
how fucking hot is courtney love now??
A couple days ago in the Age, and on the radio, there was news about a fire on the foreshore in Brighton or somewhere like that, and then a bit later reports of a burned body found there. Yesterday I read the article, and a woman had been evidenced from the charred remains. She'd lost all her top teeth, like some years previously, and was wearing high heeled shoes, tight leggings and a crop top.
A group of 4 or 5 teenagers or young men were seen running from the scene shortly before the fire trucks arrived.
It made me think of the kind of life you'd have to lose all your top teeth, be doing sex work, clearly, from that combination of toothlessness and sex-worker clothes, and to end up being burned to death on a foreshore by 4 or 5 teenagers or young men. What hell is that. The poor, poor woman.
Me, I'm, still failing to quit smoking. Thats my big problem. I bet she wished she had a problem like that.
I've been trying to quit smoking, and pretty much failing, but today I'm not smoking again. I've not had one yet, and I am going to not have one again.
It's over.
Yesterday I was at the servo, getting fuel, and I went into pay and in my desperation, asked the guy behind the counter if he had a spare ciggie, if he smoked. He said he smoked, but he is Muslim, and today he is 'fastening', so no smoking, no food, 'no tasting'. He was a good looking guy, maybe a little too much in the way of a mono-brow, but handsome, and he just came right out and told me all about the fastening.
I said thanks for telling me, and he gave me a look of some surprise, but I meant it. All I know about Islam is the news and my objection to the hard-line of it AND on it, like PM John Winston's line on it, and the Taliban's line of it.
This was just a guy, with a handsome face and a monobrow, gagging for a ciggie. But doing the fucken RIGHT THING.
A Little Aussie Champion.
GO THE MIGHTY EAGLES!!!
it was about the tightest game I've seen - even tighter than last year, and a million times more exciting even, because they WON!! By ONE POINT!!!
oh the leaping and yelling and clapping and shrieking that occurred after that lovely siren!
we are overjoyed.
And cos Clairo got the sads cos she is the only person in the world who cares if there's ever anything new on here, and there never is, I'm gunna pick up my attitude and shake it down and get regular with the posting.
I PROMISE!!
Leave a msg after the beep, girl.
I was on MSN Msngr w my daddio this afternoon, trying to persuade him to come visit, and I wrote:
we can bbq on the balcony,
and walk on the maribyrnong river at sunset,
with the palmtrees
and the ethiopian families
so creative, such a general genius me, that i rhyme and imag-ise without even trying.
fckn tiger woods of words, me.
I live in Footscray now. It is not Fitzroy. It is quiet in the evenings, except for out the front of Paul's house, 2 blocks up from mine, which is angled towards the bay, so you can here the low roar of the docks 24/7. Anytime Geelong Road is quiet enough you can hear the docks. I like that. Docks are fun. They remind me of Richard Scarry books, and humbugs, and Lego. I digsit.
My flat is cool, it has a great vibe. I'm getting more tomoto boxes for my books, and waiting for Spring til I plant more on the balcony. There is one mouse. I found where it gets thro tho, and this weekend, I'm going to fuck that mouse up.
I think I'll change how I feel 500 times about living in the west, and alone.
Mainly everything is different now.
This is from the Age today, and made me shriek w laffing - Some poor Burmese refugee just had her status reviewed after the word 'oogabooga' was found in the report which would have sent her back to Burma. (Bitches!!) The prosecutor said oogabooga wasn't racist or discriminatory, because a clothing company was using the name for its range.....
But Magistrate Grant Riethmuller rejected this argument, suggesting clothing names were "not altogether helpful given other recent names such as FCUK and CNUT appear in the marketplace".Ha hah!! Hah hah haaaaaaaah!
The flat has fallen thro. The balcony doesn't have a building permit, or any warranty insurance, and the conveyancer says it will be a bitch to re-sell. So. Its over. Before it began.
I cannot even belive this has happened again, and in the same week that K's car burnt to the wheels in Toorak. What an absence of luck surrounds me. It is unfuckingcanny, is what it is.
I had just, just, just started loving the idea of moving - I've been looking at the dustiness, and darkness, and the backyard full of leaves, and thinking, its OK. I'm moving. Thats the stuff that I put up with, because of the location of my place. Smackbang in the middle of Fitzroy. Bit of muck and dust and leaves and gloom is a small price to pay. The new place had a huge balcony, and was full of light. I was looking forward to that.
I hate that I have to rewind and pause and re-set the clock on my brain. I feel CHEATED. Fucking bastard fucker Andy Tang, Sweeneys Real Estate, Footscray, is a fucker and should be sacked or tarred and feathered, better. The lying bitch.
I maybe own a flat. My dad is here, from Perth, with 70K in his back pocket, and yesterday our offer on a flat in Commercial Road, was accepted. It is just near the bestboys, and up the road from Beck, the markets, and all the pho in the world, and across the road from a heritage-listed Primary School, with a great big oval for the Captain to run across, and even better - with a great big balcony of its own. I am pretty much pleased, but there are some issues yet to overcome - i.e. finance, and confirmation of the balcony permit. The agent is Mr. and Mrs. Dodgy. Shiny little bloke who my dad is convinced scammed us up to 186 when we should've paid 180.
I don't even care about that! 6K. Phht. whatEVER.
My repayments will be about 600, less than rent. I am happy with that, but ohmigod the next 2 months! I haven't even told my flatmate I MIGHT be noving out, never mind 2 months and I'm gone, see ya later. She won't be happy. No, no, no. Neither will the landlord. especially as I'm A MONTH BEHIND IN THE RENT.
So. Chillax, me. And aim for steady payments from now until eternity.
Party on Saturday. My house.
We've started up another blog :
www.tastywanker.blogspot.comMe, Stu, Paul, K, Beck and floaters'll eat at fancy restaurants every month or so and report back.
Go there! Check it! Its early days but sure to amuse and j'accuse.
It is winter all of a sudden. Not fair. Summer in Melbourne is so beautiful, and this last one started in October and stretched all the way to the closing ceremony of the Commonwealth Games. Next day, this. Cool, grey, today rain and fierce wind.
I just don't like it.
Summer makes me happy, really happy.
Winter makes me sad.
Imagine the poor fools in the far north of the world. Imagine putting up with that.
I've got an iPod on the way, from the saintly father, and here's me promising to get me a gym membership and spend winter being warm inside from a worked-out internal combuster.
HAGEN ENGLER
Interviewed by Michelle McGrane
The brief biography at the beginning of Hagen Engler’s novel, ‘Buttons for Gaia’, reports that he “has worked as a journalist, travelled as a surfer, and posed as a rock star.” He describes himself as “a word mechanic. A grease monkey in the workshop of verbal wizardry. A mechanic with a flair for occasional artistry, just like his dad.”
What's the biggest misconception about you, Hagen?
I don’t mind. If people care enough to actually hold any opinion about me, then I’m thrilled. However, there’s a lady in Australia who remains convinced that I slept with her blue-haired, 19-year-old younger sister in 1995. If I could take a polygraph on that one I would. But for the record, I did not. She left us in a room together for a few minutes and all we did was chat. Honest. I think the sister might have misinformed her.
............................................................................................................................................................
That's ME he's talking about!! This guy is the older brother of a S. African high school friend of mine, Brigitte, and I had the most overcoming crush on him for ever. When the family went back to visit in '97 we had a 'moment', a set-up-by-the gods kinda 'moment', and a coupla days later he came up to see us in Knysna, with Brigitte and her boyfriend. We were awkward as hell with each other, and he turned his golden attention to Jess, which KILLED me.
It took a year or more for me to tell him on email how upset it'd made me, and he's obviously STILL thinking about it! I haven't for years!
It is a very cool and exciting thing to read that sort of 'apology' in a magazine, in an interview with a semi-famous guy, who still cares, after all these years, that I not think wrong of him.
I may be reforming my crush. He is really the only man I'd flip for.
And I'd flip in a moment.
A tenth part of a moment.
You hear me, boy?
I could service my car, get out of my lease and drive up the coast with Pig.
I could get out of my lease, do a TESOL course, leave Pig with Rach and go to China.
I could quit my job and go on the dole and move to Eltham and give up.
I could get out of my lease, move to Eltham, save, pay my debts, buy a backpack, leave Pig with Rach and go to Cuba.
I could take another tilt at finding a good job.
I could get out of the city every weekend.
I could shake off the 90's and fucking move on.
But I won't.
I saw Brokeback Mountain on Australia Day, the release day. Got lucky and K rode past Hao, who'd bought a ten-pack and needed to offload 2. Major benefit of knowing a young go-getter.
It is so great, Brokeback Mountain. I read the book/short story a little while after I read it was going to be made into a movie, and it is the only ever film version that is better than the book. Its like the book on film, the book spooling through Annie Proulx's excellent head. And this scene, with Heath holding Jake's shirt, is about the saddest I've seen. I wept freely for the last twenty minutes. The thing I thought straight after is how Heath's character, Ennis, was all about restraint and a kind of bolted-in masculinity, and that informed the width and depth of the film. Wide open spaces, tenderness, restraint and that kind of masculinity. It is just extraordinary that a chinese straight guy could make that so perfectly. I do think Ang Lee is a kind of genius.
There are plenty of nice warm fires burning in Victoria right now, and I've been listening to ABC 774 - like we do at work - and they keep talking about a fire threatening 'Anarchy'. I've been thinking of funny jokes and so on, puns etc, Sex Pistols references, as we do at work, and just then I had a slightly crushing moment on The Age website - the town in question is spelled 'Anakie.'
That's just not funny at all.
And further - I would love it if the one or three people who apparently read this blog would leave a comment some of the time? Feedback. It warms a girls heart.
A month is too long for a holiday, it ruins the equilibrium required to work - the idea of spending the best part of summer in a room doing boring work for a set rate of pay is appalling me.
I spent yesterday applying for other jobs, but today I'm realising I don't want a job. I want to be on holiday for the rest of my life, always having just finished a long year, with holiday pay, and with a month or two of summer and fun ahead.
Is that so much to ask.
Back in Perth. Fuck. I feel surveilled, in the manner of a paranoid schizophrenic. There are police like fucking lice just everywhere.
Walpole was empty, all about trees and laying on the couch, watching the trees whip each other in the wind. I discovered that my dog sings. She stared out the bay windows at the view while I did some yoga most mornings, and one of them, maybe four days into the visit, we were listening to Coldplay, and she started a low, gentle growling sound, and after just a minute I realised she was growling like a hum, in time with the music, a four-four beat, almost perfectly in tune. If I had hairs on my neck they would've been standing. She kept at it. The vibe was so calm and quiet and lovely. After, I was doing some ohms ( I been so fckn spiritual man) and at the end of each ...mm, she did an upward lilting growl. Every one of them. Grow-oaar. Gently.
I think she is just about the best creature anywhere and should live a thousand years.
Further, these cliches about xmas and families and stress and so on is absolutely the description. It has made me even more stoked about my friends. I counted them off a few times, and thought about what things I do with each. I am so damn STOKED to have Clairo, Sal, Rob, Paulie, Bettina, Stu, Beck, Rach, Niko, Tom and (brain-freeze don't hate me I'm pissy) in my everyday happiness of Melbourne. It is a fucking awesome treat to have people who like me and who I love and who make me laugh and don't fuck with my head, and to live 3500 kilometers from my fucked up complicated subterranean family.
I am so excited to have a great house, and a job I don't hate and people I love in Melbourne, and that I get to escape from here, refreshed, tanned, recaughtup with the crew in Perth, and ready for a better even year.
Youse fuckin rock.
First thing I noticed is how flat, and how brown the land is, and how far from me the horizon is. Agoraphobics go home, man. That, and the amount of information the police sponsor, to let you know if you fuck up even one inch, or five years ago, they will nail you.
Every bus stop says : Alcohol Kills/Driving Skills. Every single fucking bus stop. On SBS in Melb I haven't seen a booze bus ad. Ten, Seven blah blah - yes. SBS. Nup. Here its on medium rotation.
I dunno. Fear? Surveillance?
Its horrible. I drive under the speed limit, I'm not calling people in the car, and yesterday I stopped at four beers.
I'm a rabbit. In that freak's office. Waiting to be shafted and cast aside, onto the pile of other bloody, shafted rabbits.
But! I didn't work yesterday, I'm not working tomorrow, and I'm not working any other tomorrows for 27 days. Rabbit with rabbit happy brain.
"Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I'd love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff." --Mariah Carey
Old, and priceless.
There's more like that on
http://www.ladybunny.net/blog/And so much for Jennifer Aniston threatening publishers w death if they publish her boobie shots - they're on literally all of the celebublogs. Nice too. Perky.
Perth next Friday. This year we're doing a fucking kris kringle for presents, which is lame as hell. In the office its fine, amongst aquaintances, yes, no problem. But family! Fuck!
I have registered a protest, but been outvoted by lazy slack biatches. The idea is to focus on birthdays, which is all well and good, except I'm in Melb and they're in Perth, and I can whistle for a birthday present off them lazy slack biatch siblings. Xmas is the only time we're all together goddamn it. And frankly, its not about the presents, its about the effort, and the pleasure of getting someone something they really like, and the ritual of sitting around in the ayem with a tree and champagne, and piles of crumpled up wrapping paper. I love that.
Lazy slack biatches. I'll get them all a present. That'll show em.
Oh, and that boy was hanged today. Nguyen Van Tong. Hanged by the neck until dead. Because Singapore wishes to protect its own citizens from the drugs it sells to the world with Burma. Singapore is evil and evil and evil, and should be invaded and bombed to the stone age, in the manner of Afghanistan. Optus, Singapore Airlines - one less customer. That'll make them cry.
Description : Luxury, 1.5 b/room apt, renovated and detonated, run the risk enjoy the rewards.
Recently renovated, then remodeled again by specialist tunnel engineers, Views to China and back, Easy access to the tunnel and freeway, Icon of the northern beaches, Free flowing air ducts, Building manager (several) on site, High fences for extra security, Floating floorboards (inc floating bedroom), Entertainment room flowing onto 10 metre concrete balcony, 360 degree views (down), 1000 cubic metres of high grade quick drying concrete (ideal for a future pool or decking) and huge underground storage room.The current owner has been relocated for business and as a result they are highly motivated to sell.The builders who have recently remodeled the apartment are very keen make the new owner a wonderful offer to buy the property. How much or how low…. we do not know. So if you are a betting man (or women) put on your stack hat and make an offer. The tender does close at the end of the month and you can bid as many times as you like.Live life to the edge and best of luck with the bidding.
The Age has come good for the second time in a week. The Domain section (house sales, for you non-Melbers) had this as its property of the week. Ha ha ha.
http://www.domain.com.au/Public/PropertyDetails.aspx?adid=2005270833# - Check It!
This is from The Age this morning, (
http://www.theage.com.au/news/world/student-guilty-of-plotting-to-kill-bush/2005/11/23/1132703249940.html) about an American student convicted of some terrorism charges:
"Abu Ali was charged on terrorism counts when flown back to the US in February. Prosecutors said he had confessed to his Saudi jailers that he joined an al-Qaeda cell there and was determined to kill Mr Bush by shooting him or blowing him. "
BLOWING HIM!!
Hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!
About a week ago I had this dream. Go ahead and freud me, mofo's.
I was in the backyard at Greeves St, late at night or very early in the morning, and a noise filled up the sky, til hundreds and hundreds of Qantas helicopters appeared, all in a line, and banked down low over our backyard and off up towards the city. I tried to be unobtrusive, but I was worried as I was wearing orange pants.
In the next few days we realised we had been invaded by a kind of humanoid, good looking alien species, who were moving through the suburbs taking over the better, bigger, richer houses for themselves. We waited, not very worried, as our house is not flash, but one day a car stopped outside and two alien men came to the door and came inside. There were lots of us there, hiding out, and the aliens showed us a site or a house location or something in Brunswick and were being friendly but menacing about us moving there so they could have this house, and I missed the menace and was saying to K, no, We wouldn’t want to go that far out would we K? No? and one of the alien men, German looking, got angrier and angrier, (with me oblivious til the last second) and grabbed me and lifted me above his head and began to swing me around his head, ready to throw me into a wall or onto my head, and the room was hushed because he was strong and very dangerous. I didn’t know how to protect myself so I wrapped my arms around my head and waited. Then I woke up.
The end. C'mon. What the fuck?
All my friends are getting pregnant. It is massively unfair. The latest one, a film school friend, wasn't even trying. The idea was a twinkle in her eye. Barely. And tah-DAH!!el pregnante! At work Roch is swelling like a balloon, and all about stories of her 40+ y.o. friends getting up the duff left and right. And with us, Rob has been manfully donating on demand for 5 months now, lovely me - the receptacle - womanfully receiving - and nada. Perhaps all these years of respectful distance from penis's has turned whoever the fertility goddess is against me. Maybe the thermometer is lying to me. Rob is sound, we checked that out pretty quick - its easy - squirt and test. I would have to lay back and take all manner of invasive medical technology to check it. Plus there's a rule that it takes a year, and it's two years before they treat infertility.
Imagine two more years of stinky, STINKY spoof donations, w me laying on my back w my legs around my ears, and then it turns out to have been pointless. That would flat out suck.
On a lighter note, this picture was in the finalists for some Photo of the Year award, but the general consensus is it's photoshopped. Apparently the chances of such an event occurring as is purportedly recorded, are minimal in the extreme, and involve zero body fat and the absence of any amount of skin, muscle and uterus. Or something.
Whatever. I want it on MY babyshower invite. Dammit.
It has been a while. I lost my youthful enthusiasm. It is always the way at this time of year. Last year in August we took a ten day JetStar $50 return trip to Brisbane and drove up and down the coast in singlets. Came back refreshed like a mintie.
Not so lucky this time. K said she'd had quite enough of Qld, and why not Darwin. Well, 800 bucks is why not thanks you break-denying biatch.
So. I have to wait til December 9. Then Perth. Singlets, sunshine, Little Creatures beers, the beautiful sweep of Leighton Beach, and a new base, in Freo. Bring it on.
Some bits from the new terror legislation:
3) In this section: seditious intention means an intent to effect any of the following purposes:
a) to bring the Sovereign into hatred or contempt;
b) to urge disaffection against the following:
i) the Constitution;
(ii) the Government of the Commonwealth;
(iii) either House of the Parliament;
c) to urge another person to attempt, otherwise than by lawful means, to procure a change to any matter established by law in the Commonwealth;
d) to promote feelings of ill-will or hositility between different groups so as to threaten the peace, order and good government of the Commonwealth.
A reichstag fulla naziness will soon rain down upon us. Flat out. The Liberals tried to keep this a SECRET and nailed that guy Stanhope or Stainthorpe or whatever, for blogging it, and the Parliament has what, a week? a day? to discuss this. Like THAT matters - it will be rammed home in the manner of a rape - and afterwards yr run-of-the-mill activist is fucked, yr pie-throwing activist is fucked, yr ranting correspondent, should this be applied, can be caused to become fucked as a result of saying :They're nazis, we have to DO SOMETHING to get rid of them, or have our kids and our grandkids asking "Where were you in 1935?"
Fuck. As if we're gunna do anything. Slack is the only lawful response.
Thought for the Day"Fascism can only survive by the dynamic of constant expansion." (Ian Friend, on Paul Virilio's 'Bunker Archeology'
OK so, its been a while. I been blue. Ryan won. He sacked me because of the release of the first 8 minutes. I wouldn't apologise, and stood by my right to accessing it. He says the written contract we have lets him sack me if he wants, and denies the verbal one even exists. I'm a fool to have trusted him, and if I can't sue him, I deserve it for being a fucking sucker.
So.
Not so chatty lately.
All this IR shit is making it worse. If Howard gets it through, then everyone even in proper jobs, not contract, will be treated like this. I got fucked over and sacked by 'friend' AND I'm supposed to be smart. Imagine what its going to be like for thick people, or scared people, or kids. Its fucked. I'm so depressed about it. Weeping over the business pages, me.
What has it come to.
And I saw Code 46 last week and I realIsed it used to be we imagined the future as shiny machines and comfort and food in pills- a land of plenty- and now the future is pretty much always a barren fucking wasteland with a HUGE income gap and tight, almost military controls on movement and freedom.
I think this is what is coming.
Its all fucked.com.
The Hornblower series
Patrick O'Brian's Jack Aubrey Series
Horse Heaven by Jane Smiley
Gap Creek
Dry
The Troublesome Offsrping of Cardinal Guzman
Rope Burns
A Home at the End of the World
Wyoming Stories
Recently inhaled, and worth it, one and all. Especially Hornblower.
I fckn LOVE Hornblower.
ARSE OF THE WEEK
Keith Windschuttle
I don't know a huge amount about this guy, only that he's an apologist for the White Australia policy, author of a book that 'disproved' genocide against Aboriginal people, and a kind of roll-out anti-left intellectual in thrall to Howard.
But yesterday I whiled away an hour or two with Auntie Google, and fascism+Australia, interested as I am in the 1933-ness of now, and Keith's blog came up, The Sydney Line, with a line about Pilger and American fascism, and I went ahead and read this article:
http://www.sydneyline.com/Vilifying%20Australia.htmHe's a fucking idiot.
Flat out. You'd think if your job was being an intellectual, reading and critiquing and so on, you could come up with a better argument against Australia in the 50's being an intensely chauvinist country than that we introduced the vote for woman pretty early?
Its ridiculous.
That whole article is full of nonsense like that.
I'm not all the way left, me, I can see the sense in some conservative views, and I like the idea of having thought my thing through a little, so Keith had a window, a teeny tiny window, seeing as his oeuvre pretty much pissed me off already - quibbling about numbers and definitions for genocide, the arse - only he blew it. This poo-loo article is so chockers with lame arguments, and exaggerations and the woolly-pulling of nonsense into proof that his point-of-view becomes not just foolish, but irrelevant. I think its best for Keith that I rebuild his head in the manner of a cult leader, before we let him out again.
Arse of the week .
Whats better than meeting a deadline? Meeting it, and then having it extended! Oh what bliss.
I've been cutting the Aus Badminton Championships (I know, I know, the Oscar goes to....)- and today is the day I'm supposed to hand it over, so I was going to squeeze one more evening out of the saintly, saintly Phil, and hand it over tmro ayem, but he's in Sydney! And Badminton Aus hasn't gotten back to him about sponsors logos, and credits! So, as he so aptly put it, 'the ball is in their court.'
Oh the wit and gentle kindness of this saintly man!
So I get two more evenings, and the whole day Thursday to whack it altogether, and trim and tweak and add the music and the score and intro slates. Rather than finish it all in 5 hours this evening.
Which, frankly, due to being the child of a journalist, and being a lifetime practitioner of the art of achieving the impossible at the absolutely last second, I could do. Allah Akbar!
And, further, given the events of the last few, with singleness imminent, it is a fckn WELL DESERVED piece of inshallahity.
This goddamn blog isn't even on the blogger.com search engine. I started off hiding my light under a bushel, and now youse crew know about it - and now I want the WORLD to find it if they want to find it. This must be the same feeling boy ballerinas have.
Tom, gone. He sent some more pictures, of blurry buildings in EveryTown, Asia, but this one is more interesting I think. I spent 3 months in HK in 2002, and spent pretty much all my time off the DODGY job I was kinda doing, on the net. This picture reminds me of that, and also I guess when the excitement of it all has waned a little, Tom'll be sending digital tendrils out a little more - just like I did. It can get fucking desperate when you don't know a solitary soul, and don't earn quite enough to so much leave the flat. Not that he'll have that problem so much, he's teaching, so there's lots of interaction, and parties, apparently, and he's the foodie freak boy, so he'll love the shopping and eating. Dog, even, he claimed. Which gave me and Pig a moment's pause.
I have fought the man and won. I am as a result COMPLETELY stoked. This is the man who I took the 70K contract to, and who I went to all the meetings with til they all said YES and the contract was signed, the guy who I've done maybe 15 crap paid jobs for, thinking when the ship comes in etc. he'll take care of me, I can rely on him to do me a good reference if I need one etc, the guy who at the end of the first stage of the edit decided to hold out on me using it for promo til the ENTIRE job is done, mid next year.
Like I ranted a month ago, he didn't have to do that. He could've done the right thing straight away.
No courtesy, no honour, just flat out South African-male uber-controlling bastardry.
So I went into battle. I was calm and collected and careful to talk to the right people in the right, calm, controlled way, and apart from the first 3 days of it, I never again fell in a heap of weeping and rage, and I kept drilling quietly away, emailing him as required calmly reiterating the client's permission for release, carefully avoiding telling him what a MOTHERFUCKER he is, and yesterday, BingoMcBango, the DVD arrives in the mail. Not actually in a cover at all, or a label, or with a note at all, just folded into a piece of scrap paper and wedged into an A4 envelope.
Oh what a spoilt child he is.
And I am the CHAMPION of battles.
They've went. Both of em. I dropped Rach at the airport and off she went, with 43 bags and her hair sticking up. Huh.
Lucky for us it's finals time and we are too excitement to mourn. The Eagles are in with a chance - just as long as they can quickly recruit someone to kick some goals - and even better, a Saints/Eagles final isn't out of the question. We'd have the best afternoon with that one and a barbecue and 3 or 4 eskies fulla draught. And then once thats done, its a hop skip til summer.
So everything's fine. Never mind the abscondments.
This is my dog. I love her about more than any one I know. K has about come to terms with it. Maybe she secretly doesn't believe it, is why she can joke about it with her mum and so on. Its not a joke though. She is perfect. She stares at me sometimes like she feels the same way.
I met her in a park, and the absolute first second I saw her skinny self, and her little beard and the effortless ease of her greyhound-speed racing, I fell for her. Except for 3 months when I was in HK we have been bonded like Clag ever since. People worry about what will happen to me when she dies, inshallah she is the exception to that life/death requirement. If not, I plan to take care of the massiveness of the grieving by having a baby. No dog will be able to take her place, and I am going to have to have a kind of sickly or brilliant child so I can be distracted by it.
People love her same as I do. At the shops and so on,. they come out from behind the counters and say things like: This is my favourite dog in Fitzroy. Often. And usually the conversations I have with people go like this: Oh he's got a beard! How SWEET! Whats his name? Then I tell them and they say: Thats not very nice!
Fools. Pig is exactly perfect.
This is the best friend who is leaving Melbourne. This picture was taken about 5 years ago in Flip's pool, in Summer, Summer of course being the only thing I can think of that makes Perth worth going back to. Look at the blue water! Look at the tan! Look at the jaunty hat and cocktail!
But hell. The weather isn't enough, and the geriatric isn't enough, surely, to outweigh lovely us, lovely Melbourne, and the lovely access to the east coast. Don't go! Stay here, with yr pallour, and yr heavy coats and yr celibacy! Don't go!
Ok, so its old now and so on, but I LOVED it when Tom Cruise went nuts on telly. This is a link to a site where they edited some clips from an interview he did with Access Hollywood, and I am trying to remember where I saw the Oprah clip online. I know its there somewhere.
http://www.tvgasm.com/archives/miscellaneous_tv/000829.php
Reason is, the second funnest thing to celebrities become disengaged from the party line is conspiracies, and this link I found on cultnews, after a link from perezhilton.com http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,160192,00.html
deliciously combined the two.
It could be that Scientolgy is nassssty like The Family, and the 16 disappeared days of Katie Holmes, from when she met Tom to when next her family and friends saw her, was spent w her being nutsified and brainfried by them in a bunker under LA.
Oh the excitement!
I have always secretly longed to be taken into a cult, much as I longed at high school for there really to be drug pushers hanging round the fences pushing drugs. Imagine getting them free and not having to spend the whole day Saturday trying to get some leafy pale green poo weed to smoke under the playground at the Shenton Park lake.
It would've saved a lot of time and trouble, frankly, if the tabloid media had been right about that shit.
He's pretty much flawless. Small, pink, 3.6 k's, tufty hair, wriggly toes, fingers, little rectangular butt, and he makes clucking noises like a sleepy chicken.
I was napping under the coffee table in the tv lounge, waiting for 24 and so on, just before ten, and K belted in saying'Come and look at Sebbie', so I did. She'd been in there with Jesse and Nin all through it, and had seen its litle head and shoulders come wriggling through. She was bright eyed like a convert, kept saying how she'd never seen anything so amazing.
He
is pretty much perfect.
I'm going to have one like that, only better. Soon.
The evil twin is spawning. Yesterday the saintly mother re-arranged her ticket from Perth because the spawn didn't have its head engaged, but, typically, evil one has inconvenienced everyone and gone ahead and gone into labour. Six thirty this am all 3 of our phones rang at once and five minutes later a squeaking-with-excitement K leapt out of the house with her jammies still sticking out of her frock and belted off down Greeves Street to collect the spawners.
In the interest of being some use at a more civilised hour, I went back to sleep.
I know, always thinking of others.
Apparently it'll be around 10 hours before Sebastian arrives. Sebastian. Poency name, but I am secretly quite excited. I'm going in at lunchtime. It is a bit like going to the airport, I think: waiting around, food out of machines, and then a most interesting person comes through the gates and you get to go home. Not so much to look at holiday snaps but.
Who ARE you people? Three weeks ago there was 1 person on my site meter, and it was ME! Now I come back and there's 42. I am unsettled. Plus the other goddamn meter said just then there were 3 PEOPLE ONLINE. This can't be right. Who exactly is reading my rants at 11PM on a Saturday when all the 3 people I told are home tucked up and frankly not that interested anyway?
I've got to say, in addition to unsettled I'm also put out.
Start your own, especially the several of you that aren't living in Fitzroy, or are but shortly won't be. C'mon now! And show yr traces.
Further, I'd like to welcome my favourite sibling (yes I'll stand by that, she's a clear winner) the flawless, chicken-raising cake queen, Jess. Thanks for popping by, lovely to see you. Do come back soon. Most welcome.
The rest of youse, go ahead and leave a comment. You SEEM nice, but how can I know for sure?
So I called the client, the woman I met initally, who I liked and who liked me, and who I sold the idea of me and this PRICK doing the doco to, and I told her he was going to be using the first 8 minutes to show clients, but was preventing me using it, and she said she'd think about that. I called her colleague and pitched my case too, and today I called back to see what their decision was - I've been steeling myself for a week - and she said yes. She said it wasn't fair that he could show it, and he could and would, so she mailed him while I was on the phone and asked him to release it to me after the launch on the 31st.
Which is just ace.
But now I'm fretting because he can put a foot high time code or his company's logo on it, or release some terrible low quality version. I guess if he does that he's declaring war. I dunno if he will. But I've been so wrong about the bitch that who knows.
We'll see. At least K is coming to the launch with me and I won't have to sit next to him and play nice.
Its been a shit week all round. I'm having a terrible fight with my best friend. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'd be a rotten parent. Imagine caring about that 5 years ago. - now it seems like the most important thing in the world. My 2 favourites are leaving at the end of the month. We can't seem to find a house to buy. And the flatmate refuses to clean anything except her own mess in the kitchen. She acts like we're some kinda clean freaks.
And Phil hasn't called me about cutting the Badminton Championships. I sent him a thankyou mail for taking me out to lunch last week, and I've heard nothing back.
Piggy is sweet though. K bought a new car, a bottle green VW series 3 with an excellent bassy rumbling engine and leather seats. It nearly snowed here on Wednesday. I got to spend yesterday on InDesign instead of typing specs and photocopying. My boss is away. We're going to the pub for lunch. It's Friday.
Me, always looking on the bright side.
I've been working with this guy intermittently for about 18 months now, and always putting up with being paid shit money and him requiring 8 hour days, with timed breaks and no mobile calls and so on, thinking when he got a good contract or whatever, he'd fix it up, and at least I was working, and he's on my side if I need a reference or whatever....
He's so not on my side. Seems like he's trying to fuck me up.
I don't know why he would be threatened by me. I am at point 1a of my fucking 'career' and I had to bring him in to the last big contract because I couldn't possibly do it on my own, and he still persuaded the clients not to let me use the first part of this project as promo, 'in case someone got the idea and scooped them'.
But of course he'll keep showing new clients. Its just me who can't.
The FUCKER.
In my contract with him it says I can use it for promotional purposes, but no dates. He has made it so I can't use it til mid year next year. He didn't have to. He went out of his way.
People BLOW.
Links. People with blogs have links. I've given mine a fair amount of thought and I chose those three (the Edit-me doesn't count) because between them, they seem fairly representative of the internet. There's 20 gajillion ironic sites mocking celebrities and celebrity-worship, and so on, and thus conversationsaboutfamouspeople, (tho I had to toss up hard (?!) between that one and gofugyourself.com, which made me SHRIEK when i first saw it), and then there's porn ( did you know that? porn on the internet?) - thus notthatboy which links to some frightening largeness if yr interested in that sort of thing, me I read it for the lifestyle, and then there's yettabettaboo, the lubavitcher, to round off. A nice mix, I think. Plus I check them out most days.
I don't care if that makes me a freak. I DON'T CARE.
Two of my favourite people are leaving Melbourne, one forever and one for a year.
It is a goddamn national tragedy.
I am trying valiantly to remember that its not all about me, and I feel as tho I'm getting somewhere, sometimes, until I realise the following (and this here is a loop of thought I've been indulging in for some time now) :
My little dog spends the occassional weekend with our very best friend Rachael, who has fallen in love with a very old man and is moving back to his retirement village in Western Australia to take care of him in his declining years. Rach loves Pig as a sister, and while me and K bicker in a new venue, say Canberra or the Grampians, they gambol together in the fields, sleep companiably top to tail, scratch each others hairy bellies etc, and Pig comes home with a wag in her tail and just a hint of restedness/refreshedness, causing us to look forward with no worries at all to the next time we have to abandon her for jaunts, but NOW WHERE WILL SHE STAY? With the evil twin and its new spawn? And its allergic boyfriend? With the flatmate, who is well meaning certainly, but NEW and UNTESTED? With Paul, who amused himself at Ross Street with chasing the cat and terrifying it? With Tom, who loves Pig as a brother? NO! For he is leaving also!
Tom, the newly promoted best-boy (see photos previously posted) , the handsome and the funny, the current owner of K's soon-to-be car (a very sexy VW 3 Series in bottle green, with an air-cooled engine and a throaty roar) the owner of Lucy, the dog with lucky lumps, the regular feature attendee at Aerobi sessions in Edinburgh Gardens, is going to Shanghai to eat dog and monkey and teach the little capitalists how to talk the international language of profit and loss. He'll be back, inshallah, but Rach is gone for good, and we three, Pig, KK and me are sorely depressed.
Sorely fucking depressed.
This one in the middle is my girl K. She's the good one. The guy on the left is the best man, her sister on the far left is the evil one, her brother on the right is the doctor one and her brother on the far right is the married well one. This is a picture of them all at the married well one's wedding. He married a girl who took some of us out once, to Ezard at the Adelphi. We ate food that sometimes I still dream about, and when I talk about it, I can't explain myself. It was so far better than any food I ever ate before or since that sometimes I think I have already peaked in that department. There were 6 of us eating that food, and drinking and so on, and it cost $1200. Twelve. Hundred. Dollars.
Hugh married that girl. Thus, he is the well married one.
But K, she's the good one. Can't you tell? By looking at her pretty face?
So, 2 years of bleating to myself and now at last, I'm out. The blog has gone to sms and spread to already 3 friends. 3!!
There's an element of journal, which no-one ever sees, and an element of monologue, which K and Rach and family hears, and an element of short story, which several dozen of youse have read, and an element of photo album, which even Fitzroy public have seen, so all in all I shouldn't be/refuse to be terrified of youse staring at my brain tissue.
I'm fascinating! Scintillating! Ready to be ranting!
Let's go.
We're trying to buy a house. Its been 7 months, looking most weekends, and 2 weeks ago, we found one we wanted. We put in an offer, conditional on a satisfactory building report, and waited 2 days. The inspector called Friday lunchtime (contract stipulated gotta have a decision by COP Friday) and said its a good one, go ahead. So I called JAS. H. STEPHENS and said yes please, we'll have it.
At 5.45, i.e. 45 minutes after the contract had become unconditional, he called back apologising because he'd given us a report on the WRONG HOUSE. Our house, he went on to say, was pretty much fucked.
So we called JAS.H. back and said cancel cancel cancel, and they said ok.
But an hour later, they called and said actually no. You're contractually obliged to buy the house. We spent the weekend on the phone to lawyers, and by Monday we'd had advice from 2 private practise lawyers, a lawyer in the federal attourney-general's office, and the WA ombudsman, that we weren't in fact obliged to do JACK.
That was 2 weeks ago, and we're still waiting for the deposit back so K can buy a goddamn car.
And now the vendor's lawyer has written us a letter tieing the return of the deposit to our fucking SILENCE about the lemon of a house we were thinking of buying.
They want to make sure we don't tell people at the auction that they're bidding for a disaster zone.
We are not happy.
We are feeling provoked. It may well be that we hand out copies of the report at the auction just to fuck with them now.
I may attach it here even, for the zero people who ever look at this lame blog.
Max Airborne
My friend Nick died on Tuesday. He hadn't been using, and used alone, and his mum found him late that afternoon. He was her only child. I've been close to him two times in my life, in 1991, in Nedlands, and in 2000 in Shenton Park. We took drugs together, first smoking dope, then moving up the ladder in parallel like we all did in Perth. The hell that Perth is. He was a big boy, smart as a whip, and funny in a gruff way. He was in my brother's year and their crew was tight as tight can be. Max had 4 groomsmen to make sure no-one would feel left out, and 2 best men. That was the last time I saw Nick, at Max's wedding last year. He had a beard, and was big, and working in the Art Department on films, or a series, I can't remember. Making props and finding them in op-shops and so on. I think. He was happy. He told a funny story about being pulled over and the cop being too busy or bored to take his details, so being asked to go to the police station later to follow up his own conviction. Nick did try, he really did!
I remember him sitting on the verandah at the block in Walpole, with the long grass hill rolling down towards the river, with a science fiction or fantasy book propped on the dirty broad arm of the busted-ass armchair with the built-in ashtray, and telling that story.
I think maybe when we first met he was a little bit in love with me. Later, when we used gear together I think he stopped. I think we got untrusting of each other and probably we ripped each other off. It didnt matter. Last time I saw him we were friends, I was almost envious of his easing into films when I'm still trying.
His funeral is on Tuesday and I can't afford to go, I haven't really even considered it. It'd be $500, at the least, and time off work would double that. I think I'll have a wake for him here.
It feels so stupid and so sad that there is no Nick in Perth now.
I don't have his number in my phone.
He won't be there when I go home. I'll miss him. He was a lovely man.
Ok, new game: Google Proof.
You've been wondering if (insert celebrity name here) is queer. Well, this fun new game makes it Super! Easy! to find out, (well, so long as you believe in the following key media principle: Where there's smoke, there's fire.)
Question One: Is Vin Diesel Queer?
Results 1-100 of about 500,000 for vin diesel + gay. (0.19 seconds)
d'ya see that? 500 000?? Thankyou Auntie Google. I thought as much.
I just read Forrest Gump, the book, and like I was told years ago, it is NOTHING like Forrest Gump, the movie. The movie, I gotta say, caused me to become nauseous and filled with hate.
All it is, is a right-wing revisionist take on the politics and events of the 60's.
And well may them fascists say the left has controlled Vietnam-the-Concept since the 60's, we have and rightfully so. It was a fucking disaster. Even Robert whatsisname said so, that feller, the foreign policy maestro, y'know, The Fog Of War. Pointless war, brutal outcomes, suffering millions etc - but Gump-the-Movie went ahead and rewrote that, damning the protestors - thro Jenny-as-Symbol - as sexually loose (therefore AIDS-punished) and lauding the military, thro Forrest-as-Symbol.
In the book Forrest goes into a kind of super hero frenzy of rage at a protest and semi-kills an official by flinging his Congressional Medal of Honour at the Clerk of the Senate.
Also, he tells whoever wants to know that the war is a "bunch of shit".
The fucking awful Gump-the-Movie kinda forgot that whole perspective.
There should be a law about adapting books for the screen, the opposite law for plays.
Be faithful to the book.
Walk away from the play.
I was watching
Hurly Burly last week, for the 5th time maybe, and I'm still awed by the genius screenplay. Is it David Rabe or David Mamet? I never can remember. The characters say nothing, or the most inane things, or purely insane things - "I have taken thought to the point where it is no more use to me than a head fulla car horns", for example, but this god-like David layers this so cleverly that their world makes sense, their crazy dialogue sounds swell, and you care, plenty. You even love Eddie - Eddie who fails to intervene when Phil head butts their care package, and later throws the excellent Meg Ryan out of the car; Eddie with a Cuban pimp's moustache, who excuses this and all other of Phil's horrible form, and blames the women. Genius.
It started as a play,
Hurly Burly.
I HATE plays. I've seen three, or five, at least, and hated them all. All I can think at plays is how embarrassing it is for the actors to be yelling and poncing around only feet from people who feel sorry for them. Theatre is a wretched experience, uniformly wretched.
I was thinking about that Sigourney Weaver/Ben Kingsley film, set on a cliff top, where the torturer appears out of the howling rain and rekindles Sigourney's traumatic memories. That's also a play adapted for the screen, and
most recently there was
Closer, which is claustrophobic, stagey as fuck, and borderline unwatchable.
It must be hard to make a play work on film, especially if you're terrified to fuck it up.
Hurly Burly is a stand-out. Its extraordinary. Never, not even for an instant was I mortified. That goddamn Sigourney one (WHAT is it called) caused me to cringe, frankly, and become flushed with that particular kind of embarrassment-by-proxy reserved for audiences at small and terrible plays acted by overly-confident amateurs.
So my ambition this weekend, with the forecast for 16 and sleeting chills, is to get a stack of films that started as plays, and pose myself and the Captain this question: Apart from
Hurly Burly, do plays always blow on screen?
How exciting! I worked out the Hello/Picasa thing! What kind of genius is this? Plus they're my photos. Aren't they just ace?
Yr correspondent, dear reader, is some kind of verbal/non-verbal, creative/scientific freak genius, and youse are blessed to be here, when all the trash in the world is a click away. Imagine the odds!
Fitzroy Verandah
Guitar Inside
Best Boy No. 2
Fitzroy House No. 1
Best Boy No. 1
So I'm getting the impression coherency is key to a good blog. You have to have a theme. I'm not convinced that ranting is a coherent enough theme.
I should be getting into celebrity gossip or bitching about my flatmate, but I get my goss third hand off Women's Day, and I quite like my flatmate.
Maybe I should be putting up pages and pages of terrible poetry and pictures of myself in black and white, with my big hair all medusa-like. Thats a popular theme.
Ok, or politics, that I can do.
Fuck it.
I'll just stick to the ranting.
So Mark Latham just quit. In the nick of time. In WA, less than one month out of a very loseable election, the ALP is crying still, but not as much. Its possible that Kim will be coming to the rescue. The ALP need a daddy now, they've had a tilt at eldest sons and its been a goddamn mess. Kim, although he's fat, crap and far too pragmatic conservative, is a leader. He's a Big Daddy Leader. Bring it on.
Right, time for a change of pace. Enough with the whingeing. I have just had the misfortune of seeing Fahrenheit 911 and reading Not Happy John in a 2 day period. Maybe if I'd done that BEFORE the goddamn election, I wouldn't be feeling so hopeless right now. There's three years of these bastards to deal with, and the things they are going to do to us do not bear thinking about.
Cross-media laws. Ohmigod. When Fairfax goes, so does the last bastion of 'independent' journalism in this whole country. That's it. We're fucked. If it doesn't actively support the bottom line of the Packer/Murdoch crew, its not news and we won't even know its happened. And Packer/Murdoch are as one these happy days.
Fear. There was never going to be a bomb in Bali this last Christmas, it was a FUCKING LIE. And the reason for the lie was to bully Indonesia into accepting the 'security zone' we just thought up, whereby our area of interest extends well onto Indonesian land. Bambang doesn't love that idea. But Howard and his attack dogs cunningly decided to try a tilt at ruining Indo's tourist industry in an effort to persuade them of the sense of accepting it.
Australians voted with their thong-shod feet and said "Uh, fuck you fear-mongers, I'm tanning this Christmas," and went anyway. Despite airlines having been shellacked into offering full refunds etc.
And of course, nothing happened. There was no bomb. THERE WAS NEVER GOING TO BE A GODDAMN BOMB.
We are lied to every day.
The tsunami happened, and maybe that's why no-one seems to care that the bomb evaporated. I care.
I'm sick about it.
My brother nearly cancelled his Ubud honeymoon. We spent 2 weeks mildly fretting, and we know how the fear campaign works.
I just want my future kids to know, and their kids to know that I KNOW HOW FUCKED THINGS ARE. Lots of us do. I'm not sure yet what I'm going to do about it, but I am about sick of feeling sick about it.
Moving again. Fifth address in 3 years. This time I'm resisting, digging my heels in. I'm sick of it. I've got a Peter Pan complex, me, I want everything to stay the same forever. Its so not giong to happen. But imagine if it did. Imagine if it was always three thirty on a thirty degree day, on the beach, and you've just laid yourself flat on your towel after swimming. Your skin is all cool and wet, and theres a little breeze cooling you. Your girl is at the water's edge throwing a ball for your little dog, and later tonight, its your birthday barbecue.
Imagine that moment lasting forever and ever and ever.
I am so fucking miserable.
wow.
its been nearly a year since i moved to tropical fitzroy.
i get service now.
i even get freebies.
its kinda crap when you first get here and you swan into bars like a tourist, thinking IM HERE and it turns out you're nowhere, you're no-one, you're a tourist.
it takes time.
a year.
A creature such as myself, with an acceptable cut of trouser, careful attention to the shape of haircut, medium-rare fitness and health levels, and years of careful observation of required public performance, is unused, as a rule, to being BLANKED by bar staff. So it came as a horrible shock last night to deal with the backs of heads, extended phone calls and lingering attention to other patrons that were the BLANKING tactics of the SKANKS at the Union Club Hotel, Fitzroy. There is a crushing sense of worthlessness associated with this kinda shit and it took me a good 25 minutes of ranting to my crew before I regained my sunny self-belief.
I will, however, be honing a revenge, and laying it upon those SKANKS. Plan A at present is to swan in with as many junkies and crims I can rustle up and spend most of a weekend evening in there, shouting and swearing and ordering complicated and annoying drinks, and blocking the dunnies with vomit and drug-based debris.
No fuckin SKANKS gunna BLANK me and get away with it.
I moved to Melbourne just on a year ago and I still walk about in a daze of joy at how fabulous it is. There's a million great things, but right now, in the context of a nasty exposure to the theaustralian.com.au I am sure of the one greatest thing of all : Fairfax. If I was a boy newspaper, I would take theage.com.au (clearly a lady paper) out for snacks and quite likely buy it a pony. theaustralian.com begs for feedback and I delivered, almost puce with rage at the 21st Nov editorial. According to that shiteful horror item, there is absolutely no link whatever, in any way, shape or form, between poverty, rage, alienation and the rise of extremism in the Middle East and US foreign policy. Plus, if you think there may be some responsibility to be taken by us, and the US, you're a pinko lezo trotskyite anti-american 70's freak person and entirely alone in your foolishness.
Like, hello???
