book corner with ys

What I’ve been reading – as I mentioned, World’s Greatest Alien Abductions, here’s the best bit so far:
“In September 1955 the 27 year old Josef Wanderka was riding his moped down a road in Austria when he inadvertently rode straight up the ramp of a flying saucer. He apologised profusely to the occupants, who explained – in perfect German, naturally – that they were from the ‘top point of Casseopea’. Eventhough they were plainly adept at interstellar travel, they were fascinated by his moped and wanted to know how the engine worked. The aliens were of the ‘Nordic’ type: tall with blue eyes and blonde hair. Fearing that they might be harbouring totalitarian tendencies (Austria had been de-Nazified relatively recently), he launched into an anti-fascist diatribe. They evidently found this so boring that they kicked him out of their flying saucer without subjecting him to an invasive medical examination.”

Also a while back I heard a(nother) voice in my head – and this time it was Zellar saying that I should read Nightwood by Djuna Barnes. And I did. I don’t think it was written by a crazy woman. I’m sure I could get more out of it by going through it another ten times or so. Some of descriptions were pretty different, in this case, different is good. Seem to remember a bit about indoor plants at night that had the subtlest hint of evil about it – very nice. I had to borrow a uni library copy; the 2nd hand bookshop man telling me that while it had a bit of a literary rep, it had no volume. It’s rare to come across books like that, usually if publishers can stick a new cover on and churn ’em out, they will. I suppose it was a bit hard to follow — seemed like a lot of the ‘he said’, ‘she said’ tags were missing. Although I only read it in snatches late at night.

Also am reading The Consolations of Philosophy. Coming up against the word philosphy has made me cringe ever since I did my lolly, one fine afternoon in an Eastern Religions class a couple of years ago. I wrestled WolfBoy, a classmate, to the ground and bit a chunk out of his scalp. It was his fault. He was trying to start up the “But, Is this table really a table?” ‘discussion’. Of course it’s a fucking table.
DeBotton, who wrote this book is doing a fairly good job at dumbing down philosphy to an acceptable level necessary for this visually oriented, short-attention–
It’s kind of like a self-help book for snooty people. I like it. It introduces you to some of the main Playas and I suppose if you wanted to you could read more of their stuff if there was any who hit your wave-length.

lawsuit? Wot, Me Worry????

Allow me to get parochial for a moment. I’m spurred to post by seeing that Frank Walker of National Tile has finally made it onto tv ads. Eventhough they’re called national, I’m almost certain it’s a victoria only company.
Anyone who’s had the displeasure of hearing more than five minutes of that terrible, terrible talkback radio station 3aw will recognise the Frank Walker clarion-call; Huh-Lowww. Interstate and overseas readers, this man says hello at the start of every commercial he does and it’s the same sound a cow starts to make when it hits the front windscreen.



Aussie John? Boy would I like to hook some electrodes up to him and fry the bacon. You wanna know where the parasites are in society — they’re running these homeloan referral things. I know people who know how this trade works and for each loan that places like ‘aussie’ sets up they get $40 a week for however long the loan lasts – like thirty or forty years. And the interesting thing is that of all the kind of loans there are, people almost never renege on their home loan. The kids go to school without breakky before that happens.

One the other hand, I think Sydney of Sydney’s lounges and bedding is really cool. That’s the kind of interview I’d like to do for here – with a dude like Syd.

Oh yeah, I have it from reliable souces that Chris of ‘Chris and Marie’s plantfarm’ is a chronic gambler and has often been seen all night at the casino pissing away whatever you paid for that fern in the corner. If you look close at him in the ads you can see the soulessness in his eyes.

back from space


The dog, Strelka, companion of Belka aboard Sputnik V, appears in profile in this television close-up transmitted from orbit. Two television cameras, operating on signals from the ground showed the animals’ reactions to launching, acceleration and weightlessness. Strelka later had a litter of six healthy puppies, one of which was sent as a present to John f. Kennedy with the not attached, “Suck Eggs”.

the justified ancients of mu-mu wanna see you sweat

What we’re considering: changing name to, “yak the sox” a la Robert The Bruce. That show ‘two men in a trench is a bit of fun. The shorter haired guy needs to work on his accent though – I can still understand him.
What we’re listening to: -soundtrack from Blue Hawaii Elvis movie,
the two Luke Vibert tracks – Slinky Hula and Fly Hawaii,
-anything by Add n to (X)
-having a closer listen to b(if)tek’s ‘frequencies will move together’ album. They’ve uploaded a couple of tracks from it for jor sampled listening pleasure here.

What we’re playing with: XMMS (it’s like winamp for Linux) can run two or more instances of itself, which means I am listening to two or more songs at once. It’s kind of fun some of the combinations it throws up when it’s all randomised. What would be really cool is if they could be in different channels with seperate volume handles so i could pretend to be a real dj. There’s got to be some software around that’ll do that.

What we’re remembering: a dream where I was walking through the arcade on Lygon street with my bike and worried I was going to knock stuff over with it. As I often do in reality I still had the helmet on. The arcade was heaps bigger. Ended up in this toy shop and looking at these mobilo spelling things and was quite impressed with how they worked. My attention was caught by a set of letters that I saw I could easily rearrange into ‘DSICO (that No-Talent Hack, Australia’s No.1 Dj)‘ – and I thought I’ll take a picture of it and send it to him. But was then filled with a familiar sense of, ‘how do I do this without anyone noticing?’

What bold culinary moves we’re making: replacing muesli and milk with Tiny Teddies and vanilla custard.

What we’re wondering: why sweat and sweating is still considered a ‘no-no’ particularly among women. This tense-looking stiff-limbed “walking” that some of them do is I presume, for the benefit of working off a bit of that arse-chunk. Along the foreshore I cruise by on the dragster, yell “Better lay off the cheesecake luv!” and cackle so hard that saliva with big bubbles in it gets on my chin.
This so called power walking is a Kofi Anan style compromise between Looking Good and Physical Activity and neither side’s winning. Get a bike and ride it up hills, is what I say. Hate the pedal. This isn’t a frikkin’ Dickens novel, sweating is sexy and if you don’t get a heart attack from the hill work then you’ll end up with a finely sculpted arse, like mine. Amen.

always a playground instructor never a killer

Most of the day was spent in a familiar rut of being lost. I find myself two or ususally only one suburb over, and to an extent recognise where I am. I know which general direction I need to walk in to get home and sometimes can even visualise the streets, but a half-hour later I realise I’ve drifted off one way or the other. Sometimes I’m drawn to random landmarks that can be seen above the rooftops; a big old norfolk pine, a steeple, the abandoned cement works.

It’s worse when this happens at night. I’ve seen some horrifying things lurking in the front gardens of seemingly otherwise innocent suburban houses. Creatures… skulls, stone frogs — I don’t want to think about it.

Sometime just after I’ve past the point of complete surrender and resigned myself to the reality that I’ll never make it home ever again, doomed to crouch along the front borders of frontyards, scared of being seen by the house’s occupants, even more scared of the leprichauns, gnomes and trolls — I wind up on my front doorstep.

Mostly I have no memory of how I get home. I’ll wake up in the heat of the midmorning, face down and spread-eagled, one arm bent, the other straight, one leg bent – the other straight. Having dribbled saliva onto the coarse, close-piled carpet. The carpet leaves a patten on my face for hours after. There’s dirt and paint under my fingernails and sometimes small cuts on my legs.

I got home at 6pm with a bag of 6 hot-cross buns in my hand. I so desperately want to be like the normal people. The days now are still mild but the evenings cool rapidly. I stood alone in the near-darkness by the kitchen bench of the bungalow. I scarfed two buns down out of hunger then realised that I should’ve heated them up, and cursed myself in strained tones. I can’t do anything right.

Waiting for the other four to warm up I wondered if it was normal to have peanut-butter or jam or honey in them. I’d seen other people put butter in them, maybe other things were being extravagant. If not, then which was the most pious? Honey – because bees make it, or peanut-butter because it’s not exactly sweet? The civilised thing to do would be to have something to drink with them, but a cup of black tea doesn’t seem to suit. Would milk with cocoa in be okay or, again, is this a dead giveaway that I’m losing touch with reality?


and then she butted me in the head. I said ‘what’s that for?’ and she said ‘that’s for the invasion of Crete!

This article on Hollyweird and English dumbness is a bit of a larf. The bit that 33% of pommies think Benito Mussolini, Fascist dictator, was fictional is partly understandable considering that Alexei Sayle does such a great impression of him. Usually they reserve this kind of survey for americans since they provide more hilarious results, what with the insularity and all. I’m kind of glad I’ve never seen a survey of australians because I know it’d be just as depressing.

But seriously, I know there’s some christian folks out there who read this occasionally, and despite the stupidity I don’t mean to offend anyone. But if I was battin’ for jesus then I’d be dead against that mel gibson movie for the reasons intimated in the article — everything hollywood touches turns to fiction, whether they mean it to or not. It might seem like a beneficial thing in that awareness of the jesus-man is raised, but the long-term affect is that he gets stuck in the same boat as BlueBeard, YellowBeard, Flash Gordon, Pippy Longstocking and Mr.Bean.

Besides, mel gibson sucks bigtime.

your hypertasking is driving me back into the ocean

I signed up for this email newsletter thing from last year and fittingly it’s always pegged as junkmail and I never see it. The normal email setup is messed up, so I saw it for once. What they do is mash bits of words together, attach it to something bleeding obvious (like watching tv and reading the paper at the same time — haven’t people been doing that since 1960? Leave it to Beaver?) and attempt to convince you it’s the happening thing.


The fact that the woman in this image has a soccer ball in her hand pushes the whole thing past embarrassing into the realm of the surreal.

lint filter

Your dose of voyeurism can be got here, where there’s eight other people besides JM in Paris, who are doing the a-picture-a-day of themselves thing, including a pair of twins. By and large it appears to be a European phenomenon.

If that’s not enough, there’s this thing I saw (via brainal meltdown)– it’s an astonishingly large photo collection of nerds in their natural habitat. The element of similarity is that they all hold something against the side of their head, while individuality is expressed in what each chooses to hold there.

– On the local front, some dudes from this group Paraquest Australia successfully took a photo of a ghost at Barwon Park, which is a big old-timey estate near Winchelsea. Winchelsea is about 25kms S-W of geelong (check the map. Barwon Park was where rabbits were first let loose in Australia. The photo was in one of the local rags, but hopefully the paradudes will stick it on their site. The ghost was a woman in period clothing, who apparently still lives upstairs in one of the rooms. Didn’t sound nasty-spooky though — it said her room is normally warmer than the rest of the house. Like someone just forgot to tell her she was dead.

Here’s a list of some of the other more well known haunted buildings in Victoria. happy easter hols!

– A fairly decent old sort of collection of typefaces and something called Open Source Web Design which is shareable templates for dynamic sites. I saw both these links at

– The O’Reillys’ made a t-shirt that says, ‘I’m blogging this’ on it. Good for them. Maybe I should too.

– Last but not least, craneporn. Yet again the internet has shown me that I am not alone. I like cranes too!

I saw that link at axis of aevil, who I’ve been meaning to stick in the link-list. She’s in Finland, but is a native english-speaker so (sadly) no kinky sentence construction.

when Na met Cl2

I really like the sound of the two words Cheetham Salt, and have done for a while now. There’s something about that combination of vowel and consonant sounds that floats my boat. The fact that it’s also a company is not much more than a coincidence. It’s all frames, but I like the ‘about salt-> origins of salt’ page. Pretty convenient for Cheetham that the planet began to cool when it did.

I like salt. Salt cops it pretty bad from The Man these days. Salt makes things taste good. I think it’s up to each of us to figure out what’s good or not to have, and how much of it. For years when I was a teeny-bopper and early-mid twentysomething I’d just be doing nothing much, kicking back sprawled across the couch or whatever. And even in this relaxed condition I’d be suddenly racked by excruciating spasms in the arch of my left foot. Sometimes I thought it was the devil trying to get in through there. The foot-muscles would cramp, curl up like foetals and I would be there thinking woe and why?

These days I just eat more salt and everything’s schmick.

This is not a paid announcement from cheetham salt, although I wouldn’t mind it if it was, but they’d have to pay me in dollars because that’s another thing about salt — while ‘The System’ doesn’t want you to eat any, and everyone could well eat a bit more, there’s definitely an upper limit. I don’t like the idea of being paid off in salt, then eating too much that my fingers rust up like the Tin Man’s and I can’t use them to type on with the keyboard for.

Finally, I’d like too have a swipe at large sections of the global population for running-on their words when referring to the wife of Henry the VIII, Anne Boleyn. All this time I thought her name was ‘Amberlin’. Nice as that sounds, it’s wrong. Why the hell aren’t they pronouncing it “Anne [one-one thousand] Boleyn”??? Or “Boll-een”? This is what happens when you rely on televison to get your history lessons.

This is no crime because telly is the loudest talker about such things, and these wayward re-dramatisations of the lives of historical figures are getting saucier and saucier. It won’t be long before there’s a movie made called ‘The Wives of Henry the VIII‘ and all it is is hardcore prawnography with some period costumes thrown in.

Suharto is a Butcher!


There was a rally in town today because johnny howard came for dinner. Him and a bunch of local fatcats. I usually feel a bit disjointed showing up to these things in Geelong because they’re always disappointingly small, but this evening’s effort turned out not bad, plus my dear comrade GG was there which was a real surprise. He’d hauled some of the cadre down from melbourne since his car’s back on the road. Also I think maybe some of this exercise is paying off because I felt more energetic than usual. After 45mins of dippy chants, yelling out, “Pants On Fire!” really started to make sense. One of my psychol lecturers was there as part of the academics union. The coppers were pretty sleepy and tame, which is good.

I liked this placard because of the little glasses. Very succinct.