I finally got started on a little tape-dropping work of my own the other week. I thought the best place to dip into it is with the tape-drop equivalent ofthe oil-painter’s bowl of fruit—ie. I ate a large bag of potato chips (crisps) noisily into a tape recorder. I thought it’d be relatively straight forward, but the first try I used a tape that was too old and fuzzed out, and I nearly cracked up laughing. The second was better, but i want a third try where most of the crunches are of 3 or 4 chips at once for maximum crunch sound, as opposed to the single-chip effort.
All this means I’ve been eating a lot of potato chips.
What I’d really like is a minidisc player so I could make lots of copies onto cassettes from the master. Also, I’ve been hearing so absolute rippers of conversations in op-shops n’ the like. The kamera’s on hand for anything oddball enough in the visual realm, but I’d love to digitise some of these audio-gems.
The Preston School of Industry is headed up by the guitarist from Pavement. I only listen to Pavement these days, but there’s a couple of PSoI tracks on that site. They’re playing at the Corner hotel in Richmond in a week n a half.
John Safran vs God – the first episode last night included 15-20 seconds of safran puking peyote tea.
The Post-punk Cooking show has a bunch of neato vegetarian recipes. If I wasn’t such a crazy rebel maybe I could actually understand them.
And here’s two pages on the jitterbug, how to do it and a bit of a background.
It’s no secret that I fell in with a gang some 2 months ago. I could’ve had the whole spouting thing fixed up in half an hour but I was preoccupied. It’s an Irish set dancing gang. Is it so daggy that it’s cool? Is it that I’ve become so open minded that my head’s melted off my shoulders? Or is it less positive; effectively total personality diffusion—I’m not really anyone (any one) anymore and will do whatever is suggested to me?
Whatever the case, I went to Port Fairy this weekend and jigged on with 70 other people. And enjoyed it. I had a Zeligish moment while sitting – me n’ 4 people with Irish accents who I hadn’t met before. They were talking, one asked me how long I’d been dancing and I went to answer and it damn near came out in an irish accent—i can’t even do that accent if i try consciously… but like i say … I just diffuse or morph into whatever’s around me.
Golly they were nice people though. On average, much happier than normal people around here. Totally accepting of my freakishness. Maybe they just want to use me to further their plans of domination, organising the world into pairs, four pairs at a time, or 96 bars in a figure. Okay by me. You wanna go dancing?
Oh boy, I accidentally ate some dip with mould in it last night. Lousy mild snap in the middle of winter. Frozen mushrooms or mouldy dip – that fridge is going to kill me.
Don’t ya love those situations where you eyeball some dude on the street and they match it, and end up being weirder, creepier, crazier than you, and you realise you’re not going to win, so have to look away and grin, thinking ‘boy, that guy’s nuts’.
I found out my little brother bought a sixteen hundred buck camera so I thought it only fair that I steal his sneakers. I haven’t actually seen the camera, but maybe at some point I can do a Chumps n’ Cheapskates review of it, because if you can’t afford a camera like that then you are probably taking too much drugs.
I haven’t seen the camera because he split for China (I say Shiner) on some agri-junket. Partly in Beijing (Bidge-ing) and partly in the wild-west northwest province, Xinjiang (children X-ing). I arksed him to bring me back a cowboy hat but I’m not getting my hopes up.
I really want to be friends with the middle aged guys at the post office. I go in there almost every day. After the whole bend over and be prodded in the passport procedure they know everything about me, including stuff I only just found out myself, like which ‘burb my dad was born in – Coburg – I thought it was mentone. My dad’s side of the family is the great unknown, and I’m awfully hesitant to venture in because of what I might find—that being almost certainly a long precession of mediocrity. One of those, If I haven’t heard otherwise it must be so, situations.
I don’t know much at all about the guys at the post office. Maybe I should apply for a job there. And then work there my whole life until I drop dead there—a man mediocre in every way apart from that he knew the ins and outs of the most detailed details of Post Office bureaucracy.
was two years before you were even born.
I’d just retrieved the ball from the corner of the room and returned to take my serve. Standing there, hunched over the table with the ball enveloped in my hand, something altered.
The ball felt heavier and wonky.
Bringing it closer to my face, I slowly opened the hand flat and looked at what was in it.
OMFG. It looked exactly like an egg. Trying to hide my surprise, I gently shifted my focus to the Duchess across the table. Did she see what I could? Didn’t look like it; still hopping from foot to foot waiting for the service, wearing that ridiculous sun visor.
I served it. Yolk and white went every which way. A fragment of shell got in her eye and she started crying.
It looked and felt like an egg but I hit it anyway.
Standing there awkwardly, watching her bawl, thinking how awkward this all was, a door collapsed open and countless piglets flooded over the floor. Like a leaning tower, I gradually lost my footing and fell over. The piglets were extremely soft and manicured, as if they had never been outside. Some sniffed at my face and it tickled.
A third man stood a bit off to the side by a lampshade, pushing the last remaining molar around with his tongue. It’s root hung onto the gum a little longer, and to the tongue, felt like craters and peaks on the moon.
I don’t know why but sometimes when I see people I know, I don’t say hello to them. I’m at 1968-74, aka colac, and was just in the Subway and saw this guy who was in my year level at school. He’s a really really huge guy, huge with a capital U. I didn’t say hi, and don’t feel so good about it. I just wasn’t in the mood.
I even kind of used to hang out with him a bit too, since all us weirdos, outcasts flocked together. I suppose there was about 15 of us, and then the two of us might’ve been at different ends of the periphery. Thing is, he has a surname that is the sound that would emit if you took him and dropped him from height, six letters first one S, last two T. Like the guy on the front of the Fatboy Slim, ‘You’ve come a long way Baby’ album cover, but heaps bigger and definitely not as smiley.
Ma says he was driving taxis for a while but is too big to get behind the wheel. She reckons he might die one day soon.
A couple of years ago I was thinking of him while sitting in a pizza joint in Belmont, because that Fatboy Slim track came on the radio— the one that has the “right here, right now” and the catchy, striving-sounding loop in it. I got this idea that I’d like to do a doco with this guy in it and mostly it’d just be elongated shots of him eating, including one where he was eating greasy pizza like his life depended on it, and that track would be playing in the background.
Man, who’d’ve thought it would be so hard to prove who you are and leave the country. Now I can see why being an illegal alien is so popular.
Going into police stations always reminds me of Lego police stations, except with much more state-sponsored violence. I leave the way open for dealing with a police officer in person to sway me away from the generalisation that all cops are arseholes, and they only reinforce it. And they’re invariably called Keogh or monahagn or arsesole.
Some of my best friends have been whacked over the head by cops. Actually, most of my best friends have been whacked over the head by cops. Some during fully constitutional public demonstrations. Once I heard this thing on the radio where a guy had used a funny voice and turned his cop interview/interrogation tape into a performance piece of sorts. The first one they gave me was such a downer to relisten to that I taped over it with music. I think I kept the second one as a reminder that crime is just one of those things I’m no good at.
One the other hand, the minor offense, j-walking, I’m fucking brilliant at.
My legs are killing me. I was doing all this weeding down at a friend’s place, and I know what you’re thinking but this was Land of the Giants weeds and sized area to be weeded. I don’t know what kind of person I am, but I’ve never been able to touch my toes, so all this bending over stuff screwed with my hammies, or something. Plus there was the digging ditches, heaving hail bails, collecting fire wood … and chain-sawing. Lending more weight to the argument that ‘Man’ is inherently destructive, peacefrog no.1 me really got off on the old chainsaw. I will have an arm amputated at the elbow and get a chainsaw put there so I can rip through anything, anytime.
There was also watching dvds when it was raining. Cream’s last gig – pretty rockin’. A Led Zep double – very good. I’ve got to get a t-shirt with “Led Zepplin Rules” on it, because they do. And a Roger Waters concert – meh. They got a drumkit there and it’s in a fairly confined space so i felt a bit unsure about totally rocking out, but man, eventhough drums are way more difficult to learn than bass, drummers easily have the most fun. It’s much more physical, and therefore in tune with the nature of rockin’ than strumming on an electric guitar, no matter how hard you wang it. Anyway, they’re a groovy family to hang out with and it was a good break in the routine. Nature boy foters here.
Ps. Thanks for bearing with the technical hitches in launching Sunny Breaks. We should be over the worst of it now.
I’ve been trying to become the aforementioned person.
I’m listening to Pavement right now. I got out of town for a few days and the name-saying voices left my head. I think they were putting something in my water here. Out in a beautiful place in the country, I was drinking very clean water, straight from the sky with no added acid.
When i was in year ten I was presented with a squarish, bright yellow peaked cap. On the front it said BUS CAPTAIN. There was a fuzzy felt n’ velcro exclaimation mark included which made BUS CAPTAIN! or sometimes BUS! CAPTAIN. Installed as a puppet captain, I had no idea what I was suppposed to do. Where anarchy had happily been the order of the day previous, the high school administration had decreed that each bus must have a bus captain and our iron-fisted driver, Wayne, installed me. For the two and a half years before I’d kept a low profile on the bus. I’d worked my self to the left-hand seat three from the back. No one sat next to me.
The pecking order was upset, I’d artificially been placed on the backseat, centre, with my bright yellow cap on and smiling uneasily at the older, bigger, meat-fisted Tech. school kids who’d been ousted.
Wayne made them sit near the middle of the bus.
This was known as the worst bus of the whole lot because of the kids. It went the furtherest distance, to Winchelsea but I got off after about 15mins after it’d loaded on at each of the secondary schools.
Wayne’s only trick was pulling up on the side of the highway, standing up, turning around and giving us all a stern talking to to about how much the bus costs etc. It was only effective when done rarely. The Tech. heathens soon started swapping seats and jumping around. All I could do was go, “oo, um. Hey, er… hey mate”, at little more than a mutter. It got pretty bad and I put myself into exile. I started riding to school – about 10kms, a few hills. It was alright.
I wish I was the kind of person who didn’t get uptight about things. I’m always going so crazy. The ones who say whatever don’t mean whatever. It’s the ones who don’t even bother saying whatever who are living whatever.
I wish I was the kind of person who just liked Pavement.
But you’d get into Sebadoh too, right?
Nup. Just Pavement. Til yesterday I hadn’t even heard them. And instead of going crazy and waking up between dreams at 3:20 to have songs start playing in my head. Or even worse – names : anchower anchower anchower anchower, kunuuny kunuuny kunuuny kunuuny.
Pavement would be cool, but no big deal. I’d probably just listen to them in the car. In the beat up old EH Holden stationwagon that didn’t ever have a tapeplayer. There’d be a crappy one-speaker little radio-tapeplayer lying on the seat but the plastic cover on the back is lost so the double-D batteries would roll around on the floor. Someone I’d know would keep shoplifting new packs for me although I never asked for them.
I wouldn’t be worried about oil running out or be thinking about My Disaster Plan for when the oil runs out.
Yes it’s me, yak sox, back with another weblog and address for it. What the gum drops happened? I hear you ask. It’s a long and unfunny story involving a series of boo-boos by other people, the fact I don’t have a credit card, and found myself saddled with a rather user-unfriendly webhost. This weblog, formerly known as spouting now resides on a different server, run by different people.
Second thing, many, many thanks to Tony for letting me guest-blog at The Horse’s Mouth for the last four weeks of this six-long gap. I think that the kind of webloggers who blog because they’re addicted to it aren’t the best kind becasue if they’ve got nothing else to write, they’ll write things like, “Wow, I must be hungry because the little bits of crud collecting in the sink-strainer look appetising”, and it’s not great. Nevertheless, I am one of them. And a grateful one to have avoided permanent mental damage and to have somewhere like The H’s M to bleed hell into.
I’m actually not that disappointed to change URLs. I think Spouting was decided on after 5 minutes of thought. And it seemed to colour the content—going off about everything. Like people named Cretin become cretins. I did actually know a kid lastname Cretin, but the spelling might’ve been different. Maybe Sunny Breaks will be more upbeat. I’ll do a full wanky deconstruction of the name another day. It was the result of a two-week brainstorm—and then five minutes spent picking the successful applicant. Also on the short list were (as URLs) – nucula draclear … – doesn’t even come up as a google let alone an already occupied url
- gog eyed
- onomatopoeia … I think all the .com, .net ones were taken for this though
- nasenbluten … .net still available. It’s german for newcastle. Perhaps inappropriate in that I don’t live or have ever been to any of the known newcastles, but I do like the sound, and there was a happy-hardcore group from newcastle, NSW called that in the mid-90s.
- 5corpio … because I’m not averse to the substitution of numbers for letters, with the exception of 0 for o, which is dumb.
- bug-eyed … .org available. While heaps of names/terms have been squat upon in the last 3 years, the hyphenated option is almost always still open.
- qua-qua.net … is an example of the hyphenation thing.
- KaosLiberationFront … probably the runner up, although if The Man was responsible for taking down Spouting (think Mr.Slugworth having a word in the ear of the concerned parties to make sure none of my attempts at reactivation worked) (he’s nuts isn’t he)— KLF would probably draw attention quickly.
- grueltime … gruel is a good word. Food is universal.
- sicmate … as in [sic.] mate! —would be fun.
I thought also of fattyacids.com. It’s cyber-sqautted, with an email addy saying, ‘ask about buying this name!’, so I did. They said $7000. Reminded me of that bit in The Blues Brothers where Elwood fills up Twiggy’s car and she asks how much it’ll be and he pulls “ninety bucks” out of the air. I replied to the email offering fifty bucks for it but didn’t hear back. What a racket. The internet could be dead in a couple of years, or so changed that URLs won’t even matter.
Hey, it’s great to be back!