Sunny Breaks merchandise

That’s right. Here is some ->

To obtain your official Sunny Breaks FUCK YOU TOO RICHARD t-shirt please send $20 plus $7 postage n’ handling ($13 P&H for outside Australia) to me@here.
Please note: style, colour and size may vary from that depicted. Also there probably won’t be sweat/deodorant stains on it (unless you really want).

Inspired by a Negativland track, transcribed here – third line from the bottom.

The Trouble with Thousand Island (fragment)

Digby reclined on the couch, sighed and interlaced his chunky fingers across his chest.

“It started when I’d be out doing something, walking along the street, thinking about stuff. I’d think of something, come to some conclusion, pause, and think, ‘You can say that again, Billy!’ or ‘ya not wrong there Billy boy.’, or ‘No shit Billy’.”
“Y’know? It’s just the kind of thing you do when you’re thinking things through by yourself.”

Digby looped his hands around behind his head and dragged them loosely across his afro, absent-mindedly massaging his scalp. He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth like he’d made a bad move playing checkers.

“Then sometime after we finished the last case it started to get more. Like I was getting my sneakers cleaned and came out of the shop, about to put my wallet away and thought, — hang on, did that guy just short-change me? ‘You’re damn right Billy. You better get back in there and get what’s yours.’
So I did – or tried at least. Turns out it was my mistake. Made a real scene.”

“So, y’know. Stuff like that. The next thing I know There’s one of those life-size plastic Flight Centre captains standing in my living room, and the cops have nabbed me trying to unscrew the oversized plastic hood ornament from the roof of the Jaguar dealership at 3am.”

From his chair behind where Digby lay, the doctor spoke.

“And you think, Billy, has something to do with this?”

“Nah… ah… the way I figure it, there’s this thing in my head, and it’s calling me Billy.”

“I see.”

Digby sat up quickly and looked around at the man.
“Do you? Doctor, my name’s not Billy. I’m not Billy“.

I life: selecting kid mode

What we’re reading:
I borrowed Obi Wan’s hardback copy of Alain deBotton’s Status Anxiety, have been frequenting the coolest coffeeshops and holding it up conspicuously in front of my head. Actually, it’s a shame I missed the two-part tv version because it hardly seems worthwhile writing a book about — reading through so far at least — the points are all so obvious, to me at least.
Although I can’t say I’m exempt from it all. Typically me, I’ve knee-jerked back against it all and am doing a paper round and hoeing other people’s gardens for free, or nearly free. Bigs said to me, “Hold on, I’ll go get you the little hoe” and I chuckle silently to myself. i was getting my kicks out of that bit all morning — Now where’d that dirty little hoe get to? .. and so on.

I saw Chris Wilson play at a joint the other night. In the bus on the way over I realised to the bottom of my gut that this was definitely one of those occasions where I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands. I was wearing jeans with those useless kind of pockets that nothing will go into, and since I’m not a drinker or even smoke a cigarette now, there was nothing else for them except flapping about … or was there?
I slipped open one of the top windows and stretched my right arm all the way out. A truck coming the other way took it off nice and cleanly. I went to the other side of the bus and did the same with my left arm, but had to wait patiently for ten minutes or so until passing through a narrow tunnel. Problem solved!

Little Green Bagslike this. If this was Invasion of the Little Green Bags! then the nasty twist at the end with Leonard Nimoy laughing would’ve well and truly happened by now.
From a marketing POV they’re a runaway success — I don’t think there’s been any advertising at all. There’s been anti-plakky bag guilt-trip ads but as for the LGBs – they’ve just showed up in large piles at the checkout and that’s all.
It’s things like this that give me a glimmer of optimism about positive change for the future. When people are given a reasonable alternative and they don’t have to think about it, they take to it like a duck to water. That is, all except for the old, senile and hopelessly disorganised — who have LGBs in their car but forget to take them into the supermarket with them.

What I’m waiting for now is: Bandits to rob a bank with LGBs on their heads with eye holes cut out — or for it to at least happen on TV. TISM to perform wearing them.

space brothers and lovers and nakedness is asking for trouble

Point one – Sagan should be damn thankful he got this record out before the rise of the P.M.R.C. ( There’s no way they’d’ve let a record sleeve be published with pictures of boobs and ‘special fruit’ or specially cock n’ balls on it. They would’ve insisted, at the very least, that the guy be wearing undies. This is after all -Patriarchy- where the woman’s body is an object to be gazed at, but the schlong is taboo.
Instead of all that hydrogen and solar system jazz they should’ve just had lots of pictures of cocks, inter-continental ballistic missiles, submarines, sky scrapers, and Chiko Rolls. Although the scientific Mafia will try hard to not let it, conventional chemistry could be rendered dippy in a decade, while symbolism is ageless.

It’s great though, innit? It’s like he’s saying, “Hi, I’m nude!”
she: Me too, and I even shaved!
he: Together, we’re Whitey, and we run this planet.
she: you mean, you run the planet.
he: whatever! Also, I’m circumcised.

Point two: Who the fuck made carl sagan intergalatic ambassador anyway? All he did was write a book and talk in a funny accent. That’s some major coup if you ask me — just happen to be a space-dude born on the continent with the most weapons during a particularly boomy decade and you get to shape the first impressions of humans in the eyes/eye-storks of dozens of alien races.

They could rock up in 50 years or even tomorrow and be like, “Doo! Where’s Sagan?” and we’ll be like, “He’s dead already” and they won’t be impressed and use us for target practice.

sacred satanic geometry

The plan was to build a 3 metre long oblong-shaped bench with six treated pine posts and a bit of mesh on top. Inside a greenhouse. A greenhouse that has an arched aircraft-hanger like roof.
Since I was the one with a fully-functioning spine I got to do the augeuring of holes. An augeur is a person-powered drill thing, this one making holes a foot in diametre.
In the cold of the morning the greenhouse’s heat and humidity were nice. Not long after that sweat was tap-dripping off the tip of my downward pointed nose. There was two 44 gallon drums in the corner filled with, as I was told, some kind of yeast that dissolved anything animal or vegetable that was put in it. A dead pig had dissappeared in one, I was told.
We continued working while the drums sat quietly in the corner, doing stuff.

One end of the oblong disturbed an ant’s nest. First there was crazy ants localised, then there were crazy ants everywhere. More sweating. I flicked away an ant from behind my ear. More sweating, then flicking another ant from the same place.

The poles were dropped in, with a ridiculous amont of space around them. You’ve got to throw the soil back in and tomp it, he said. Tomp it in there. You’re the tomper. Tell Centrelink you’re a qualified tomper. Stop saying tomp, I say. And think about if I could write a bit about the Thompson Twins and tomping.

Most of the holes hit down into the closest thing to potter’s clay you’d find outside of a potter’s pottery. One of the hole inexplicably filled with water.
“There’s two kinds of spurs my friend. Those who come in through the door and those who come in through the window.”
Two black dogs stood at the door, their eyes filled with curiousity but they wouldn’t come in.

It was decided that I needed to re-add some clay to one hole for the sake of levels. It was then decided I needed to take it back out again. I wiped sweat off a cheek and unknowingly create muddy-coloured war-stripes there.

It was becoming a structure Escher would’ve been proud of. One row of three posts were deemed level. Two posts at one end were level, but the last of those two and the next one weren’t. The posts that looked equal in height to the naked eye were devilishly bent according to the spirit-level.
When given the word I’d sledge-hammer the top of one of them until it was level with the others. It kept going around and around as the maximum height of the bench diminished.
Without really saying so, we gave up on it and went in for lunch.