Get a big black dog up ya!


Been down in the country lifting things, a little whipper-snippering and teaching big ears to print digital images, which I can safely say would be more exhausting than a whole day of chainsawing. Man there’s a lot of throat-clearing goes on in that household. At one stage we were in the laundry fixing a washing machine. Bigs was under it, grunting away with a spanner, I was leaning against it, keeping it tilted over and just absent-mindedly glancing around the room. I got to gazing at a bunch of bras on top of a washing-basket pile and thinking something like how it’d been a long time since I’d seen bras lying around like that.
Sometimes the women in that family seem so odd to what I know that it’s like they’re from another planet. They’re so girly-girl-girl, but at the same time, in a way that’s hard to knock. Maybe it’s just a country thing — women do women-things and men do men-things.

There’s three girls who I mostly knew as little angel-haired kids – 12 or 15 years ago. Now they’re grown/growing up, as tall as me, still all-blonde and really attractive but all straight as straight can be. Not a rebellious bone amongst ’em. It’s like their parents are sweden: not Cuba but still fairly progressive and so, there’s never gonna be an uprising of the working-class in sweeden, and those girls ain’t never gonna get into [insert stuff that’s offensive to the older generation].

Hey how’s this for a nice troll. I didn’t even realise I was doing it, I just spouted off this email to one of the free community papers: “Less Flouride, More Apples — Page 8, (News, October 13) tooth decay in Geelong kids, page 10, kid eating fatty, sugar-filled doughnut. Join the dots. We don’t need flouride, we need to be encouraging kids to eat apples, not doughnuts. If the Make-a-Wish foundation had any conscience regarding kids’ health, they wouldn’t be accepting public relations-driven donations from American franchises like Doughnut King. Do we want our kids to be as fat as American kids?”

I didn’t bother to look to see if it’d been printed, I thought it was too crazy. But one of the dance-gang members said they saw it. I don’t know how I managed to fit in trashing so many with so few words: flouride, DK, americans, fat kids, fat american kids, franchises and the make-a-wish foundation. Go me. I even squeezed in my own ‘Eat More Apples’ agenda. Although it comes off as sounding like flouride actually does help teeth, when it doesn’t. It’s rat poison.
I think there’s some potential there to get up on the board, become a raconteur/marching-mob leader surfing a wave of discontent — the answer to everything being the scapegoating of fat people.

at least The Spirit of Progress, if no other part of it

A few weeks back I started back doing this voluntary work that I used to do 5 years ago. One morning a week at a music program working with retards. The semantics thing is a conundrum. While I wouldn’t say that directly to them (because they wouldn’t dig where I was coming from), I think it’s a more honest term than ‘mentally disabled’ which still sounds condescending to me. And if they’re retarded then so am I, and so is everyone I’ve come to know to one extent or other.
Just on words, and the shying away fromt them, I even heard on the radio that the Spastic Society is now calling itself something abstract like ‘seaside’. I was thinking of doing like those domain name scavengers and scooping up the registration for the ‘the spastic society’ name and doorknocking for donations in aid of me living comfortably and doing performances of acting even more of a spastic than I do normally, a la my favourite ever film, The Idiots.

Anyway, they are amazing people I jam with. They all look and act uniquely, which is right up near the top of various compliments I could give people. I was standing in a shop waiting for food recently and was looking down at some gloosy goss. magazine cover. Sharon Stone had recieved a face lift. There was a before and after picture.

As an aside, Before and After pictures never fail to grab my attention — either those puzzle drawing ones or those profit-driven ‘progress’ fotos. Really, life is just a series of before and after-images; the most recent version in memory store and what is.

Anyway, I couldn’t help but reminded how upsidedown majority-society is when the goal is to look less and less unique. Maybe it could be argued that my spazzy friends are imprefect but I reckon they’re beautiful.
There was something I read about human reactions to robots/artificial intelligence and our quest to create things as close to human as possible.
It was saying that the closer an AI came to emulating humaness, the less people liked it, because the easier it was to compare the robot to yourself, the more achingly obvious the artificialness of the robot. However, the robots that were way off left this big gap where people used imagination to fill in the human aspect of the robot, which worked heaps better. I think the example used was R2D2 and C3P0 as the latter case.

That’s how I feel about the mashing up and re-landscape architecting of faces in the name of achieving perfect symmetry. There’s no such thing as a straight line or exact balance in the physical world.

There’s one guy who when he really starts getting into, he jumps up and starts doing ‘the Swim’, which really rocks. I just wish i hadn’t sold all me frikkin’ bass guitars.

a farewell to beef stroganov

Went bowling again. Personal-bested at 111. It’s all in the swingback. Eventhough I know this I still can’t do it consistently. And if there’s any benefits from the physically activity involved in bowling, it’s all easily undone with a small coke. I asked if we were a league team what would we be called. Jimbo says “hehe. That’s what we’d be called. ‘Hehe’”. I suggested Stoner Classix on account of the other two.

There was a ten Y.O.’s birthday party further down the lanes. Lots of bright hawaiian shirts, high-fives and enthusiastic cheering. There was one kid wearing blue sunglasses the whole time. I thought that was pretty cool. One of them ran over and asked GG and jimbo, “How do you make it go down there so fast? At 80 k’lomtres an hour!?”

Towards the end the place went disco on us. They tuned on the runway landing lights and started showing footage of beheadings, or Video Hitz — I couldn’t tell which.

the living dead don’t get a holiday

I was thinking, what if it’d never occurred to us for mail to mainly words written on paper, and instead small birds were sent. Small birds deposited in mail boxes. You’d go open it carefully, get a little finch enclosed in your fist and gently pat its head with your thumb while heading back into the house. There’d be signs on letterboxes like, ‘No Junk Budgies Please’, or ‘Registered Australia Post Canaries only’. I don’t know about the conveying useful information bit. I suppose you’d have to guess who it was from and what it was about.

I’m really into throat-clearing. I’ve been doing it alot myself and happily noting to myself the behaviour when I observe others do it. Because of People Like Us who have a good helping of throat-clearing in their tracks. There’s also a track mostly made up of people going, “um”, called Dolly Pardon. People Like Us is easily the best new thing I’ve come across this year. The music is extremely rich and the man form mars in my head made me listen to it all for a week straight in attempt to grok all the samples; their origins and why they were there.
The other week I rang up DJ 2 on the radio to ask if he’d heard of them and he said, “Yeah I know Vicki. They were out here about three years ago”.

The other day i was at the fruit and veg. store and the person in front of me was buying some stuff, including 3 small, loose mushrooms. I’ve never seen such a non-committal purchase of mushrooms. I love mushrooms. I am one. I buy a whole big bag everytime I go. They’re only $3.99 where I go.

My mother’s stopped reading this website. She said it was becoming tired and predictable and not edgy. I said, mum, nobody says edgy anymore. Shows how much you know, she said. I was talking to her on the telephone and she got some new glasses, with magnetic clip on sunglasses. This means there will be no need to wear two pairs of glasses at the same time anymore. She used to do that all the time, and everywhere — normal glasses on, then big sunglasses on over the top. When you looked you could see the second pair in there. It was such a regular thing that it never really struck me as being dead-set weird.

Last Sunday the psychotic fuck next door cut my phone wire. He has some real anger-mangement issues. A creeper hedge from our yard had made it onto his roof, and instead of asking, ‘hey would you mind trimming your hedge?” he got up on the fence, screaming, quaking with rage, with a pair of long-handled secatuers and hacked it to bits, taking out my connection in the process.
I spent quite a while on listening to the Optus on-hold phone music loop monday morning and a guy came out and fixed it that afternoon. How about a big hand for russell, linesman for the county? I was half expecting it to take a week or something.
Higgins was going to try and get psycho to pay for it — not much chance of that happening. But Optus are going to foot it because it shouldn’t have been running along the top of the fence in the first place.

true confessions of a gum fiend

Oh god dear reader I’m sorry my proofreading is so shit. I suppose I’m just not one of those people that can do that. I made all kinds of excuses for myself, like my fingers not being good at targeting the keys accurately or being hampered by the size of this little box that I type into but really it’s just me.
If education is the new Church then I thank the local cathedral for not accepting me for their job. I’m no good at it and somehow they had the divine foresight to know it boo-hoo, boohoo, o god thankyou.
The truth is editing and fixing up mistakes, mine or other people’s bores the fuck out of me, and that’s why I don’t do it good.

I have a confession to make. Considering the painful detail in to which I retell the pathetic nothingness of my life on this here website, you’d probably be surprised to know there’s something I haven’t been letting on about for the last 16 or 17 months. Probably shame is why.

I chew gum. Bubble gum because aspartame scars the brain, but that’s another story. Hubba-bubba.
It started off a bit before the end of first semester, last year. In off-campus anchorite mode I’d get out of bed, eat a meagre breakfast then sit down here to write assignments only to find that by 11am I’d be very near to dozing off.

Caffiene? Of course that was always around but it wasn’t having any effect at all anymore. Somehow I got the idea to chew some gum, remembering that the motion of the jaw helped to keep blood flowing through the brain.
It worked. It wasn’t like some hallelujah Praise Be thing, because at that stage I was still smoking and would also duck outside for a fag which kept the blood pressure up. After I gave them up I found I was chewing a lot more.
I joked to some friends who came to visit that I thought my jaw muscles would grow enormous and mishapen, like Popeye. I was secretly very worried about this, but it didn’t happen.
Through the dark dead drag of winter and semester two I countinued with the Hubb-bubba — strawberry, apple, vanilla-cola, even blueberry when I could lay my hands on some.

I’d do stuff like incise it into two parts in my mouth, then chew in stereo so my jaw wouldn’t ache from lop-sidedness. I’d squish it into the gaps between my teeth and drag it through with my tongue. I thiink this is why there is now a visible gap between my top two front teeth, where there never was. I’d blow the odd bubble too, but mostly it was about the chewing.

It got so that one piece wasn’t enough. I’d only start out with one, but a few hours later I’d chuck a second bit in. I’d mix flavours… all kinds of shit.
I’d tell myself it because I didn’t want to get diabetes from all the sugar, but I started taking the gum out of my mouth and putting it back on its little peice of wax paper. This would only be when I had to do something as unavoidable as eating. Then … o the shame … I’d pick up the gum and starting chewing it again. The truth is, these are the bizarre and unhealthy kinds of habits that emerge when something as heinous as a gum-habit goes unchecked.

Things like this spread into my external, social life. I noticed that eventhough I was always at it when I was out, I’d never offer anyone else a piece, ‘If you wanted some, you’d get you own’, I’d think. Sitting on the dead-quiet but rather full (don’t ask; Geelong people are just like that) morning bus out to uni, chewing well-hard, two-day old gum… I’d work it up warm enough to get a bubble on, blow it and CRACK! — it’d pop like a Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band Snare drum, unsettling my dead-eyed peers in the process. It was my way of saying, Fuck You society, Fuck You Geelong, Fuck You Deakin Uni. Sociopathic is what they call it.

There’s this Jerry Seinfeld bit about how it’s basically impossible to chew gum and not look belligerent at the same time. It wasn’t until I saw someone else chewing gum in class that this occurred to me. I chewed in lectures and tutes all the time. No wonder no one approached me to say hello.
Plus there was these things I was totally unaware of, like when I had to say something for more than a sentence or two, I’d actually pop the gum out, wrap it in its little bit of paper and stuff it in my pocket. Then pull it back out ten mintues later.

I’m still chewing, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m chewing right now. I’m conscious of it. I think about it a lot.
Lately I’ve been thinking that, see, I used to have this perception of myself as having a very low threshold of amusement. It means that I can be amused by very small or simple things for an abnormally long time.
But it turns out I’m wrong.

The reality of the situation as I understand it, at this point in time, is that I’ve no idea what bores me and what doesn’t. I’m like one of those freaks who has no sense of pressure-touch in their skin nerves. Put me in a black box, turn me upside down and I wouldn’t know it. It’s like that with me and interest.
I experience no sensation as to whether something is interesting or boring. People can talk me me into thinking something is interesting — and I’ll go along with it — this happens all the time. In fact, there’s undoubtedly many things I’ve done in the past that I’ve thought were interesting but were actually really boring. Hindsight provides no clarity. There is no learning from trial and error. No progress. A flat line all the way out.
This pursuit and you, reader, bore me to death. How can I be sure this isn’t true?

I’m going to take the gum out of my mouth. If oxygen stops getting to my brain and my head falls dead onto the keyboard, then I guess you’ll figure it out. mhn uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuubnj bnm bnmfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffcr

foolscap plastic wallets explained

I don’t see why so many people poo-poo totalitariansism when I can get on an evening rush hour train in the Metropolis and see at least 60% of workers reading the same piece-of-crap, free, NewsCorp-spawn “newspaper” — MX.

I wish I could enlarge/shrink my bicycle at will and when small, fit it in my ear, a la Monkey Magic.

I’d like to renew my plea to the allied invaders, please pull out of Irak to stop the continuing atrocities like this – ‘Make Mixtapes not War’. Sheesh, I only got through one of two CDs and by then was so agitated that I was ready to hook someone’s testicles up and start juicing. 42 songs from no-name, no-talent wankers, with the exception of Sandro, who I like but that was on the 2nd CD so didn’t hear it.

Truncated statements galore in the form of number plates at rice cop — most are US, of which are allowed up to 8 letters in some cases — seems like cheating compared to the max. 6 here.

The fragment name, The Chuds was floating around in my head but I didn’t know where from. The Chuds are a NY punk band who most likely grabbed their name from a movie called C.H.U.D.. I found this out after noticing that the URL is available and would make a good name for a Travelling Wilburies style group blog.

ug, I have a headcold snotnose.

On The Case with Vulcan Conray: the Milk Mafia

Wandered down the platform and happened upon a vending machine. The protective steel door had been left open, either by a refiller person or some other.
After casting a glance each way, there was no other option than to take it for all it was worth. I really mean it, there was no other choice.
With pockets and underpants stuffed full of Skittles, Cherry Ripes, Snickers Mars Bars and the like, I boarded the newly arrived train.
Sat down opposite me was a chap quite wired in appearance. Head twitched about like a hen’s. This man opened a hard-shelled case and produced a one-litre carton of unflavoured milk. Holding it up he said,
“Mmmm, milk. Natural, refreshing; milk,” in a voice unecessarily loud for the compartment. He opened it and drank enthusasitically, leaving driblet-streams at the corners of his mouth.
He held it out again, this time stretched in my direction, grinning cheesily and twitching eyebrows vertically in ‘?‘ gesture. All the while those little milk-riverbeds on his chin like hinges on a wooden ventriloquists’ puppet’s mouth.

I leant forward and sniffed slightly. The milk registered as being off, and as much I said. The man’s grin dropped out. He struggled to his feet, groaning, slightly thrown by the train’s wobble, but also holding his gut as if he’d been hit with a shotgun. A bit over the top really. I’d accidentally ingested sour milk plenty of times and the effect was more of a slow-bleed over the next 12-24 hrs.
Nevertheless, after what must have been only four or five steps out into the carriage passageway, the man began to hurl shamelessly. This I heard, in full Dolby Surround.

He leveled with me %100A; in the way that only the truly desperate can.
“You gotta help me buddy, you gotta help me!”, he lunged forward and feebly attempted to grab the collar of my trench coat. The puke-breath would have been over powering, had I not been wired on Skittles.
“Settle down there, chester.. Who put you up to this?”
His head bowed and while he said nothing, his eyes gave it away, tracking back to the milk carton on the floor.

“I needed the money! Half now, half later they said. All they gave me was this case, no instructions or nothing. All they said was push the product.” He belched, looking queasy for a moment. “I haven’t slept in a week. I been riding trains nonstop. I don’t even know what country I’m in anymore.”
At this I grappled his shoulders and shook him violently. “This is Australia you idiot. There’s only one country on this continent. The happiest continent on Earth.”
“Oh…”, his eyes downcast, looking thoroughly beat now.
I got up and left the compartment, disgusted and only least by the smell.
The Milk Mafia had entered the murky world of solids — one-to-one promotions.
Figures, homogenisation had taken quite a bad wrap lately.


Up until a month or two back, when Kimi won his first race for the season, I’d think to myself often, ‘well at least I’m having a better year than Kimi Raikkonen’. And much more could’ve happened, my knees could’ve seized up, bike been stolen and been set up, framed and thrown in gaol for kiddie-porn and I still would’ve been having a better year than Kimi Raikkonen.
I mean, yes, he’s was still getting paid heaps of money and probably has a fab girlfriend, but what’s the point if your car keeps blowing up. Feel like you were wasting yer time wouldn’t ye?
But can various people’s wasting of time be ordered? Is Kimi’s waste of time any more regretful than mine? Yes. Because he’s trying real hard NOT to waste it. Basically, I’m not trying either way.
Once a hairy-faced high-school librarian said to me that really, all we were all doing was wasting time until we die. And for whatever reason, that short statement had a lasting effect on how I think.

Anyway, neither of those pictures back there were me. They, along with the rest of it were what came up when googling my first/last name. It’s like x-files govt cloning experiment meets Geneology Monthly magazine, but we’re all located on the east coast of this continent, and mostly in this state, and agewise within 20years.
I know those kids in sydney would beg to differ, and maybe it’s because I don’t unnerstand the rules, but I can’t see where talent is in bending over and running head-first into another person. And so, even when I was six I doubt I’d be caught dead getting fotographed with a rugby player.
No, the only ‘sports’ I can be bother with are where an obscene amount of fossil fuel is lit, potentially millions of dollars of hardware is smashed to bits, plus the odd firey death. Motorsport.
And while formula one this year has been like watching two red-painted planks drying in the sun, next year might be funner.

My two favourite drivers will be in the same team – Kimi Raikkonen and Juan Montoya. They are such spoilt brat-man and I think it’s great. I saw this brief bit of footage this year of how some cameraman with one of those hefty TV-quality jobs on his shoulder swung around and accidentally whacked Montoya in the side of the head with the lens. Juan covered his head in hands more out of shock than pain then went to hit the cameraman, but his girlfriend stopped it. Juan’s press conferences are quite special too, he’s got this special brand of uncomfortable. He’s got a very girlish look to his features, does Juan.
And then there’s Kimi, who I’ve mentioned before. Everytime his car’s blown up, he’s crawled out there onto the grass beside the race track, body-size diminished by the helmet, wondering what the heck he’s doing with his life. Then track-safety marshals rush over, and there must be something about Kimi in distress because they can’t help but put a hand on his shoulder. The message they invariably get back is, like that Groove Armada song – Don’t touch me! – and he shoves them in the chest. Kimi loves the shove.

I want to write a road/buddy movie with Juan and Kimi in. They’ll drive through the country, resentful of eachother’s company, alternately offending and being offended by local yokels.