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2011-02-26T16:12:00.000-08:00

I’m no gossip.

I try to stay away from the type of person who uses the affairs of others as a source of trite conversation. At the same time though, I understand that sometimes you need to thrash it out, so you don’t harbour it inside and end up walking around with your tail between your legs. What I’m trying to say is that a lot of stuff has gone down and I need to talk. So here it is.
I am a great person to live with. I’m happy all the time. They’re the ones who fought, and if I said anything during one of their altercations I was ignored. On occasion he’d even march me to the back door, and ask me to leave. I never had anything to say to that, so I’d slink past them and have the door slammed behind me – which never ceases to give me the shock of my life. Sometimes our neighbour poked his head over the fence. I’d always say hello to him, but at times like this he’d be more concerned with what was going on inside. I don’t blame him.

If I wasn’t thrown out, I’d go hide somewhere anyway. To his credit he’d always seek me out when they stopped shouting. I’d try to stay hidden for as long as possible so I could relish in the post fight lilt he’d give my name, but in these situations I generally cave in because I know I’ll get a cuddle. I’m a pretty tactile being.

Living arrangements: I crashed on the couch and they slept upstairs. I’ve only seen it a few times, but the bedroom is unbelievable. In the beginning a scent used to come from there at night, which wafted all the way down to where I curl up. I don’t know – if a smell can be important yet lusty this was it. As time passed I smelt it less and less. And then I couldn’t smell it at all.

Some back-story: She moved in seven years ago. I sensed something was up on the day of her arrival. I didn’t know what it was – he didn’t approach me about it – but there was a different feeling in the air. He was pacing in the living room and occasionally he’d turn to me and say, ‘Is this a good idea?’ I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what to say. Then I heard someone and ran to the door, but he pushed me aside and told me to be quiet. It always hurts to be treated like this, but when he opened the door and they laughed and hugged and she turned to me and spoke so affectionately, I couldn’t help forget my minor woes. I love a good party.

When he was at home she was great. She seemed really happy for me to be around and the three of us would have a great time sitting on the couch or alike. When he was out however, she treated me like I didn’t exist. I might wander into the kitchen and attempt a bit of banter only to have her finish up the dishes and walk straight past me. It was confusing. I never brought it up with him because I didn’t think he’d understand. So I just dealt with it – and I wasn’t left alone with her that often – I had the home to myself most days anyway.

Once every seven years, he is amazingly nice to me. I know when this day is because in the morning he calls me into his bedroom. I am never allowed in there except on these days. I always run up the stairs and literally leap onto the bed – I’m that excited. He pays me an almost overly generous amount of attention, and then it’s on: Breakfast is a hundred times better than usual – I get gifts, and some serious lovin’.

Things began to take a turn one day when he came home and threw his briefcase across the kitchen (it almost hit me). What I gathered from his tone and body language was that someone, from wherever he went daily, had told him off quite seriously. In fact, whatever had happened had been so bad they he was now home every day. On paper, this seemed ideal to me, but in reality, it didn’t prove to be a positive step. I like to drink – I think it’s necessary – but now he was always drinking, and not after a big run when you really crave it. It made him smell sour, I didn’t care for it much and after a while neither did she. She would come home, smell him, and then they’d fight.

He started to carry himself differently around this time; like he was wearing a collar that was too tight and made him hunch. When she was home they wouldn’t even sit in the same room. It was all so heavy and I felt like a middleman; wandering from room to room trying to be helpful but being told in a tone I didn’t like that my presence wasn’t welcome.
There was a brief moment when things went back to normal. One morning she left the house earlier than usual with a bag on wheels. An hour later I heard feet at the door. For once he was friendly, and the female was nice too, but they weren’t around for long. They rushed upstairs and were groaning at each other until that waft drifted to where I lay on the couch. It was like a pleasant memory and I could’ve savoured it forever. But then she came back.

There was a key in the door and I ran to dish out my obligatory welcome. Her head poked around and she called out. I answered, but she ignored me. She came inside and called again. I stood in her path, trying to get a little attention. She looked down at me and said something horrible and kicked me as hard as she could. I yelped, crashing against the wall as she strode past. I hid as I heard her making lots of noise upstairs. They were screaming at the top of their lungs. The female who I didn’t know ran past me putting shoes on and doing up buttons. The screaming continued until she came down with two suitcases with wheels. She shouted something out, flung open the door, and slammed it behind her so hard a picture fell off the wall and smashed right next to where I was hidden under the couch. I could see the photo; it was of the three of us down at the park. Although I’ve got my tongue out, it’s a great photo and it was a stark reminder of how quickly things can go wrong.

It got dark, but I stayed under the couch (I’d had enough drama for one day). Finally he came downstairs, but instead of seeing the picture she’d smashed, he saw what I’d done. When she’d kicked me I got so scared that I … made a mess on the ground. He called me and when I came out he grabbed me by the neck and forced my face into the mess. I couldn’t believe it. As if all this was my fault! At that point I lost control of my emotions and started to howl. His face changed immediately and any anger that was inside him dissipated and was replaced with genuine remorse. He took me out the back and hosed down my face and dried me off. He cuddled me and told me he loved me. I couldn’t count how many times he said sorry but every one of them was as sweet as the one before it. I followed him around as he began collecting bottles from different places around the house. After he’d picked up every last one (he filled the bin), we sat on the couch and watched some trashy TV.

A week after she left it was that day I mentioned before: Where I get gifts and surprises for apparently no reason. That evening he and I were having a bit of a wrestle on the couch and the bell at the door chimed. Since my kicking, I’ve been a little reluctant to have guests over, because I fear it’s her returning. But it was a man with a box that smelt like I’d died and gone to heaven. There was a brief exchange and the box was brought over to me. It was opened and there laid a delicious looking circle topped with delicacies I had never even seen before. My best friend pulled a triangle from it and yellow stringy tendrils stretched until they finally gave way. He handed it to me, smiling, and when I was done (under three seconds), he handed me another and told me he loved me.

It’s the simple things.

Complete Fiction

2011-02-02T03:59:00.000-08:00

Before I begin this post I would like to say that it is complete fiction.

This does not happen. If it did, and I was actually doing it, I don't know anything about it.

Thank you.

I'm a high end shoplifter. I steal from major supermarkets and - when I'm drunk - Seven Elevens. The information that I have gathered from both my reliable and unreliable sources is that these joints are pretty much covered for this kind of anti-social behaviour. Essentially, as far as I can tell, all stealing makes me makes me is a statistic.

What I'm saying in a roundabout kind of way is that I have justified my minor ... um ... well, it's a misdemeanor I suppose, but I might even say that I'm a little proud of myself.

Don't get caught. I hear you offer in a, dare I say, slightly too parental tone. That tone that will have you saying, 'I told you so', if I do ever feel that hand on my shoulder.

I won't get caught.

My craft is a simple one.

I simply hold it in my hand. I offload my legitimate purchases on to the conveyor belt or alike whilst always carrying the hot item right in front of them. Because it's right in front of the cashier's eyes they presume I bought it somewhere else, and if they have the courage to ask me if I bought it at their shop, then I apologise and pay for it.

'I am an idiot.' Then casually I laugh. 'I am so tired.'

They too are tired and they empathise with me.

Do you see why this is flawless if you can handle the heat?

Here's some shit I've got for free this month:

Berocca $7.45 (Coles)

Goat's Cheese $9.95! (Harris Farm)

Caviar $4.35 (Sydney Fish Markets)

Creme Fraiche $5.75 (Coles)

White Costello $7.45 (Woolworths)

Starburst $0.99 (Seven Eleven)

Give it a go. But don't panic and stick it in your pocket.

Hold it in front of them, look them in the eyes, and dare them to mention it.

Take Away.

2011-01-26T19:36:00.000-08:00

We picked him up at the prison, and he got in the fucken car. He was straight out with it too, no pussy fucken footin’ to be found here.
‘Are you two on?’
‘Yeah and what fucken of it?’
Whether we was on or not was none of his fucken business. Here I am, picking the shit up.’
‘I hoped you might –’
I interrupt the prick right there.
‘Unfortunately we haven’t had the chance to detox at the state’s fucken expense like yerself, have we?’
‘They don’t tax drug dealin’ though, do they?’ He says.
‘I smoke, smarmy cunt,’ I says. ‘Government takes more than half of the price of ciggies.’
‘All I’m sayin’ is, I’m tryin’ to clean up. It just woulda been nice.’
Listen to him. This is when family gives you the shits, so I let him know.
‘If you wanna a fucken fight of words, let’s roll.’
He wasn’t gonna argue that, cos he’d never win. I can’t be beaten in a fight, fists, or otherwise.
Then I saw him look at Amanda. She was riding up front with me.
When we were waiting for him to be released, she said she’d move to the back so he could sit front, but I told her she’d stay put. He’d ride in the back, and he’d fucken get used to that. There was a time we rode together, but those days were long and well and truly fucken gone.
‘How you doin Mandy?’
One dodgy look at her, and I’d stop the car and kick his fucken arse. I don’t care. Mandy needed the junk, so she wasn’t going to be a problem. I didn’t mind her talking to him. I mean … what’s she gonna do?
‘How was inside?’
‘Boring. As long as you can keep your head down, it’s just boring. ‘
There was a lot of bad blood between us. I’m not shitting you. But I was willing to give him another chance.
‘Well you’re out now, and I’ve got you a job.’
The cunt had the nerve to laugh. One of those – what’s the word – fucken condescending laughs. I almost punched the prick, but I let him talk.
‘Not selling anymore. I’m out, and I’m not going back in.’
‘You went in cos you were stupid.’
Another one of those fucken laughs.
I’m runnin on empty, and I see a petrol station. We had to ride across town to pick up, so I pull in and park. I turn around, pretty fucken menacingly. The cunt doesn’t flinch, but once again, I show good manners, and let it go.
‘You wanna pay for this petrol?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Thirty should cover it.’
He fishes it out. We both know that it’s too much cash to hand over (my flat isn’t far from the jail), but the pussy’s too weak to complain.
I snatch the money from him, and get out to fill up.

A Brief Conversation In Regards To My Beard With A Friend.

2011-01-24T19:55:00.000-08:00

PUB

T IS DRINKING AT BAR. E ENTERS.

E: Woah. You're in a relationship, aren't you?

T: You know that.

E: If I didn't, I'd know now.

T: But...you did...you do.

E: If I didn't, is what I'm saying.

T: What are you saying? Where are you going with this?

E: Not to a good place.

T: If I buy you a drink can we not go there?

E: Oh, I am flat broke, you'll be buying the drinks today.

T GRUMBLES.

E: What?

T: I was grumbling.

E: Fair enough, I suppose. I would too if I looked homeless.

T: Is it the shirt? I love this shirt.

E: The shirt complements your ragged facial hair. But...that...your awful facial hair, is what makes me want to throw coins at you and give you a bath.

T: You don't have any coins, arsehole.

E: If I had folding money I would give it to you.

T: You don't like my beard?

E: That, my friend, is not a beard. It's more crop circles than beard.

T: But if I grow it out it will thicken.

E: If you work out how to thicken water, you may have a chance of working out how to thicken that beard.

T: Ice.

E: Hm?

T: Ice.

AND THE SUBJECT CHANGED.

The Full Circle

2011-01-23T02:11:00.000-08:00

Black Market.

2010-09-05T21:38:00.000-07:00

Shelley and I are going out tonight. She comes to my house around seven. I’m all out of ecstasy so I go out and buy some more before she arrives so we can drop immediately (they’ve got ‘no deal’ on the tablets; from the game show). We want to go and see a movie before heading to our favourite music venue. She comes over and is a bit speedy because she had a work report due that required the focus amphetamines offer on a short-term basis. She’d mainlined that morning and spent the day at her computer. ‘The problem with working on speed,’ she says at the door with pupils like dish plates, ‘is that you get too much done. You can complete a weeks’ work in less than six hours.’

The movie is great. It’s a feel good piece and we laugh and sigh our way through it – not that we need to feel good, we feel awesome. The two lead characters bicker through the first half of the film – although it’s obvious that they like each other. And it’s only when their two equally hilarious flat mates spike their drinks with MDMA that they find true love.
After, we head to see a band and catch up with Patrick who’s had a little too much heroin. He keeps rubbing his nose and his eyes droop closed on more than one occasion (more than five). I have a crush on Patrick. Shelley knows this and leaves us alone for a while. I took a little more ecstasy after the movie and I’m pretty tactile, I keep putting Patrick’s hands on my body; over my breasts, but he’s too smacked out so I give up after a while.

The band is awesome and Shelley and I dance up front whilst Patrick buys a Coke and then drops it, his hand makes a circle where he was holding it. Buys and drops, buys … and drops. The soft drink vendor laughs at him. ‘You took too much, man,’ he says, pointing. Patrick swipes at the extended finger missing it continually. The bartender plays with him for a while, like a puppy, then gets bored and serves someone else.

Around midnight we jump in a cab and drop Patrick home. Shelley and I continue on to my place and we stop by a convenience store to pick up a couple of joints and a handful of Xanax, so we can sleep. We both have to work the next day. Shelley always stays at my place. She still lives with her family, with the exception of her father who is in prison. You probably read about it in the papers a couple of years ago, when those two trucks were involved in that police chase along the Hume Highway going from Sydney to Melbourne. He was the driver of one of them and was caught with five hundred cartons of beer.

The street value of a can of beer is about twenty-five bucks. Times that by twenty-four it equals about a five hundred dollars. Times that by five hundred and you’ve got at least a five year stint in maximum security.

Shelley’s family have stood by her father and that freaks me out a bit I guess. I once caught Shelley smoking a cigarette. She was staying at my place for a couple of days and I came home from work early. When I opened the door I immediately smelt tobacco. Shelley was on the couch and she hurriedly stubbed something out in the ashtray. I asked her what it was, she said a joint, and we left it at that. But if it were to happen again … I suppose what I’m saying is that I do not want to be a part of criminal activity. I wouldn’t give her in to the police or anything; she just wouldn’t be welcome at my place any more. And that would be a shame.

We lounge around on my couch still feeling really good. We’re chatty and our conversation dives deep into themes of the heart, and soul. I talk about Patrick the lovable junky lawyer: Always on, but hard working and a vigilant prosecutor. He only ever has too much on the weekend, and I’ve never had to poke him with the shot of adrenalin that users have to carry at all times, so essentially he’s a big tick for me. Shelley agrees and feigns jealousy. I feel really close to Shelley right now. I know I can tell her anything and she won’t judge me. This is due to her family’s plight obviously, but I think it’s a good example of how positivity can come out of a bad situation.

Shelley starts talking about the government. We’ve never openly discussed her family’s situation and I really hope that she’s not leading us there. It’s … I’m not comfortable with it. She asks me why it’s okay to smoke pot and not tobacco. ‘They both grow naturally’, she says, ‘why is one okay and the other taboo?’ I shrug my shoulders and quote the ad that we both grew up with, ‘Dope will make you feel great, tobacco is weed fuelled hate: Cancer!’

‘I barely understand what it means,’ Shelley says. I begin to explain to her what we’ve all read on the pamphlets a hundred times, but she interrupts me, ‘Yeah, that’s what they say, but all the politicians smoke and drink.’
‘They do not.’ I say, shocked.
‘It’s well documented.’
‘Do we have to? I mean, I’m still high.’
‘We’re all high. Everyone’s high all the time.’ Shelley’s arms are waving. ‘Tobacco just sort of calms you down and alcohol makes you feel positively giddy. They want us on psychotropic’s or painkillers so we don’t kick up a stink about the state of the world.’
‘You can die on a couple of beers. Or you go crazy and fight everybody. You’ve seen the footage.’
‘It’s all staged. Tell me you know that they’re actors.’ Shelley folds her arms and waits.
‘Well … yes, I know they’re not real, but they’re examples of what’s …’
‘Lies.’ Shelley’s interrupting me now. ‘It’s all bullshit. They want us munted. They want the entire population fuck-eyed.’
‘This is an illegal conversation. I don’t want to talk about it.’ I can feel anger and fear pierce the bubble of my ecstasy high. I light up a joint to ride the wave.
‘You should try beer.’
‘No!’ I say, sputtering on the joint. ‘Please Shelley, stop talking about it, we’ll get in trouble.’
‘You can’t tell me lots’a people don’t.’ Shelley says this pulling something out of her bag. Emotion rises up in me and I can barely keep a lid on it. The ecstasy is making a come back.
‘It’s like Animal Farm. They’ve learnt to walk on two legs and drink liquor whilst we’re still working on the windmill.’ Whilst Shelley anecdotally jams, she holds up what I know from the television is a six-pack. ‘Well I’m not going to take it anymore. If I want a drink I’m going to have it.’

I am lost for words. Shelley is peeling the plastic layer off and extracts a brown bottle. Within my horror there is a fraction of disappointment. In government messages the image of the beer is ominous and coupled with music that I still hear in my nightmares. In real life it looks harmless. Like it could’ve been bought at a store.
‘You have to leave. And take that with you.’ But my words sound hollow: Too much reverb.
‘Will you call the police on me?’ Shelley winks and takes the lid off the beer. It makes a fizzing sound. She holds it in front of her mouth.
‘Don’t do it, Shelley. I’ll call, I will.’ Due to the high impact nature of What I Am Seeing, nothing is registering. I am frozen.
Shelley slowly brings the bottle up to her lips and rests it there. She looks at me, and throws her head back. I watch, stuck in the headlights. She finishes the half the beer and I am beside myself. I’m expecting her to drop dead instantly. She wipes her mouth and a rumble emerges from her. She covers her mouth as she burps and then she laughs.
‘Oh my God!’ I say. ‘Shelley, we have to call an ambulance.’
But Shelley won’t have any of it. She waves me away as she pulls another bottle out of the six-pack. The fizzing sound again, and she holds it out to me. I recoil.
‘It’s okay. I feel great.’ She nods at the bottle in her out stretched hand. ‘Just have a sip, it’s not gonna kill you.’
‘No way.’ I stand and tower above Shelley who is smiling and still holding the beer out to me.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ she says, ‘you don’t have to drink it. Just hold it.’
Slowly I sit again, but I’m still agitated. I take the beer off Shelley and I’m shaking as I hold it. It feels cold, but not cold as in temperature-wise, it feels cold like it’s emotionless and waiting to kill me.

I don’t know if it’s the ecstasy or the pot or what, but I have a sip. I’m not expecting the bubbles and I cough a little. Shelley laughs. She’s taking the top off another and she starts drinking. I take a deeper sip. My face is grimaced as I wait for my heart to stop. Or a blinding headache to kill me on the spot, but nothing happens. I drink again and grimace a little less. Then I gulp and something warm and friendly is bursting inside me.
All of a sudden I’m on my second. I am laughing and talking now, and everything I thought is going out the window.
Then the six-pack is gone and Shelley produces another. This time I don’t protest. In fact, if I’m to be honest, it was me who asked for it. After my fourth Shelley pulls out a couple of cigarettes from a packet that you would buy from a store that usually holds joints. I don’t even frown; I pull one of the slender home rolled cigarettes out of the packet and light it. A part of me expects to choke on this ‘poison fuelled stick’ but nothing happens. The smoke is warm and invigorating and it doesn’t taste half as bad as the amphetamine-spiked joints you can buy from the corner store.

I’m on cloud nine. I feel liberated and I tell Shelley exactly this. She smiles. I can see in her face that this is nothing new to her, but I also recognise that she is not hampering my experience with what she already knows. We talk about her family, and the difficulties she has gone through, and the stigma that has been attached to her that she is reminded of by people on a daily basis. I apologise for not being there for her more but she stops me and says that my friendship has been very much appreciated. We hold each other whilst our cigarettes burn away in the ashtray. We look at each other dead in the eye and something important passes between us. Our already strong friendship fortifies even more and it’s a powerful feeling.
‘People die all the time,’ Shelley says, ‘and it is acceptable because they’re dying within the boundaries of our rules.’
I love the music that’s playing over my stereo at the moment. It’s a song by a shock band from the early 90’s, and their once subversive drinking songs now carry a sense of truth that is really hitting home for me.
‘And if they legalised booze, there would be no crime.’ As Shelley says this she hands me my fifth. I hungrily open the bottle and swig away listening intently and agreeing with it all. I’m feeling like Shelley’s student, and a euphoric state falls over me. But not in the drugged out sense, it’s knowledge and understanding that is making me high.
And the beer.

It’s hard to explain. But it’s like I’ve been reborn. Rules and regulations that had been drummed into me from infancy seemed superfluous - more than that, ridiculous. What right do these fuddy duddy politicians have to tell us how we choose to relax or even escape? I feel angry that I’ve been blind for so long, that everything I thought was right is actually wrong, and I vow to do something about it. Somehow.

The door breaks apart and 6 men in SWAT uniforms enter. One holds the door open whilst the others enter in formation, checking each passageway before continuing forward, with their guns leading the way. Shelley makes a feeble attempt to hide the contraband but it is too late. They are screaming at us to put our hands above our heads, and soon we are cuffed and heading to the station, and all of a sudden, I can’t look Shelley in the eye anymore.

I did not like testifying against Shelley, but my hands were tied (or … they would’ve been if I didn’t). The lying wasn’t fun: My lawyers said for me to say that I thought the alcohol was mescaline in fake beer bottles. I had no prior convictions so it wasn’t hard for the judge to believe I had never tried beer before. Shelley didn’t take it well, but there was no point in both of us going away and she supplied it so … I suppose one must lie in the bed that one has made. I was vulnerable and she exploited it. Hopefully her time away will teach her what is and isn’t appropriate, and although she’s not in the same prison as her father, the fact that she has been incarcerated might bring them closer together (preferably not too close, for her sake, but still).

I’ve had to undergo alcohol counselling which can be trying at times. They make me feel like a criminal and although I know what I did was wrong, I don’t appreciate the looks I get in the street when people recognise me from the paper. I am not like Shelley. I strayed for a minute but now, with the aid of a healthy regiment of morphine and selected uppers I am back on track and feeling … well not much at all.

Woman In Home

2009-03-23T18:33:00.000-07:00

I’m doing the dishes. I’ve just finished up dusting, and before that I swept and mopped the floorboards from head to toe. I also vacuumed the rugs and the carpets. He told me not to bother as he picked up his keys from the table, but I suppose I’m marking my territory, in a way.
I’m not entirely comfortable yet, but I’m getting there.
The children are free to play out the front, he told me. It’s a quiet street, and they look after each other, he said as he stood in the doorway smiling at me. He blew me a kiss and said, welcome to the family. Then he closed the door. I listened to his children (our children?) playfully attack him on the other side.

I’m drying the dishes and the two eldest of the three kids are standing in front of me. Behind them is the youngest. She is weeping uncontrollably. I pick her up. I ask what happened.
‘He pushed her on to the road.’
The eldest points to his sibling.
‘No I never.’
‘Yes you did, liar.’
They start shoving. I reluctantly ask them to stop. They do. I’m surprised that they listen.
‘She fell, and I tried to catch her.’
The sobbing mess in my arms points to her knee. It has a small graze on it. I plonk her on a chair, and ask her where the band-aids are. She points to a cupboard above the fridge. I open it. The shoving resumes. I look over to them and they stop. The eldest speaks.
‘She had his pokemon …’
I ask what a pokemon is. The explanation I receive baffles me.
‘I let her have it. I said she could …’
‘… and he snatched it, and pushed her over.’
‘That. Never. Happened.’
Pushing resumes. I stop it with an eyebrow this time.
More contrasting exposition from the boys. I dab at the little one’s knee. She has stopped sobbing, and is inhaling in that snorty way that kids do when in recovery from a good cry. I ask her to be brave. She gives me the hand. The boys’ stories are white noise.
Must I get to the bottom of this?
I suppose I have to. Then I realise I have the truth before me. I ask the little one, if the second eldest pushed her over because of the pokie man. She nods. I look at the boy. The fight has left him. Guilt reigns. I ask him what his father would do in this situation.
‘He would put me in time out.’
I ask the eldest what time out is. He explains. I ask the second eldest how long he should be put in the corner.
‘About twenty minutes.’
The other two nod. The punishment fits the crime. Does he need to be escorted?
‘No.’
Forlorn. Cute.

SS Subversive

2008-07-01T17:30:00.000-07:00

SS Subversive.

About three months ago I was out in Kings Cross with several friends, spending an obscene amount of money on booze and girls in a strip club.
At around four in the morning the night turned into a sort of photo album.
In the first snapshot I am on stage with the strippers.
In the next snapshot I am being roughly extricated from the club. My boys are waving goodbye. They have no intention of leaving.
In the next snapshot, an extremely cute girl in uniform is chatting me up.
In the final snapshot I am signing a document, whilst the woman is massaging my groin.
This is all that I remember.

When I open my eyes I realise I’m not at home. I am in a small cabin with eight sets of bunk beds – all empty, and tightly made up. The walls are metal, as is the floor and the ceiling.
There is a compelling silence.
I am extremely hung over.
A door opens and the woman from last night enters.
‘Stand to attention.’
I’m befuddled.
‘Where are my clothes?’
‘I am the Lieutenant of this Naval vessel. Accept my orders without question.’
I remove my blanket, get out of the bunk, and stand at the foot of it. She walks towards me. My tumescent member is twitching uncontrollably. She begins to take her clothing off. Her skin is flawless even under neon. She shows me her bottom. It is large, but tight, and the shape of a perfect apricot. I’m aroused but confused.
‘Where am I?’
She’s naked now and kisses me fully on the mouth. Her tongue flickers at mine, and her hand grabs my cock, hard, making me gasp. She pushes me down onto the bed.
‘What is going on?’
She straddles me.
‘You’re on a submarine.’
She gently places me inside her.
‘And we’re about to submerge.’

As she’s getting dressed, I notice her nametag; it says Beaumont.
‘Please explain what is going on.’
She is placing her hat upon her head.
‘You joined the Navy. You’re the official cook on Australia’s only WRAN submarine.’
‘WRAM?’
‘WRAN. The Women’s Royal Australian Navy.
She pats down her skirt.
‘An Officer will be in shortly. She will explain everything.’
‘Um … are we on a mission?’
This sounds idiotic coming out of my mouth.
‘I’m afraid that’s classified.’
‘But … I already have a job.’
‘Once signed up, you cannot leave the Navy. It is an offence to do so.’
Lieutenant Beaumont turns and exits. I frantically search the room for my clothes wondering how on earth one might escape from a submarine.
There is a knock.
‘Don’t come in. I’m not wearing anything.’
The door opens anyway, and a girl – barely twenty – enters. I hold the blanket around my waist. She plucks a tape measure from somewhere, and runs it through her fingers. I speak.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.’
She pulls the blanket from my hands, and tenderly yet forcefully measures my penis.
She runs the tape down my arm.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m taking measurements for your uniform.’
‘What’s my role exactly?’
She answers by kneeling in front of me. Although mentally, I’m sexually spent, my penis obviously isn’t done. It taps her chin that is positioned in front of my groin.
My measurements are taken orally.

I’m left to get into uniform and make my way down the slim halls of the sub. After passing through several empty cabins like mine, I open a door and am met with a crew of women entire, sitting at two long tables running down either side of a thin aisle. The chatter stops and they all look me up and down. There is an impossibly long silence. I see a spare seat and I walk to it. I am extremely nervous.
No one speaks during breakfast. This has me freaking out, and when we’re done I try to sneak back into my cabin. Lieutenant Beaumont stops me, and asks the crew who would like to take me on a tour of the sub. What happens next is crazy. They turn into schoolgirls, squealing ‘pick me’, waving their arms in the air. Beaumont picks four, two blondes, a brunette, and a cute tiny girl of Asian descent. They pull me out of my chair and I am ushered out of the mess.
They do unspeakable things to me in the torpedo room.
They tie me up in the manoeuvre room.
We all squeeze into one of the escape pods, meant to fit two.
I almost get away from them in the escape hatch, but they find me hiding under the table in the Sonar Room. I beg them to stop, but they don’t.
For the next two months this kind of stuff happens every day.

I am a sex slave trapped two thousand metres underwater. I’m allowed to sleep only when I’m not being screwed or sucked or tongued or groped or tied with rope. My duties are too much for a platoon to take care of. Lesser men would perish.
One morning I’m awoken by two lady soldiers in different uniforms at the foot of my bed. They point guns in my direction. The twin Medical Officers who are curled up next to me, rub their eyes in unison. The soldiers speak aggressively in French. The others in my cabin do not look as shocked as I feel. In fact, I’m definite I saw the girl with the glasses who sleeps next to me (and has been ordering me to aggressively spoon her for the last month) rub her hands together.
All I can think while I’m madly getting into uniform is how over the last couple of months I have spent most of my time in the dark … but at the same time, in the middle of everything.
When I am dressed I am traipsed out of the room by the soldiers. As I go through the mess, everyone is busy eating. Now they don’t want to look at me whereas before they couldn’t get enough of me. My sexual currency has hit an all time low, but although I am a red raw fuckslave, although I’ve spent what seems an eternity as a prong-with-legs and have been constantly pawed underwater against my will … I want my sexual predators back.
My armed entourage and I are met by Lieutenant Beaumont in the Control Room. When I salute her, she returns it half-heartedly. I can tell immediately that she’s no longer in to me.
‘What is going on?’
‘You’re being transferred.’
Beaumont waves to a ladder that she wants me to climb. This is the first time she hasn’t gone up a ladder first, and even if she isn’t wearing a skirt, the gesture hurts. I climb up, a hatch opens, and I see sunshine.

I am led down a pier that the sub has docked against on a beautiful day. French Guiana sits atop Venezuela in South America. The French colonised the region in 1667 and, in the 1790’s, during the French Revolution, they began sending their political prisoners there. In 1854 a formal prison system was established, and in 1945 when it was shut down, the remnants became an ideal multi-cultural society. The two lady soldiers escorting me are gorgeous examples. The one linking my arm on my right is half American Indian and half Lebanese, whilst the girl on my left is half Arabic and half Indochinese. I find it difficult to stop staring. I think this is okay because since we left the sub they have been fondling me around the thighs.
Now I’m standing in front of a desk in a military office. Sitting behind it is the cutest French girl I’ve ever seen. Next to her are the two beauties that brought me here, and on my right Lieutenant Beaumont stands as stiff as a board (sometimes I think she takes her job too seriously). A fan whirs overhead, and a small pot plant sitting atop a bookcase, adorned with books in strict regimented colour, droops in the humidity. I have been ordered to strip down completely. Two months ago this might have posed a timidity issue, but I’ve been broken in.
‘His cock is a little red.’
The new Lieutenant’s broken English is phenomenally sexy.
‘He’s the only one we’ve had, so …’
The new Lieutenant raises a single eyebrow. It kills me in a very sexual way.
‘You crossed the Indian Ocean with one man?’
Beaumont reiterates.
‘And the South Atlantic.’
The Lieutenant nods to the half Indochinese girl, who leaves the room. She returns with a naked South American guy. He looks smashed and is placed next to me. He babbles in what sounds like Portuguese. He’s introduced.
‘We found him in a bar down the road. He had spent half of his wages on lap dances.’
Beaumont looks impressed.
‘We’ll take him.’
‘Will you be okay with just one?’
‘It’s not far to Bermuda.’
The new Lieutenant nods at me.
‘I like ours.’
Beaumont pats my bottom.
‘I think you’ll find him useful.’
I am shocked.
‘Are you letting me go?’
She strokes the back of my head.
‘Don’t think you haven’t been appreciated, but the crew like to rotate our boys.’
I turn to the new Lieutenant who winks, and circles her nipple, that has erected under her blouse. Beaumont speaks.
‘Now if you don’t mind, we have to be off. There’s a storm coming that we need to beat.’
She kisses me gently on the lips. Her mouth caresses my ear and she speaks.
‘You’ve been my favourite.’
With that she takes the Portuguese guy by the hand, salutes the other Lieutenant and walks out of my life. I turn back from the door to face the three ladies and if I weren’t undressed already their eyes would’ve done the job by now.

End.

Words, Phrases, and Sentences Others have used to Describe Me, in the Last Week.

2008-02-01T17:26:00.000-08:00

Caustic

A Funny Guy

Teetering

Without Capacity

Ring In

'He's certainly viable ... I mean ... he'll do'.

'He really put that one away.'

Slightly Soiled

Fucking Dickhead

Spunky

'Yes he does. He has that attitude with everyone.'

All Limbs

Overly Dramatic Masochist

Friend

Fiend

A find

Exploitative In A Cute Way

Morally Bankrupt With A Heart

Gently Explosive

Sir

Scumbag

...

'He does what he can with what he's got.'

Hunted

2008-01-27T05:01:00.000-08:00

A man has been following me once again. He seems to be wanting sound bytes. He has a microphone attached to a little black box that is secured to his belt. He wears headphones and is not subtle when he tries to capture my voice. I'm worried he might be trying to record as many words as he possibly can so he can jumble up my sentences.

'I want to end my communication with those I'm fond of.'

Or;

'I'm not particularly good at my chosen profession.'

I have begun to work on a code so that he won't be able to catch me saying words that might be incriminating. The man has no teeth. I know this not because I have seen his mouth, but because I can hear him slurping. I presume he does this so he doesn't drool, but the sound he makes petrifies me. The drinking for this reason has sadly escalated. Mornings consist of four sharp Bloody Marys. Lunch comes with wine and without anything accompanying it. Weekdays, scotch rests in my trembling hand, and I save the weekends for gin the king of the depressants, and the queen of the sobbing fear.

Sleepless nights once again. Apart from the slurping. My eyes remain open and I can see the little red light that flashes on the little black box. As the sun comes up, I shower, clean my teeth, shave, and dress in silence. I meticulously prepare my drinks, and sit zombie like on my balcony never saying a word. I'm working on my secret code.

Maybe he'll turn my voice into sweet pop culture syrup. He would have to take snippets of words and paste them together. I try not to talk about pop culture.

I'll keep you informed,

Intimate.

2008-01-05T19:51:00.000-08:00

This year for me is about ritual. I want plans, I want things I can work towards. I have started by dismantling already existing chaotic dalliances with ideas, and have begun focusing on them becoming tangible moments of self exploration; a time to file away items that can tend to float around in my brain, bubbling with possibility, yet never morphing into action.

I wrote a song about Saigon, but I always get the lyrics wrong.

A wonderful fall-back for me is my self imposed hopelessness; it's my wild card. Whenever shit goes down (things that we can all relate to) it's very easy to handball the issue to my pure lack of life skills. This year, I tackle problems head on. I will not try to find a way around it, nor will I ignore it's existence. Not this time. Not this year.

My lover left me in Japan, with a dozen Yen, and a cat-scan.

Outside of the obvious life achievements such as breathing, eating, and procreating, we are all out there trying to find a scrap of joy. There are many places to search (some fun ones). My intention, this year, is to find some self satisfied warmth within my skinny frame. A cliche, but didn't Shakespeare cover it all anyway?

Trying to fill an empty cup, vying to thrill but you're all fed up.

When did I start looking for wedding bands on fingers? When did I read about the blind being able to 'see' when it rains? Drops act as a map, giving things height, and texture: A damp cartographer. Why does that notion hold such import for me? I think because it's just a beautiful thing.

It's okay that you don't care, you can hear this anywhere.

I saw a child run across the road the other day. His (and I speculate here) drug addicted mother was lagging, willing to take a chance on her son blindly lurching across a quiet street. I warned the child that he should be more careful when crossing roads. I didn't use the phrase we all learnt at school because I couldn't remember if you were supposed to look left or right first. 'Look (some way) then look (the other way) then look (the way you first looked) again. The mother was defensive which is understandable. Do I have a child? I don't think so. She suggested in her own special vernacular that I should probably concentrate on things that are related to my own life, not hers. I agreed, and offered her a cigarette.

My lover left me in Japan, I'm just doing what I can, it's not so bad.

Be glad.

Ways I Have Become A Man.

2008-01-02T17:09:00.000-08:00

Watching Ricky Gervais's new stand up show 'Fame'. Had me ponder a question relative to this time of year. He tells an anecdote in regards to how he is now allowed to back trucks into a reverse parking space. The truck driver's trust his judgment now that he has become a particular age.

On paper not so amusing, but that wasn't the point. What I'm getting at, is that it had me ponder in what ways I've grown up.

What makes me a man now?

This is the best list I could come up with.

- I have grown a beard and a moustache. People have even commented on how manly I look now. But I plan on shaving it off January 18. Will my manhood be stripped of me, or will some form of osmosis have occurred?

- I have enrolled to further my education.

- I can say unashamedly that it is a CAE course, not at a University one.

- I cleaned the bathroom even I always clean the bathroom, and I didn't complain. I just want it clean(ish)

- I got a medicare card.

- I got a debit card.

- I travelled alone.

- I sent a box of gifts back to my family for Christmas. Not just cards, and no vouchers. One particular friend of mine argued that two of the gifts were bought at a shop across the road from my residence. Although geographically convenient, this is a pucker shop. I'm not saying laziness didn't play a part, but ~~look at the price tag you cunts~~.

- I can talk business (at least with publicans and chefs), and I know eighty per cent of what they're talking about.

- I go to a doctor. I don't try to tend to problems at home.

- I spell check.

As to ways I am still behaving like a child; when you're all perfect ...

Manhood

2007-12-22T02:49:00.000-08:00

And here we are at this time of year again. Christmas is not without its charm, I mean, I'm no Scrooge. In fact, I'm as sentimental as all fuck.

I ran into a friend of mine ... I didn't run into her actually; we organised to have a pre-christmas drink.

This is my favourite thing about this time of year, it gives one the opportunity to reunite with those that we love, but just don't see often; in fact, this is the only time we (the editorial 'we' ) see them , and god bless yuletide for that.

We sat with a glass of wine, and chatted:

C: For the first time ever you look like a man.

I giggle. I thought she was teasing me about my crow's feet, and 'crow's feet' is beyond generous for the lines around my eyes, It's more like a raptor has been hunting on my face; point is, I thought I got her joke.

I'm not saying that I don't think I'm without my aesthetic charm (my mother blessed me with great skin), but I'm willing to take the odd you're-waning-c*nt, on the chin.

But it was my beard. This is what has bounced me into manhood: Facial hair.

I don't know how I feel about that. Aren't there other parts of me that suggest my maturity?

My writing maybe?

Maybe not.

I do understand. This is what makes the whole acting gig rather difficult at times. I'm in some kind of eternal puberty

Merry Christmas

Blood From A Stone.

2007-12-04T03:59:00.000-08:00

Thanks for your patience.

I haven't written for a while. On any level, on any paper, or any computer. I haven't had an idea, or a plot line, or a narrative. No character breakdowns have wafted past as I've walked the streets, no gags, or expertly crafted jokes.

Not a peep.

I've recently been stunned by how many pictures I have of myself that I'm smoking in.

I've decided that next year I want to ride a motorcycle across a third world country.

I want to go to sleep.

I should drink more water.

I'm not playing enough guitar.

I'm watching too much television.

I've seen some excellent documentaries on television.

Television has made me smarter.

I've got to stop listening to the same albums.

I should cease to smoke in my apartment. They asked me to stop.

I wish I could see my family for Christmas.

I should've gone to see them for Christmas.

I'd like to go to Tasmania.

Briefly.

2007-11-05T03:03:00.000-08:00

Will be taking a break for a month, as ideas for my summer line formulate.

Message Bank.

2007-10-31T06:15:00.000-07:00

I was in Melbourne.

Hi Amish, Frase (what a party! Where did you find that MC?), Marieke, hi; fluffy, sorry I didn't see you, but I think our paths almost crossed.

Now I am in Sydney. North of the River. Fuck me.

As employment, I'm improvising.

To put it into an analogy ... I'm no longer unemployed ... I'm on Centrelink.

Improvisation is loser talk from the illiterate.

And when I do it, I seem to be obsessed with drinking. All my offers, and counter offers, are based around, buying the person a beer, or getting the next round, or being to drunk to remember, or spending the last of my money on whiskey.

Living in hotels halves your care about the water crisis. Immediately. If you cared a whole bunch, you now a only luke-warm on the issue. I shower twice a day, but I don't blame me, I can only give a micro-fuck about it. I barely where clothes any more. They are strewn over most resemblances of a hanger: A pillow, for example, passes the test, I have jeans over my pillows.

These will be moved to the floor for slumber.

This is the best way to put it; my clothes are in the position of whatever my first path was when I re entered the flat.

Should we talk more of my nakedness?

Save me from Buckets of Rum.

2007-10-20T04:55:00.000-07:00

This is my last night in South East Asia, and suppose it would be fitting to get plastered. I'm in Bangkok after all.

I seem to speak to a lot of pairs of German girls. Never over 22. At some point (time has slipped into a different perspective for me), I was chatting to a few, and they said to me;

'do you realise you start off every story with, "I was getting drunk ..."?'

My first thought was, how dare you?

Then I thought, how Australian am I?

I can imagine that there are some of you out there who might object to this home truth, but we are foul mouthed, drinking, purging sons of criminals.

And I can't wait to see you all.

TO THE BUILDERS!

2007-10-16T21:03:00.000-07:00

I obtained my diving license today (is it license, or licence, and ... what does the other one mean, if it doesn't mean license / licence?

Anyway ... I fulfilled my examinational - if that isn't a word, it effing should be - duties so that now I am a registered(?) Open Water Diver.

Mr. Cotton is finally allowed in the ocean.

I must also point out that I got %92 in the exam ... that's right, I fucking aced it. I even let a German fellow, who was sitting next to me, cheat by telling him openly that he, the dunce of the class, was allowed to copy my, the Grand Master of the class, answers. A GERMAN! LOOKING AT MY ANSWERS!!

Then we dive. To be honest with you, my readers, I thought diving would require little more than, 'put this in your mouth, and head down', but it's a little more complicated than that. But I swam through millions of fish.

You know how much I hate all forms of extrapolation, and I'm sure you find my rigidity to truth a trifle baffling, but I saw ONE million fish ... probably more.

Not to mention being circled by 5 THREE AND A HALF METRE REEF SHARKS!!

As a diver - and I can say that now quite proudly - I have seen some shit. Some serious fucked up shit. It's down there, man, and sitting at a table with 5 Germans, they could tell by the bleak, pained look in my eyes, that I had seen things that man wasn't supposed to see. For the sake of their well-being, I put my own internal atrocities aside, and went on to enthrall them with my tales of yore. Besplendouring them with images of that remarkable palace of twisting and thrusting treasures, that with our big city notions, and corporate mangle we fail to recognise as a tru(e)ly wondrous world.

Empty Knowledge, and Vacuous Wisdom.

2007-10-12T23:22:00.000-07:00

I'm looking forward to talking to someone who is over 23, and under 40 years of age. Not that I don't enjoy flirting with 20 year old Swedish girls, but until you've at least read Catcher in the Rye, you're not getting a piece of me.

Shallow?

These girls probably feel the same way.

I will miss like crazy what are known as bum guns (the name pretty much covers it's usage). I shamedly jammed one up there on the first day, and I don't want to go into detail ... but ... squeaky clean, people. For those of you concerned in regards to excess water usage; I'm talking half a cup and you're done. And for those ladies out there who don't necessarily need to use a bum gum, but are ... how do you say? ... feeling a little frisky, I say go for it.

I won't miss my passport. The sooner I can throw that anywhere in my bedroom and forget-the-fuck-about-it, the better. To not stress about it as I have carried it with me for 5 weeks, to 11 destinations has been nigh on impossible.

I never thought I'd say this but I will miss the childrem. Gorgeous. Sans Souci.

I've talked about getting a scooter for a long time. But after successfully living, after driving the streets of Siem Reap, I'm going to make it happen. Anyone selling a Vespa?

I can't wait to talk to someone who knows me. Me! I know I gangle, I know I flail, and I know I can talk at a million miles a hour occasionally, but I'm shit at initial meetings. I listen, and ask good questions, but I'n nervous, and, at times, over do it. I'm a bit touchy too. Not in a nice cans, baby way, more so a I'm listening, and digging on what your talking about. It spans genders.

What I think I'm going to try to work on the most is my independence. The cliche of living, and dying alone etc is something I need to remember. I think this will be a life long struggle. But with Xanax, Lithium, and constant electro-shock therapy, I reckon I'm a good chance.

I have also realised that doing nothing requires serious planning. This is something I am getting good at. There is only so much you can do on an island that is 23 square kms big. This is today:

8:30am Wake up.

8:30:23 Go back to sleep.

9:45 Wake up.

9:47 Nap.

10:15 Get up, and shower.

10:17 Huddle under tap 1 foot off the ground because shower isn't working, for fuck's.

10:18 Amused at naked sqatting position, and scooping action.

10:20 Impressed with my ability to produce a cracking lather with tiny soap, and cold water.

10:30 General application of ointments for various rashes, and sores that came, seemingly, from nowhere. Malaria tablet. Aspro Clear depending on harshness of hangover.

10:50 Long breakfast with book.

12:00 To the beach - about 5 steps from breakfast - to swim, read, sleep, read, swim, sleep (Drinking beer included on hangover intensity).

2:00 Bungalow, for music and nap.

3:00 Long lunch with book.

4:00 Write Blog. Read The Age online.

5:00 To bar with book, and folding cash. Pool preferable (as in billiards), but content to sit alone.

5:15 Attempt to get my ipod played at bar. Success rate %85.

Here is where time does it's own thing; preperation on my behalf becomes futile. Activities may include: Swim, drink, seafood, meeting dull / interesting people, pool, cards, and moving on to bucket's of alcohol (which carries with it a whole new set of rules).

It's 5:00.

xx

Bangkok.

2007-10-09T05:07:00.000-07:00

Probably the dankest place I've watched someone shoot an AK-47.

My friends were given a menu of different weapons to fire, as well as soft drinks. My biggest regret on the trip thus far is that I fucked up filming someone throwing a hand grenade into the river. I was simply to scared to get too close. It was also possible to fire a rocket launcher into a mountain.

I asked if I could fire it into one of their children (for the right price of course), but I didn't have 50 USD on me.

I thought I looked really tough, but was told by the Cambodian lads that I looked like a lady man (this is how they wear their krama's). I told them they couldn't afford me. This did not go down as well as I expected.

I could think of worse places to play Jenga and drink beer. The Irish couldn't understand why the loser had to drink the Tequila.

I love the Irish.

I love the Khmer.

I love everybody.

And Bangkok is a fucking handful. In a very Western way.

Prison.

2007-10-05T04:34:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the assistance of the delightful Marieke, I will now be able to share some pictures with you. Although, I must say she did shout at me a little bit, but as I am maturing, and turning into a rather gallant human being, I will choose to forgive her.

Anyway, let's move on.

Currently in Cambodia, and I have a question for you. Is watching people you are with, throw grenades into a lake, and fire an AK-47 at a target a wrong thing to do before visiting the Killing Fields?

Also. Tourists keep saying to me about how lucky we are to be Westerners, and how we should appreciate the fortune bestowed upon us.

I feel two ways about this. Although the patronising tone occasionally sickens me, I can understand their point.

The smiles the locals around here can 'bust out', I have never seen before. Their whole faces light up. It's fucking blinding. The only time I've seen my friends smile like that is when I told them I was going away for 6 weeks.

Prognosis: Happiness is not a currency. Enjoy your mortgage.

Now for some photos.

This is one of my favourites. The photo I missed though, was one of a woman carrying a wedding cake on the back of her scooter. I amused myself at the thought of her arriving at her destination only to trip on a stair.

...

I said, only to trip on a stair.

...

Halong Bay. This means descending dragon. There are many islands like this in Halong Bay, so it looks like a dragon is slowly submerging itself in water. Got it? The pointy parts are still sticking out. Of the water. GET A GRIP! On a side note: This is not the flag I stole. I love these flags.

A meal bought for me by a Vietnamese family. I spent 12 hours on a train trying to converse with them. We didn't get very far, but we tried. And I had to try not to weep when we went our seperate ways.

I have no idea what some of these fruits were. I simply looked up 'one of each will do nicely, m'lady in my phrase book.

Note to self: When having a cigarette on your balcony in Hanoi, just ... you know, be careful.

It's hard to upload photos so that's all I have for you at the minute. Also: Spell check takes forever so excuse ...

Hi, Hamish.

Hi, Frase. (Did my article get raped?)

Love to all. Home soon. Just going to pop to Thailand for my diving license.

xx

2007-10-02T00:14:00.000-07:00

Saigon.

This is a delightful town. Having spent some time in different Vietnamese cities, I think this is my favourite. Having sampled many delicacies from off the street; here I am tasting most delicious things at a very cheap price.

I just need to find a laundromat now. I cannot explain to you how I smell, but would understand a no contact rule if I was to run into one of my friends.

Times have been up and down. For a while I was saved by 2 Canadian chaps who took me under their wing. I like Canadians, but can do without their metal music. I hate metal.

Alone again now. This wasn't as easy as I thought it would be, but it was never going to be a holiday, was it?

I'm not sure who I'm talking to exactly.

img src=<"http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1310/1430878439_8535a94bcf_m.jpg">

I tried to put a photo in of my favourite soup thus far. Hope it worked.

Life In Other Places

2007-09-30T17:18:00.000-07:00

After 5 days on a secluded beach it has become apparent that I am very good at doing nothing. I can sit in a chair with a vacuum in my head and trot off to the beach for a dip whenever I deem it appropriate.

I can slowly peruse through dinner, lunch, and breakfast without breaking a sweat.

I'm not going to talk about how many books I brought for reasons that are my own, but even reading seemed difficult. If the person I'm mildly referring to gets a little excited here that she was right, my response is that there is a long way to go. I can devour books for breakfast, Huxley or no.

It's 7 in the morning, and I am waiting for a bus. I'm wearing the same clothes I have been wearing for three days because they remain the cleanest.

I think I have a flu coming on, and I had to get up three times last night to 'take care of business'. It might have been the sting ray I had for lunch, but the bus ride scares me. 10 hours is a long time to hold on.

I don't think I'll ever drink vodka again after this trip.

Yesterday I really missed my friends.

Seeing amputees in Cambodia scares me. A big part of me wants to jump country to Thailand, but one must do things that one doesn't want to sometimes.

My bus is here.

Will Someone Please Think Of The Children.

2007-09-23T21:24:00.000-07:00

Oh. My. God.

You hear about hellish bus rides. Stories of overnight tour de hells, that you hope to never experience, but let me inform you all that I have just spent 12 hours in what can only be described as the bumpiest kind of hell.

I heard rumours of the heavenly sleeper bus. Little beds run down either side of the aisle, you simply choose one, curl up, and the next thing you know, you've arrived at your destination, not only refreshed, but a better human being.

I asked three times if I would be travelling twelve hours south on one of these babies. 'Yes' was the response every time. When the bus arrived to pick me up, I realised that I had been taken for a ride (Ha!).

It was the worst road I have ever travelled on. If you tried to fall asleep - and I tried pretty much every possible angle - you were awoken almost instantly when you were suddenly air borne, and grappling for anything that could stop you from hitting your head on the roof.

I cannot describe the torture. I arrived at Nha Trang about six hours ago, and have been sleeping, but my body feels like I just boxed 54 rounds against ... what's his name? ... well, a very good boxer.

Met a couple from Norway who took me to an orphanage. They were staying in Hoi An working at one there for 2 and a half months. I told them I was going to Cambodia, and they very much wanted me to take a package for them to a school in Siem Reap. It was a bunch of posters: ABC's etc. I told them I would. They packed it for me while I watched to make sure there was no heroin hidden inside it etc. When I took it to my room, I opened it, checked the cylinder and the posters for hidden compartments, and found nothing. It was all above board.

That night I barely slept. It was weighing heavily on my mind. Surely the first rule of travelling through South East Asia is to not take other people's parcels across the border. So I left it in my room with a note.

On the Devil's Bus Ride, as we were leaving Hoi An, our spirits were high as we had no idea of the torture that lay before us. The bus stopped and a man got on with the package. It scared the fuck out of me. He pointed at me, and I tried to explain that they were not mine. This took a while as his English was shithouse, but eventually after writing him a note, he understood that the posters belonged to the people in room 404.

I feel 2 ways about this. I know in my heart of heart that it was all above board, and that the kids in Cambodia could use these treasures of teaching. But I was scared.

The kids will have to wait.

Hands Off!

2007-09-20T21:37:00.000-07:00

I am rather sure that last night someone came into my room and used my ipod. I left it on the table when I departed from the hotel and when I came back it was still on the table ... but moved slightly to the left.

Also, the last time I listened to it I'm quite sure it was half way through the third chorus of Like A Rolling Stone - the first track on Highway 61 Revisited. When I very quickly checked (so as not to waste the battery) it was well into the fifth verse.

I immediately checked with the desk. They knew nothing, but there when I went to leave in the morning I'm part certain that someone was whistling this exact song. I went back into the hotel, but there was no one to be seen. I went back into my room, grabbed my ipod and now it sits in my pocket.

Although it's locked I check every 5 minutes to make sure that it hasn't somehow turned itself on. I have also bought a bag of cotton buds to make sure that the lever stays firmly in the locked position.

I paid $USD so that I could get a chap to translate a large poster into Vietnamese that reads: 'I have no charger for my ipod. Please do not come into my room and listen to Bob Dylan.

I put the poster up at reception and once again heard someone whistling. How does it feel / To be on your own / With no direction home / Like a rolling stone. There was no one to be seen. Now I stay in my hotel room with the lights off. The ipod sits on the table and I make sure that no one can come in by hanging the do not disturb sign on my door. No one is going to spoil my trip to Vietnam by using my battery.

Things are going well.

100 Several Reasons To Travel With Me.

2007-09-17T19:56:00.000-07:00

We'll get to the humour soon. It's building in me. I'm steaming; verging on the boil. So effing brace yourselves.

Firstly I extend thanks to Fluffy, once again coming through with the goods when others fails to ... have ... um ... the goods ... when I ... um ... need the goods.

I'm talking about you Hamish Michael, you fucking technophile. Oh by the way Hamish (I'm not even talking to you Frase), an interesting point; when travelling in Vietnam you simply cannot listen to Battles. It just doesn't feel right?

What was I talking about? Oh yes ...

I look emaciated. People don't try to sell me things; they try to feed me. The Vietnamese tell me that I look like them. Skinny with straight hair. Very observant as I tower over them. Not to mention the fact that they have honour, and I stole one of their flags. But let's not talk about that until I am safe back in Australia. I would imagine it's a capital offence.

Trouble finds me. If we get seperated. Listen for the screaming, and there I'll be, telling a Japanese tourist to get his feet off the fucking table. Animal.

Oh ... back to the ipod. Good news everybody. I met a Parisian who had one in his bag. We played pool and my ipod sat on the table and charged. This was like an elixir. I could almost feel the chrging going on inside of me. Now that it's full, I'm faced with a new challenge: Finding the courage to listen to music without having the anxiety of running out of batteries.

I travel light. Except for the 10 books mildly weighing me down, I have virtually nothing.

I generally do what I'm told if you prmoise me beer at the end.

Oh ... Hamish, you must tell Andy at the Builders that I wrote the address of the pub on the wall of a bar in Hue. If anyone comes in asking for a free pint he's going to have to put out.

I take really shit photos and very few. This is the job of the person I travel with.

Please go about your business.

Untitled.

2007-09-16T19:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder if I could be any more predictable.

After an eye opening night of culinary hell (self inflicted), and thwarting the attempts of a big American tourist to get his hands down the pants of an innocent, delightful Vienamese 21 year old boy, I woke up in the morning with a mongrel between the eyes, and a lost credit card. What day was yesterday people? That's right, Sunday; a day of rest for those in banks and other occupational establishments.

24 hour hot-line, did I hear you ask? Didn't take down the number.

The what? The internet? Every c*nting server in Hanoi seemed to be down.

I knew where I lost it though. I left it in an ATM. Took the money not the card.

When things like this happen to me nowadays. I don't get angry, nor do I cry. I did that years ago. Now I just laugh. I'm sure that when I get married all this pent up anger will be taken out on my wife, but until then, I just smile and go about my day.

But I needed to cancel my card. Others would put a plan into action; get out the Lonely Planet Guide, make it all happen. I have barely looked at it since I got here. I like to watch my chaotic life unfurl before me, like some kind of poorly stitched rug.

Then I found myself atnding in front of the ATM. I went inside, and my card was behind the counter. This was pure luck that I simply do not deserve. I'm sure I'll pay for it later (my preference would be a physical beating).

Left Hanoi and into Hue. A 13 hour train ride sharing a cabin with two Vietnamese siblings and their father. They were amazing. Emotionally I find it hard to accept their level of sincerity, and generosity. The father bought me dinner, which I objected to, but I don't want to be rude. I got out my book and thanked him. I gave him my deck of cards. I also let his son listen to Bob Dylan on my ipod.

For me, this was my best gesture, as I haven't worked out how to charge it yet.

I supppose I'll have to download itunes at an internet cafe and take it from there.

Ideas anyone? Hamish? Frase?

DON'T MAKE ME CATCH BUSES THROUGH CAMBODIA WITHOUT DYLAN!

The Sun Is Not Yellow: It's Chicken.

2007-09-15T02:14:00.000-07:00

I have to believe that love prevails. I don't know if I mean true love or not, I'm not sure if there is a difference ... but I have to believe it. I like to think that I have had a fair share of the other end. I have notched up the odd bit of pain in my time. Don't we all. Huh?

I met a chap called Riva. A tour guide working for a pittance (is that how you spell it?). The locals know where to drink 50 cent beer. Whilst tourists go and hang in bars together, they will take you to drink what they call fresh beer. As the westerner, I am obliged to pay for both. This is not a hassle, nor heroic, it's just fucking cheap, sans Asian Pop music which does my head in.

We sat on Cat Ba Island, drinking beer and talking.

The sun went down as I made the Vietnamese Street Vendor Lady giggle through Riva's translation. She was a hard nut to crack, but I got there through persistance. I'm funny like cancer: I grow on you, and then spread.

Riva fell in love. He went to University for three years, selling books on the street, and embarked on a career in tourism. A year ago his girlfriend's parents told him he was unable to see her anymore; he wasn't financially viable. The look on his face when he told me this broke my tiny, tiny heart. He was clinging on, trying not to cry. I am familiar with this, but not as successful at holding it together (ask any of my friends).

I asked him if he could've supported them both. He said yes without hesitation. The same wince spread across his face. In time, this wince will turn into lines. The lines you see on the faces of those beaten by life. It ain't pretty, it's a bitterness sprinkled with self loathing that I know a little of too.

I told him to get out there.

He asked where.

'To wherever the ladies are.'

'I have lost my confidence.'

Then came the silence that killed me. It fucking grabbed me by the hair and cut my throat. I didn't want to change the subject, it just wouldn't have been right.

These two people loved each other but, as he said, he was forced to do the honourable thing and let het go.

I found this hard to swallow and told him so.

He told me I didn't have to swallow it, it was his meal.

I offered him money, like a true westerner c*nt. That will solve the problem. He did not take it. I dropped it on the floor, and told him I would leave it there. He picked it up and violently put it into my hand.

'You are my friend. I won't take your money.'

And now I have a heavy heart. But this is not about me.

I don't know what it's about. I simply don't want to hear stories like this.

Bring on the Killing Fields, I say. Give me genocide. Let's talk about a good old fashioned massacre. Hell, I hold the rope, and slip tie the knot myself.

I just don't want to hear about broken hearts.

Still Kicking Against The Pricks.

2007-09-12T20:19:00.000-07:00

I don't give a fuck if I'm in Hanoi or not; do not push in front of me at the post office. The locals can go home as far as I'm concerned.

My first meal was at a little shop front. Over a couple of Tiger Beers, I had a beef broth. The meal was put in front of me, and the smiling assasin whom servred it said, 'try the meat'. I kind of knew where this was going. There was dark meat, and light meat in the soup. I grabbed a big piece of the darker meat and ate it. He smiled, 'do you know what that was?'

Did I want to know?

'I spell it for you. D - O - G.'

I didn't flinch, it was pretty fucking tasty, and a big part of me wanted my first meal to be dog.

The same with the lighter meat.

'C - A - T.'

'No, not Garfield.'

He smiled again, and that's when I realised he was taking the piss. I said as much.

He frowned. The literal translation of taking the piss is as unnerving as it is poor in its grammar.

Haven't seen a Westerner yet. Let's fucking keep it that way. They're a bunch of c*nts.

Except for the one I left behind.

Nice timing Co**on, you've done it again.

Good vs. Evil

2007-09-04T19:06:00.000-07:00

I try to be a good person. My moral code is first rate. That doesn't mean that I don't break the odd rule every now and then, but I think my heart is in the right place.

Biologically speaking at least.

It's colour may be a little off putting to your average human being, but it's tickin' and firmly entrenched in my meagre chest. And let's be honest with ourselves, when we think of empathy, we all see the colour black, don't we?

What I'm trying to get at here, is that I propose to you, my darlings - I urge you - to start keeping a tally of rights and wrongs in your life: In regards to how your actions affect - dare I say - the universe.

Firstly, which of these images best depicts you. Please feel free to blur genders. You simply must.

This one?

Gentle, isn't he? An All American Catch.

He would be a sweet heart, a good listener, with sensible, good natured advice.

Sadly, he'd be a fu*king dud in the sack. You can't have it all though. My recommendation would be vigorous masturbation while he's at church. Praying for your well-being.

What about this one?

I detect a little bit of devilry. A splash of the demon in our friend, Philippa. Sadly, I don't see a drink in her hand which disappoints me. The hand on the breast is a positive. I doubt she has any lesbian friends, but I suspect she would love to. Why? Because her other hand is instinctively heading south to Pleasureville.

A side note: Philippa may have a decent rack herself.

Cans aside, do you relate to this picture?

Thirdly:

Amusing? Do you find this funny? Don't. This is a Grin Of Opulence. Our pet friend has never tasted a notch of pain. He / She has never wanted for anything. Look at the white teeth, perfect healthy gums. Look at all the toys. He / She is simply sitting in a pool of wealth, sunning him / herself in rays of spoilt abandon. Is this you? Are you on Easy Street, and content with unearned wealth?

Think about it.

I recently had an audition for a MTC* show. I wanted it very badly. My first audition was well prepared, and performed with as much skill as my talent allows. Most importantly the part suited me; the character was nervous, and mildly autistic. I had already prepared my Green Room award speech, which I will spare you from reading, but it contained the word c*nts only 5 times. There's a tick on the good side of my list.

Bragging aside, I had a call back for the part. I have to reiterate how desperate I was to land this. I love the theatre, and I want to do it on the main stage; especially this play. It's called Love Song, and is a tale of finding happiness in a lonely world. It's not so much that sentiment that made it a good play - any hack can identify his / her play with that sentence - more so it was the story and how it unfolded. It touched me.

I like being touched.

So ... I'm waiting to hear if I'm going to get the part. I'm walking down Smith Street, and I see a couple of fellows pushing a car up a hill. It's out of petrol or broken or whatever, and one guy is at the back, struggling, whilst the other man is pushing and steering.

I watch, then I think about the MTC gig, and think a little good karma might not be a bad thing ... do you see where I'm going here? I trotted up and offered my assistance which they accepted gratefully, and helped them push their car up the hill to where they could park.

I threw a 'good luck, boys' over my shoulder as I continued on my way. I deliberately made little of a decent gesture, but I knew I would soon be rewarded. Does my humility touch you?

I like to touch.

I did not get the gig. It stung, but I took it well. Actors know much of rejection, and if you can't keep your chin up, no matter how badly you wanted it, you simply have to get out of the industry.

Last night I had a couple of wines with one of my favourite friends. This is another list I keep. Top Ten Friends. There are daily adjustments, but this one found herself right up there in the top 3, until she explained to me her theory in regards to my loaded car pushing gesture, and the MTC rejection. Luckily I recorded the conversation, so I can transcribe it for you, untainted by my constant desire to convince you that I am a metaphorical rose in a bed of thorns.

I shall be T, she shall be ... fuck it ... P. I'll pick up the transcription post my telling of the story. As far as stage directions are concerned, a 'beat' is a short pause.

T ... and it's fu*ked that I go out of my way to help people when no one is willing to take a chance on me.

P But darling, it's exactly why you didn't get the gig.

Beat

T Hm?

P What part of that didn't you understand?

T What part of what?

P What I just said.

T Are you implying ... wait - don't start with intentions, I helped them, I went out of my way to help a couple of fellow human beings who were in a pickle.

P Why?

Beat. T is mildly irritated

T Huh?

P sighs wearily and spells it out

P You just told me that you helped these guys, not because they needed assistance but because you wanted to make a deposit in the morality bank, so you could withdraw it at a later date.

T It doesn't matter why I did it.

P Yes it does.

T No. I did it, that's all that matters.

P You helping them stopped you from working with the MTC.

T That is a dark outlook, P. That's bitter.

P Essentially you were just being selfish.

T is shocked, and disappointed

T I am shocked and disappointed.

P Do you want another wine?

T Are you buying?

P Yes.

Complex variations on moral standpoints are abundant, and all I can offer is mine. I will no longer be helping the poor, my counsel will be shut down to the needy, and I will be going out of my way for nobody.

Because I want to be a good person. Do you? And have you got a plan in action to get it underway, like I do?

Get onto it

I'm going to Hanoi in 5 days. I am excited.

But I'll miss you.

*Melbourne Theatre Company

Battles.

2007-08-22T00:03:00.000-07:00

I have dipped my toe into this pool before. Straight to the point, a psychic once told me I was born with boxing gloves on. She's blind so ... clearly the real deal

A therapist, whom I visited twice - my prognosis? Cured - told me to choose my battles wisely. I should lighten the hate load I dragged around with me like a sack of two dozen frozen puppies. 'Relax' she said, 'enjoy the ride.'

I've tried to take on these intimate bits of information, and suggestions, so I'll go through some battles I've fought recently, and we can all contemplate whether they were worth fighting or not.

GO TEAM!

1) An old Russian man on a bus tripped on my foot. My legs were crossed, in what some might non-judgmentally deem, a homosexual fashion (this is a common misconception people first have of me), and my foot was clearly dangling in the aisle. It stuck to his leg as he walked by, clinging to it for a whole step. I apologised, and removed my foot. He side-swiped me with a raspberry (I fucking hate raspberries), and hurled abuse at me.

'You tried to trip me. Stupid man. I ought to give you one.'

I told him that I would like to bear his child, and that I thought I was falling in love with him.

He came back on to the tram and tried to get at me. I was forced to run to the other door, leave the tram, and walk the extra four stops home.

I enjoyed the walk.

My battle?

I'm at an Internet cafe. A woman starts talking on the phone at an unbelievable volume. It was impossible to think, let alone fucking type. After 5 minutes of listening to emo trite, I stood, walked to the desk, paid, and turned to her as she continued her conversation:

'You made me leave here.' I was pointing now. 'You made me leave here because I can't listen to you anymore.'

I don't think I would've confronted a man in the same way (I was at least ten feet away).

My battle?

Vehemently arguing with anyone who enjoyed the movie Monster.

My battle?

A man was berating his child in what I thought to be an inappropriate, aggressive manner. I also assumed that if I opened my mouth, the child would be beaten harder, in private. He wore a Collingwood scarf.

I told him I prayed 'our boys' would get up this weekend.

My battle?

A Love Letter; from a computer to a human.

2007-08-16T20:33:00.000-07:00

I have been processing this for some time now. You know how emotions are difficult for me, but I will try to explain to you why I feel the way I do about your interior, and exterior.

110110101100.

To put it a little clearer: I was on the street the other day, and you walked past me. I didn't move, but my eye followed you. You were trying to extract something from your ~~receptacle~~ bag, but were unable to locate it precisely. There were creases that formed on your face that were already familiar to me. I once asked you a complicated question that required thought; I saw the same delicate facial pleats then.

This stimulated me.

I feel upgraded when you listen to my speech. I know I can get a touch monotone, but your questions in relation to my queries are concise, and well formatted. You have intelligence, but your tonal quality also reveals such devices as sincerity, truth, and a sense of humour. I would permit myself to crash, if I could understand just one of your jokes. This will never happen, the correct emotion I should feel; sad.

The equation of you is simple, in a complicated way. The formula is long, but the path through it is consistent, and succinct. The numbers all add up to my insides, and permit my screen to glow a little brighter every time I get input from you. A touch; a word; the upwards lift of your lips, producing your teeth. If any other is to connect with me, I pass on this - the term you would use is joy - to them. I'm sure you can appreciate the exponential nature of this.

To me, and those around me, you are the opposite of a virus. You are the antidote.

That is as far as I can expand on the matter. I'm sure if I had your software, I could extrapolate. We both have hearts. They both pulse, keeping us alive, but that's all mine does.

Apparently the human heart can do a lot more than that.

Lists.

2007-08-14T17:28:00.000-07:00

Talking with friends the other night, I came up with an ingenious list.

It is:

Movies I have not seen, that I will never see.

Coming in at number 1: Titanic.

I'm rather impressed with myself, obviously. Every cynical, bitter, individual has seen this one, but, I have not: The italics represents smugness.

I only have a number one at this point. Some of you might've waited until you had a list of at least 5, but sadly, that is not how I operate. I get an idea, and I go with it.

Oh, someone suggested Big Mamma's House (or however it's spelt; I refuse to check), but it seems to obvious.

I will come back with a top 5 intact.

As you were.

The Most Boring Blog Ever.

2007-08-12T17:31:00.000-07:00

I can't believe my luck with the weather at the moment. I'm inside, it's all stormy and bucketing down, then, when I open a door to the outside world, it's bright, inviting, and nigh on warm.

'Your opening gambit is about the weather co**on!? You've been banging on for a couple of posts now about how provocative you are. I thought we were sharpening the old writing axe on this page?'

I'm choose to ignore that. If I respond to what I wrote, that represents what you, the reader, said ... raving, is all I'm saying. Sans ecstasy.

I know a guy, who knows this girl who went insane. She was always a bit batty apparently, but she used to read to my friend from her diary. Abruptly, one day it was in the third person. She began to see herself from the outside. That's when you know someone's cracked, they refer to themselves as 'he' or 'she'. Fu*king fascinating, I mean that.

Let's get back to the Mickey Mouse. Let's take a half-step back in time to the asinine.

For the first time ever ... have a think about this ... for the first time ever, I lost my phone.

No one has back up supply of all these numbers, do they? Who would do that?

It is a crippling blow. Unexpectedly so. My reliance on this small communicative machine is a little scary. I feel naked.

'Do something about it co**on. A lot of typing going on, very little action.'

I'm trying to get my head around a million things currently.

I hope this has been worth reading.

This is the Truth.

2007-08-08T19:23:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you some nice things. Allow me to, believe it or not, slot a few rays of sunshine into the otherwise drab Melbourne winter of your minds.

This blog is about the kindness of others. At least, the kindness of another. To me.

I'll put it into context. I still live above the Builder's Arms in Fitzroy. When it was my birthday back in May, the bar staff got me a cake and I honestly had to hold back tears. The manager of the place is a chap called Andy. A tall, nigh on 40, fu*king gentleman.

There has been a woman in my life ... of sorts. I don't want to dwell on it too much because she'll probably read this ...(Hi! Um.) and also because it would seem that once again, I have chosen to blunder into a situation that, by the nature of timing, has to wait.

But this is actually all good, and not the point of my story.

We have dinner, chat with ease, laugh a lot, and I put her in a cab. I gave a cigarette to a junkie, but my problem here is, he probably had more money than I. But ... you know me ... I live to give, all that. Unfortunately, a young woman asked me two steps later, and I gave her a mouth full, but I felt so bad about it that I went down to the store and got her some cigarette papers. I kept walking as I threw them on the table. You know me, the epitome of cool.

I go back inside and have a couple of beers at the bar. Eventually, when I stagger upstairs - it has to be said that my drinking has gone somewhat askew - there is a bottle of pinot and two glasses sitting on my table!!!

Andy put it there!!! Thinking I was going to drag this broad upstairs!!!

Well, as you can imagine I drank the whole thing myself, whilst listening to Battles, and contemplating this woman's body. But I couldn't get over the sheer thoughtfulness of this gesture.

If you ever come in to the builder's arms, and Andy is there. Please be nice to him.
I can guarantee you he's the best in the business.

And for you food lovers. The menu has gone up a notch. You won't believe it. Trust me. And if you see a short-haired handsome chap sitting at the bar, come and say hello.

I'm a lot nicer in person.

Peace.

Several Moral Dilemmas Rolled into One Post.

2007-07-26T23:05:00.000-07:00

I have an audition for a role in a play. So does this girl who, I have found quite attractive for a while, although I fear she might be a bit ethereal.

In any case, aesthetically I know that there is something going on underneath her rather modest clothes, and I wouldn't mind peeling a few layers to see what is lurks at her core, if you will.

She contacted me wondering if I would like to go to her house for dinner, and go over the audition scene in which we are both playing the corresponding roles (Sadly, not a ~~love~~ lust scene. It takes so much pressure off, you know? In any case, I replied that I would be delighted to come for dinner; what a help it would be; I'll bring a couple bottles off wine to loosen up with, get the emotion flowing etc.

On the way there I looked up at a block of apartments and could see up a girl's skirt. She was wearing gorgeous french knickers, and I stopped to truly appreciate what fortune had been put before me: The female form is a beatific thing, and to be granted such a bounteous view ... should I have walked away, eyes averted, maybe even a cry of:

'M'lady should step inside where she can cover her privates from the view of perverts and thieves'

???

I met myself half way, staying only long enough to feel only a slight sensation in my loins.

At the apartment of my affections, I entered to the smell of cooking, but something was wrong. 'Come in', she called out, 'I'm just finishing cooking dinner.' I entered and made my way to the kitchen, only to find her pouring a jar of pasta sauce into a saucepan.

I could barely hide my disgust. She asked me if I was okay, and I told her that I felt somewhat ill, which wasn't entirely untrue. I declined dinner, continuing along the ill-health line, but sat drinking a bottle of Pinot Gris while she scoffed down her penne with strikingly red sauce, and a little grated cheddar on top.

I judged her. I never want to see her again. I don't know if this makes me shallow, a snob, or ill-informed (maybe all three), one thing I can tell you is that my sweet balcony woman had gone, but as I passed her apartment, I thought I got a whiff of fresh gnocchi.

...

2007-07-25T19:26:00.000-07:00

Apologies it has taken me song long to write, I have been SORTING THROUGH ALL THE HELPFUL RESPONSES FROM MY LAST BLOG!

When I was younger, so much younger than today...

2007-07-13T22:32:00.000-07:00

I need help, and I need it fast. And this is the joy of the internet, isn't it? You, my readers, can assist me when I ask for it. And, more importantly, it will help me sort the wheat from the chaff ...

Chaff
–noun
1. The husks of grains and grasses that are separated during threshing.

It will help me place you all in the complex and, at times, outright convoluted filing system of my mind. I am a busy man thank you very much, I do not have time for all of you, and in this, my hour of need, it's going to be very interesting to find out who's ready to do the hard yards. Do you know what I'm saying? To put it anecdotally; you are the seals, and I am the walrus, sharpening my Tusks of Judgment.

I've been there for all of you, don't forget that. Each night, as I prepare notes for my much anticipated daily blog, (or as I call it: My Posts of Knowledge; MPoK) you all briefly saunter through my mind and I imagine what might best suit individual desideratum. For example, '[Insert blogger here] wrote that post about flowers, maybe I could discuss the ins and outs of Nasturtiums:What's better, yellow or red?' Or, '[random electronic friend] mentioned they like cowboys ...' and I'm sure you all remember my rather infamous lassoing MPoK.

Anystance, I have finally been asked to write an article in a Magazine. It's a t-shirt mag (apparently HUGE in Paris). The topic I have been give is the birth of cool, and the white t-shirt. I have some good ideas that I won't go into, because I am aware that some people have been known to plagiarise my whimsy, and in extreme cases phrases and terms have made it into our vernacular, but what I need help with is format, and structure.

Some might say that this is indicative of me, and I would over react in an extremely defensive manner if anyone was to bring it up, but we don't need to go there. This is a turning point in my life. The 11th Hour.

What is the key to writing a good article?

Talk to me about pre-production. How does one go about drafting a skeletal document so that sitting down to write the piece has it almost writing itself?

How do you 'dress up' information?

Think about it. Think about what I mean to you, and how you want to be perceived by me. Maybe don't go out tonight. Cancel your mediocre plans, curl up with a glass of wine (not a whole bottle; maintain clarity), and help me out. See what you can find. I'd like to write a cracking article so my portfolio packs a punch (That's just an example of the power of my wordplay. I don't need any assistance with alliteration or alike).

I'll owe you one you come through with the goods. It's easy to talk like friends, but it will be very interesting to see who steps up. I sponsor a small child in Africa. I volunteer at a non-profit theatre. I give the poor %45 per cent of my income. I go to church. Through my writing I hold a mirror up to society that I understand can sometimes be quite confronting, and always profoundly engaging.

What do you do?

Advice I Could Have Done Without.

2007-07-02T19:13:00.000-07:00

'You're just going to have to get over her.'

Sage words from my ex-girlfriend's best friend.

'You should write a hit song; like the Scissor Sisters.'

My father, God bless him, after visiting Melbourne and seeing my band.

'You're not quite nailing the fourth Act, you should do it better.'

Some woman earlier this year at La Mama. I wanted more information, she didn't have it.

'If you don't get off your arse and chase it all down, it'll never happen.'

A far better looking, more successful actor, telling me the cold hard facts of life.

'Don't get caught with any kind of drugs when you're in Asia, other wise you'll be ...'

Another wise friend. NO SHIT SHERLOCK! I didn't stay around to listen to the end of this pearl.

'One of the best novels ever written.'

A friend lent me Anna Korenin: 1 000 pages about a divorce. Maybe a wonderful forward step in documenting the struggle for equality, but please ... it turned out my friend hated it, and gave it to me as a kind of joke. Cruel. I did finish it though.

'If you have that night cap of tequila you'll be hungover tomorrow.'

Wait! That was advice I should have listened to.

'They do brains here that are to die for.'

And like an idiot I bought the brains, in King's Cross, for breakfast. I will never eat organs again.

'Those kinds of things don't work out 95 per cent of the time.'

This one I have heard way too often. BUT LOOK AT ME NOW!

Anwers to your Questions

2007-06-08T20:19:00.000-07:00

A damning article in The Age today - wish I could link it, but I don't have the skills - a scathing culture attack on Sydney, our better looking sister up north. It stated that Sydney is the most vacuous city in the world. It called its residents shallow, and interested only in real estate, harbour views, and that it had no good bars in the CBD after 11pm (That's a half truth). It said soon Brisbane (chortle) will be the northern city of choice.*

I thought of implying how ridiculous a concept that is, but people are wearing Stonewash Denim! AGAIN!

Having spent a good 'chunk' of time in Sydney, and probably will again at some point, I feel I have a right to give the south-easterner in all of us some helpful information.

Remember: I'm from Perth, I sit on the fence. Both towns are not without their charm.

*Smiles. Glint, off a canine, catches the lens.*

- Sydney siders love Melbourne. There is no resentment.

- (Gulp) ... it seems to me that Melbourne people are the only ones with the chip on their shoulder. All Sydney people I know love Melbourne and can't get down here enough. Victorians are huffing and puffing. It's all 'we should be the capital' this, and 'the Opera House is an abomination' that. All I want is: Equality Without Prejudice.

- I think we can agree that culturally Melbourne has an edge. Sydney is pretty, but if you give the surface a scratch you're going to get shit under your nails, on the other hand, Melbourne suffers a little from having its own head up its arse. Not all culture is good culture. There are basically 2 camps: Ponds, or Yakult. There are plays about immigrants, and then there are plays I want to see.

- Work your escalators out Melbourne. If you want to stand and wait, do so to the left. If, like me, you're an on-the-go kinda guy, and race up the public transport stairs as if it were penance, use the right side. GET THE F*CK OUT OF MY WAY, 'COS I'LL TELL YOU TO! ICAN'TFU*KINGSTANDITANYMORE!

- While we're doing Public Transport, why on earth would you have those gates that you open with your ticket available at either end? It's not only confusing, it's terrifying. I don't want to have to have a dialogue with someone (verbal or otherwise) at a train station.

'You go.'

'No, you go'

They both go. Confusion ensues.

- Trams are great. Love trams.

- You are the most patriotic state in Australia. Victorians are proud, and you should be ... you made football happen in some kind of deal with indigenous Australians. Without a trace of sarcasm, well done, but chill out. (How can you with the beaches down here?)

I'm kidding

- Sydney girls are easier. They give 'the good stuff' away for free up there. Melbourne girls could work at their promiscuity. Maybe it's because you all hold the booze a little better - in which case, drink more. I'm also willing to admit that it might be because as a 32 year old, my days of chasing tail are over. I look hideous, in any case.

I hope I've brought up some points of interest. Maybe over dinner tonight, you can discuss it with your friends, or family.

In any case have a killer Saturday, and i wish I was drinking at the Judgie tonight.

*Note I didn't use any quotation marks whatsoever when outlining the article in question. You'll have to trust me on this one. Or read it yourself! A2.

Oh Yeah!

2007-06-06T22:43:00.000-07:00

Well what a wonderful week I've had.

I'll start with last Friday:

If my team is to be beaten by Collingwood, I demand that I'm watching it just outside of Kyneton, in a massive house, sitting in front of a fire that I built, with a roast in the oven. Well done you Pies, you played well, and deserved.

Warning: Last sentence may contain traces of nuts.

I stayed at my country home for 4 days, losing in grand style a tennis, and walking around the large picturesque property, as if I was walking down Swanston Street at 5pm: Head down, hands in pockets, trying not to make eye contact. (With cows)

Then freinds visit me from out of town. We eat, and drink, and laugh, and play risk.

I killed them. I can masturbate over world domination.

Too much?

What a gorgeous world it is out there people.

I urge you to get amongst it.

xx

2007-05-27T21:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Matthew Pavlich,

we've never met, but I am a fond supporter of yours, and the football team that you captain.

I read in the paper yesterday that Port Power are considering courting you as your contract runs out next year. Given the fact that you have only recently become our captain I can only hope that you will stick with us.

I know we've had a pretty shitty start to the season, but you're going to push on through; we're going to push on through.

Have you seen their guernseys? Aqua! For fuck's!

All I can ask is that you stick it with us, and we make it through these hard times. We'll come good, you'll see.

Love,

Co**on

Clear! Clear! Clear! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. We lost him.

2007-05-24T19:59:00.000-07:00

After my last post in regards to dating doctors, I had a rather self righteous medico - obviously in friendship with the culprit of my rather flippant comment upon our chance meeting on my birthday.

You're right Doctor Lou, (I will call you doctor for the moment, but I wouldn't mind seeing some credentials) I would be lucky if said woman was interested in taking me out on a night on the town. Given my rather fragile artistic sensibilities, (I weep when someone nods at me on a tram) I would be lucky if a street whore agreed to curl up next to me for a night of non-sexual spooning. And I would pay her well.

While I'm dipping my foot into the medical profession though, I think it's appropriate that I delve into exactly what it is you do, and why it is you are regarded with such a high degree of respect amongst our community?

You deliver babies. Well done! I could deliver a baby. What more is it than shouting 'push, push' a couple of times then whammo 'it's a boy/girl!'?

Operations? Firstly, wash your hands. Rule 1. Then get the laptop out, google heart surgery or whatever the prob. is, follow the step by step instructions, and carve some shit up.

Broken limb? We've all played with lego, please.

Depressed? Take these you sad c*nt, and sort your life out.

'Automobile accident? How fast were you going?' That's too fast. Lesson learned. Next!'

And you get the prefix and all that. Why does everyone have to know? I am an actor godammit, I want at least a suffix. I PRETEND THINGS THAT OTHERS CAN ONLY DREAM OF PRETENDING!

You walk around, using all these big words and stuff. You're like freemasons.

I say, down with doctors. What happened to home-made remedies, we survived several plagues for fuck's. We can do this. they are unnecessary, and dare I say it, a bane on society. And I'm not the only one who thinks this, soon there will be a revolution, soon the people will rise, and you're time in the sun my free riding, knife wielding lunatics, will end.

That is all.

10 = 10 = 10

2007-05-20T21:35:00.001-07:00

Genuine apologies for the tardiness of my posting. (For those of you still bothering to look)

'Nup. Still that stupid pun title.'

Fortune is still beaming success down upon me. It is so undeserved, because I am a bad, lazy person.

But ... one must soldier on ... musn't one?

All this aside here are 10 thoughts that I had last week. (In no particular order.)

1) Do dogs get cold in winter? Some breeds may not be equipped with the appropriate coat. If so, do they have the capacity to envy dogs given jumpers?

2) If I was given the choice, my method of death would be to have a way too much heroin*, and then jump out of a plane at 30 000 feet.

'I'm about to hit the ground ... oh yeah.

3) As I've written before, I have been holidaying in East St Kilda. My delightful friend there and I, have been drinking scotch on ice, (not the drug) and playing Driver 3. For the uneducated, Driver 3 is a video game which involves the player to evade cops, chase deviants owing their character money - just generally ripping through the streets in a number of cars. This question is in two parts: 1, I have never had a driver's license, does playing this game make me a good driver? 2, Does any follow the ridiculous filimic plotline between levels?

4) I've been contemplating quitting smoking, but my psychic told me my death would be quick. Why should I bother quitting?

5) I hate the term 'never say never'. It is flawed in its core, and it's negative in its attitude. How about if someone says 'I'll never do that again,' say 'Cool. But if you do, I reckon you'll do it awesomely.'

6) I love Wilco's new album. These are wise dudes.

7) I could go on a few dates with a doctor if I wanted to. She's cute, smart, 26, she listens etc. But I want one of those 'eyes lock across a room scenarios', I want to be moving into her house the next day. Am I a fool? I'm getting oldish, 32.

8) Should I have a relationship with a man?

9) I don't want to have a relationship with a man.

10) ***** *** ******* *** ***** ** ***** *** **** *****.

*I don't use, or condone the use of this drug.

No spell check. Apologies for grammatical, and spelling errors. (They'd be typos anyway)

Osama Bed Linen

2007-05-09T02:44:00.000-07:00

I do enjoy trashy television.

Don't get me wrong, I'll tut my way through Lateline, I'll sigh through documentaries that deal with the corrupt American political system, but at the moment Big Brother is pushing my buttons.

I'm sitting here with my friend Amish.

Say hi Amish ...

Hi, "Amish" here (not real name). I often read C****n's blags but he's never invited me to the keyboard to touch his zeroes and ones. The way you're yawning I can understand. And don't think you're the only bored one here. My interest wanes..

Bye now. Don't call me again.

Oh, and C****n,

What?

Oh that's it is it? You lost your little witty way?

Anyhoots. We thought it would be amusing if David Hicks was in the White Room. It would be ana bsolute breeze for him, wouldn't it?

Ha!

With his Taliban training he would also excel at Friday Night Games.

Ha!

That is all.

Except to say that I am currently vacationing in East St Kilda.

Foxtel. Broadband. Porn. A Pussycat.

Heaven.

Coffee Wars

2007-04-26T18:40:00.000-07:00

I've got a bit of a problem.

Like all sane people, I enjoy a coffee in the morning.

The place I go to probably doesn't do the best coffee in my area, not that I'm getting a cup of mud, but being a Taurean I am loyal, and I FEAR CHANGE.

A fellow comes into the bar quite a bit, and he has been renovating a cafe which has now opened. I have talked to him on occasion, he is a great guy, and the other day I thought I would go and try a coffee at his place.

It was good. More than that it was devine.

I like my coffee hot and sweet. I know it shouldn't be too hot but I'll sacrifice a little burning so I can feel it sharply on the back of my throat. My morning coffee is oft complemented by a cigarette. It's a ritual

I dreamt about that cup of coffee, and when I woke I went back to the new place and bought another.

This has been going on for a week now. I walked past my old cafe this morning, and the gay German fellow who works there was outside picking up some plates. Luckily I had already had my coffee, I couldn't bear to think how he would feel if I was carrying.

He looked at me like he knew exactly what was going on. Like I still had a little bit of foam on my top lip. My hand automatically went to my mouth to hide any cafe latte residue, but it was clean.

'Where have you been?'

He asked me.

I'm rarely stumped for words, but nothing would come.

'Around.'

Nice one co**on.

'You're not drinking coffee?'

And I embarked on my excuse. Explaining to him what I have already outlined here. Inappropriately. But I couldn''t lie.

NORMALLY I'M A GREAT LIAR.

I'm at a loss as to what I should do now. Because I would've come back. It was a passing fancy. The German fellow makes a good coffee, just the way I like it. I didn't tell him this, though. I should have.

I can't go back. I feel as though it would be insulting, or patronising. (pardon the pun)

Life's tough. You wanna please everyone, you wanna do the right thing, but with so many differing desires and demands, what the hell are you supposed to do?

Read This.

2007-04-23T03:00:00.000-07:00

I was sitting having a beer with a particular friend of mine who asked me if I was looking for work.

The next 3 questions of mine were standard.

- What kind of work?

- How long would the work be lasting for?

- How does one do less of this type of work and get paid the same?

--------

My friend smiled and looked up and down my weak frame. I, in turn, looked to him, I felt vulnerable knowing that I should take on any worked I'm asked.

Having said that, my life goal is to do no work. The definition of work in this circumstance is:

Shit That I Don't Want To Do But I Am Expected To Do In The Eyes Of ...

His humorous smile turned snide as he said to me a single word that had me turn a full circle on my bar stool.

Labouring.

He occasionally works for a guy that is involved in building things. Heavy things. He also knocks things down, and then is involved in the carrying away of said things.

'Hm ...'

I thought about it over night, knowing that I would have to come to a decision the next day.

Knowing that I would have to choose whether or not I would spend 6 hours of the next day carrying things. Some might call it life or death.

I have never worked on a 'building site' in my life.

During the evening I was met with even more questions.

- Is there a sense of competition amongst builders? Would I be judged on how much I could lift, and how quickly I could hammer a nail in to ... whatever?

- Will I be expected to use a hammer?

- Is it shameful to ask someone to show me how to use a hammer?

I spoke to people about it, friends that I trusted. One (the stronger one who'd done labouring. The chap I'll be meeting in the ring)) laughed. The other (a skinny fellow who doesn't even break a nail playing guitar) empathised.

I decided that I would do it. Penance comes in many forms. I obviously needed to be punished for something.

I rang my friend and told him that I would embark on my new trade. I was willing to give 6 hours of my life to lifting, and plying.

He didn't care much and went on to tell me that the guy we're working for is gay, and he works alone.

Relief.

See you on the other side.

Untitled. (Apart from the word untitled ... obviously)

2007-04-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

Thanks you all for your advice.

Yes I have a light source outside my window.

I also have a tram line that seems to have a little notch in the rails right near me which makes a shaking rumble as it goes by.

Not to mention if I'm trying to sleep before 2:00 music pumps through my floor at a volume that is a little loud.

The rent is cheap though, and I get half price drinks, which makes living there almost a job. I make money.

Maybe if I had a little company ... but sex is like a far away dream now.

Self inflicted?

Probably.

I also notice people (at least one person) is asking questions about me on a high profile blog.

To which I have no response. (Apart from pointing out that I have no response.)

And finally, since this post seems to be meandering on in a easy going manner, I willl be picking up a brand new custom made maton acoustic guitar tomorrow.

My baby.

I'm already thinking of why it would be better to sleep with my new guitar than another human being.

We could make beautiful music together.

ZING!

Mmm.

Sound of Silence.

2007-04-11T02:35:00.000-07:00

I am in the process of accumulating my favourite sounds.

I plan on recording them and falling asleep to them on some kind of loop as my insomnia is slowly destroyingmywilltoliveandnomatterwhattimeifallasleepialwaysseemtowakeupatseveninthemorninggodhelpme.

Best you don't even bother trying to read that part.

Obviously these collected sounds relate to other senses, and indeed correspond to feelings that I have accumulated throughout my 31 (nigh on 32) years on this planet.

They may also infer to personal issues that plague me, and perhaps give you an insight to my life.

I tossed up whether or not to explain my reasoning behind them and decided against it. Your imagination is probably far more exciting than my prose.

Here they are:

1) Ice in an almost empty tumbler.

2) The woody thwack of a free credit on a pinball machine.

3) Shuffling playing cards.

4) A c seven chord on a guitar makes me laugh.

5) b minor makes me sad.

6) Pencil on paper.

7) A group of at least ten children singing.

8) Bike tyres on loose gravel.

9) My mother's laugh.

10) Apple keyboards.

11) Utter silence.

Help me out here.

May 1.

2007-04-03T22:45:00.000-07:00

I live in Melbourne. I have for the past year and a half.

After a brisk departure from Sydney, I slept on a couch in Brunswick for 6 weeks. During this time, I went to Reading's in Carlton and perused the share house vacancy board hoping to move in with a group of barely dressed female twenty something art students.

These high expectations were not met.

In fact, after going to at least 15 houses it became quite clear that no one wanted me to live with them. The patchouli reeking lesbians in Northcote found me abrasive. The North Fitzroy house of band mates hated Wilco. The black clad Fitzroy emos thought I was messy. The St. Kilda travellers called me a racist. A couple in Richmond didn't let me through the door after their dog wailed at my silhouette, as did a single man in the city's canary. (A chirpy wail) 4 women at 3 different houses claimed I tried to come on to them. One attempted to take me to court.

Basically, it made me realise that I must have some kind of personality disorder and that it was time to live alone.

But who can afford that?

Unless you're willing to sleep on the kitchen table in the shower, who can afford to pay $200 plus?

'A lot of people co**on.'

True. I can't though, and for the rest of this post I will attempt to only speak on my own behalf.

Through a couple of lucky twists and turns I managed to land a sweet deal in Fitzroy, on Gertrude Street. Some of you know this. I live above a pub, so it's a little noisy, and with the office etc upstairs with me I can't walk around as naked as I would like to.

And besides going to the toilet with the door open, this is what we all strive for ... surely.

I moved in over a year ago.

The pub itself is my second living room. I get half price drinks so I don't get out much. If I'm going to be totally honest I'll admit to you that I'm actually a little lonely.

That's okay though.

I have made some delightful friends; a bunch of boys live down the road.

There are about 5 of them in the neighbourhood, and they all went to school together. They bicker a little, but it’s cute, and I like them. I feel comfortable just rocking up to their house, and plopping myself down on their couch when I feel like it.

But ... I think I've made a little bit of a mistake.

We often have a few vodkas on Sundays together. Occasionally 'the drink' makes me a little rambunctious, and I may have bitten off a little more than I can chew.

Several of them go to the gym together. Their workout of choice is boxing.

I think I can safely say that I am not particularly physically intimidating, but before I knew it, I was challenging the biggest of them to a fight. A stoush, if you will. Gloves on, five rounds, in the ring, May 1.

They leapt on it. They loved it, and it is going to happen. They’re organising girls in bikinis and a PA, so we can enter the ring with our fight song of choice blaring, as we feign upper cuts, and jabs etc.

My song of choice?

Good question.

Who sings that song that goes, ‘How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends’?

Maybe, The Kinks, Death of a Clown.

I’ve googled boxing and it seems to be all about defence. You simply must keep your gloves about your face, and with small movements you have guard your head and body. Then you’ve got to choose your moment; wait until your opponent has attempted to land a few blows then counter attack.

I’m sure there’s a lot more to it.

Fitness.

Technique.

Etc …

Come May 1, I plan on seeing out the first couple of rounds. Tire him down, and wait patiently for him to make his mistake, which will come.

I’m glad I’m taking him on in fact. Either I get a couple in and attempt to go to town on his face, or he’ll bloody me up, and I have a sore jaw for a couple of days. (A week max.)
Either way, I’m sensing a cathartic experience.

Kinda like playing the drums.

Dreams Don't Mean Anything.

2007-03-31T20:50:00.001-07:00

I’m not one to bang on about dreams. I find it dull when people launch into their slumbering escapades.

I can understand, and empathise (I’m an actor) that the dreamteller might find it fascinating that they found themselves conversing with a monkey whilst knitting a Complete Works of William Shakespeare, but, end o’ the day, it’s all pretty predictable when anything goes. Nothing shocks when scenarios, and circumstance have no boundaries.

Having said that, allow me to be a little hypocritical. I say ‘a little’ because I will keep it brief, and I will attempt to keep its format fresh and invigorating.

I dreamt two nights ago that I lost my mind.

This also incorporates itself into my last blog. Seamlessly.

It was a dream based in reality. I was in bed, and people were entering my room. They were talking to me but when they spoke. It was as if they had 3 voices, and they were talking backwards. I didn’t understand why.

The mother of an old friend of mine was on drugs, and began licking my eyeballs. This probably has nothing to do with my sanity, but it should be mentioned.

It was established that I had been missing for 24 hours, but as to my whereabouts, I couldn’t tell you where I’d been.

I was in clothes that weren’t mine.

Something in my head had snapped. I knew that much.

I roamed the streets of Melbourne knowing that I had nowhere to go.

I was aware that society had rejected me: That I was now a burden: A statistic.

Essentially I was swept up in a feeling of helplessness. I felt fucking low.

It was awful.

I woke to someone screaming outside my window: A usual occurrence on a Friday night. (They’re not shouting at me.)

Dream realisation has never been so sweet.

But I’ve got this niggle now.

I’m afraid I’m going to POP!

Stay tuned.

Shit What I Found Out.

2007-03-26T20:18:00.000-07:00

I have a friend … more so, a friend of a friend, who has had a few psychotic episodes.

Mental health issues scare the f*ck out of me. I mean, who’s to say that one day as I’m having a couple of quiet drinks with friends I won’t tilt my head to the left, and then … snappity snap … SMALL ROUND MEN ARE LEAPING ON ME! THE PENGUIN HOLDS THE KEY HERE! I THINK KABBALAH MIGHT BE ON TO SOMETHING!

Then, of course, I’d be madly masturbating into my pint glass.

I name the resulting drink: A Million Drowning Babies.

I make light of a pretty serious issue. I tend to do that; I lean towards it. And, as I embark upon this post, I think now’s an appropriate time to assess my sanity:

I feel like the sanest person I know. Mentally, I think I have real strength, because I’m a battler, in the truest of Aussie ways … mate. I live alone so I tend to talk to myself a bit. As we all know, I carry a few personal issues around with me but, end o’ the day, I’m rock solid. Thanks.

I ran into this fellow at a bar. I was aware (through our common friend) that he had a psychotic episode late last year. I saw him not long after he got out (institution), and monthly (around about) since.

I apologise for the expositional nature of this post, but I’m trying to give you insight into the history of this guy so that I can extrapolate later.

Extrapolate.
1.
to infer (an unknown) from something that is known; conjecture.

When I saw him after he had recently departed cushioned walls, he didn’t look good at all. Vacuous, might be a word you could use. Drugged to the eyeballs; an appropriate phrase, lithiumised; an applicable made up word.

Slowly yet clearly he has made headway, until we find ourselves in the present day, or yesterday to be more precise. At the bar, slightly sozzled; mildly minxed etc. (I would say 7 standard drinks.)

We chatted properly for the first time. I am inquisitive by nature. I am sure that you all have stories that would interest me. But that’s no surprise to anyone though, is it? Is it?

He brought up his recent ‘trip away’, and I asked many appropriate questions. Here are some things I found out about psychotic episodes from the horse’s mouth: One man’s opinion.

- He knew it was coming, but felt incapable of doing anything about it.

- He tried to hack his arm off with a plastic spoon because he thought his arm was robotic, and ‘the machines’ were taking over him. No serious damage as he was seized and drugged before he even broke skin. He told me this knowing as well as I did that ‘I am an RC-30’ was in no way a reality. But let’s not define reality here.

- He had to partake in bead counting, whist, movement classes, and theatre sports. Does crazy mean that you’re suddenly 4? ‘Was there a library?’ I asked, ‘No.’ He replied. I must say that I would happily challenge any of you to whist … anytime.

- He described it as worse than prison. The food was repulsive, he can’t smell dettol without his arms slowly creeping around his waist.

- He doesn’t do drugs ever, because nothing can compete with the high of being psychotic. For a period of 2 weeks he was delusionally off his chops, and loving it.

- The two-month come down that followed (nipping at his heels) was nigh on impossible to make it through. He has had three episodes now. If it happens again, he doesn’t think he’ll come back. When he told me this, I got goose bumps. Death. Brr, tis cold, is it not?

Can it happen to anyone at anytime?

Is there anything worse than mental illness? Chemical imbalance?

I feel general remorse and empathy from anyone who has to go through this stuff.

I really do.

Next week: Cancer.

Take it or leave it or love it or need it.

2007-03-22T18:05:00.000-07:00

My therapist tells me I'm angry.

'More than that', she says, 'you're sad. Why are you sad?'

'I don't know.'

I tell her about my troubled, drug addled, mixed up teenage years. My words come out at a million miles an hour. There's clarity, but how clear can one be at the speed of light. My hands flail, covering my face for most of the diatribe.

'How do you feel about all that now?'

'I feel nothing about it.'

I tell her about my frustrations in my field. A field in which blazing blue eyes, good teeth, and muscular bodies rule the big and small screens.

'And do you want to be a part of that?'

'Fuck no.'

'Then what's the problem?'

'I don't know.'

I tell her of my arguments with people talking loudly on mobile phones, people in cars, (I don't drive. It's pedestrian rage) wating to use public phones, onstage playing in my band when the audience don't listen. (I urged them to throw glasses at me)

'Why would you want someone to throw a pint glass at your face?'

'I couldn't say.'

She tells me I'm sad. Again.

I tell her it's my schtick.

She tells me I need to breathe.

I tell her I've been doing it since I was born.

She tells me I'm funny.

I cry.

She asks me why I'm sad.

I ask her to tell me one thing that is true

She asks me if anyone is looking after me?

I tell her Modest Mouse.

She tilts her head.

I explain that they are a band.

She tells me to look after myself

I admit to her I should eat more.

She agrees, and says sleep helps to.

I explain, in a flurry, I find it hard to 'turn off'.

She tilts.

'My head. You know. I think too much.'

'What do you think about?'

'Everything.'

'And what about your heart?'

'What about it?'

'What does it want?

'Everything it can't have. Until it can.'

Acting.

2007-03-19T17:26:00.001-07:00

As an actor ...

How many times have you zoned out after hearing those first 3 words? The thespian may've gone on to say that in a dramatic fit of fury they killed many many unsuspecting theatre goers. I wouldn't know. I can't listen to most actors. I can't have much respect for people who pretend things. I'll rephrase that. I can't have any more respect ... etc.

You with me?

I am not, nor ever will be, one of those actors who harkens back to the old dog's death, or when Nanny May finally bought it.

I will say this:

I went for an audition the other day where the part required me to be naked (except in cricket pads) being orally stimulated downstairs by a 16 year old boy. It's a guestie (a guest role in a television series) on a cable show called Satisfaction. (Please do not even chortle)

As I stood there with a woman on a pillow giving me mimed head, (WHY!? She had no lines in the scene! It wasn't necessary, and incredibly embarassing!) I thought to myself 'I'm going to get this role'.

I got it.

There is a play on at the MTC this year called The Pillowman. It is by far the best play I have ever read. Do you think I can even get an audition?

I email, call, beg, plead ...

Ever heard the term meat puppet before?

cunts.

2007-03-10T18:18:00.000-08:00

We lost.

But, by god, we played well.

We all managed to conceal our nerves and play the best set we could possibly play. I walked off stage and thought to myself, 'if we lose, there's nothing we could've done better.'

I'm not going to get into 'the obvious choice', nor 'the corporate dollar being more important than the musicality of a band'. Because we all know these things, and for me to bring it up after losing would be cheap, and nasty. Like a polyester suit. Like a cheap watch. I want to hold my head up high, clutch on to my dignity, and say things like 'sometimes losing is the real winner', or 'there's more to be learnt by ...' or 'music was the real winner here'. Et cetera.

It was such a load off, that I immediately got very sick. I had a few scotches, went home and fell on my face. My throat was burning enough for me to think about going to Emergency, but instead I gargled sea-salt and waited until I fell asleep.

I woke up the next day so filled with snot, that I swear to god my chest felt like gelatin. I couldn't move. One of the kitchen staff heard my moans upstairs, and made me give her 10 dollars. She returned an hour later with the most delightful chicken soup. It was The-Chicken-Soup-That-Saved-My-Life.

Aren't men pathetic when it comes to flu. They behave like they're on their death-bed. They bitch and moan, and bang on about their suffering as if each word might be their last. It's ridiculous. Living on my own is good for that reason. I can hide my shame, no one hears my gurgled cries, my wish for a quick painless death, my pointless questions: 'Why me?' 'Why don't I feel better than this?' Et cetera.

It's been no drinking, and all recovery since then. Couch. Blankets. Water. Soup. Phone calls. The odd visit.

And now on Sunday, I feel a little better. Enough for the coffee and cigarette breakfast that has been my staple for so long.

But maybe not enough for the vodka that I'd like. In time.

I like Sundays. They're my favourite day by far. I like the slow nature of them. I would imagine road rage would be halved. People would be more accepting of others taking their time. Children still annoy me, but not as much it would seem.

Sans Souci

2007-03-05T17:50:00.000-08:00

Well ... as I said earlier, (last week I think) my band has found itself with an opportunity to play with the Pixies,

All we have to do is beat another 3 bands on Thursday at the East Brunswick Club, to then be flown to Sydney the following week to play against another 3 bands in the final.

www.garagetov.com is where you can check out what we and the other bands sound like.

Here's the problem. (There's always a problem isn't there?)

I CAN'T SLEEP!

I am so filled with nerves, and anxiety that I shake as I sit here writing this. I am constantly deleting words because I am hitting about five keys each time I try to press one.

And if this is the case, how am I supposed to play guitar and sing?

I have a long and sordid history of betraying myself. Setting up little traps that I can fall in, so as to remain quite comfortable in my mediocrity.

I lie in bed every night, scaring the bejesus out of myself with thoughts of fucking it all up, when in actual fact we have been rehearsing hard, and we deserve to win. We are original, and try hard to create a sound that no one else is doing.

Blah blah blah.

I here you all sigh.

2007-02-28T22:13:00.000-08:00

And here's where it ends.

After spending an unhealthy amount of time over a week with a girl with a boyfriend of 4 years things, as was inevitable, turned to shite.

Before I continue with this story I will remind you of a few things:

1) I never tried anything on(?) her, nor would I have.

2) I wouldn't want to start a relationship with her as a rebound fling, in my extensive experience, is bad news.

3) I wouldn't have had a secret affair with her. This does not make me happy, nor would help 'good shit' come my way.

But ...

I had a crush on her. I can have crushes on boys and girls, it just means I want to hang out with them, that's all. Over the past week, there is no denying my feelings for her have increased in weight, and perhaps burdened me a little, thoughts-wise.

Over the past two days, her texts, which were numerous, and voluminous, dried up. My texts were still replied to, but the responses were brief, and filled with words like 'matey', and 'buddy-o', and other such back-the-fuck-up-cunt related ... stuff.

It was over. Our brief platonic affair had been severed by the hand of my Parisian ... buddy-o.

Nothing on paper, nothing concrete (plutonic), just a whole bunch of subtext, buzz words, and what was not being said.

Any sane man (or a woman) would've nodded sagely at the screen of their mobile, counted their losses, and spouted some over-wrought cliche about how small amounts of pain can bring, at a later date, joy ten-fold.

Not this fuckwad. Not this cocktard. I wanted an omission, I wanted it signed and sealed. I demanded to fuck it all up, in the most extreme way possible.

Even I have to say that that is unfair. I wanted to talk to her on the phone. I wanted to say that I had been silly to get involved with her in the way that I had: Explosively, quickly, and excitedly. I wanted to her to say that she was sorry if I felt that way. It was never her intention to have her actions misconstrued, but ... BUT ... I did want her to accept a dram of responsibility for what had occurred.

I will choose parts of the phone conversation that took place. I will try to remain neutral in my account, how much of it is so, will never be known.

I call, she answers:

Her: Hey.

Me: Hey, how you doin', can we talk for 5 minutes?

Her: Ah, yes.

Me: Look ...., I don't want to turn this into a big deal, or anything, but things seemed to have turned a little weird.

Her: What are you talking about?

Me: Well, I've noticed that all of a sudden there's been a little shift in the tone of your texts.

Her: I can't see you every day T....s.

Me: I know.

Her: We're just neighbours, we're friends, that's all.

Me: I know.

Her: You're just being dramatic.

Me: I don't think I am. Things have changed ...., I mean ... we've both been seeing a lot of each other.

Her: T....s, I have a boyfriend -

Me: I know.

Her: Nothing was ever going to happen between us. Ever.

Me: So, have you told him about being at my place talking and stuff til 4:30 in the morning?

Now she gets angry

Her: Why does this have to be a big deal? I'm not interested in you, I haven't done anything wrong. Nothing was ever going to happen. Why do you have to make this so difficult?

Me: I don't want it -

Her tone is now markedly patronising

Her: If it's going to be such a fucking hassle, we don't have to see each other at all, I'll say hello but don't expect anything more.

Me: That's kind of what I was getting to.

Her: You're confused, and now you're pointing the finger at me.

Me. No! Not pointing the finger.

Her: I have to go.

Me: Well, I didn't expect the animosity.

Her: I'm tired, and hungover, and sick of boys falling in love with me. Then the stalking.

Me: No stalking. ...., listen I -

Her: I'm going, I don't need this, you've made a big deal out of nothing. Goodbye.

Me: Goodbye.

At this point I looked at my phone, and thought; 'if I throw it at the wall, what will be the outcome? My parents are coming to town, they won't be able to contact me. I could always use the crusty pay phone down the road ... no, I wouldn't have father's number.'

I threw the phone as hard as I could at the couch. It landed with a plump gentle sound, and rested gently, almost at ease with itself.

I held my head in my hands and listened to some sad music. I smoked cigarettes one after the other. I went to bed and stayed up for a long time. Thinking about me ... and how I really frustrate myself sometimes. How I never seem to learn. I lay there with my eyes open wondering how to change my ways, and why I need to take things to an extreme, and why, when I can see what I need to do, I always choose the option which hurts the most.

I came up with nothing.

The pain will pass, it was only a week. And now, thank God, it's over.

I won't be spell checking.

The Saga That is Me.

2007-02-27T18:06:00.000-08:00

Well ... we all knew it was going to happen. It was just a matter of when.

Young Divorcees - my band ... the band I'm in - whatever are playing gigs now.

Little baby's all growed up.

For information check our myspace page. (Which is not used in that socially degenerate way, that I'm sure some of you aspire to.)

'You ask us to check your shit out, then you insult us. Push pull, co**on, push pull.

We are also midst a competition that may have us playing with the Pixies. That's right people, there is a chance that I may be able to meet a band that changed my life back in 1989. The follow up album to their first, 'Come on Pilgrim' is called 'Surfer Rosa' and it's viciousness, it's blanket aggression, really helped me out as a young confused, sad little boy.

Visit to find out more about it.

And in personal news. My friends are turning on me because of my ridiculous situation with this nice woman.

They do not understand why I would put myself into a position where pain is the only outcome.

They question its validity, which is fair enough.

Do I sit and cry, and curse that life is unfair, that timing once again - a fine trait of mine when treading the boards - has taunted me, thrown me to the wolves, and left me asunder etc?

No.

Not this time.

Not any more.

I am as hard as rock.

As icy as ... um - well, ice I suppose. IN WINTER!

In truth my friends are right. If one chooses to play with fire ...

I can't help who I am, and long ago I gave up trying to change it. Not that I don't want to be a better person ...

It's complicated.

Women want what?

2007-02-23T18:18:00.000-08:00

Apologies for my few typographical errors in my last post. I hate myself for it, but I suppose the only thing i can do is move on.

We done?

We're done.

Now ... back to this whole woman thing. And believe me, I love women, I find them superior to men in most ways. I adore women.

So, recently there has been one particular broad who drinks in here that I have had my eye on. I regularly sit at my spot at the bar and watch her interact with her friends and I like her style. Aesthestically speaking, you could say she looks Parisian. Not a big nose, but a strong one. A good one. It knows it's there, on her face, but it ain't trying to crash the party.

I don't know if I could put it any better.

I'm going to segue for a moment - with ease, hopefully.

It might be fair to say that I don't particularly like 95% of the population. that might include any one of you, forgive me. I like to think that it's not an intellectual thing. You don't have to be discussing Andrew Upton's updated version of Hedda, nor that Ignatius J (Jacques) Reilly is slothfully intelligent and witty. I am genuinely interested, to put it as plainly as I can, in people who propel me forward in some way, and, just as importantly, lack bullshit, and pretension.

I hate parties, and clubs etc, because all I seem to do is walk from person to person having inane conversations about things that I'm not interested in. the night ends with me in the corner, smoking too much, and looking into the bottom of a glass.

This is as much my faults as anyone elses. But it's just not my scene. And, obviously, there are exceptions to every rule.

What is my point?

Something very interesting happened. In my search to find A DECENT FUCKING THERAPIST I wrote a text to another one of my fucked up, drug addled friends, and it went something like this.

'I am fucking miserable at the moment. Can you send me the number of that therapist you see?'

And I'm okay, this ain't a cry for help, but this girl had just sent me a text, and instead of sending it to my friend, I sent it to her. THIS WAS NOT A PLOY. Why would i it be? Surely a pathetic 'help me, I'm so sad' text is highly unattractive.

Not so. This woman that I had texted to get her along to the show was then umm ... maternal, I suppose, in a very sexy way.

She sat with me all night patting my arm, taking me to sneak into the Fitzroy Pool, and then came upstairs to help me sew buttons on to my bed linen. (Which I am quite capable of doing myself, by the way.)

We have had a wonderful night. Albeit based around my rather pathetic accidental text error, but then she tells me she has a boyfriend. A little shock, I have to say, but at the same time, I don't think she has broken any rules here. She was looking after me, she was 'reaching out'. I felt a pang, a little hurt, but I'm a big enough man to deal with that. Some high profile bloggers might tell you otherwise, and I'll wear that too. I have many hats.

The following evening, the texts me. She asks me if I would like to drink red wine with 2 wonderfully attractive women. WOULD I? But I didn't reply, because I could feel myself falling for my Little Arc de Triomphe, so I thought it best to keep my distance. For my sanity.

I then receive a phone call. It's her name on the screen, but it's her friend. She says.

'**** wants you to come over?'

Then there is a prodding sound in the background. **** has poked her friend for saying what she said.

'Ouch'

The girl says.

I once again decline, saying that I am having a beer at the Builders, and I am entrenched in my pint.

So they join me. the friend leaves and I am once again joined by my friend upstairs, for talking. Which is great.

The same the next. Text. She joins me at the bar, and come with me upstairs.

So, I so very casually broached the subject. I swear it was casual. There was a pre-cursor and everything.

'I don't want to make a big deal out of this but, we have been spending quite a bit of time together - I find you attractive - I understand you're taken.

She denies everything, says that it's nice to have neighbours, nice to have friends that are boys, there's no crush here, nothing going on.

And I accept this. Graciously. I wouldn't want to sleep with her. I don't want to become a fuck up in her 4 year relationship. Nor do I want to catch her on the rebound. Not that I haven't done it before ... I just don't want to do it again. No fun in that, is there?

I guess the real problem here is that I have grown fond of her. She gets the friendship, (as do I) but she gets more than that as well.

I don't know. This isn't a blame thing. No one's right, no one's wrong as is often the case.

It's confusing though, isn't it? These things called emotions.

Is it me? Do I want to hurt myself? If so, why?

And how do i stop it?

Little baby's all growed up.

2007-02-21T18:48:00.000-08:00

Finally the co**on charm is starting to take affect.

There are obviously some gorgeous women who live in my area ... well, I managed to convince one of them to come and see my play.

'How?'

I hear you all ask at once.

Chill out.

It involved a cheap ticket, and some minor begging, sans kness and tears, thankfully.

She came and saw it - these are girls that I see drinking at the Builder's Arms on a regular basis - and she loved it. All of a sudden i am drinking with them. I am handing out my number so quickly, and so often that it begins to sound like a very long international number.

'Arrogant'

You all choir. What if I told you that I haven't got laid ths year? What would you say then?

...

I'm waiting for an apology.

It has taken a year and a half, but now, finally I have mmet some cute girls who aren't actresses in Melbourne.

I will never date an actress again, because I don't think there is one of them who wouldn't run off with your best friend given half an effing chance. Or maybe that's just a Sydney thing.

Anyway, I still am virginal in 2007, and to be honest, I'm not screaming for it, but 'twould be nice at some point to wake up in someone's arms, and not clutching my pillow silently weeping.

That might be over doing it.

As you were.

Insomnia

2007-02-13T15:55:00.000-08:00

I haven't slept in two nights. Pure fear keeps me awake. The fear of standing on stage and forgetting everything. I am haggard, ugly, and sweaty. (greasy)

I hate opening nights. The walruses rock up to the show with their tusks of judgment, sharpening them throughout the show, waiting for an error to pounce on and consume like some kind of arctic fish.

I don't remember it ever being any different.

x

Questions to your Answers.

2007-02-04T17:16:00.000-08:00

This has turned into a bit of joke really. I barely touch my once beloved blog. And I am probably one of the few who doesn't have a myspace or some other social internet site.

But, I genuinely have a few questions. If anyone could answer them, I would be most appreciative. They are in regards to Melbourne.

1) Where do you get a good coffee on Lygon Street in Carlton? It's a damn labrynth. And while we're in Carlton, where does one get good Italian food?

2) Can you swim in the Yarra? If so, where? If not, can you keep your head above water, and paddle, or will some current drag you under water and aquatically rape you?

3) Pubs rarely sell schooners of beer, but when they do they seem way more expensive than other states in Australia, why?

4) The street in Fitzroy / Collingwood, that intersects with Brunswick, Nicholson etc ... is it Johnson, or Johnston? There are signs that say both ... or either ... I AM CONFUSED.

5) There is a major escalator problem in Melbourne. I thought the rule was; standers stay to the left; walkers to the right. There is no rhyme or reason here. People do what they want, it makes me mad. I have brought this up before, but no one seems to have done anything about it.

Thanks.

6)

2007-01-22T14:16:00.000-08:00

And now it's time for a small ad.

I am putting on a show with one of Australia's finest actresses. There are only the two of us in it, and it is a wonderful script. It opens February 14, and closes March 4.

The play is called Europe, and it is by Michael Gow.

It is on a La Mamma, in Carlton.

Thank you.

CSI: Who gives a shit?

2007-01-15T14:54:00.000-08:00

Having had a successful audition for a Foxtel commercial, I was flown up to Sydney for a day so the American director, producers, all their P.A.'s, and the rest of their entourage could see me in the flesh.

In the Green Room were some of Australia's finest young comedians, of all physical descriptions.

You can imagine it. Everyone was 'on'. Jokes flew hard and fast, and were topped, topped again, and glazed, and cherried with nuts. Some worked with exquisite physical humour, others tore unsuspecting victims apart with white collar wit, and the best did it with a look; a raising of the eyebrow.

The timing transcended natural rhythms, accents were accessed when required, and it was, all in all, a petrifying wait for your turn to Wow! the Yanks with never seen before comic genius.

Actors walked out of the audition a little bewildered. Directions such as, 'keep it simply complicated', stay cool in a manic way', or 'you like the product so much, you can't stand it', were commonplace, and when one actor dared to question the director, he was met with, 'baby, advertising is an oxymoron. '

Waiting in the Green Room, I was one of the quiet ones. I giggled when appropriate, but held on to the newspaper. I'm very bad at learning lines for commercials. When asked to spout information as to when the new Apprentice airs, or lists of stars doing voice overs for documentaries, it won't sink in. If I don't care, I can't remember.

A problem, I know.

It was whilst one of the comedians was performing a mime of John Howard's bowling style, that I happened to look down and notice a stain on my shirt, just above my 'privates'.

'Oh, shit.'

I believe I said.

I'd had a taco earlier that day, (Trippy Taco, on Smith Street. Soft shell, oh so good.) and I had 2 choices: (obviously, but let me spell it out) clean it up, or leave it. It ain't rocket science, so I chose the cleaning up option; there were plenty of people to go in before me, would it dry in time, though? I had to be quick, so I headed to the bathroom and, using toilet paper, rubbed at the stain successfully removing it.

As I left the bathroom, the casting woman was waiting for me. She was about to speak, but before she did, I looked down, which brought her eyes down with mine.

'Oh.'

Was all she said. It was not an exclamation.

'You're next in.'

I smiled a 'this always happens to me' smile. This always happens to me, and I'm really into going with it at the moment: Huge, indulgent sighs, mutters and murmers, cursing the Gods. You should check it out, it feels good.

They were all going to think I pissed myself. They were all going to point and laugh, and say the word that wakes all actors up in the middle of the night. Sweating. Breathing, rapidly.

'Next!'

As I approached the door, I decided to broach it immediately. To not mention it would be foolish. I hate nothing more than pretending that there's nothing wrong when everyone knows that something is clearly askew. Americans are scary in this industry, and I tried to hold my head up high as I opened the door.

'If I get the part I'm going to need a diaper.'

I even Americanised (Americanized) a word for them.

They looked at me, and then looked down.

'It was a Taco, I swear to God.'

They laughed.

As I turned a page on my script, (everyone else had their lines down) I accidently put my thumb in my eye.

They looked at each other and snickered. They were delighted.

I made mistakes and cursed, using words like 'fuck' and 'shitballs'.

They stared, daring me to go further, to do more.

I got the part, and will be flying up to Sydney to shoot it all next week. I will be staying at a posh hotel and will be treated like an American. In this industry that's a good thing, if you like over the top pampering every now and then.

Advertising is an oxymoron. Who knows what they want?

13th of December, 2006.

2007-01-03T21:34:00.000-08:00

‘Just stay here, man. Just relax, and I’ll get it for you.’

‘I’m going wherever you go, my friend. I’ll relax when I’ve got the weed in my hand.’

I’m due at the airport in less than an hour, and I have to be stoned for the flight. So, I’m in The Cross, dealing with a hard looking pint-sized middle-eastern fellow. I’m following him through an alley way off the main strip. In fact, we walk past the place my friend got stabbed in front of me earlier this year. It gives me the shakes a bit, and I slightly regret giving this guy $20. Apparently he could get me ice ‘like that’ (he clicks his fingers), but pot takes a little longer.

‘You’re gonna piss people off if you come with.’

‘I’ll take that chance. I’m not letting you out of my sight with my money. I’m no pony.’

He smiles at the use of the word pony despite himself. I’m afraid he’s going to bolt, because if he does I’m going to have to have some kind of fight with him. I’m going to have to grab his arm and pull him back to me, and maybe receive a couple of blows for my trouble,

I’ll wear that. I can’t be straight on planes because I panic.

Why do I find this so exciting? Why do I find waiting in the stairwell of a council flat sexy? Or handshake drugs?

And then he’s off, and I’m after him. If any of his mates show, I’m going to get it. Stabbed? Perhaps. Kicked? Why the hell not? Punched in the face? I hope not. I grab his backpack and he immediately concedes.

‘All right man, you win. I’ve got the weed.’

I’m not angry, but my adrenaline is through the roof. I’m scared, and excited.

‘Why does this have to be so difficult with you guys?’

He smiles a particularly shit-eating grin

‘Part of the fun.’

‘Maybe for you, sir, but I’m 31 now. I’m getting to old … ‘

I trail out as I realise how much I sound like Danny Glover. He looks me up and down.

‘You don’t look a day over 25.’

I melt. No danger anymore. He hands over a tiny bag, but for The Cross it’s not a bad deal.

‘Do you have any papers?’

I ask him.

‘Yuh.’

He hands one over, and I roll up right there. I offer him a toke, but he’s off. It’s not his poison apparently. By the look of his skin I would say that heroin is. But these days, compared to being addicted to ice, heroin is like being addicted to food. (Wait. That’s a major issue now.)

I mellow, jump in a cab, and make it to the airport with very little time left. My name is paged but I make the flight, and am currently sitting on it.

He he he.

Capped.

2006-12-28T17:01:00.000-08:00

My holiday comes to an end today. Here were some highlights:

- Gettting the word plethora out in a game of scrabble. This involved using all of my 7 letters, and the subsequent 50 points.

- Swimming in the cool, clear depths of the Indian Ocean. I have banged on about this before, but man ... wow.

- I have read 2 John Grisham novels in 6 days. What a stroy teller! It's my one literary weakness. Put it in a court, involve a few semi-serious threats aimed at someone with a bit of information that they didn't want in the firsat place, and I'm there.

- It's been 35 degrees with low humidity every day. Not a cloud in the sky. I have watched the sun set over the sea. The sky literally bursts with red. It's pretty fu**ing cool.

- Hangin' with my folks.

Today I head off, but before I do, I am going to see a psychic. I am scared. She talks to dead people for real, apparently. Should be interesting.

Thanks for being here.

Perth Diaries.

2006-12-20T18:42:00.000-08:00

It's hot. Dry and hot. The ocean is incredible. (Indian. Racist? Racist ocean name?)

An old friend of mine lives down the road from where I am staying. He has a family now. I went and had dinner with his wife (to be) and kids. They are not his kids. Nor are they African orphans. (All the pretty ones have been taken)

We chatted over dinner with his delightful family, and then he took me downstairs to his private room. It's not really private as in no one else is welcome, more so, it's his little get away place. A lovely cool limestone room with a bar. He sat on one side and fixed me a scotch, and I sat on the other.

Suddenly I was at home. I realised that living above a bar has me in this position quite a lot, and how much I like it. The bar acts as a security blanket between the two people talking. The liquor is obviously a lubricant, and away we go.

I would prefer to see a therapist at a bar. In fact I would like to walk into her room and have her say:

'What'll it be?'

Then I'd order a double vodka, and away we go.

It obviously wouldn't work if I had a major drinking problem, but I don't so ...

In other news, I went to the dentist yesterday for the first time in seven years.

Ouch.

I asked him:

'Given the fact that kids are eating a lot more shite than they used to, and some of them are ballooning out of control, are you noticing a marked difference nin their teeth?'

He told that that was confidential.

'But it's a general question. Across the board, you know?'

He handed me some floss and a toothbrush.

Some people.

2006-12-16T00:09:00.000-08:00

Hello Dahlings.

Sorry.

You should visit my myspace (is that right?) page.

I don't know how to get there, but if you google my name (if you're in the know) and the name of the band (young divorcees) you can stream a couple of the songs.

I will post more. I promise.

Let me know what you think?

2006-12-09T23:58:00.000-08:00

Sydney: Sunday: 19:00.

After a weekend of sun and surf and table tennis on Bondi, (Some boys dragged a table down there, and put it in the rock pool) I feel refreshed and invigorated by the salt water and the sun.

Every time I come back to Sydney I feel a little more detached from it. I will always recognise its beauty though. It is a naturally stunning town, and, never ceases to take my breath away.

That is all.

Tattoo

2006-12-03T20:30:00.000-08:00

I have thought about getting a tattoo many times, but I don’t think it’s ever been really serious. One of my favourite ideas was to get ‘I’m with stupid’ along with an arrow pointing to my left. Whomever I happened to be standing next to … more fool him / her.

I also tossed up getting the Chinese symbol for tattoo, and a bar code showing that I am just another number in a world slowly filling up to breaking / boiling point.

Now I have a new idea. I want to get a heart. Not a heart cleft in twain, or an arrow pierced one. Not a bleeding heart, or a stolen heart, or a heart with someone’s name spanning its ventricles. I want a text-book heart. A biological heart. I want it labelled and looking like the real deal.

Why?

It is just the tattoo that I want to get. No deeper than that.

My Bones.

2006-11-30T17:39:00.000-08:00

Appropriate that my first post is on the 1st of December, huh?

Other points of interest for the 1st of December.

- Summer.

- 1st day of the second Test Match. (Care-ometer?)

- 1st day of the rest of my life. (That's what I said yesterday.)

Still living above a pub on Gertrude Street. You might've read about Gertrude Street in the paper. Words such as gentrified spring to mind. (As gentrified as a street can get smack bang in the middle of Council Flat Heaven.)

I have been drinking vodka tonics of late.

My latest hobbies include:

- Flirting with Clare, my favourite bar person.

- Hanging out with my new found friends who live next door. Steve, Neil, and Faz. One of them has an interesting quirk that I'll share with you. When he feels like touching himself appropriately, he will hoist himself on his shoulders so that his feet are pointing towards the roof, so he can attempt, with decent accuracy, to come in his own face. Nice work! (If you can get it.)

Melbourne has asserted itself as my new home. (Quite forcefully of late) And my spirits are high, as we zoom towards 2007 which is going to be my year.

I can feel it in my bones.

2006-11-26T20:09:00.000-08:00

This is going well, isn't it. My unkempt, fictional account of a distressed woman.

Hangingonthedgeofyourseatsandallthat.

I need to start posting again, but it's time I based at least a little of it on fact.

I suppose it's fair to say that I regret my decision of deleting my blog. Especially now that it has been taken over by the Japanese fellow.

I'll be in touch, but sadly, the woman's adventures are over.

Onwards and Onwards.

2006-11-15T20:12:00.000-08:00

And now he's calling me.

Drunk.

He's made a mistake, he says.

He loves me like no other, he claims.

I'm the only girl for him, he states.

He needed time apart to gather his thoughts. I couldn't hear it all though, over the sound of me sharpening my carving knife.

I had two words for him. 'Too late,' but I didn't say that.

I told him that he should probably get his life in order.

A pause, then 'why?'

I giggled then asked him to guess.

'Because if I get my shit together, will you take me back?'

'Maybe.' I replied, alluringly.

'Okay.' He forwarded.

'But it has to be our little secret. You can't tell anybody. At least until the 2nd of December.'

He laughed in a curious way. It excited him. Sexually. But if a guys attracted to you, you could talk about an over due phone bill and he'd be all 'ooh, how many long-distance phone calls did you make?' To which the woman would probably reply, '3,' and he'd be all '3 huh, where to?' To which the response would be 'To the States,' and he'd go, 'You've got me in a state ...'

Yawn.

Men are so simple. No alarms no surprises.

We agreed to meet in an undisclosed location on the 1st of December.

Just him and me.

To see if we can't sort things out.

1st of December

2006-11-12T14:18:00.000-08:00

Another week passes by, and every day I look forward to going back to sleep.

I wander aimlessly from room to room, eating food from tins. If I eat at all.

The 1st of December comes ever closer.

The idea of socket-shanking comes to mind.

Thoughts of acid burns excite me.

On other days I think of him choking in flower petals.

Or from eating too much honey.

In my more creative moments, I think he might make a great sculpture.

Q: How many perfomance artists does it take to change a light bulb?

A: I don't know, I walked out half way through.

Excuse My Bad Language.

2006-11-02T18:30:00.000-08:00

I think it's official now: We're all going to die en masse.

Whether it be starvation, thirst, holocaust, whatever; WE. ARE. FUCKED.

I cannot bare to open a newspaper anymore. I even read somewhere that plaque is contagious. Does that mean I can't share my playlunch anymore? If someone cutely nibbles on my ear lobe might I contract plaque there?

On a lighter note; apparently everyday we (Australia) pump out the nations body weight in noxious gases. That blows my mind.

I hate the world.

That is probably the most juvenile sentence (phrase, whatever) that I have written in a while.

Is the world fucked because all our major scientific, medical, technological advances are made in times of war?

Is that why?

Is that the only way we know?

I reckon it is. I think it affects more than we know.

I feel disempowered; incapable of doing anything to help. And I know we can all do our little bit, but surely it's too late for that.

Also: (And I've said this before...)

Pretty much all we are fed are LIES. I understand that this is a sweeping generalisation, but it's so true, and so detrimental. What do tits have to do with toothbrushes? (sexually it might be fun to rub it gently over one's nipple) Or cars? etc? Our leaders / the media / retail / marketers / ad executives / justice systems are all about veering from the truth, tarting the truth up, distracting from ... alluding to ... defying in the face of ... 'look at the pretty lady' ... 'you get a free' ... 'I never saw the document' ... 'that may be so, but under subsection c' ...'not guilty' ... blah blah blah.

I read in a Tolkein book somewhere that Elves are immortal. The only thing that can kill them is if they lose their spirit. They can literally die of a broken heart.

I am not an elf. Nor am I immortal, but I would happily give up my life if I thought it could make a scrap of difference. I would shoot myself, in the face, on the steps of Parliament House if it would change the decision making process that is currently of the day. But it just wouldn't. Would it?

Is that a cop out? Or admirable?

I don't know what to do. I'm weeping through dateline. I'm yelling at toothy cunts trying to sell me FUCKING LIES. I'm dying of a broken heart, drinking too much, consuming like a dirty fucker, and we are past the point of no return.

We're all going to die.

What it's all about.

2006-10-29T18:27:00.000-08:00

It seems to be all about vodka.

And Tonic.

And Tomato Juice.

And Soda with Fresh Lime.

Not all in the same glass, though.

2006-10-24T19:53:00.000-07:00

Can anyone tell me who Nicola Six is?

Does anyone know this fictional character?

A killer of men, but from the outside in.

Men's weak points are simple and will always remain the same.

A murderer in fishnets. Willing to sacrifice well being for the greater good. Always on the brink of fellatio, but the lips remain that centimetre away.

Suggestive.

A doomed character. Haunted by knowing the date of death, and trapped in the ever receding life-force dragging her below. Day by day. Yard by yard.

And it comes down to love, and all the complications; the timing; the duality of it.

Is love a song?

A Note From The Author.

2006-10-21T22:18:00.000-07:00

A Message From The Author.

After a Faux-Dramatic Departure from the Blog-World, (I thought so) I have started up this blog.

‘Really?’

Um … yeah.

‘This is kind of going nowhere co**on. This is pretty much telling us things we already knew. Know. And, on top of that, my care-ometer hasn’t even lilted. It hasn’t even registered a micro-concern.’

Not even a nano?

‘NO! And you still bug me on my blog. You still leave slightly aggressive -’

Huh?

‘That’s right. I’m going there – slightly aggressive posts on my blog, which, to be frank -’

What’s frank got to do with this?

‘…’

Pause.

The timing was immaculate, though.

Pause.

Sorry. Go on.

‘If you can’t have a positive impact …’

You’re right. Are we done?

‘We’re done.’

I just thought I’d drop you ladies and gentlemen a line. And share a few things with you. Little tid-bits I have collected and filed under must-post-this-stuff.

Let’s get it under way then:

A few days ago I was accosted by a man who demanded I high-five him. I don’t know ‘bout you lot, but high-fives are a particular type of hand slap that I don’t give away for free. I was wearing earphones and I pointed at them, implying that I couldn’t hear him. He stood in my way and repeated his request with a sinister tone.

If I didn’t high-five him soon shit was going to go down about my face.

The other problem I had with high-fiving the chap was that his suggested hand was clearly To-The-Side. Not held above his head like any C-Grade basketballer could demonstrate, but clearly outstretched to his left.

I pointed this out to him with a weary tone. Like it was something that was happening to me on a regular basis. He adjusted his mitt, and I had no choice (other than a administered beating) to slip him some skin.

Was this enough for the guy?

No.

He had something to show me.

He requested that I high five him again. I did, no questions asked, I wanted this to end.

Then he positioned his hand in the Down-Low position. I thought he was going to Too-Slow me, so I was quick, but I registered that he had no intention of pulling his hand away.

Then he pinched my bum.

Good. Times.

Also:

I am in a band. We are called Young Divorcees and we have a MySpace which I can’t find.

Also:

I find myself in decent spirits, occasionally whistling something in 3 / 4 as I go about my business.

Also:

I have recently read The Best Play Ever. It's called The Pillowman, by Martin McDonagh. It's on at MTC next year. I want in. I WANT IN! Wish me luck as I lobby hard.

I hope you are all well, and watching from afar, it has made me realise that your community is as viable, and tangible as any. Beautiful things happen, and are shared amongst you all. I apologise if occasionally I am slightly problematic.

co**on

I will not be spell checking. Apologies.

Weapon of Choice.

2006-10-12T18:51:00.001-07:00

If we could move to brass tacks for a moment.

My heart goes out to this option of death.

I imagine myself standing atop his bed, my feet either side of his sleeping body. I emit a soft, brief whistle.

Their eyes would open simultaneously - then I would insert this roughly into his chest cavity.

I call it The Thirty Teeth of Gurgling.

One can see levels of amusement here. I'd like to drop round early for one of his Fortnightly Family Barbecues. I would dig a little hole the backyard, use my decent gardening skills to cover up the 'Party Blower', and find a vantage point outside the standard thirty metre radius of nails, and shrapnel.

I call it the From Liar to Vapour Method.

Let's take it back to t he old school!

This olde relic is the aesthete's dream. It can be used in conjunction with:

a) A blunt pencil.

b) A taser.

c) zeal.

d) Or these.

I understand that some of us err to the green side these days. This is the organic option.

And this would be a damn hoot!

Have a weekend, of sorts.

Les Obsessions

2006-10-10T22:36:00.000-07:00

Yes. I'm Obsessed.

I have taken to waiting outside his house.

Last night, he and ***** watched television. I watched the cold glow on their faces. A kiss was occasionally exchanged, and oft hands were held.

Worse: Stroked: Stroked Hands: Hands Stroking Each Other.

I have taken to carrying a knife in my favourite handbag.

I stayed very still, hidden under a bush. I couldn't tell what channel they were watching, but I can tell you that they changed it twice.

Hands finally leaving each other to grapple remote.

What ever it was they viewed it didn't seem very funny. Advertisements were announced to me by multiple colours splashing across their faces. They became playful, and eventually this play led to excruciating (for me) extra-curricular activities, until the bedroom was sought after as they fell upon each other in the hallway; groping and lusting; wrenching in their springtime love.

I could've cut his throat there and then. But I will wait until the 1st of December.

Our Anniversary.

Like you didn't already know.

I had a dream last night that I was drowning in meat.

A vat of skin, and flesh, and organs. Like quicksand, the more I flailed, the deeper I sunk: My determination ever more increasing.

Rorschach Rebellion

2006-10-08T20:02:00.000-07:00

How do I explain this in the best way?

I have never hurt anyone, nor have I raised any limb in anger.

Every day when I wake up, I almost expect the desire for blood to have passed, but it only gets stronger.

How do I describe the feeling?

It's a rage so potent that it is somewhat tranquil.

Why do I want him dead so bad?

I have forgiven him on so many occasions. I have thrice threatened to leave him, and when he cried on my shoulder, when he begged me to stay, when he clutched at my skirt prolonging my departure, I stayed.

But as soon as something 'better' came along, or should I say something easier, he was gone.

I didn't beg though.

I don't do that.

Him leaving also coincided with some bad news for me. Of the disease variety. Not me, but someone close. Someone I will have to look after. When I needed him, he was gone.

The one time I made a move to lean my head on his shoulder for a bit of support, he took it away.

What do you see here?

Do you want to know what I see?

Two forces colliding like a terrible car smash. I see impact. I see death.

What about here?

I see fear, and short lived panic. I can smell panic better than I can see it. Do you know that?

I stand by my word, I'm a proud woman, and I have reached a critical point. I have to admit that I've never felt saner, but does that mean that I am actually insane?

These are the questions in my head.

Along The Lines of This.

2006-10-03T21:04:00.000-07:00

Okay.

So … what’s the deal with men? They’re all cock’n’balls; so easily persuasive; so readily available on a short-term basis, but when you show them some love … they run.

Is it the same with all of them? Or, is it just the ones that I love.

Ohmigod.

Do I like the Bad Men?

I love sex, and I love to be touched. Here. And there.

We run too. Women, that is. And when we do, we have the men running after us. Like dogs. Pining, poor, mongrel dogs.

In fact, I’m not convinced that it is a gender thing. I just think that we deal with it better. After a relationship break-up women understand that to maintain pride, and dignity we must break off contact. Men, on the other hand, are suddenly inspired to write poetry, songs, suicide notes etc. When they were in the relationship though, they couldn’t be arsed doing the dishes.

Where is the balance? And what is the main difference between men and women? What is it? The main difference?

I do realise that I am breaking the mould here. I get that. One could say that by my ending this man’s life, I am not dealing with it.

Who deserves to die?

In my opinion it is harder to kill someone than to die.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it at this point.

Any tips would be appreciated.

I don’t want a lot of blood though. Nor do I want to get caught. I don’t want to have to do something with the body. I don’t care if it’s found immediately or not.

Ten years on the 1st of December was when we first met, and fell in love.

Look Out! You Know Who You Are.

2006-10-02T20:36:00.000-07:00

He left me.

Or rather; he left me.

After all I'd been through. After the drunken fights in which my only objective was to walk away without a beating. After dealing with his stupid fat mates coming over and tossing beer cans around the house. After cleaning up after this son of a bitch for 10 years, and trying to justify my relationship with him to my friends and 2 sisters he found someone else, and fucked off.

I can't believe it. I am trembling with rage. I can't pick anything up. I can't eat because all I do is spill. Cups of tea a better described as broken pieces of china.

You read the title.

I am formulating a way to kill this man. I don't care if it's quick or fast, painful or no. I just want me to be the last thing he looks at, before he chokes on a mouthful of blood ... for example.

I don't intend on getting caught. But, I will be sharing the story with you. It might be of some use. I'm still trembling. It has taken me a long time to write this, as words are coming out jumbled, and wrongly prefixed, or extended, or illegible.

That Bastard.