Exaggerating Rumours

Jack Bauer is so alpha. I could be alpha.

2006-06-22T21:26:00.000+10:00

I’m Original Gangstar Soccer. I was into soccer back in the beginning; way back when the beautiful game was a childish grin of glee on the young world's face. When soccer was still an unknown and un-quantifiable anomaly on the rich pastures of Chipping Norton, I was its biggest supporter, crying forth the majesty that is the only true football in the world. That’s right, I was into soccer way back when Australia played Uruguay to qualify for the 2006 World Cup. Now, of course, everyone is hopping on the bandwagon.

Where were you all 6 months ago when soccer was first introduced onto the world’s stage? Jacking off donkeys, that’s where! Ooh, look everyone, look, I see a bandwagon approaching, have you got your ticket yet? All a bunch of sheep.

Being OGS, I’ve set my alarm to watch the Croatia match tomorrow morning. The only time I will ever get up at 5am is if I can stay in bed, then fall back to sleep, or if I have to appear in court, and even then, only if I’m pleading innocent. If I’m guilty of anything it’s being into Soccer from the beginning. Oh look everyone, here comes another bandwagon!

I think I might set up my own bandwagon business. You always hear of people jumping on them, but spotting one in the street just never happens. What we need are hoverwagons. I need to take this shit into the future. Pretty soon, when my business takes off, everyone will be jumping on the hoverwagon bandwagon. All a bunch of sheep I tell ya.

Anyway can’t stay for long as I have a pizza bubbling away in the oven and a plate of steak and chips setting in the fridge. Fuck I’m a good cook. Although, if someone suddenly un-invented the microwave, I’d probably die. I’d just stare at the empty space the microwave once took up and through blurry eyes and sounds of whimpering think, “Foooooood?”

There’s way too much stuff to learn how to do in life. Of course, you get over the basics as kids. Dressing, tying shoelaces, black magic etc., then you reach your teen years and you’re expected to be able demonstrate skill in math, rope climbing and general acne maintenance. You think graduating is the celebration of applying all that you’ll ever need to learn, then some fucker swindles you out of money through a dodgy finance deal and you think, “Finance, what the fuck is finance?”

Back to the fucking books.

I just went to a website that explains how to accomplish the perfect shave. Apparently you need the right type of cream and a shaving brush with which to apply it. I just looked down at the sharpened butter knife I had previously been using and thought, “Hmm, all this learning has made me hungry. I could totally bubble up a pizza right about now.”

Hopefully it will be ready in time for the new episode of 24. That shit is like crack. After the credits roll at the end of the episode I feel all giddy, yet serene and floaty, then after about an hour I start shaking and sweating. Neeeeed 2wenty 4our!!

OBPhoto:

Who wants to jump on the no smiling hoverwagon? All a bunch of sheep.

Relationship: Negatory

2006-06-04T12:54:00.000+10:00

There is a big gaping hole inside of me. Well, inside one of my teeth anyway. Don’t talk to me about teeth. I’ve had…eight teeth extracted, including three via general anesthetic (two bottom wisdom and one extra tooth inside the top of my gums) two fillings, braces for three years and a plate for one year. To look at my finely crafted choppers now you’d never know the work that’s been put in. With all the money my parents have spent on my teeth, and the continued lack of attention I receive from the laydeez, it’s left them wondering why they ever decided to hold their retirements back a decade.

They don’t know the pain I’ve been through. You don’t know me!

So yeah, last night one of my fillings came out. Big gaping hole. Whatever.

Last night: bars in the city + revolver. Me sober, Daz pilling, Euro drunk. We’ve decided it’s probably for the best that we don’t hang around each other anymore. We’ve become a group of what could possible be described as a Downward Spiral of Lame. If only we played instruments we could start an emo band. The reason I was sober was because I’m sick of drinking and taking drugs. I’m tired of the crutches I’ve come to depend on just to have a good time. It’s like I use them to fill a hole. A big gaping hole. Deep inside my teeth.

Now it’s Sunday morning and I feel not a hint of a hangover.

*Winks at self in mirror*

Women are liars. Just thought I’d throw that out there. Here’s one of the most common lies that women tell. Ready?

“If you want to attract a girl, you’ve just gotta, you know, be yourself!”

Clever. Very clever. See girls know what they’re doing. It must be difficult for a girl to know when to give in to the advances of a guy when she’s not sure if the suave, sophisticated and witty façade that precedes him is real, or a bunch of canned material that over the course of the night/following days, turns into a withdrawn and boring, porn addicted loser. Girls have to protect themselves, and to help in this effort, it is in their best interests for you, the loser male with lack of wit and looks, to simply be yourself straight off the bat.

This way, by simply being yourself, you’re pre-selecting yourself out of her pants. She doesn’t have to waste a moments energy wondering. Women are clever.

For a lot of guys, tricking a girl into believing you’re something that you’re not is essential. I’m not saying that a girl who shares your interests and that you hit it off with can’t fall into your lap at some point; I’m sure that can and does happen. But it’s like sitting at home and waiting to win the lottery rather than putting yourself through school and exaggerating your resume to get a job.

As a student of this guy, I understand the theory all too well. My problem is my inability, or maybe unwillingness to put fakeness into practice. A part of me feels as though I’d almost think less of myself if I got a girl by using canned material than if I just came home alone. The problem being, that either way, I do think less of myself.

Hmm, to be myself AND get a girl. The holiest of grails.

But I’m not lonely.

See, men can lie too.

*Ponders genocide*

Really though, I have it good.

*Cries*

*Wipes tears*

*Smiles*

OBPhoto:

Appologies for leaving the last post hanging. During its writing, I got distracted by a few MSN conversations and lost interest. The cop was a pushover. I was almost caught assaulting his dog after fearing he'd trained it to sniff drugs. Had to cover and pretend I was just playing rough with it. Drove to the city, sniffed more coke off the centre console of Daz's car. The car alarm went off as we were doing it. Went to some bars. The night descended into nothingness. I'll probably never do coke again. According to Rorschach, it's was probably cut with novocaine, hence the numbness. All in all, a waste of a shit load of money.

Is this decaffeinated coke?

2006-05-14T21:11:00.000+10:00

I find myself listening to a lot of Sinatra. Do you? If so, do you want to hold hands?

I like you.

Exaggerating Rumours life tip no. 34543 – 34542: When doing cocaine for the first time, don’t hang out at the chief of police’s house.

It went down like this –

Eurofriend was looking after his newlywed sister and bro’n’law’s place while they where honeymooning each other somewhere near water and better weather. Before they departed and the house was officially handed over for a couple of weeks, Dave - newlywed male - handed Euro a gram of the ol’ nose candy. Dave, I may add, is universally understood to be, by everyone who has met him, a rather giant knob of a bloke. He actually sniffed coke on his wedding day behind his new brides back, and regularly espouses conversations that feature his desire for nubile young blondes. He’s a knob of a bloke that happens to have drug connections, which, when balanced out, makes him somewhat of a cool guy.

I guess we all have our price.

Anyway, far too much back story. It was Saturday night, I was at Euro’s sister’s place with a rolled up $20 and a line of coke. Had never done it before. Euro was half a pro, having traveled to Malta where drugs fall from trees and police pull you over and fine you if you’re under the requisite limit for illicit drugs on your person at any given time.

So what did I do? Accidentally blew out of the makeshift straw scattering my line across the bench. I would have been embarrassed if I was someone who still had the capacity to feel embarrassment. While the others wasted energy laughing, I set about reconfiguring my line, then I sniffed that bitch up like a government that is owed Capital Gains Tax from Donald Trump.

I stood back and concentrated on my vital signs. There is always an excitement when you take a new drug and you wonder what new wonders of feeling await you. I kind of stood there like Violet from Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory experiencing her everlasting gobstopper for the first time. I felt a slight buzz but nothing really. I told the others in the room who were looking at me, “I feel a light buzz, but nothing really.” No one was happy with that.

Euro snorted his line then told me to clean up the bench, which involved me sticking left over cocaine residue onto my finger and rubbing it on my gums. Nothing really mattered at this point. The television showed that Essendon was leading Richmond by 3 points and a night of wicked beats and armageddon on the streets awaited us.

*listens to Sinatra. Sips red win. Farts.*

Anyway, we left the house and hopped into daz’s car. It was at this stage that I realized that I couldn’t swallow properly. My throat was completely numb. It wasn’t a good feeling. “Is your throat supposed to go numb on this shit, I can barely swallow my beer?” “Ahhh…” Euro had to think for a bit. “Yeah, it does.”

I wasn’t expecting this. I had naively assumed that ten minutes after a hit I would be trading shares on Wall Street while getting head from a blonde random. I didn’t expect to feel like I’d just come from a dental surgery after having a tooth extracted. People pay for this shit?

We had to pick up Ben who used to be my manager at work, before he quit and had a going away dinner one hour previous to my introduction to cocaine. During the dinner we’d offered to take him out for a drink. Daz pulled up out the front of the house he was staying at, then dropped a bombshell. “The guy that lives here is the chief of police.”

“Hehehe, cool”

“No really, he is. He’s senior sergeant constable (or something similar) in this precinct.”

Euro and I were both feeling the buzz coming on stronger. We looked at each other and decided we weren’t up for that particular introduction; we’d stay in the car and wait while Daz and Tim went in and got him.

The others left, the car was dark and empty and Euro and I were buzzing harder and harder. I remember talking absolute shit, then realizing, then asking Euro if talking shit is a symptom of coke. It is. Daz and Tim were taking ages, each second felt like a minute, I felt frustrated that I wasn’t trading shares and getting head from a blonde random.

About an hour later (5 minutes actual time) Daz opens the door and says that we should go inside for a quick drink with the others. The others included work people and one chief of police. I stretched my face out, rolled my shoulders and decided that I could so totally pull this off. Inside we went.

(To be considered for continuation)

OBPhoto:

Satanic rituals come in all shapes and sizes.

Takin' out the garbage

2006-05-05T19:25:00.000+10:00

In about half an hour I will be departing for my new home for the next week. One of my buddies is eloping with his fiance’ (of all people!) to Tasmania. I have been trusted with the care of two dogs, a gym, a fully stocked kitchen, and a large screen rear projection TV and accompanying surround sound system. I hope I remember to feed the dogs.

I have a vision of me in four days time sitting on the couch with a girl watching a dvd and eating popcorn…

“Umm, Li, are those dogs barking outside?”

*Shrugs* - “Probably the neighbours have dogs.”

As for the gym, for the next week I’m going to go hard. I don’t mean get an erection, or at least, I don’t mean that specifically. I mean, by the end of the week, I hope to be two giant biceps and a pair of eyes. I will then be the guy at the party that tells people that he could pull a 747 if it had a rope tied to the front. I will then try to lift the TV with one arm, just to shut those weak laughing fuckers up!

Had a lad’s night a few days ago. Drank some beer, checked out some porn, watched some Chappelle and smoked some chronic. During the stonededness we came up with a kick ass web site idea. Can’t go into it cos you fuckers are always stealing my ideas, but it’s going to take some work, and a large amount of motivation, and it’s not something we’d want our families to know about, and it’s going to take….ahh, shit, I can’t be fucked already.

*Reaches for Doritos buried somewhere under left leg*

What else?

This post doesn’t feel long enough. I need to buy a blog post enlargement pump. People claim they don’t work but the one’s I’ve seen on the net have a 100% money back guarantee.

A photo will take up a bit of space, but I think people will know that’s just a cop-out. I also don’t want to fill this up with uninteresting filler because that’s also a cop-out. Uninteresting filler is such a cop-out. I hate cop-outs. Cops as well. They can get the fuck out!

“…so I said to the guy, ‘Get the hell out before I take you out!’ and I rolled up my sleeves like this,”

*Rolls up sleeves*

“Woah, all tough-like, then what did you do, Li?”

“Well, you know how strong I am, and I didn’t want to hurt him, ‘cos once I get started, man, I don’t stop you know? You know dontchya Tom, tell em, tell em how once I get started I don’t stop.”

“Ahh, yeah, it’s true, I saw it once…he didn’t stop.”

“Damn straight, so the guy’s just looking at me like a fag whose scared all of a sudden ‘cos he knows I’m not playin games. He starts backing off but at the same time, continuing to be a smart-arse and testing my patience.”

“Oh, I hate that smart-arse! Here, Li, you want a beer mate?”

“Thanks Mark, so the guy’s being a smart-arse but backing off at the same time, just like the weak little cunt that he is. So I step forward and show him that I’m not averse to using me fists as tools for my own brand of cosmetic surgery if ya know what I mean, hehe, and the fag simply turns around and runs out of the pub!”

“Hahaha, he did, I saw it! Li was just standing there, dusting off his hands like he’d just taken out he garbage!”

“Nah, nah, it wasn’t like that, they just needed to be shown who was boss you know. I just made sure they knew, hehe.”

“Well Li, my mum reckons you’re a good sort, for standing up for the ladies like that.”

“Well, Sol, I think your mums a good sort…for sucking me off the other night!”

“HAHAHA”

“HAHAHA”

[Camera moves out from pub and into the sky as the boys crowd around Li, and his heroic stories of saving the town]

OBPhoto:

Pft, no one blogs anymore

2006-05-02T16:04:00.000+10:00

April never happened. What if I told you I was a figment of your imagination, and that sitting here, in the far out recesses of your mind while you sleep through another month is causing a desperate loneliness in me, would that wake you up? It’s cool though, I'm not lonely. Like the great Phil Collins once said, I can feel myself coming into the air tonight.

I've experienced some dark nights before, usually while on drug comedowns. Dark images infringe on the light ones as visions of Jurassic lizards tearing each others throats out are overlayed over my life and the up-coming results of every decision I make. But you know in the morning everything will be okay so you just deal with it. I think Prince was right; anything is acceptable, even murder, so long as you do it with an intellect and a savoir-faire. I need to cultivate savoir-fair...maybe even do a tafe course on it.

But this is the world we live in, and I've recently discovered that the only way to make it better is to drink more water. The ol' 1 part oxygen, 2 parts hydrogen...if only they could bottle it.

I have an idea for a television show. Like most of my ideas, it is simply the reworking of someone else’s idea. Antique Roadshow, at the moment, is a little boring. Full of old people showing off pins and broaches and waiting expectantly for another old codger to rattle off a final figure for their treasure.

I think we need to make a Junkie Roadshow. You film junkies going through trashcans looking for something to take to a valuer. Then you get the valuer to give them an astonishingly high price for it before everyone points and laughs and tells them they're worthless, then you watch them crawl into a hole and shoot up heroin to deal with the pain. It would probably need to be on after 9:30pm o'clock though.

My dream is to be the new Mark Burnett. Sometimes other people's dreams annoy me, I mean, we can't all be living our dreams. I think this earth harbours definite finite dream living conditions. Sometimes I see us as Jurassic lizards, tearing at each other’s throats for each bit of dream living space. As Mike Oldfield once said, "*insert sound of tubular bells*".

Hmm, I guess late night thoughts are rarely productive.

In the morning everything usually turns out okay though. Sunlight has the magic healing power. The water hydrates, then the sun photosynthesises us back into beautiful flowers. But when it gets dark again, well, there's just no stopping us growing teeth and having intimate moments with the devil.

But I'm not lonely, here in the recesses.

I’m not entirely sure why I still bother with words.

Love.

OBPhoto:

V for Ventriloquist

2006-03-31T21:36:00.000+11:00

Although the effect is probably lost on you, I have recently learned to type without moving my lips. Believe me, crowds are amazed.

As for last night, I went and saw V for Vendetta with a couple of mates and a couple of hot Asian chicks. There were also some others, who, despite remaining in my periphery were a part of the group nonetheless. So my review? Hmm. Think Johnny Depp’s Willy Wonka inserted into the original Chocoholic film, with an acetate overlay of 1984. Think, vaudeville pantomime while a TV in the background plays British drama on the ABC. Think astonishingly bad acting while a killer concept roams through the audience applauding. I think it’s only when I think back that I realize that don’t really know what to think.

The person to my right thought it was the biggest load of shit he’s ever had to sit through and didn’t walk out only because I was his lift home. The girl to my left really enjoyed it and thought it was thematically brilliant. I thought it was a whole bunch of shruggery.

*Shrugs*

I guess the good thing for Hugo Weaving is that he’s found a way to make himself palatable. By wearing a mask and a wig and a long black cloak. If he could somehow disguise his voice I think he’d have been brilliant. Interesting to note that there must be some reason beyond science as to why London is somehow incompatible with the future. Set in 2020, the only signifier of this fact is that there are a lot of large plasma screens about. Literally everything else in this movie looks like it’s from the seventies. I can’t wait till there’s a lot of large plasma screens about!

*Stares at mum churning butter*

Overall, yeah, the movie sucked. I mean, it really sucked. Not the idea, nor the concept, but the form and colour that the director molded it into was astonishingly bad. Inept. Cringe-worthy.

The movie was like me through high school. It showed a lot of promise, but ultimately failed. It also almost got suspended in year 8 for attempting to nipple cripple a girl. The director should be ashamed.

I’m also annoyed that this movie took away time that could have been spent looking at hot Asian girls. Especially as previously one of them had been ignoring me and I was only just beginning to get conversation out of her. Is it wrong to tell an Asian girl that you really want half-caste kids, then stare intently at her as if signaling that it’s her time to speak now?

I didn’t do that.

2 stars.

OBPhoto:

This was taken by a mate of mine at a recent art thing at the Old Melbourne Gaol. This is in one of the cells. Who ever knew that prisoners had such neat cribs?

You didn't know.

Sleep is for suckers

2006-03-29T00:45:00.000+11:00

I sit, alone, staring at my single monitor. The other one died. All my reasons for continuing the act of living have been culled by half. I'd give my left nut to get my left monitor back.

[Breathes on left CRT screen]

WAKE UP!!!

A single tear drops from my cheek onto my keyboard. I know it’s all over because I can feel the cameras panning out and soppy music fading in.

A minutes silence please…

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19,20,21,22,23,24,25,26,
27,28,29,30,31,32,33,34,35,36,37,38,39,40,41,42,43,44,45,46,47,48,
49,50,51,52,53,54,55,56,57,58,59,60

YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!!! TAKE ME INSTEAD!!!

Ahem. That’s better.

Wow, you guys look so much smaller compressed into one monitor. I might make a large eye-patch for my dead crt. Then my computer will have that much saught after pirate vibe.

I can’t sleep. I’ve even had two glasses of red, yet still I can’t sleep. I was in bed, after just completing the mechanical activity of masticating a bowl of rice mixed with tuna, when I realized that sleep wouldn’t happen unless I had something to watch on TV. I need to concentrate on something so that my brain can appreciate that it simply doesn’t have the strength to remain awake. I've got to trick my mind into believing that it's of the utmost importance that it stay conscious as only then will it give me the middle finger and turn my eyelids into proxy-anvils. Problem being, that of course, there is nothing of value on the teev and all my dvd's are BORING!

This is where you come in.

I will now attempt to explain to you the importance of the Magna Carta on modern day maritime law.

It all started in 1215 when King John…

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

[Murmers: “Take me instead”]

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

OBPhoto:

Ingredients:
1 lack of sleep
1 empty beer bottle
1 camera

Good Mike Hunting

2006-03-24T12:14:00.000+11:00

MEN WEREN'T REALLY THE ENEMY—
THEY WERE FELLOW VICTIMS
SUFFERING FROM AN OUTMODED
MASCULINE MYSTIQUE THAT MADE
THEM FEEL UNNECESSARILY
INADEQUATE WHEN THERE WERE
NO BEARS TO KILL.
— BETTY FRIEDAN
The Feminine Mystique

You know what fills me with anxiety? Juggling. Juggling is what occurs when you have three hard drives, two monitors and a high-speed internet connection. Juggling is what occurs when, by complete accident, you download video of women doing nude yoga and you decide there and then that you need more of that shit.

Hard drive space is a valuable commodity. I keep getting windows pop-ups telling me that I’m running dangerously low on space on c:\. I then quickly move some shit over to e:\ so that the nude yoga can complete. All of a sudden, e:\ is full, so I shift some stuff over to f:\, which is supposed to my Photoshoppe’ scratch disc, but has over time, become inundated with porn. I can’t even edit a photo these days without Photoshoppe’ telling me “there is too much porn to complete that request”.

I’m burning dvd’s, clearing my cache, deleting random files in the hope they’re unimportant. Warning lights and cockpit sirens reach a terrifying crescendo in my room. It doesn’t occur to me for a second that I should just stop downloading for a bit.

It’s all too much.

I was drinking on the street with some friends a little while back and we were discussing the continued mini-depression that seems to permeate out lives. C says, “You know we should be out hunting for food. How fucked is it that we just buy what we used to hunt for all packaged and shit from a shop?” “Yeah,” I said, “we have nothing left to hunt for…except downloads.”

All of a sudden it all made perfect sense. Downloading is the new hunting. Always hunting for new downloads, then gathering them into directories. If I want to stop, then the only alternative is to pick up a spear and start stalking the neighbours pets. My biology wants me to hunt for something; either animals or data. More, more, MORE!

I want to take a dog food bowl to work, place it on the floor and eat from it from time to time. I will do it to remind people that our civilized rituals can’t disguise what we really are. Animals with Playstations.

One day I want to play a game that features me controlling a character that sits in front of a playstation, that controls a character that sits in front of a playstation hunting for animals. Each time I complete a successful hunt, a new meta level will appear with another character sitting in front of a playstation until I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. My reality will then be like an infinite progression of facing mirrors spiraling off into the distance. I will wake up to my God-nature and remember that I created this and can end it at anytime.

I will then turn myself into a giant Smurf-like creature with seventeen arm-like appendages that rolls around a maze of moving platforms collecting coins that enable me to gather speed. This will be the new world and it will be so much better than this one.

Just wait and see.

OBPhotos:

Guys are just ugly girls

2006-03-21T15:35:00.000+11:00

Caught a car into the city last night to check out all the fuss. Some nice vibey stuff going on. Fed square was packed with big screen Commonpoor Games goodness. Even boring shit like active people flailing around a length of swimming pool becomes half interesting when you’re watching it with a huge crowd.

“Crowds of people are very interesting.” – Teigan

“Yeah” - Me

Anyway, checked out the fish in the river. Where did all the million$ go again? I mean, yeah, big bright fish, not bad. But um…where did all the millions go again?

Needed a top up of beer so headed to Transport. It’s central and easy and Powell running the 100m dash was on the plasmas. The last two times I’ve been to Transport, the girl/guy ratio has been about six or seven guys to every girl. I’m not sure what it means. A girl named Darna approached me anyway. I asked her if she lived here, and when she put one hand to her head in a thinking pose and the other one waving in a pointing way, as if to help with explaining the directional area of her residency, I pointed at the floor and said, “No sorry, I mean, do you live here…in this building?”

She looked a little perplexed, so I clarified, “I just want to make sure this isn’t your house and I, like, just came here uninvited.” I was just trying to be stupid/funny which I think worked because she laughed and said, “No I live over there in the street. Don’t laugh.”

“Hey, I’m not laughing, actually, I find it kind of sad.”

So I stood there in silence for a little bit, as if the sadness of her predicament had made me non-talkative, then looked at her and smiled. She said, “I’m not laughing you know!” To which I said rather earnestly, “I know you’re not.”
I turned away then as I looked back at her I smiled and she started laughing. I said, “See, you are laughing, you lied to me! You women are all the same, lie, lie, lie, move on please,” as I motioned for her to be on her way.

The thing was, I wasn’t at all attracted to her. Physically she was very average, but I admired her ability to just walk right up to me and start talking. It’s an ability I’m trying to develop in myself. But soon I got scared that if I invested too much into this conversation, it would be harder to leave her later. I don’t like hurting people’s feelings, as my feelings have been hurt heaps and it makes me want to kill myself or other people. Less people on the planet may be a good thing, but I don’t want to be directly responsible for it through an act of violence. Indirectly…maybe.

So, instead of showing disinterest in her in a playful manner, I started projecting disinterest in a more real way, by toning down my responses and looking over her head as if interesting things were always somewhere else. She got the message, shook my hand and made her goodbye. I felt really bad after that. It was the mistake of an amateur because she was nice enough and I could have had a new friend for the night. Also, I noticed as I was talking to her, that other girls where looking at me, because all of a sudden I had social proof. Girls notice other guys who have been noticed by other girls. Simple social rule. Lesson learned.

After that, we went for a walk down the other side of the river where other stuff was happening. Crowds and cool lights and music. An African choir clapping and singing on stage. All of a sudden, music started pounding out of speakers all the way down the river and the giant fish started spurting water out the top and lighting up in weird and wonderful ways. It was like the whole area had turned into one big acid trip. Instead of it being the result of chemicals inside the brain, it was the result of money spent on crazy stuff in the outer environment. Essentially though, it’s the same thing. If people on acid spent big, it would be legal. Whatever helps cycle money through an economy = good. Simple social rule. Lesson learned…long ago.

Further down Southbank I relieved my bladder, got another beer and ate a pizza. I’ve never noticed the name of this place, but it’s on the corner of the arcade bit where the ATM’s are at Southbank. Mushroom pizza. Fuck me…nice.

Shortly after that, a bit more walking around, then caught a car back home.

Okay, bye-bye.

OBPhotos:

Pft

2006-03-19T00:29:00.000+11:00

My cat doesn’t trust me. Not that it’s my cat. But when I’m out smoking a cigarette, (I’m a non smoker btw) it peers at me through its cat eyes, wondering if I’m going to lock it out.

It doesn’t know me.

I’m complex. I could do anything.

And that’s all I have to say right now.

*Locks cat out*

Road Wage

2006-03-10T14:17:00.000+11:00

It’s the cigarettes that do it. They make you think unhealthy shit. They should put a warning on the packet. I was outside, in the sun, wearing my shorts, no shirt, and I caught the reflection of the sun shining off my rippling emaciated stick figure in the window when I thought, I really need to put on some muscle. I remembered my weight bench and thought; I’m so going to push my body to the limits of its flexing capacity by burning through some hardcore sets. I coughed and spluttered my way through a set and half before thinking, fuck this. Now I’m back in front of my computer.

Home sweet home.

I’m supposed to be calling a girl in regards to future employment options. I have a list of things to discuss in case I forget and get sidetracked. If you know anything about me, it’s that when I talk to girls they are like putty in my hands and I end up sleeping with them…and their friends, in a matter of minutes. I really just want a job though.

I’ve tried calling her twice but she aint answering. Just playing hard to get I guess.

I’ve been sick these last few days. Woke up in the middle of the night with my throat on fire. Each swallow felt like razor blades dipped in molten lava. I didn’t have any strepsils so I went to the fridge and swallowed a pound of milk. Back in bed I tried as hard as I could not to swallow. I lasted only five seconds between each swallow thinking, I have to fall asleep, it’s the only way to dull the pain. I had five seconds between each swallow to nod off.

*Swallow* Okay you’ve got five seconds, go!

*Swallow* “Arrghh, fuck that hurts! Okay five seconds…sleep!”

*Swallow* “Arrghh…FUCK!”

Very long night.

But…

I have four days off from work! I don’t like the public, but I love public holidays. I think the greatest thing people have done as one, is all get together and decide they don’t want to work today. Kudos to the public. It’s like for once, I feel like we’re all sniffing from the same social glue. God I love a good headspin.

I got another $210 speeding fine. Only going thirteen over! I’m thinking of cheating the welfare system just to get my money back. I think the government needs to be taxed for once. I’m going to build some roads and a university in my backyard. This shit costs.

Anyway, I’m going to try calling this girl with the job info again. Sell myself like the good little wage slave that I am.

OBPhoto:

The cop and her friend at the Belgian. Apparently she didn't think I looked dogdy at all, it was just Danny playing games to get the girls. If you're wondering what they're looking at with excitement and bedroom eyes, it's Danny. Remind me not to go out with that guy until my game improves.

Btw, I'm not a midget, that photo was taken from waiste height. Pft.

Stop clawing at my legs

2006-02-27T20:52:00.000+11:00

Today is the first day in eleven years that I’ve called in sick for work. No shit. Yesterday turned into a bigger day than planned, and subsequently, by this morning, I was in no mood to fake competence and interest at work. I had big cravings for a McDonalds breakfast, especially after chatting with Eurofriend on the net, who was also struggling with a toxic hangover and had just finished a McDonalds breakfast. I still don’t understand why McDonalds don’t get rid of everything except their breakfast menu. Their burgers are fucking horrible even for fast food standards.

Yesterday the weather started off shit and we didn’t really know what to do. We knew we’d allotted space in our busy schedules to get face to the floor drunk, we just didn’t know best way to do it. I don’t know why, but it was decided we’d go to the Espy and meet Danny, Eurofriend’s mate there. We arrived about 1:30 o’clock and got straight on the pish.

The Espy is a hole really. Severe lighting problems. Big bay windows at the front and no light at the back. That means that all you can see of the person sitting on the other side of your table is a black silhouette.

Danny needed drugs, so he’d hooked up with two girls who were pulling an all nighter at Altitude to meet us there with some chem. They were on their way to somewhere else, as party girls usually are, but were nice enough to drop off supplies and stay for a drink. In the toilets I dipped my finger in the little baggy and rubbed some speed onto my gums via my finger. Tasted toxic, which I think is nature’s way of letting you know it’s good for you.

Serving behind the bar was the cutest girl ever. She had this alterna-chick ‘tude with a hint of androgyny. We had this eye contact thing going. I didn’t know whether the eye contact on her part was from just seeing if that weird guy across the room is still looking at me, of if she was interested. I assumed it was the former. I’m a glass half empty kind of guy. I didn’t talk to her because what do you say to girls who work behind a bar? Isn’t trying to pick one up the most cliché thing ever? I don’t know. Anyone with experience?

The problem I usually have is that by the time alcohol gives me the balls to talk to a girl I’m interested in, it usually also gives me the ability to slur just about every word that comes out of my mouth.

Once the party girls had left, we looked outside and noticed a drastic improvement in the weather. Off to the beer garden we went. Hoegaarden has got to be the most disgusting beer ever. I never knew it was possible for a beer to taste like sunscreen. Carlton Draught is the second worse beer, that one has an aftertaste of sweaty sock. It was for these reasons that we ended up sticking to the stella’s.

Two of Euro’s lady friends, Marisa and Cara showed up for a while, as did another of Danny’s mates. I was trying to contact the Vikings but I ran out of phone credit. I was getting really fucking drunk as well. I had cigarettes but no lighter, so I was constantly walking around, scouring for fire. Girls can get pretty annoyed with this because often they keep their lighter in their handbags and have to rummage around for it. They’re great at giving you this look like they’re happy to help, but they hope you know it’s a bit of a nuisance. When I got that look I would say, “usually I just rub a couple of sticks together you know, but today I just can’t be bothered.” The first girl I said it to laughed, so I think I used it on another seven or so. I think the first girl was the only one that laughed.

When Marisa and Cara left, we started talking to another set of girls. Danny initiated this one. If you’ve ever wondered who uses the ‘Ten tonne polar bear’ line, it’s Danny. His style is more unorthodox though, his line is to make fun of people using ‘Ten tonne polar bear’. He gets a fair amount of play though.

Apparently I look dodgy. That’s what the taller of the two girls said anyway. Danny asked, “What do you think of this guy?” gesturing toward me. “Dodgy,” she said, “definitely dodgy!”
I said, “Wha? How am I dodgy?” She just said, “I don’t know, you just are.” I hadn’t even spoken to her previous to this. What can you do?

It turns out she was a copper. Or so she said anyway. I didn’t see a badge or anything. It’s probably a psychological consequence of this that she divides people into dodgy or not dodgy. I’m probably just too anti-establishment for her to deal with. A rebel without a causi-sui.

Anyway, like most girls, they eventually left us. I was so drunk at this point that I went to get my cigarette lit from a couple of girls, dropped the cigarette onto the ground, then put it back in my mouth backwards and just stood there waiting for a light. The girls said, “Are you joking?” I looked down all cross eyed like at the butt of the cigarette sticking out and said, “Of course I’m joking!” as if my wit just was just too clever for them. I’d crossed over that drunk line where things can go horribly wrong. The next few minutes where a blur. I remember Eurofriend trying to hurry me up, then walking through people, then exiting a gate, then hoping into a taxi.

The next thing I remember is getting out of a taxi at the Vineyard on Acland street. It was about eight o’clock by this stage and there was a cue to get in. Eight o’clock on a Sunday night! It was one of those really annoying pretentious places as well, where all the cool people walked right in giving kisses to the door bitch as they passed. Stood in line for what felt like forever. The head bouncer let us in right as I was getting ready to smack some heads. I think I saw the fear in his eyes.

The bar area was packed, as it usually is. Took us ages to get a drink, and when we finally got one, we went and drank it, then went back for another one. By this stage, after the taxi ride, and the long cue up, I’d come back to safe and happy levels of drunkenness. I’m the sort of person that can hold rather cogent and rational conversations with people when I’m blind drunk, but as soon as I stand up, I fall flat on my face. At this point I could both converse and stand without help.

I don’t really remember too much of what happened over the next hour or so. We were standing outside for a bit, started talking to some Europeans…I don’t know, Belgium or something. Then some South Africans tried to sell me some U2 tickets.

Later on I was dancing on a packed dance floor. All of a sudden I felt a sharp and purposeful shove into my back. It was some Angry Anderson looking cunt, telling me to move. I turned around and said, “What?” in a what-the-fucks-your-problem kinda way. He obviously worked there, moving heavy shit when it needed to be moved. He just looked back and said, “MOVE!” He had some blonde bar bitch with him who was also shoving people. I started dancing again, and soon received another shove in the back by this same cunt. “Alright that’s fucking twice I’ve told you to move!” he says to me. What a cunt. “Have some fucking manners,” I said, “don’t just fucking shove me!” Eurofriend walked over to lend support and the $2 an hour heavy lifting Angry Anderson cunt walked away.

Man that pissed me off. I was all in a shitty mood, and people were tapping me on the shoulder telling me it was all cool, the guy was just a cunt. Apparently it had made a bit of a scene. I started dancing again, and tried not to think about using that guys head as a punching bag. It’s not worth thinking like that, just gotta do a 180 flip and be happy again.

Later on my phone rings and Daz is trying to call me. He’s out somewhere and wants to know what I’m up to. I walk outside to try to hear better. As I’m struggling with the phone, some other cunt whose sitting down kicks me in the back of the leg right behind the knee. I turn to look at him and he’s sitting with some ho and motioning for me to move, as if I’m blocking his view of the McDonalds across the street. I couldn’t deal with two things at once, so as I concentrated on talking to Daz, I simply made sure that I was constantly in this guy’s way. When I lost contact with Daz, I turned and stared at cunt.

Like the Angry Anderson fuckwit, this guy was tidy and could have dispensed with me quite easily. I was however so drunk and pissed off, that I was willing to die. As I stared at him I willed him stand up and take a swing. His girlfriend turned to look at him as if, what are you going to do, but he didn’t do anything. I just shook my head and walked off.

Again, I was in a shitty mood.

When I got back inside Eurofriend was dancing with a blonde chick. She was kinda cute but a little chubby. Soon her friend came over and started dancing with us. She had wicked cleavage, which made up for her slightly better than average face.

Before long, I told Euro that I had to leave, I’d started drinking water and was just feeling drained. Just as we decided to leave, the other two girls told us they were leaving. We followed them out.

Euro got the blonde chicks number, and we made our goodbyes. We stood on the corner, not wanting to get inside a cab. Euro tried to call Daz to see if he was still in the city and could give us a lift but he wasn’t answering. Then the girls called over to us from the other side of the street. They’d found a shopping trolley and had offered to push us home. We walked over and made fools of ourselves in the trolley.

Soon we kind of reached an awkward moment. The girls lived just around the corner and were kind of behaving as if it wouldn’t be out of the question for us to come back with them. The problem being that it was 2am and I had to work in the morning. Plus, we’d been drinking all day and there was no way that either of us were going to be able to perform in the sex department. If they had have come out and invited us, I probably would have gone, but I was in no mood to push it. Instead we got a taxi home.

There is no moral to this story.

Sipping the UB40

2006-02-23T22:19:00.000+11:00

I hate violence. Unless I’m winning. When I’m winning the entrails that line the gutters and the bloody footprints I leave on my way to the ice-cream shop become a fitting exclaimation point to the justice I have just helped serve. But I hate violence. When I’m losing.

Sometimes I wish I were a more violent person. From memory I’ve been in two fights in my life. Once, in grade four, I wrestled with a guy who had long hair, and, at the time, a severe attitude problem. I’m not sure if anything was accomplished by our tussle, however I do recall him coming to my house that night after school for a hand-shake and a skateboard around the block.

The other fight I got in was during football training and was spoilt by its sportsmanship. My best friend at the time and I found some boxing gloves and decided to try them out. I went straight for the head landing blow after blow. He cried foul, saying, “hey don’t go for the head!” as I laughed and punched like a maniac. But then it all went pear shaped. I smacked my thumb against his temple and screamed like a girl. He had won. TKO.

As for guns, the closest I’ve got is when I did jury duty. Some drunk kid shot a big drunk dude as he walked down the street and I was there to pass judgment. In the jury room, I held the weapon, then stroked the weapon, then pointed it at each of my fellow jurors while making gunshot sounds with my mouth. “Just kidding,” I said as I continued miming their bloody deaths.

But I was at a bar the other night lining up for my seventh or eighth beer, as one bartender per twenty people served at an astonishingly slow rate, when I noticed that the girly-boy in front of me had failed to fill up the appropriate vacuum that had been created as someone walked away after being served. This caused someone who had been in line less time than me to jump two spots ahead! That was when smoke started pouring out my nostrils, ears and penis (I’ve really got to get that looked at).

But – and here’s the rub – I didn’t do anything about it. I had two options for violence. Castigate the girly-boy in front of me for being such a ‘stand-back-and-let-the-bar-come-to-me’ pussy, or just take the line-jumper out with a right hook to the ear canal. Instead, as I fumed, I started doing something so horrible, so disgustingly inept, that I can barely look at my Brad Pitt-like features in the mirror. I started “thinking.”

I was like Deep Blue churning through every possible combination of moves against Gary Kasparov. I found myself living my violent fantasies out in my head, instead of focusing them on where they belonged…other people’s heads.

By the time I had discovered what I thought was the best plan for violent action, I had already been served and was back with my mates, dancing to bullshit pop tunes as hot girls walked past on their way to good looking guys with machismo.

It was, however, at that point that my mind was free to “think” about more pressing matters. Namely, evolution. It suddenly dawned on me, as I had trouble focusing on the beer in my hand, that evolution since time immemorial has only produced two things of any grand note:

Tits. And the Venus Flytrap.

What else has evolution done that’s cool?

Tits are still a mystery to me. Fatty deposits that produce lumps on a woman’s chest…sounds more like a disease. But when they’re jiggling in my face, I’ll gladly denounce my heritage. As for the Venus Flytrap, who has ever not wanted to trap a fly? Have you ever seen ANYONE protesting the killing of flies? It’s like these things are aware. Like they know. Like deep down, they’re plotting something. You’ve just got to respect that.

Oh btw, what does it mean when you’re standing under ultra-viole(n)t light and there are patches over the fingers on your right hand that are glowing white?

Anyway…

I’m human and I have concerns. A big one is the RU486 abortion drug, or as I like to call it, Kiddie-Be-Gone. I would now like to explain the sanity of government. Walk with me here… Hallucinogens: illegal. Drugs that kill kids: legal. Chemicals that react with the brain to cause a feeling of love and timelessness and expansive union with the world: illegal. Kiddie-killer drugs: legal. Chemicals that can produce the soundtrack of innocent laughter as fractal animations swirl through your consciousness: illegal. Chemicals that allow a woman to squirt out a kid into a toilet bowl: legal.

Let NOONE say that the government is insane. That is a fucking order!

But none of that really concerns me. I’ve known of the government’s insanity for a long time. What worries me is the potential I have to mix up my reserves of Rohypnol with my reserves of RU486. If I get mixed up with what drug is in what pocket, there’s a chance I’ll cause a girl to have an abortion before I’ve even got her drowsy enough to impregnate her. These are dangerous times.

It’s weird, the differences between men and women. If a girl drugged me up with Rohypnol, then spoon fed me Viagra, them used and abused me till I woke up weary and worn, I’d probably consider it the best night of my life. When you do it to a girl, they all of a sudden want to get lawyers involved.

But something’s just occurred to me. If men are from Mars and women from Venus, and men designed, built and launched the Mars Rover, does that then mean that right now, men are desperately searching the solar system for other men? Maybe I’ve just been watching too much Brokeback Mountain. All of a sudden though, it all just seems a little too sus.

OBPhoto:

The Belgian Beer Garden, where I will be headed this Sunday, so long as it doesn't rain. Maybe the vikings will come. Maybe not. When it comes to life, you just never know.

Instant calmer

2006-02-09T18:48:00.000+11:00

Man oh man, the nightmare I had this morning was a killer. My alarm woke me up but I was still half asleep - half dreaming. At that time of the morning, reality doesn’t make sense to me. The full implications of my surroundings and responsibilities are still some way off from being revealed. Waking up, for me, is an extremely slow and arduous unveiling.

Before lucidity struck, I’d managed to convince myself that I had just won a competition, the prize being, that I could sleep through an infinite amount of snoozes. In my half dream, half awake state, I seriously believed this. Every time the alarm went off, I smiled at the realization that I had won the right to hit snooze again…and again…and again…

I got through seven snoozes before I became lucid enough to realize that in actual fact, I was now late for work. That’s when the nightmare began. It was only on the way to work when I realized the sad irony of my nightmare beginning the moment actual lucid awareness of my surroundings became apparent.

I’m kind of glad I don’t work in a corporate environment. Running into the boardroom late for the meeting, the directors gesture toward their watches and other expensive time keeping devices while clearing their throats to break the uncomfortable silence that signals that I have held everything up.

“First let me apologize for being so late this morning, you won’t believe…I had this thing where I woke up but thought I’d won this competition where I could sleep forever, so long as I kept hitting the snooze button every nine minutes! It was like, I never had to come to work and do this ever again, I could just sleep and sleep, and it took me about seven or eight snoozes until I realized, ‘hang on, I didn’t win a competition, that was just a dream…oh my God, I’m late for work!’ and so, yeah, here I am!”

More clearing of throats and uncomfortable glances around the room before a small envelope filled with severance pay is handed to me.

This is the main reason why I shun the corporate world.

In other news that you won’t hear on major networks due to “The Man’s” fear of revolution, I’ve just received a new Neurocam assignment. As per usual, I can’t say much about it, other than that it has something to do with, “masturbating to porn.” Despite recent upheavals, I’m prepared to give it a red-hot go.

And in other news that you indeed may have heard broadcast on major news networks, I’ve broken the kitschy little pink Sex And The City handbag that my sister borrowed from one of her friends for me to copy. I didn’t realize at the time, but inside the lid is a little makeup mirror. That mirror is now in four pieces. I wrote my sister a txt msg saying, “Oh no, I just broke the little make-up mirror in the sex and the city hand bag! What am I going to do?” The problem being that I didn’t send it to my sister. I accidentally sent it to a male friend who has now told everybody that I’m a raging homosexual.

This is what happens when you try to do a good deed to help someone out. I wasn’t even breaking the law for me, it was for my sister, your honour!

OBPhoto:

The little domino that stood...then fell.

2006-02-03T15:05:00.000+11:00

Today is national depression day, although I think I'm the only one that got the flyer. I think I need to be beaten up. My friend James told me at a bar once that the only thing better than destroying someone was destroying someone with dreams. He told me this after correctly diagnosing me as dead inside. He’s an alcoholic gambler with a kid I don’t think he’s ever seen. He’s me with bigger balls.

People who have found their path in life annoy me. I’m still like a child who spins around in the park then falls over from the high of being dizzy. There are a bunch of tradies on my street building new houses. I might go stand out on the street naked and ask if any of them want some cock. Although with all the politically correct anti-homophobe undercurrent that a recent spate of movies has helped breed, they’ll probably politely decline, then offer me free tickets to Brokeback mountain.

People with security annoy me. It means that they’re only a few mortgage repayments away from being happy. They probably have partners who love them. "Are you really no one unless you’re loved by someone?" Carrie Bradshaw asked that once. Then she threw Aiden away. Women don’t know what the fuck they want. “Fuck me like a whore big boy!” “Hang on a second, did that guy just call me a whore?”

Li’s first tip of happiness: Don’t eat a bag of Doritos before going to bed.

People with talent annoy me. They’re like beautiful people. Each morning their servant brings them sex on a platter surrounded by various dips from the Mediterranean. When they fall over in the street, their atoms dissolve against the concrete before they reform at the top of a tall building and bow. The crowd below cheers at the wonderment of the spectacle. Even their fuck-ups sell.

Is there anything more annoying than a businessman? Businessmen feed. They mistakenly call it trade. They network like rabbits fuck, until they’ve made a web of deceit around you. They have mansions with big pools that they never seem to have time to enjoy. This doesn’t stop them from trying to evict you from yours.

Intense dreams that require a recovery period annoy me. Intense dreams about ~~people from the past~~ ~~a person from the past~~ a very particular person from my past. It contained truths, the likes of which I’ve been building walls around and quarantining for the past few years. When I sleep my defenses are down. Not to self: never sleep.

I might crawl along my floor. See the world like my cat sees the world. I haven’t used my leash in ages. I think it’s still hanging from the beam in my closet where my auto-asphyxiation days left me haggard and sore.

Fuck writing.

OBPhoto:

There were hot girls at the party, but I was drunk and speeding. Couldn't make out their features. Thought'd would be best to look cool and wait for them to come to me. Another lonely night at sea.

White Rabbits

2006-02-01T14:55:00.000+11:00

Was supposed to be going rock climbing today over at Werribee Gorge, however, Leigh, my climbing partner bailed on me at the last minute. Turns out rock climbing isn’t always as safe and fun as people hanging upside down in the clouds make it out to be. I got a call from his dad while I was at work last night telling me that Leigh had fallen 10 meters while climbing indoors and landed on his back, exploding a vertebrae. He needs metal plates stuck in his back which surgery will provide in the next couple of days.

I went indoor climbing with him last week, and with the amount of ropes that get tied around you (one around the neck, one around the penis, one around the ankle) it’s hard to believe that anyone could fall. When I was there, completing the easiest climbs they had, I kept being told that I had to trust the equipment. Through my sobs I would cry, “But I don’t wanna!” It may be that sometimes being a pussy pays off.

I guess if there’s a lesson here it’s: never leave the house.

On our way back from last weeks climbing session, Leigh, whose Christianity is his life-blood, recounted a story from a previous climb where he and his partner got stuck hanging on the side of a cliff. They called over to two other climbers who came to their rescue. As he was driving, telling me this, he stopped to thank the Lord for offering His help through these other climbers. I wonder if he’s cursing the Lord right now? It only seems fair.

Anyway, I’ve decided I’m going to climb Werribee Gorge, alone, without ropes…naked. It’s just something I’ve got to do for my buddy.

Once that’s done, I will decide whether or not to go to Breaks Ahoy. Breakbeats on a cruiser on Port Phillip Bay. It’s always a good night. The first one I went to I was on ecstasy, and between dancing and standing on the bow doing the arms thing from Titanic, I sat and looked out at all the shipping containers that lined the wharfs. They stretched for kilometers. It was like watching a scrolling kung fu computer game. It was also the second date I went on with a girl I ended up falling in love with. Fucking good night.

The second time on the boat myself and Eurofriend just took speed. Euro walked into the toilets to smudge some over his gums, then came out and ordered a drink from the bar. When he rejoined us he said that everyone was looking at him funny. “I don’t know,” I said, “could be ‘cos you’ve got a strange white powder all over your lips.”

People where looking at me funny that night as well. I realized why when I went to the toilet and looked at my facial expression in the mirror. Huge bulging eyes and weird grin/smirk on my face. I didn’t know I was doing it, I thought I looked relaxed. It was just an insane looking expression. For the rest of the night I had to keep checking my face with my hands to make sure I wasn't doing it anymore.

Speed is a hell of a drug.

Oh and by the way, if you work in an environment that contains a large hierarchical management structure, and a new head honcho manager has just started, the kind that can decide on a whim to urinate on you and legally you just have to take it, then don’t let the first words he overhears coming out of your mouth be, “Pft, that’s just bullshit management speak!”

I am about to be pissed on.

OBPhoto:

Another night on the town with the Vikings.

Wanted: Cute 18-year-old Viking

2006-01-26T13:00:00.001+11:00

Had planned another evening with Mr Kutz, however the pill situation just wasn’t up to scratch. It was to be a four hour set at my beloved QBH, but the pill situation just wasn’t up to scratch. Only had one pill; needed at least two; looked up; couldn’t even see scratch.

Instead I decided to go out bar hoping with a couple of mates. In the car on the way I decided to drop half a pill. Soon after, the roadies I’d downed kicked in and my bladder desperately wanted to exhale toxins. My friend’s car had just been tuned for added performance but not fitted with a toilet. Car nuts never think practically.

We were stuck down Flinders Lane looking for a car park while I could feel my bladder releasing important valves. “Just fucking MOVE ALREADY” I shouted at the cars. Everyone was in slow motion. Occasionally someone would speed up and move ahead, then it was like someone tapped them on the shoulder and said, “Hey, remember slow motion?” It was society’s joke against me. By the time we parked the car it was about forty minutes since the pill drop and my ballooning bladder was causing an impatient anger. God I needed to piss.

Inside Eurobar I went straight for the toilet. It’s really the only sensible thing to do in Eurobar. After my bladder had shuddered to depletion against the vomit-coated porcelain, we went to the bar and grabbed a beer. A live teen band was playing live teen covers. Eurofriend and Daz downed their beer and Red Bull respectively. I didn’t even finish mine, just wanted to leave.

E55 was fucking hot. I mean stuffy, can barely breath, and could pass out at any second hot. It was a pity too ‘cos the place has one of the best vibes in Melbourne. We grabbed a drink, pissed again, then left back outside to the open air.

We reached the Lounge on Swanston. By this stage we’d dropped the other half and were fucking flying. Life was rubbing itself up against my leg and depositing Happy Chem.^tm into my brain. We got a table up the back and toasted Jim Beam and his fine ways.

Girls. They were sitting to our right at another table. There were about five of them. I was on ecstasy and I just wanted to touch them. I moved across to their table and asked them if they’d been upstairs.

“Ah no, we don’t know upstairs. We not from here.”

Sweet accent. Sweet, sweet accent.

“Oh yeah, where are you from?”

“We’re from Denmark,” she motioned to the other girls at the table who were staring at me and probably wondering about my intentions, “we’re here for three months, going to school and RMIT.”

I’d never been more interested in anything in all my life. I grabbed my drink and sat down.

“Denmark huh? Is that, like, Princess Mary?”

I couldn’t in a hundred years have asked a more inane question. I don’t think they noticed.

“Ya, ya, Princess Mary, we love her!”

I loved her too. I loved everything at this point.

“Your royal family is very popular in Denmark aren’t they?”

“Ya, ya, we love the royals, they are so good…with…ah…charity and the other things they do.”

Fuck yeah! I so loved charity. I loved everything at this point.

Soon we joined our tables together and introductions with Eurofriend and Daz were in order. Three Aussie males and seven Viking women all up. Schweet.

Previously in the night I’d bought a pack of Stuyvies, lost them within ten minutes, then bought another pack. They were going down like pussy on toast. Heaven forbid we ever run out.

Pretty soon we ran out. I asked one of the girls if I could bum a smoke. This girl had been somewhat of a quiet, studious, mother hen looking one since we’d sat down. I caught her in a conflict. She wanted to be polite, but didn’t want to depart with one of her Danish cigarettes to such a wide-eyed boy with questionable intentions like me. She took a good minute to decide if I was worthy or not. She decided I wasn’t worthy, but gave me one anyway. I found her ways cute. I just loved everything at this point.

All of a sudden, to my right was a girl I hadn’t spoken to yet. She was cute and sassy. She was Julie. I fell in love.

Julie gave me her phone number. It was a Danish number. That’s when the international txting started.

“Julie is gorgeous,” I wrote, thinking I’d start out with some Shakespeare.

“I have a boyfriend back home,” was her response. Daggers…daggers through the heart.

I sparked up another smoke from a pack that Eurofriend had just purchased then tossed one across to the mother hen. She seemed surprised by my generosity.

“So Julie,” I said as I turned to her and used my vocal chords, “what’s your definition of cheating?”

I was turning into a bad person. Previously I would have thought this impossible seeing as I universally see myself as a good person. A good, good person.

“Sex is cheating isn’t it?” I asked, hopefully in a cute, obviously knowing the answer way.

“Of course!” she said as she slapped me on the arm.

“What about a kiss on the cheek?”

I’m pretty sure I’m not a bad person.

As I took a sip from my glass of sweet Jim Beam I saw my phone light up.

Julie – txt: “You think Heidi is more hotter than me! And a kiss on the cheek is NOT cheating...Kiss on the cheek from me!”

As soon as I finished reading the last line there were a pair of lips on my cheek. God she was cute!

Heidi was one of the Vikings to whose defense I had come when a few of the girls were bagging on her. She was obviously the odd one out, not being as attractive as the others, but I felt sorry for her. I don’t like it when girls get bitchy; it’s a depressing turn off.

“Heidi hotter than you? You’re crazy!” I previously found out that most of these girls were only eighteen. Julie had that insecure eighteen-year-old thing going. When they asked my age I thought, “Lie Li, just lie, 23 would sound okay, yeah, that’s it, 23!”

“Ahh, I’m 26,” I responded. Good work Li, such a great liar.

Julie – txt: “Do I seem crazy?” Here we go.

“For sure, crazy in love!”

Julie – txt: “…Maybe!! You are crazy in laid love! Ha ha. If that makes sense?”

It made perfect sense. Some of us have new years resolutions to keep. Although it bugged me. I’m not that guy who goes around trying to get laid. I’m a sweet boy with good intentions (see: loser).

Why did she have a boyfriend!!!

Fuck Li, get a grip. These chicks are not much older than eighteen and you’re on a pill. Take a breath, enjoy your cigarette and chill out.

“If I didn’t have a boyfriend we’d be kissing by now.” Ahh, Julie, stilted English and all, you really know how to make a guy feel better.

Earlier on she’d asked me if I’d ever been cheated on. It was the perfect opportunity to come up with a story exclaiming the virtues of cheating. “Yeah I’ve been cheated on and you know what, it made me a better person!”

Instead I recounted the time my heart was crushed like a clove of garlic, emitting a foul stench for months after. I’m a horrible liar because I’m a good person. I hold on to thoughts like that.

Mother Hen got out her camera and pointed it in our direction. I did the only respectable thing I could think of. I put my right arm around Julie’s shoulders and groped her left breast. She quickly removed my hand, yelled a cute, “HEY!” then pulled me in closer so that my arm was tight around her neck and our faces were touching. We posed in various positions while our pictures were taken.

Soon the lights came up and it was four am. 4am already? What happened to time? Time to leave the bar. We walked outside and I realized that my pill high was over and the comedown was beginning. All the happy confidence I’d been exuding up until now had made way for a straight-faced depression and need to be alone. How long would it take these girls to realize they’d been talking to a drug all night?

The Vikings were drunk and in need of food, Hungry Jacks being the only thing open. I started to get into the legal ramifications that lead the Burger King Corporation into naming their Australian operations Hungry Jacks, but in my state of mind, it all became too hard and I gave up. “It’s just called Hungry Jacks here,” I shrugged.

As a couple of the girls ate, my state of mind had been plummeting through the stratosphere, back toward mother earth. Julie was munching fries and looking at me like she couldn’t figure me out. “You don’t like me anymore?” she asked. Fucking drugs, why can’t I be on them all the time? C’mon Li, perk up, be the happy bubble of love again.

“Of course I do, I’m just fucking tired,” I said as I rested my head in my hands. Real fucking smooth.

We sat outside the Library and waited for the trains to start up. Julie was doing some Danish dances, I called her over to me, put my arm around her as she sat down and stroked the side of her arm. It was about this time that we should have been in a comfortable room with mood lighting, a soft couch and some Kruder and Dorfmeister softly playing in the background. Sex was the last thing on my mind, I just wanted to chill out. “You’re too gorgeous,” I said.

Melbourne Central Station at 5am is about as depressing as anywhere else at 5am. The girls kept asking me what was wrong. I kept saying, just tired is all, then tried to smile, which in my current state could have looked like a George Bush smirk. The girls soon departed on their trains, we dropped another couple off via car, then started the journey home. Inside my house my alarm greeted me to get up and go to work. No work today ya filthy alarm, today I sleep forever.

Julie – txt: “Sorry if I offended you. Thanks for making my night so much fun. Have a safe trip home, love Julie.”

Love Julie.

OBPhoto:

I wish I were gay

2006-01-18T00:41:00.000+11:00

I’m thinking of buying an Australian flag. Preferably one that’s highly flammable. There’s nothing worse than holding your lighter up to a piece of material that just won’t burn. Flags have to be the most ridiculous thing since diplomacy as a viable alternative to war. Fuck the humans and their need for childish semiotics. I’m evolved…I have dual monitors.

Went to a birthday/going away party the other night. A friend’s brother. A good night. Some alcohol, some speed, some hot chicks that I never spoke to. I just don’t get it. Eurofriend and myself are notoriously bad with girls. We joke about how bad we are as a way of dealing with our everlasting tears. We don’t cry in front of each other, but we both know the tears are there. At a bar the other week, some hot little number was standing with me and another work friend. Even though it was a three-way conversation, what it actually involved was this girl talking to my work friend, while I stood there and commented every now and then. The girl never commented back, never looked at me or behaved as if she knew I was there. If I said something funny, she laughed while looking at my work friend, as if he had said it. Eventually she asked work friend about the whereabouts of another male work friend. He replied, “Not sure where he’s gone, but Li here is single!” you’know, trying to help me out a little. She turned her back to me and laughed then walked off. Work friend looked at me as if to say, “I did what I could dude”, I just shrugged, then choked back the tears.

It was then that I wondered what her head would look like on a stick.

But Eurofriend’s brother; this guy scores big. This guy is a player. He’s five years younger and he puts us to shame. The amount of hot model-type girls at his party was staggering. I hate him.

Tonight we went out for drinks before he goes overseas. When I arrived I noticed this gorgeous brunette with bubble wrap cleavage sitting at the table. The type of cleavage that makes you want to squeeze it till it pops. Turns out it’s his latest girlfriend who he shagged four times last night. Shit like this makes me want to burn the Australian flag.

I’m a nice guy! I’m prepared to listen to a girl’s problems if that’s what she wants. I’ll pretend I give a shit!

Nope! Not good enough.

I think trying to get a girl is like those get rich quick schemes. You think and think and think of what to do, but you just end up at the same racetrack with the same shitty odds, looking for winning tickets on the ground that someone dropped in a drunken stupour.

Pft.

Anyway, I’ve got the day off tomorrow so I might play some Need For Speed Most Wanted, then some Deus Ex 2, then jack off to some porn, then hit the hay.

Another lonely night at sea.

OBPhoto:

Another photo that involves me tripping. This time on the banks of the lake in the botanical gardens. There were swans in the water and I had somehow managed to convince myself that at any moment, one was about to swim over and take my order for a burger and fries.

H.U.D. ver. 7.6

2006-01-14T13:04:00.000+11:00

I’ve gone and done it. Bought an lcd screen and set up a dual monitor config. From my current vantage point I can almost see everything. If only my brain could keep up with the amount of input/output it is now possible to receive. Monitoring downloads has never been this much fun.

Now when I meet girls I will ask, “So, do you dual?” And they will say, “Do I dual? What, you mean, like, fight?” And I will say, “Do you use a dual monitor setup, pft, forget it!” then walk off all smug. I’ve heard chicks dig that kind of confidence.

Big sis came over the other night swinging a kitschy little pink hand bag. I didn’t really question it until she looked at me with puppy dog eyes and said, “Li, you know how I’m you favourite big sister and all?”

“Ahh, not that I’m aware of,” I said.

She said, “Well, I was wondering if you could do me a huge, huge, HUGE favour!”

“Ahh, not that I’m aware of,” I said

As she lifted the kitschy little pink handbag toward me she said, “Could you copy every season of Sex And The City for me???”

“Not that I’m aware of, no.” I said.

“It’s only 18 discs and I bought a pack of 25 so whatever you don’t use you can keep for yourself.”

I said, “You do realize you’re asking me to break the law don’t you?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she said.

Ten minutes later I’m DVD shrinking the first of many time consuming acts of criminality. [Authorities note: I use here the Rodesian meaning of criminality, which can be translated to - obeying the law.]

Big sister is the successful sibling of the family. She’s got the job, the house, the husband, the car and the dog. She’s kind of the opposite of me. She's the popular outgoing one that the extended family like. I’m the one who hides in his room doing “who knows what” on his computer. Since when did becoming a cloistered masturbator become a term of derision?

Now, big sis may be successful in society’s eyes, but she aint no mensa student. Around the dinner table she once noted how she’d recently watched Fahrenheit 911 and couldn’t believe how evil Bill Clinton is. I said, “George Bush you mean?” “Yeah,” she said, “The American Prime Minister.” “The American President?” I said. “Yeah, totally evil” she said.

She’s the successful one. I’m not bitter.

So as I was copying SatC for her (Authorities note: the word copying is Sanskrit for watching) I decided to actually check out a few episodes. Now I’m hooked. That damned Mr. Big, when will he sort out his emotional problems and give Carrie the relationship she deserves! Hmph, men! [Stamps foot and puts hands on hips] Who needs them!

But it’s all part of my research into fulfilling my new years resolution. According to episode 6 in season 2, the best way to get a girl into bed is by meeting her at my dead wife's gravestone, appear all broken and emotional, and make her believe that she can heal me. I will be researching appropriate cemeteries soon. This show is pure gold.

Obligatory photo(s) at end of post:

I remember standing here on acid. My friends car was parked in there, but we were too afraid to go get it. The carpark looked like some giant beast that had eaten the car and was slowly digesting it with bright light. We circled the beast twice before we could pluck up the courage to go in. We did eventually rescue the car from the jaws of death.

Stage Fright

2006-01-02T19:36:00.000+11:00

I can’t piss standing next to other men. Just can’t do it. I could be almost doubled over in agony, my bladder about to burst into a volcano of alcohol saturated urine, and so long as some other guy is standing near me at a urinal, it’s like I never needed to go in the first place. All of a sudden, I’m just some guy, facing a metal wall, holding his dick.

It’s literally a problem. I’m standing at the urinal, dick in hand, all muscles relaxed, nothing to stem the flow, and nothing comes. There are occasions when the feeling of needing to piss will just go away of it’s own accord. This happens sometimes, but when you’ve drunk seven beers and your holding back the force that’s trying to make you wet your pants and it’s starting to make you sweat, it seems inconceivable that this feeling could just go away. To experience it is almost another wonder of the world. I can explain the pyramids before I can explain this.

A few nights ago I was at a bar and finally realized that I couldn’t hold back any longer. I entered the toilets and found that instead of a long urinal, there was a row of individual porcelain piss troughs – my favourite kind. I chose one down the end, two empty spaces away from the next guy and thanked the stars for my own little piece of piss space. Then, of course, “some guy” stands next to me. I couldn’t piss.

It’s performance anxiety is what it is. I just can’t deal with it. I stood there thinking, “Come on Li, it’s no big deal, you’ve done this a million times, just let the urine flow, let the urine flow, come on,” etc. All the time wondering if the guy next to me has noticed that I’m not really doing anything other than hanging out in a men’s toilet holding my penis. It just makes it worse.

After what felt like an eternity, I noticed that the tiles in front of me at face height were quite reflective and I could see my eyes. I just focused on them and tried to relax and tune out from everything. It actually worked, and I pissed harder and faster, with more torque, far more horsepower and a greater power to weight ratio than any guy there. I almost made a dent in the porcelain. I left the toilet feeling pretty good with myself and was drunk enough to tell all my friends of my accomplishment. The better news was that as I was describing my victory, at least three other guys admitted to the same problem, then had to explain to a few females who didn’t get it the gist of my excitement.

It’s cool not being alone in this. In fact, reading on the internet, I’ve found a support group that actually helps you get over this problem. A bunch of guys drink heaps of water then stand at a urinal for a piss. Another guy will stand well back and gradually move closer until he is touching the pisser. For the final graduation they all go to a public toilet and piss together!

I mean, yeah, essentially it’s toilet training for grown men and it’s not really something you want your enemies to know about you, but, yeah, just knowing other men are willing to humiliate themselves by doing it is therapy enough for me.

Oh Happy New Year btw. My new years resolution is to have sex. I’ll keep you posted. Also my blog is just over a year old, and even though the occasion passed with nary a whisper, I’m actually quite impressed with myself. Apart from eating, sleeping, school and work, I think it’s the longest I’ve kept up anything.

For posterity I will list a few things I’m into right now.

Kate Bush’s new album Aerial. Tantra, pure tantra.
Top Gear. All of a sudden I love cars, go British television.
My new canon printer. Shweet.
Getaway In Stockholm series. Fuckwits endangering peoples lives in the most awe inspiring of ways.
Aeon Flux. The original tv show, not the dumbed-down-for-American Joe movie.
Blackadder. Watched every episode trying to find the line, “Short for Bob”. It’s all Rorschach’s fault.
Complexification. I want wafer thin lcd’s lining the walls of my house, displaying these visuals while I listen to IDM and drink red wine.
Adobe software. Thinking about their CS2 suite helps me urinate while standing next to other men.
And although not wanting to sound gay by using the term “into”, I’ll go with my mate Brad. He’s the only guy I know who can create cool visuals with a sparkler with one hand, hold a VB and an alcoholic slurpy with the other, be chilled out and having an awesome time on the inside, and looking like he wants to kill you for insulting his fiancé on the outside. Good work my friend.

Original Gansta Internet

2005-12-22T23:56:00.000+11:00

It’s difficult to get more OGI than me. My first modem was a 2400bps monster that took almost 20 seconds to display a full page of ASCII text. These were the days of Bulletin Board Systems, back when porn was a dash and a greater-than symbol entering a capital O. Since then, the porn industry has definitely lost its innocence.

Back in the day, before Al Gore invented the internets as we now know it, there was a feeling like we were on the cusp of something grand. There was a feeling that maybe one day, man might walk on the moon, or that a chimpanzee might be elected president of the USA, or that maybe, just maybe, the Great Wall of China would finally be dismantled (which it eventually was…in Berlin…sometime in the 80’s).

In Finland too, there was something happening. Standing too long in the shadows of Sweden who had long had its super-group export in ABBA, Finland decided to turn the tables and export a super-group of its own. Future Crew.

Future Crew weren’t a group of plastic idols making bad fashion statements, nor were they a money making hit machine making bad fashion statements, nor were they plastic idols fueling a money making hit machine. More importantly, they weren’t extroverts.

Future Crew were a bunch of high school geeks who exploded onto the demoscene in the early nineties. Skaven, Purple Motion, PSI, Trug, Marvel, Abyss, Pixel, ICE, Gore, Wildfie; never were there seen the likes of them, before, or after. It is to them that I pay tribute.

For all of us there are life-changing experiences. It may be a special person who comes into our lives, the death of a family member, losing one’s virginity, or discovering the person who you thought was Santa Clause who snuck into your bedroom window every night to show you his bag of goodies was really just a pedophile who lived next door. Small things like these can have dramatic effects on us.

For me, it was the release of a demo called 2nd Reality. Before this time, I thought computers were something you used to crunch numbers and play Pong on. What I found was that the computer was no longer simply the salvation of the geek, but the tool of the rock star.

If you were old enough to be in high school at the time, you may recall giving shit to a geek as he walked passed you. You may remember one particular day, when the geek in question planted his hand into your face and pushed your head back, slamming it into a locker before walking off with sheer confidence. This was the day 2nd Reality was released, sparking a wave of increased mojo in nerds everywhere, culminating in what we have today…3d Pong.

2nd Reality was released at Assembly ’93 and has obviously come to look somewhat dated. I downloaded it recently from here, and got it working with a program from here and even after all this time, it still roXOrz my world!

Future Crew, you fucking own!

I don't mind doing it for the kids.

2005-12-16T20:19:00.000+11:00

I’m sitting with my head positioned exactly between the two speakers that are at this very moment vibrating to the frequency of what are known to be Robbie Williams’ greatest hits. My nine (9) days of constant werk are over…officially. Officially, it’s time to groove to some Robbie. [Re-checks paperwork] Yep, it’s all fucking official!

I get tomorrow off, before another seven (7) days of constant work hits on Sunday. But right now I’m not thinking about that because right now…[checks paperwork] yep, “I’ve got stars directing my fate, and I pray that it’s not too late, millennium!”

Umm, umm, my favourite parts are when Robbie grins at the crowd, and then he might wink or something and it’s just sooo cool! “Sometimes, when I’m alone and no one’s around, sometimes I pretend to be Robbie Williams.” “That’s cool Li, if I were you I’d pretend to be someone else as well.”

You know things are going well when the voices in your head are in agreement.

I just hope the authorities don’t find the bodies buried out the back. “Don’t worry Li, we hid them well didn’t we?”

No one else can understand anything about what’s good ‘cos they’re stupid. Especially in America where Robbie Williams can’t get noticed! It makes me sad. “Li, we’ve been through this, it’s only important that Robbie sing for us, remember?”

“Yeah.” – sheepish grin.

Jason and Robbie walk along Mayfair Crescent on their way home from work. Even though it’s a brisk one kilometer walk, Jason changes his shoes for added comfort.

“Are they girls shoes?”

“Ahh, no.” Jason looks down at his shoes, “These don’t look like fucking girls shoes, what drugs are you on?”

“Nah, they just kind of look…feminine or something, but yeah, nah, I guess they’re guys.”

“They are fucking guys!”

“Your shoes fuck guys? That’s a little gay isn’t it?”

“Fuck off.”

“Do they fuck guys while you’re still wearing them or do you take them off first?”

Had Jason not learned that ignoring Robbie was the best policy, he would have added another, “fuck off”; instead, as the more mature of the two, he kept walking.

“No seriously Jason, I’m actually interested.”

If there were one thing about the world that Robbie couldn’t understand, it's how his continued genius-like banter about Jason’s penchant for changing into running shoes on their walks home hadn’t yet been overheard by someone important and picked up for a TV series, or syndicated for a comic strip.

Up ahead they noticed a crowd gathering.

Jess felt guilty from merely being in the presence of a policeman. She felt a dire need to answer his questions with as much information as possible.

“So who saw him first?”

“Umm, there was a guy standing over him trying to ask questions for a while, then he just walked off when I got here. I asked him what was going on, but he just said this guy was crazy and talking nonsense and that he didn’t have time for umm, something, but then after I got here that girl over there, and that guy showed up. None of us really knew what to do so we…”

“You didn’t see the first male attack the guy you saw on the ground at all?”

“No, I think he just stopped to see what was wrong or if the guy was okay but then gave up and kept walking. So yeah, that other guy and girl showed up and they asked if he, ah, the guy on the ground was okay and I said I didn’t know. Then two other geeky looking guys turned up.”

“Which two guys?”

“Ahh, that one…and the one next to him with the runners on.”

“And then what happened?”

“Well the guy on the ground, whose name turned out to be Li I think, well, he was on the ground just totally out of it, spouting out weird gibberish about stars and the millennium or something and he had headphones in but there was no sound coming from them. We checked the discman and the batteries were half hanging out. Then the geeky guy with the runners on said something to his friend whose name is Robbie and the guy on the ground just sat bolt upright and started shouting out, “I love you Robbie! Sing for me Robbie!” and something about the fact that it didn’t matter if the Americans don’t like you…just weird shit.

The policeman was writing all this down.

“Then I noticed that he was wearing a silver bracelet that had an inscription on it so I bent down to read it and it said, ‘My name is Li, I’ve just werked nine (9) days in a row. Help me?”

The cop stopped writing
“How many days did it say he had werked?”

“Nine (9)”

“Holy shit, in a row as well. No wonder he lost it!”

“Yeah we all knew as soon as I read it out loud that we needed to call an ambulance.”

My eyes opened in a pain of rushing light. I could just make out figures standing over me.

“What happened, what time is it?”

I saw a figure rush over and place a hand on my face.

“You’re fine, everything’s okay, you just went into another Robbie Williams spiral, but it’s over now.”

The voice of my mum.

“Robbie Williams spiral? Where am I?” I tried to push myself up out of bed to get a clearer, more awake grasp on the situation.

“Just relax, you’re in the hospital, we’re all here, we’ve just been waiting for you to wake up.”

I tried to think back through my mind at what had happened. I remembered being at werk, I remembered finishing for the day and driving home…then it was all a blur.

“Some people found you lying in the middle of the street with your earphones in,” my mum then looked at my father standing on the opposite side of the bed, “just like last time.”

It started coming back to me in flashes. Robbie standing on stage in front of a hundred thousand people, leading them in song and arm waving, exuding nothing but confidence. I was starting to recall it all, the songs, the brilliant lyrics, the confidence…oh my God the confidence!

“Son,” my dad was looking at me with an earnest expression of sadness and love, “Son, you’re not Robbie Williams, you’re just a guy, who like millions of other people, hates his job. You’ve got to come to terms with this.”

“I know dad, I know.”

I looked over at my mum.

“I just need to rest, to sleep and recoup and just find myself again.”

“Well, you’ve got all night to sleep before work tomorrow.”

“Work tomorrow???”

ARGHHHHHH!!!!

Neo Transfigured Metavert

2005-12-13T20:34:00.000+11:00

Today I did my 123,983,938th online personality test. I didn’t study much and the results I think reflect that. The first three results pretty much correspond to the fact that I’m not popular or well liked. The bottom two results show that despite the first three results, I’m still a little way away from killing myself.

Extraverts piss me off anyway. Always wanting to speak and be heard as if they ever, under any stretch of the imagination, could possibly, EVER have anything interesting to say, that I hadn’t already thought myself and decided not to communicate based on its irrelevance to anyone.

Q. What did the extravert say to the extravert?
A. “Hey man, what’s happening? Went to crossfire last night, got smashed, Rachael was there, got to talking, she going to Monash now, hadn’t seen her in ages, felt like shit the next morning, kept drinking Bacardi Breezers for God knows why, I’m turning into a fucking girl, like Richard, you seen him lately, fuck me, you should hear him speak, he asked about you by the way, Ha, give him a call if I were you, go to the theater or something, what you up to later, wanna hang at Cara’s before Dave’s tonight, have a few preo’s, maybe get…..[ad infinitum]

Q. What did the introvert say to the introvert?
A. “…”

Q. What did the extrovert say to the introvert?
A. “You’re weird”

Q. What did the introvert say to the extrovert?
A. For fucking God almighty, shut the fuck up already!”

And not wanting to harp on personality issues, but doing so anyway, what’s the deal with the not agreeable diagnosis (rhetorical). I’m always agreeing with people. Every time I get into a heated argument with someone and they come back to me the next day and say, “Remember what we were arguing about yesterday? Well I’ve suddenly realized that you were right. You’re always right, I’m just too stupid to see it straight away.” You know what happens when people say that? I agree. When people see how right about things I am, I’m the most agreeable person in the fucking world Mr. Online Personality Test!

Conscientiousness was just plain bullshit. I was going to buy a kid from Africa and get him to make me clothes and you know what? The clothes that didn’t fit or that he stuffed up the stitching, I was going to give to people for Christmas gifts next year. It’s not like I was going to keep the kid all to myself, I know how to share the wealth that I find unusable.

The people that administer these tests seriously need to recheck their algorithms.

The anti-marketing dollar

2005-12-07T20:49:00.000+11:00

Does anyone have Argentina’s phone number? I need to give her a call, tell her not to cry for me. She’s such an emotional wreck these days that every time she calls I have to sugar coat all my news. Most times I just let the answering machine pick up.

Tomorrow morning will be the first day of a nine (9) day working week. I think I now know how Nguyen Tuong Van felt during his last hours before execution. No matter what you do, you can’t stop the minutes of freedom from ticking away. Unlike Nguyen, however, I will not resort to Catholicism to appease my soul. This is one sinner that was born to rock.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a job I even mildly enjoyed. For instance, if I were the guy that sat around all day classifying porn, I’d do nine (9) days in a row of that, no probs. If I was the guy that stood around holding that umbrella thing that disperses light during photo shoots of topless models, no probs. Wouldn’t even need a day off, just work right through til I’m 60.

Instead, my job sucks, and it slowly eats away at me day after day until I begin to reflect and think about my existence. [Reflects upon reflecting {shivers}]

Back in high school I was given a test to help me decide what I wanted to do with my life. The test was administered on computer and a number of yes/no answers were to be given. One of the questions was something along the lines of, “Would you find a high speed car chase exciting?” Now I don’t know what other 15-year-old boys answered on that particular question, but I put down a hearty yes. At the end of the test I received my results. I was to become a policeman. This computer was a fucking genius!

When I was in early high school I wanted to be a computer programmer. I think because I loved computer games and thought that if I was a programmer I could create my own electronic world to live inside. I started learning C++ but gave up when I reached the chapter on defining variables. I think that was chapter 2. I think chapter one was titled, “So you wanna be a programmer huh?” To which I verbally responded, “yes,” then moved on to chapter 2.

A year or two later I saw a video where Chinese martial artists were using their chi to knock shit down. That’s when I decided that I wanted to be a martial artist that used his chi to knock shit down. I never did knock anything down. Probably not Chinese enough.

The years 17 to 26 have kind of been a blur. For a little while in there I wanted to be a professional drug taker, a rock star, a sleep research assistant, a guy who classifies porn, and someone who monitors other people’s illegal downloads while they’re at work. It’s just so fucking hard to get into those industries.

Blogging is something I fell into by default, and while the money is okay, I’m pretty sure my boss has had enough of me. He reckons that I don’t talk about celebrities enough and that Tomkat and Brangelina is where the money is right now. He shows me graphs and sends me a magazing called, Market Me! monthly.

Prick!

These next nine (9) days are going to be brutal.

Rebel without a causi-sui

2005-12-07T13:19:00.000+11:00

I’m thinking of renaming cigarettes to thought sticks. Hang on, haven’t I done this bit before? [Scrolls down] Shit.

I’m also thinking of starting up national bed hair day.

[Scrolls down]

Fuck!

I’m thinking of renaming cigarettes to recursive thought sticks.

I wonder how many people are masturbating right now. Sick fucks. There’s work to be done god damn it!

I’ve been invited to a bbq on Monday night. Pro: Free food. Con: It’s a Christian bbq put on by a bible study group. Pro: Free food. Con: No one will be drinking. Pro: Free food. Con: Christians.

I’ll probably turn up with cigarettes and alcohol and one of those t-shirts that says, “I feel a sin coming on.” My Christian friend has promised that I won’t be judged…out loud anyway. Of course, they do know how to draw people in. Pro: Free food. Kudos to their marketing department.

I listened to this interview with John Lennon last night. It led me to delve back into Abbey Road and a little bit of Rubber Soul. He really does come across as a bitter man. I can however completely relate to his misgivings about not being viewed as a genius in his formative years. Me too John, me too. I would however never have the sheer arrogance of exclaiming it for the world to hear. I prefer to bottle it up, then treat everyone I meet as lower on the food chain and not worthy of my brilliance. I then spend time crying about my inability to involve myself in society due to my lack of confidence and constant stupidity. I then spiral into depression. This is how a real man deals with his genius John, learn from a real man!

[Cough]

Hmm, national bed hair day. It’s only a matter of time.

World Blindness more like it!

2005-12-06T21:08:00.000+11:00

I hadn’t thought about buying a kid much lately, but today at the shopping center (pig slough), I walked passed a rather large display set up by a company called World Vision. They had tables filled with pictures of kids in front of a rather large sign that read, “For just $39 per month.”

Despite my best efforts, I’d just gotten myself involved in a Kris Kringle at work and wondered whether the name I’d pulled out of the hat would, like me, get any use out of a kid from Africa. But as I’d heard Ricky Gervais lament in the past, with the per monthly payment scheme, if this kid lives till he’s eighteen, it could end up costing a fortune. I wondered if I could just buy one outright like I did with my mobile phone.

Also, I reasoned that if I just bought one for myself, the cheap clothing I could get it to make for me might end up offsetting the costs. I went over to the table to take a look. Upon closer inspection I found that out of the hundreds of kids pictured, all of them had the same price. There was nothing down on the cheaper end of the scale. I wanted my kid to have sewing skills; something that I was happy to pay a little extra for, but all I could see listed beside the face of each kid was its name and favourite sport. The lady behind the display, who had an expression on her face that told me she worked on commission, was beaming at me with expectation and seemed like the appropriate person to ask.

“Do you have a section of kids that sew?”

“I’m sorry?”

“One’s that can sew fabric.”

She seemed a little perplexed.

“We just write down their interests, likes and dislikes and that but we don’t group them into… we don’t group them together in any way or…”

That kind of made it difficult. That meant that I would have to look through each photo separately and enquire individually about their sewing skills. I could see this turning into a rather large time waster. Probably best to search through on the internet anyway; there were probably search fields like “sewing” that I could just select.

“Do you only have the monthly payment options or is it possible to buy a kid outright?”

“Excuse me, buy a Kid?”

She was looking at me strangely.

“Sorry, purchase a child…is it possible to purchase a child outright?”

“What do you think this is? Are you joking?”

I didn’t really know how to respond to that. Did she misunderstand me, or was she joking? Was she joking about me joking?

“Sorry, I’ll backtrack a little bit. You have a sign that says that you can pay a monthly charge of $39 for a kid. I’m assuming that after a certain number of months or years, or possibly when it reaches a certain age, that full ownership in granted. Instead of paying the monthly charge, is it pos…”

She cut me off.

“Fuck off before I call security!”

“Fuck off? You fuck off! What sort of business are you trying to run here?”

“This is a charity, not some kid market, we don’t make money!”

“Not when you treat people like this you won’t! I’ll be writing to your boss!”

I walked off while giving her the ol’ one finger salute. It really pisses me off as well because I so could have done with some new clothes.

Man with his golden tap

2005-12-03T12:04:00.000+11:00

Tonight I’m going to party like it’s almost the end of 2005. It seems everyone I know is either getting engaged or having a baby. I haven’t yet had to bear witness to any divorces or abortions, but I’m sure that time will also come. These things tend to happen in waves. I can explain to you how drunk I’m going to get tonight with five simple words:

Slurpy machine filled with alcohol.

I’ve already booked an ambulance to pick me up in the morning. Which brings me to a question I’ve been meaning to ask for a while. What is correct ambulance etiquette? In particular, I wish to understand the correct way to overtake a speeding ambulance. I was sitting at the lights a few weeks ago, and from behind I could hear the wail of an ambulance siren. I watched in my rear view mirror as the ambulance snaked it’s way through the traffic, and then shot through the red light, commanding respect as it went. Just as it reached the other side of the intersection, my light went green and I took off. In a short distance, I had caught up to the ambulance and was looking to overtake. The problem being that the lights and siren were flashing and blaring with a potential corpse in the back. It just felt wrong to overtake. I sat behind it for a while, until is finally turned right, and I felt free to speed toward my destination – an ice-cream shop.

Life can easily become a tough slog when something stands between ice cream and me.

If anyone’s interested in deep and sexy house mixes, check out fleep. I’ve had one mix called the 7am sessions in my car for the last month. Each track hits the spot. The only down side to the site is that this guy gives away his mixes for free. Usually I don’t like downloading music unless I feel as though I’m infringing on somebody’s copyright. I’m hoping he’ll soon start to sell these mixes so I can get that warm giddy feeling I get from stealing music.

--update-- Just checked the site to see if it’s still operational and I find that it’s closed down! Maybe he is going to start selling his music. Queue warm giddy feeling.

This is my attempt at conversing with a French dude. Online translators suck.

Btw, the title of this post refers to a search query that someone typed to reach this site. I want it etched on my gravestone.

Only one lover, never two loves baby

2005-12-02T12:23:00.000+11:00

I’ve recently laid eyes on the girl of my dreams. She’s blonde, gorgeously innocent looking, playful, cheeky and sassy, and at one with the animals. She wears a blue costume and can fly across the room in a blur. I could put her in a suitcase while traveling, which she would dive out of at our destination, sometimes in the throes of gushing water. She’s my only love and it’s driving me crazy. She takes me to the stars.

Yes, she’s the water girl from the Orbital music clip, Funny Break.

My biggest fear is that a relationship between us could never work, a la, Superman and Lois Lane. For us to be together she would have to forgo all her heavenly water powers. She’d do it course…for me, but I wouldn’t allow it…out of love. “No,” I’d say, “your powers are too important, I can’t let you destroy yourself for me!”

“But Li, my powers are for naught without your unique brand of nihilism and lifelessness. Your stillness is the perfect foil for my sassiness. You’re introversion for my exuberant extroversion, your gray hair for my youthful blonde! We’ll destroy ourselves together!”

As painful as it would be, I would then film us having sex one last time before leaving her forever. What it all comes down to is that ultimately, I don’t deserve a heavenly water creature. Perhaps none of us do. Fucking Orbital.

"The government says it's losing the war on drugs. Do you know what that implies? There is a war going on, and the people on drugs are winning it!" - Bill Hicks

The good news today, I guess, is that a reformed drug trafficker has been hanged. It’s always a good feeling when you wake up in the morning and one less scapegoat is on the planet. Humanity has a very long record of dealing with its impotence in a variety of macabre ways. I deal with mine by wearing women’s underwear. The Singaporean government chooses to hang people.

One sentiment that I’ve been hearing throughout the media over the last few weeks is that of thinking about the lucky heroin addicts that line our streets. After all, it’s heroin addicts that are the real victims of drug trafficking. Nguyen Tuong Van was caught with 400g of heroin, enough to briefly satisfy thousands of victims. Think of the amount of victims that could have overdosed, or worse, stolen from us to fund their habit. All of these lives were the direct responsibility of Nguyen, after all, heroin addicts are victims who shouldn’t take responsibility for their own actions.

This is why Einstein was executed for his nefarious role in bombing Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Those who decided to bomb were the poor victims in all of this…oh and the people that died as well.

If only we could bring back Adam and Eve and hang them as well. Fucking apple lovers. Eat a fucking banana!

If you want to use transference to remove responsibility from the individual to a lucky scapegoat, then each of us has the potential to be that scapegoat. We all know this deep down, which is what existentialists refer to as our intrinsic feeling of guilt, and why an institutionalised murder effects us all in one way or another.

Possibly, we should all hang. It’s not like humanity is doing anything important anyway. I mean, what are we doing? A whole bunch of menial shit to make life easier before we die. Why not just skip the foreplay and head for home?

I’m not saying that we couldn’t have one fucking big party before hand. Sure we could. Without worrying about std’s, we could fuck like it was the new drinking water. In a world where we all decide to hang, even a guy like me could score some poon.

But ultimately, if humanity is to be saved, there is only one person who can do it.

Black Velvet and My Little Boy Smile

2005-11-15T19:45:00.000+11:00

I’m sitting on a bench seat in a bar called Der Raum with James, an old acquaintance, for the purpose of celebrating the engagement of a friend. For no easily discernable reason, James, who has consumed more alcohol tonight than I have in the previous two months, decides to shout for everyone in the bar to hear…

“I’ve go’a li’le black book wiv me poems in!”

It seems it was time to recite the old shtick of parodying Roger Waters drawling line from The Wall. Back in the day, between friends, it used to be a funny way to signify the futility of the moment by mocking and making fun of a sentiment so dour. In a trendy bar filled with social anxiety attempting to nullify itself with alcohol and fake laughter, it signified an ice-cold break in conversations and a subsequent uncomfortable silence. During the silence, when everyone at the bar turned to look in our direction, I looked down at my shoes and wondered why I hadn’t written in my blog for so long.

“Maybe you’ve just run out of ideas,” said a bartender from the other side of the room, who previously had served me a German beer with .3% alcohol for $6.50 on my first trip to the bar.

“Yeah maybe.” I replied.

“Nah, you know what I think it is,” said a strange girl interrupting the conversation she was having with a friend in the corner. “I think you’ve lost the ability to differentiate between dreams and reality. Like, you think of something to write but you know you’re dreaming, so you promise to write it when you wake up. Then when you think you’re awake, you sit in front of the computer and go to type, then all of a sudden you think that you’re dreaming again. You just can’t bring yourself to invest in something that you think may disappear in the blink of an eye.”

“Oh bullshit Sera, what the fuck do you know about this guy’s blog, have you read it?” Her friend seemed impatient with the disruption.

“I don’t need to have read it, Anna.”

Next to me Dylan starts recounting a story of a time when James and I tripped together. “You remember that Li? When James txt’d me while you were tripping that he felt like he needed to stab you?”

“He what?” This was news to me.

“Didn’t I tell you that? You two were at the school and me and Iain met you there, then we went home and you and James just sat around tripping.”

“Yeah, I remember that day.”

“Yeah, and about an hour later, while I was at home I got a text msg from James saying something like, ‘I feel the need to stab Li.’ I didn’t know what the fuck to make of that! I was just sitting in my room grinning with the possibilities of what was going on!”

I looked over at James who was taking a swig of bourbon.

“Hehe, yeah. That was one of the few streams of consciousness that I didn’t act upon.”

“Well thank fucking Christ for that!”

James is the kind of person that gets banned from shopping centers. His mallrat status came to an abrupt end on the day he was caught wearing a bowling pin costume that he’d stolen from a guy who had gone on a toilet break. You’ve never seen anything so funny as a guy in a bowling pin suit being chased through a crowd of people by security guards.

On the tripping day in question, I remember sitting on a large expanse of grass, listening to music through headphones, smiling at the beauty of the world and it’s timeless mystery. Little did I know that James, who was sitting next to me, was planning my murder. I guess you can never really know what’s going on in other people’s heads.

“Oh well, all in the past,” said Dylan. “We can talk about these things now.”

Above the bar, hanging from the ceiling are about two hundred bottles of alcohol. I can’t stop thinking about them falling on the unwitting bartenders below, causing mass bloody carnage. I wonder whether I should get out my camera and take a photo to serve as a before shot. Too often have I seen video of rally cars crashing into a crowd, and been shaken by the desire to pause the frame right before the crowd knows what’s about to happen, and just stare at it, knowing that in the picture, no one knows that they’re about to die. Their neurons that carry their perceptions are frozen forever, one moment before utter catastrophe.

“There’s no chance of that happening buddy, you could triple the weight of these bottles and they’d still hold.”

The bartender walked over with a drink in his hand, then placed it in on the table in front of me.

“But it’s kind of cool to stand under. Kind of like The Sword of Damocles. There’s nothing like the threat of death to make you appreciate life.”

“Guess not. I’ll probably take a photo anyway. What’s the drink for?”

“It’s a new concoction, Black Velvet, have a taste. Generously paid for by that gorgeous obelisk over there.” He motioned over his shoulder to a woman who did indeed look like a gorgeous obelisk. “She said she could tell the threat of death wasn’t close enough to you. I’d watch out though, I saw her sprinkle something in it before I brought it over.”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Hehe, maybe it’s Rohypnol and I’m about to get lucky!” I joked back.

“Maybe.”

I still couldn’t tell if there was a joke anywhere around here. I took a sip anyway.

“So Li,” began my friend’s fiancé as she sat down beside me, tipsy and touchy, “What’s going on in your world?”

“Everything baby!” I fired back as I put my arm around her, “It’s all happening…all at once.”

“Wow, everything all at once, sounds intense! So are you scuba diving right now?”

“But of course, and rock climbing, and piloting, and squinting into the sun. Somewhere in some dimension, if you can think of it, I’m doing it!”

“Meet my friend Vanessa.” Vanessa was being dragged over by my best friends fiancé even though I’d met her before. I told her as much.

“I’ve met Vanessa before, Megan, sheesh, keep up!”

Vanessa and I both gave each other that little wave that people do when they’re being introduced to each other for the third time. The two previous times we met we spoke at some length and didn’t end up sleeping together. This time, were we both thinking, third time lucky? She may have been, I don’t think I was. I was too busy pondering the effects of the tar-like black substance I’d started drinking.

“Well, I guess it is hard to compete with a mysterious drink!” Vanessa had a grin on her face like she’d cornered a mischievous child whose only option now was to admit its guilt. “And as a matter of fact, I wasn’t at all considering how third-time-lucky we’d be.”

“Sorry Vanessa,” I said with a guilty grin, “but this drink is doing my head in!”

“Yeah, your eyes look all cloudy. Is this something you need to finish?”

I noticed that I’d been clutching the glass with an intense purpose, as if I was afraid that someone was going to take it away.

“Yeah, I think I need to finish it,” I said.

James stood up and started dancing with Megan. “What sort of music is this? I thought this was a German bar!”

It did sound rather Latin. “I don’t know, maybe this music is all the rage in Germany.”

I looked over at Iain who was talking to Chris, Dylan was talking to Megan’s friends, Megan was dancing with James, and I was standing at the bar staring at the gorgeous obelisk who was being affectionately stroked by a man who put little boys like me to shame.

As I stared, and felt an unnatural swoon throughout my body I wondered, “What on earth does this woman want with me?”

Non sequential non sequiturs.

2005-10-12T13:15:00.000+10:00

I’m thinking of renaming cigarettes to thought sticks. Every time I smoke one I end up having a new thought. I was thinking about our future evolution into cyborgs, or at least, our future cybernetic augmentations. Some of us already have pacemakers and the like, and it’s only a matter of course that we’ll soon have chips in our brains helping out with mundane calculations. I was wondering if someone were to commit murder, whether they could blame it on a chip malfunction and sue the manufacturer while walking away scot free. This of course will increase the price of augmentation as companies will have to factor lawsuits into the price. Then only the very rich will be able to afford them, meaning the poor man will be further left behind. Not that he isn’t already but…ahh, who cares, fuck the poor man…and his chants.

On second thought, I’m a poor man. Hmm, might start up a poor man union.

While I was smoking I noticed my reflection in the window and marveled at my bed hair. It’s usually characterized by one side being flat while the other sticks out at right angles. Sometimes one part of my fringe will be pushed back like it’s trying to run from the cops while all his mates are still drunkenly urinating on the sidewalk oblivious to the fact that there is a policeman right behind them.

I’m thinking of starting up national bed hair day. We already have jeans for genes day and red nose day etc. National bed hair day will require everyone to go to work without brushing their hair at all. It would be a good topic of conversation throughout the day like, “Whoa, what were you dreaming about last night!” Then I’ll say, “You baby!” then she’ll give me her number but I won’t call based on the fact that she obviously doesn’t care about her appearance.

I often think about defiling corporate chicks. I often think about artsy chicks defiling me. I’ll continue to psychoanalyze at my own pace. Unfortunately my own pace usually means putting thoughts into the back of my mind in the expectation that answers will arrive the moment before death. I have too many questions that I assume will be answered the moment before death. Maybe my life right now is the answer to a question I asked before I was born. That question would have to have been: What does it feel like not to have sex?

I guess some questions shouldn’t be answered.

To walk on water you take to the ice

2005-10-08T11:53:00.000+10:00

So, taking my day off and spending it wisely, I decided to get a little drunk. A friend of mine lives in Ivan’s Ho, so myself and another friend drove through the traffic to arrive at his door early afternoonish. He was working on hits, as producers of music are want to do; our intrusion however offered a refreshing respite, which we filled with subway and beer plus a little Jack Daniels. There’s nothing like stumbling home drunk while it’s still light outside.

On my return home I found a letter from the PO-lice informing me that I haven’t yet paid my speeding fine. I was so sure I paid that. Well, I didn’t, so now I have to pay $230 plus I lose another three demerit points. It used to be that if you didn’t pay your speeding fine, a member of the PO-lice department would come knocking on your door with an ultimatum: pay now or spend a night in the slammer. More often than not, the recipient of the ultimatum enjoyed the prospect of getting away from their spouse for a night and would nine times out of ten choose the slammer. The PO-lice, after getting wise to the fact that their coffers were depleting, changed the system so that without payment, more and more money would be owed until the only way to pay would be to deal with Columbian drug lords. They would then catch you trafficking and send you to butt rape hell for thirty years. It's strange that some people still choose that path. I guess if you’re gay and can’t pick up on the street then prison is the next best thing.

In any case, I will soon submit to the power (see: corruption) of the PO-lice and pay their ransom. State sponsored blackmail is really all it is. Pay us or we’ll take away your freedoms. I love the state. It outlaws blackmail, and then employs it as a main device of the law. Let no one say the state is insane.

I’ll get on to other resentments I harbour in future journal posts. I use the word journal as this really isn’t a blog. A weblog is supposed to be filled with links to other places on the net. This is just a place filled with links to embarrassing places in my psych. Once I install flash animations into my brain this place will really take off.

Speaking of flash animations in my head, the brother of one of my friends has discovered magic mushrooms growing beside the front steps of his work. He took them home that night and did something to them with honey. I’m not really an expert on mushies so I don’t know quite what he did; an hour after licking the spoon however he was seeing bright purple blobs in his vision. Over the next few hours he managed not to die, therefore concluding that they were indeed safe. We’re planning a weekend down at Ocean Grove for a mushroom seminar. We may also move onto other topics, namely lsd and marajahoony.

Whatever sanity I have left will hopefully be destroyed in one fell swoop. I will then wear a robe and carry a staff. Then I’ll look for a job…hopefully in finance.

Dieu et mon droit

2005-10-07T10:54:00.000+10:00

The internet is starting to piss me off. Originally we had a deal. While we in Australia are asleep, all you guys in America and Britain and Europe are supposed to be updating and uploading 'tainment like buggery. That way when we wake up and mosey toward the computer, there's a full day of new stuff to browse and laugh at. You guys don't seem to be keeping up your end of the bargain. This morning the internet looks exactly like it did last night. After all Australia does for the world, you can't repay us this one little thing? Which country makes the best movies in the world? Which country brings forth all the best bands and musical talent? Which country, while leading the space race, advances technology and scientific breakthroughs faster than any other since time began? That's right, Australia. All the greatest wars have been fought here, like the time the Mongols defeated the Egyptians, and when Germany took on the Egyptians, and when Egypt starting in-fighting with other Egyptians. You can't scoff at shit like that.

One area of 'tainment that is going from strength to strength is the ol' picture wireless. 5th season of Curb Your Enthusiasm, part 2 of season 9 of South Park, 5th season of Six Feet Under, 3rd season of Arrested Development, 1st season of extras...now the only reason left to leave the house is to buy a new television. One day every house will have a television...maybe even two. You can't scoff at shit like that.

When you think about it, blogging is really the literary equivalent of reality television. The problem being that you can't vote bloggers off. There's probably a good idea in there somewhere. Some bloggers commit hare kiri before eventually regrouping and starting up again somewhere else. It's like a simulation of life. We live, we flower, we die, we pop up again somewhere else. We're always the same person yet remarkably different. Sometimes it freaks me out when I realise that I am, quite literally, you. It freaks me out when I realise that a moment before the big bang, I was squeezed into an infinitely small point of space, right along side cow shit, terrorists, and Dame Edna's testicles. No wonder I chose to explode out at the speed of light. Verily I say unto you, that is how we came to be.

I've learned to levitate. I can do it while standing, and it helps when the audience is a little drunk. I've been watching David Blaine's street magic and wishing that I too could fuck with people's heads. I mean, when you can't find a vagina the head is the next best thing. What annoys me about Blaine is when he fucks with peoples emotions by making them believe that his childish parlour tricks are really the result of a deep spiritual connection to the dead - John Edwards style. If he ever tried that shit with me I've give him a deep connection to the dead - bullet style. David Copperfield can do whatever he wants 'cos he's such a pansy. Anyone that can make you laugh that hard for all the wrong reasons is given carte blanche in my book.

So, what should I do today? I have a car and a full tank of Petch. I'm young with a wallet full of moolah. I've got a spring in my step and the attitude of a winner. Hmm, might go back to bed and think about it.

China happy pill

2005-10-05T20:13:00.000+10:00

It was about 20 minutes after I’d dropped my 2nd pill that I made mention of the fact that it was hitting me fucking hard. “The first pill was kinda average but this one is coming on strong, real strong.” I said to my mate standing next to me. “Are you sure they’re all the same pills?”

“Yeah man, green Mercedes, all the same.”

“Fuck me, what a rush!”

“Oh, you bastard, I wanna be feeling that high!”

It is well understood between my friends and I that the person having the most fun in any seemingly unfair set of circumstances is indeed a bastard.

“I might drop my third,” said my friend who’d already dropped two and was in the process of having the same average time I was previously having.

I gleefully nodded.

My friend had scored the pills from his boss who was in the process of going through a mid-life crisis. Not having money on him, his boss offered to just dock it from his pay. We wondered if the pills were shit whether we could complain to the union.

Five minutes later my vision started playing ping-pong with the stage lights.

“It’s really fucking with my vision as well, I can hardly focus on anything!”

“Yeah?” asked my friend, genuinely surprised.

I gleefully nodded.

Five minutes later I could feel a particularly un-ecstasy-like feeling entering my body. To begin with it was a mild nuisance, like seeing a picture of a starving child on your television while you’re eating dinner*. Then it got stronger and stronger until it was on the verge of consuming my thoughts. It seemed to be emanating from my stomach like some alien power source, and I noticed that I was continually swallowing hard as if to force back vomit that hadn’t yet arrived. I made the decision.

“Just going to the toilet for a sec,” I calmly explained to my friend.

As I started walking, people around me began appearing menace-like – obstacles in the way of my destination. I made it to the toilet only to find one stall closed, and two guys enter the other stall, probably to do drugs. I stood in front of the doors and began a queue that soon went back three people. As I stood there I realized that my arms were crossed tight in front of me and I was feeling worse and worse. My arms were wet from sweat and my face was dripping. The other guys in the line where looking at me like I was about to explode, a perception that was probably induced more by paranoia than anything. I couldn’t stand there any longer so I left the line and walked to another area of the toilet. There where guys at the urinal, another couple talking at the sink, there was distinctly no place to vomit.

That’s when I vomited.

I vomited straight into my mouth, and with nowhere to release the spray, I subsequently swallowed. I thought, “this isn’t good, this isn’t good.” With my head spinning out of control, in a place where I was alone, and the slightest knock against the wrong overly masculine drug “enhanced” gorilla could get you a blood nose and a visit from the tooth fairy the next morning, I suddenly spotted a bin at the doorway. I walked over and spewed liquid froth into the bin lining. It felt cathartic and chaotically cool.

After my first set I knelt down in front of the bin, lost in my own world of sickness. I looked up to my left and saw with blurry vision two girls having what looked like a d&m at the doorway of the girls’ toilet. One of them looked over at me then continued talking to her friend.

Behind me there was a thunderous shout from three or four guys, who upon forcing open one of the stall doors, had seen something they weren’t prepared for.

“FUCK THAT SHIT!! Holy fucking Christ, I don’t wanna see anything like that ever-a-fucking-gain!”

They had a look of unbelief and disgust as the pushed passed me, out of the toilet. I remembered the two guys who had gone in before me. Perhaps they weren’t doing drugs after all. I didn’t care. They could have been fucking dead cow carcasses for all I cared at that point. Another guy walked passed and tapped me on the shoulder, “you okay dude?”

“Yeah man, no probs.”

He gave me the thumbs up. I reciprocated, and then vomited into the bin again.

After that all was good. I went back to listen to the rest of the set from the Freestylers, who, like the drugs, were remarkably average. They had an MC who had the talent of being able to spout out gibberish really fast. All I could make out was, “Yabrab blah bab rah blarh rab Melbourne!!! Ret rah blar rab rab jib ra all the way from west fucking London!!”

I went back to the toilets to see if I could score some pot. Without success we decided to go home.

As for the drugs, definitely going to complain to the union.

* More a sign of frustrated impotence born from the feeling of powerlessness to change anything than much else.

She's my cocaine

2005-09-20T22:06:00.000+10:00

I woke up this morning suffering from heroin withdrawals, but I’ll get to that in a minute. A few days ago I was given the news that two of my friends were issued with a court summons for something that I didn’t quite write about way back here. Let’s just say I’m a very fast runner. Even though our crime was victimless, just as all good crimes are, that didn’t stop badge-boy from wanting to clog the already clogged court system. I feel bad for my two mates getting caught and having to go to court to be condescended to my some Judge Judy wannabe. When I spot the heat I put my dancing shoes on and split, no time for formal introductions. Apparently they’ve been asked to donate some money to a charity and write a letter of apology in an attempt to sidestep a criminal record.

From what I understand, the cops pinned them for trespassing. When one of my mates said to the cop, “I don’t see any fucking ‘No Trespassing’ signs, do you?” the cop pointed directly over his shoulder to the wall and said, “What do you call that?” From what I understand, it was a rather large sign that read, “No Trespassing.” Ya can’t really argue after that.

As for last night, well, I’ve been vehemently reading Anthony Kiedis’ autobiography, Scar Tissue. If you’ve read the book Wonderland Avenue (brilliant), you’ll understand the crux of this book’s appeal. Drugs, drugs, drugs, sex, Hollywood, drugs. Einstein came up with a similar formula for the truth of the universe (which incidentally a friend of mine has revised to E=mc²+2).

I have never taken heroin, but I already know that I’m addicted to it. I face my potential addiction everyday. When I think of the word heroin, I visualize the grim reaper, standing in a dark and dank alleyway, urinating on the carcass of a dead cat. That’s when I start to salivate. Well, maybe not. But I have to admit, I can romanticize the most destructive behaviour known to man. Even though I’m 25, I haven’t, as of yet, matured into anything that even remotely resembles a mature adult who takes r…r…responsibility seriously. Anything that could prolong the fog of timeless mystery, anything that could reduce the complexities of life into an on/off switch, or anything that could fuel my cotton wool dreamscapes would be like the missing puzzle piece that once put in place, would turn my downward spiral into an amusement park waterslide. Not that I’m necessarily on a downward spiral, but I’m definitely not on an upward one. I guess I’m just glad that I haven’t been in a situation where I’ve been around the kind of people that could ask me to hold out my arm while they issue me with syringe to the vein.

“What’s that?”

“Just a little pin prick as they say in the laboratory. We here at the institute call it a butterfly kiss, hehe.”

“Oh, what will it do?”

“It just kind of…turns your enemy thoughts into kittens without claws. Then water beings blow a mild mist at you while you pulsate like a neutron star.”

“Oh, can you give me two? I’ll pay you back…promise.”

So after reading Scar Tissue for most of yesterday, I spent last night dreaming of taking heroin for the first time. It took place around my kitchen table from my old house. Two guys who I didn’t know where there, shooting up, before moving over to me. I remember after the rush, just giggling and feeling the best I’ve ever felt. Then I went to the mirror to look at my eyes and they were deep aqua and green and blue. I could see dolphins swimming in them. I remember saying, “Man my eyes are fucked!” with total amusement. Then my alarm went off and was pinched back to reality with a day of work ahead of me. You wouldn’t believe my disappointment.

Of course, I understand too well the damage drugs do, which is why I’m pretty au fait with my limits. But you can’t control your dreams can you? Lucid one’s aside.

Choose life, choose Irvin Welsh novels, choose killing brown people with your tax dollars, choose pollution, choose state sponsored insanity…choose anything. Just don’t choose the individualists pursuit of his/her own downward spiral.

Probably shouldn’t have written all this. Honesty kills more people than heroin.

Shh, introvert about to speak

2005-09-18T22:52:00.000+10:00

I feel like writing but I’ve actually got nothing to write about. All dressed up with nowhere to go. It’s like having a gun with no one to shoot, or having a penis without a girl to put it in. I think I need to get beaten up. I was just discussing this with a friend.

I’ve got tickets for 33 and 1/3 at the end of the month, but no drugs. It’s like having a gun with no one to shoot, or a penis with…never mind.

It’s difficult to keep good drug connections. You always end up calling someone and going through the pretence of friendship just to score. You talk about old times, desperately trying to steer the conversation toward drug related topics, and then at some point you ask if they happen to have any pills. You try to make it sound as though the thought just popped into your head, and it’s not really that important. Once the transaction is complete, you talk about how you’re going to call them soon and organize a night on the town, or simply just get together for a couple of drinks. What a load of bullshit.

Drug vending machines are what's needed. As an owner of a vending machine, all you need to do is put a packet of offal in there. It would cost ten times the price of everything else and no one would buy it. No one, except those who know that the "packet of offal" is really a packet of kick ass drugs. Vending machine owners would make shit loads of jet-black market money, but they don't think that way. They're all on the straight and narrow. All of them. Fucking vending machine owners.

A part of me wants to live in an underground bunker. I’ve thought about that quite a bit actually. Psychoanalyze at your own pace…

I also want to get a girl into bed by quoting lyrics from Toto. Africa to be precise.

- A black haired girl standing to my left finishes her cigarette and taps me on the arm -

“What do you think of the band?”

“I hear the drums echoing tonight.”

“Yeah? Well I’ve seen them a few times; they always put on a good show. I used to know the bass player but, well…yeah…you got a lighter?”

“As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti!”

“Umm, okay hehe, I’ll take that as a yes then? So you look kinda out of place here, what’s your deal boy-o?”

“Just hoping to find some old forgotten words or ancient melodies.”

“Riiiiight. That’s what they all say! Some go to Peru, others, like your kind self, hit the local. Nothing wrong with that, to each his own I say, hehe.”

“Your moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation.”

“Yes, I think I want to fuck now.”

There would be no speaking on the way to her apartment. Anticipatory silence as we walk up the stairs and into the bedroom. She’d strip as I look her up and down before saying, “It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you.”

“Shut up and kiss me poet boy!”

As she reaches orgasm the neighbours will here her scream, “Oh God, oh God!”

As I come the neighbours would here me scream, “I bless the rains down in Africa! I bless the fucking rains down in fucking Africa!!!”

Then as we lay there post-coital, sharing a cigarette she’d turn to me as if to say, “I might put some music on, do you like Toto?”

Self Portrait

2005-09-14T22:00:00.000+10:00

ΩÜΣ♦ò

2005-09-12T20:06:00.000+10:00

Avoidant personality<… Attempt to apply burning bridge algorithm to reality….Failed. (Code 4 – Access denied, see sysop)

Axiom one: Existence is meaningless.

Step one: release stockpiles of angst. Pull plug and let reservoir deplete. ::access code:: HELP!

Wants (list) To be happy. To be confident.

Tired of:
Being weak and unhappy and dour<… Attempt to apply happy algorithm…Failed. (Code 8 – upgrade firmware)

Axiom two: Perception is an act of will. To negate the will is to accept death completely. Begin: The washing machine life cycle [rinse in cold water]

Wit? $744. Talent? $3943. Strength? $1053. No money?…Priceless<… Attempt to apply money algorithm…Failed (Code 9 – Previous installation of humour required)

Fix: Social relations. Dispense of: Social anxiety. Fix: Bio-mechanical intestinal system. Dispense of: Junk food. Fix: General ambivalence. Fix: Decision making process. Dispense of: Redundant complexity.

Searching…
Searching…
Searching…
Searching…[FOUND]
Trojan – Romanticize UPH

The romanticize Trojan is a mind hack particularly adept at leading the host away from practical solutions. The host may find itself “Romanticizing” death, the past, loneliness, chaotic “mind” states, and an almost infinite array of destructive behaviour.

Clean…Failed.
Remove….Failed.
Quarantine…Successful.

Axiom three: Without an observer there is only the potential to observe. In the event of a missing “that-which-is-to-be-observed” there is only its potential.

Axiom four: There are many who are beneath you who live like they’re above you.

Alert…Alert…potential failure finding sexual partner…[romanticize missing]

[abort] [retry] [fail]
[abort] [retry] [fail]
[abort] [retry] [fail]
[abort] [retry] [fail]

Initiating system shutdown…

I'm your blubber boy you should rub me

2005-09-09T11:54:00.000+10:00

Can someone explain to me – preferably via telepathy – what marketing people are thinking when they design the imagery for the front of juice style boxes that house sustenance drinks?

[Puts hands to head, closes eyes and waits for transmission]

At work a few days ago, I was feeling a little worse for wear and decided I needed some carbs, or vitamins, or amino acids, or e coli, or whatever it is that’s in those drinks, but when staring at the shelf, I noticed there were some for men and some for women. I have no idea what the difference could be, other than maybe the women’s drink has something to alleviate period pain or something. Equating period pain with the general pain I feel about working on my day off (note: I consider everyday my day off) I chose the women’s drink.

But that wasn’t the real reason I chose it. To make people aware of which drink is for women and which one is for men, the marketing people have brilliantly put male and female pictures on each box. The one for women has the image of a lady, topless, holding her arm across her breasts. The one for men has the picture of some six-pack packing hero in barely anything more than a g-string. WTF?

Did they honestly expect me to buy the male one? Did they also want me to stick the straw into his groin so that I could suck the milky liquid straight from his crotch?

Of course I bought the one with the naked chick, even if she was a cock tease, then I inserted each end of the straw right where her nipples should have been. When I started to drink I felt like I was being breast-fed again, so naturally, I curled up into the fetal position on the floor until security asked me leave.

Then fast forward to a few nights later and I’m innocently driving my car on the way home from a mates place. As I pass a bus stop I notice a lit up advertisement. I still don’t know what the product is; all I know is that it was a picture of a fat chick in underwear. I’ve got nothing against fat chicks. Fat chicks are A-okay with me…until they publicly advertise themselves in underwear.

Think about it – you’re walking along the street, admiring the blue sky and cool breeze, you’ve got a smile on your face and a world that looks remarkably like your oyster, then, warbling straight toward you is some mess of a fat lady who hands you something and says, “Here, look at this!”

You look down and it’s a photograph of her, kneeling on her bed, hands behind her head, roles of flesh and underwear. This is a form of sexual abuse. Effectively, that is what that advertisement is.

I know young girls have a lot of pressure to be thin these days, but if we all take a breath and calm down about the issue, we’d see that there is a perfectly good reason why. Women who aren’t fat, are hotter, therefore more valuable to the human race.

I don’t make the rules; I simply let my penis abide by them.

The day that skinny nerds with bad skin who sit in front of a computer all day looking up game hacks and downloading porn become unattractive to women, well, then I’ll start thinking about self improvement. Until then, thank god I’m one of the lucky ones.

Gratuitous Boob Examination

2005-09-07T22:42:00.000+10:00

You know you’re in trouble when you start listening to Richard Marx. You can only begin to comprehend how dire your situation is when you also take into account that you specifically downloaded it, then searched between all the porn and…well…porn in your download folder to find it. Playing now: Hazard. Just listen to the lyrics in that one…shhh, just listen…

Mmm, that hit the spot.

I’ve turned the comments off on my blog for the time being because I hate you all. All you guys do is complain and ask for money. You should be ashamed. Closer to the truth is that despite my love of receiving validation to my existence via the comments section, I fear that my current depression and subsequent mental constipation may alleviate itself if I help create the illusion that no one is reading. Then, as per my healing manual, mental constipation can once again transform into verbal diarrhea. Then when you come to my blog, you’ll instinctively turn the sound on your iPod down so you can hear my words splatter against the porcelain and into the water.

Can you hear it? Shhh….

Playing now: I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight. Dick just knows how to squeeze every drop of emotion out doesn’t he?

I saw some looting in New Orleans via the ol’ picture wireless and I’m thinking of starting up down here. It annoys me that looting is usually only restricted to one geographical location – usually at the scene of a blackout or storm. We have the internet now, meme’s should spread further than they do. Before the storm had even hit I was camped out on my front lawn with a baseball bat, waiting to steal shit from my neighbours. I didn’t want to be the first one to start though, like when you’re at a concert and you don’t want to be the first one to start clapping toward the end of a song, just in case it really isn’t the end and they’re just about to go into an extended and drawn out dreamy segue, then you start clapping but no one else joins you because they all know better and you’re obviously not a true fan.

I sat on my lawn all night waiting for a shadowy figure to pounce across the street and jump through someone’s front window. My neighbours found me the next morning unconscious and covered in dew. They made me some coffee and cooked me a big breakfast, bless their hearts. I’m going to try and loot from them again tomorrow night, this time I’ll wear a scarf and some thermal underwear.

Now playing: Hungry Eyes.

I was talking to a fembot the other night about studying medicine – which she’s currently doing – and I realized that I could never be a doctor because no matter what condition a woman patient was in when she came to see me, I’d always offer a boob examination just to be on the safe side. Even if she just had a cold or an earache, I’d ask her to take her top off.

“But I don’t have a problem with my breasts doctor!”

“Well, I’m afraid we can’t rule anything out. There is a…tendon that runs from each…ah…boob to the ear and that could be what’s causing your earache. Each boob will need to be squeezed while you tell me if there’s any improvement.”

“But doctor, I don’t have an earache, it’s my 10 year old daughter that has an earache!”

I’d look down and realize that there is in fact a young girl also standing in the room.

“Nurse Jacobs, could you kindly escort Mrs. Thompson’s daughter out of the room, I need to assess her mothers breasts before I diagnose her earache.”

What blew me away was that after I’d play acted this skit to the girl I was talking to, she informed me that this was a common occurrence that actually had a name. GBE. Gratuitous Boob Examination. I totally chose the wrong profession.

Pain does not exist in this dojo, does it?

2005-09-06T20:05:00.000+10:00

Just thinking about it, I’ve come to the conclusion that my whole life is about avoiding pain. I’d like to say that there is more to it; that there are plans underfoot, tactics being chosen, things on the horizon. Of course, I try my hardest to hint at this, make people believe that my current situation in life is a carefully constructed ruse designed to put the world off guard before I explode with the greatest creation it’s ever seen. But really, if mystery is to be shattered, I have nothing I either want, nor have made plans to achieve.

A little while back I was talking to a girl who asked me, “If you died tomorrow, would you have any regrets?” I said no straight away, 100% sure of the honesty of the answer. She was surprised, and when I asked her the same question she said there were heaps she wanted to do and to achieve.

I haven’t felt that since I was little, and only then because I thought I was expected to. Adults always ask you what you want to be when you grow up, then you're forced to come up with some kind of answer. Everyone’s got to have a plan. My only plan is how best to avoid pain today. What I spend my time questioning is whether my pathos is intrinsic or learned.

My life should be a music film clip. In it I would be walking down the street in slow motion while people pass me by. The music would be slow, heartfelt, and emotional; the lyrics would be profound. The colours would be washed out and I’d have long shaggy hair. I would look hot and all the girls would want me, but I’d be too aloof and wrapped up in my own pain to notice. They’d put their arms around me and look at me with eyes of pure sympathy, but I’d be inconsolable. I’d be the world’s greatest tragedy.

The UN would give me an award that would be televised in front of the world. Everyone would stop to watch me saunter up to the stage to accept it. Soldiers would stop fighting and look at the nearest screen.

“Who’s that guy?”

“Man, that’s Li, have you heard about him? Apparently that guy is the worlds greatest tragedy, they’re giving him the award now.”

“Nah, haven’t heard about him, but yeah, I can see the tragedy in his eyes. Looks like a rock star too, check out that long wavy hair.”

“Yeah, chicks everywhere dig him, but he’s too wrapped up in his own turmoil to notice. Some say he’s just a loser who takes himself way to seriously but I’m not so sure. I see a truth behind his tragic downward stare. Sometimes when I see him, I sort of want to stop being a soldier.”

“I can see that, I can see it. As a soldier you see a lot of sad, fucked up shit; the ravages of war, innocent women and children being slaughtered, large scale starvation…but…I don’t know…there’s something about that affluent skinny white boy from the suburbs that…pft, I don’t know, I’m no poet…these feelings are too much.”

“That’s okay man, I know what you mean. I’m going home…to my family. You coming?”

“Yeah man. Yeah, I’m coming.”

When you think about it, the world is a tragic place, so isn’t it sane to reflect that? Shouldn’t we all walk to a slow beat; a dirge of strings and acoustic guitar? Every few paces we should all stop and reach our hands to the heavens as if the chorus is reaching its climax, then as the next verse starts, we would continue our slow walk.

The government would hire people to walk down the street toward us, always getting in our way. We would have exasperated expressions on our faces as we push our way through the mechanical crowd that only serve to heighten the tragedy of our existence. After the middle eight section, the chorus will play for the last time and we’ll all jump up on park benches while reaching to the heavens for one last climactic display of tragedy, then the strings will dissolve into a satisfying chaos at which time, we’ll all fall to the ground and stare up at the sky, waiting for the day to fade out.

“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” – Beatle no. 1

One day my life will be a Missy Elliot music clip – I guess that is my plan. Minus Missy Elliot of course, she’s foul.

What's the colour of a 2 cent piece?

2005-09-01T19:03:00.000+10:00

There’s probably only one thing worse than having to star along side a precocious child actor in a hit movie, and that’s being issued with a $210 speeding fine from an officer of the law. At least with the child actor, when they grow up you can sock them with a fist to the jaw with the rationalization of, “That’s for when you were younger and able to portray complex emotions that I hadn’t even experienced at the age of 40…fucker!”

A week ago on my way home from work I was stopped by a police officer - for what I thought at the time was going to be a nothing more than a friendly roadside chat - for driving my pod at 71kmph in a 50kmph zone. He asked me to blow into his gadget, which I did, then handed me a bill for $210. When he asked me if I had an excuse for exceeding the speed limit, I offered the brown-nose route with, “There’s never an excuse to speed officer.” Maybe I should have answered with a questioning look, “Neurocam?”

I can guarantee that for the rest of my trip home, vitriol was dripping from my pours. I left puddles of it as I walked inside my front door. My cat started licking it then looked at me with venom, hissed, and then shot through the roof. I shouted “Good riddance ya filthy feline!” then threw my keys against the wall causing a painting to fall down.

It used to be that on residential streets, 60kmph was a safe speed. Then people with driving disabilities must have started hitting children, because the speed limit got brought down to 50kmph. We always end up pandering to those who fuck up don’t we? If you can’t drive a car safely down a road at 60kmph then you shouldn’t be on the road in the first place. Don’t make me slow down for your lame inadequacy. I have my own inadequacies – I can’t get layed! Do you hear me calling for a ban on sex? NO…YOU FUCKING DON’T!

Children only get hit when they run out on the road without looking. This has a scientific name: Natural selection. Stop trying to tame nature; it will end up shooting hurricanes back at you.

For the next few days on my way home from work, I’ve had this cop in mind. I’ve watched my speed and behaved like “The Man” wants me to. I’ve felt dirty, but I know they have guns, therefore, the upper hand. Today was the first day that upon entering the street I know he’s been standing at, I forgot all about him. My head was somewhere else, as it usually is, and I was probably doing close to 70 again. All of a sudden an angel from the sky, in the shape of a red Holden ute, passed me and flashed his lights. I knew…this piggy was back.

I slowed my car down to 40kmph and kept my eyes peeled. At that moment some sort of hotted up car (don’t know what it was other than it looked big and loud) turned in behind me from another street and annoyed at my lack of speed, sat right on my bumper. This is the sort of behaviour I’ve been known to engage in myself, albeit in my shitty Toyota corolla, so I wasn’t intimidated. As I started rounding a bend in the road, a bend that once driven around gives the cop with radar a direct line of sight, I slowed down again to 30kmph. The guy behind me was visibly angry, moving from side to side and revving his engine. I wanted to explain to him, “Chill guy, I’ve got sweet intel!” but of course he wouldn’t be able hear. As I looked in my rear view mirror there were about six or seven cars lined up behind me, all of them probably wondering, what the fuck’s the go? The plan was, the slower I went, the more cars would tack onto the queue, the less tickets this John Q. Law would be able write and brag to his good time buddies about.

As we drove, a funeral procession in the waiting, I spotted the cop with his radar gun aiming right at me. The doss cunt behind me still hadn’t twigged which made our passing the cop all the more sweet. I could tell this “2 cent piece” was itching to confiscate a license and the guy behind me was just asking for it. I wasn’t going to let it happen. Last time I got booked they were catching offenders like they were fish at a trout farm. No one was getting caught on my watch. No one!

I slowed down again to 25kmph just to send the guy behind me even crazier, then passed the cop with a smile. By the time I’d made it to where the cop was standing, I’d almost produced a traffic jam.

I reckon based on my own calculations - which are always biased toward making myself appear like man’s saviour – I spared four or five people from speeding fines. The ungrateful nob behind me would have probably lost his license. Stopped at the traffic light just behind the cop, I wanted to get out of my car and receive applause from the crowd. Instead, when the lights went green, the idiot behind me shot out and overtook me, speeding down the street like he had something to prove. I shook my head with moral indignation and thought; some people just can’t be saved...then I sped up and sat on his bumper.

Render me meaningless

2005-08-26T12:24:00.000+10:00

Sometimes I feel as though my life is a time-lapse photo with me in the center standing perfectly still, while the world scuttles around me in a sped up blur. In the photo I look dourly unimpressed, like I’ve just been told about the virtues of nano-technology, and then been told that it’s still a fair way into the future. I look at my watch and think, “Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do in the mean time?”

Then someone steps out of the blur, sits next to me and says, “Hey man, you heard about Time Wave Zero?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Terence McKenna, eating mushrooms, maps the vicissitudes of life using the I Ching and comes up with a theory of ever increasing novelty. This shit is speeding up, more and more novelty, until its increasing speed reaches a singularity, then…poof, end of the world!”

“Hmm, sounds kind of wacky”

“Hehe, yeah, but he uses math as well so… And the date he comes up with matches, to the exact day, the end of the Mayan calendar!”

“When’s that?”

“In December, 2012”

I look at my watch and wonder, “What the fuck am I supposed to do in the mean time?”

Looking into the surrounding blur, I can see the sped up results of people’s activity. Buildings are erected and destroyed, restaurants open and close, leaders are born, then die – it’s like an endless flowering of pointlessness. In the blur I see people trip and fall, then others point and laugh, then those who point and laugh themselves trip and fall. Soon everyone has had a go at both falling, and laughing at those who fall.

Wherever I walk, my cocoon of stasis follows me. So even if I wanted to enter the fray I couldn’t. At best I can run along side everyone else and fake it, just to feel an inkling of normality. Sometimes I fool people, so much so, that they try to communicate with me, but they just sound like chipmunks and I can’t decipher a word. It’s in these times of defeat that I ponder the meaning of pointlessness.

An inhabitant of the blur suddenly runs into me and stops, visibly shaken. “Woah, sorry dude, what happened there?”

“Ahh, yeah that’s cool, you just hit my cocoon of stasis.”

“Shit, sorry man, I’ve had a blur of a day.”

“So I can see.”

“Wow, things look a lot different in here. It’s almost enough to make you want to ponder the meaning of pointlessness.”

“Fuck dude, that’s just what I was thinking about! I thought I was the only one!”

“Well, I’d never thought about it until now. Haha, holy shit, look at that building! That’s the one I work in; it looks like it’s alive or something. Are those window cleaners that are shooting up and down the sides?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuuuuck!”

“So do you have an answer to the meaning of pointlessness?”

“Ahh, not really. Ah shit, look at my suit, it got some marks on it when I bumped into your cocoon of stasis, I can’t go into my meeting looking like this.”

“Oh, you would have missed that, you’ve been in here almost a year in blur time.”

“What? Shit, I’m late for my blur, gotta go.”

If a train carrying 174 passengers leaves the station at 3:23pm, and derails at 83kmph 10 minutes into the trip killing all on board, what is the meaning of its journey?

“Well,” said the child genius who’d just entered my cocoon, “it depends on the wider context. What would have eventually happened to the passengers had the train not derailed?”

“Eventually, they’d die of old age or something.”

“Right, so it’s all meaningless. We all end up as iridescent blue lava in the end.”

“Ahh, haven’t heard that one before!”

“Have you heard of Time Wave Zero?”

“Yeah, a guy was just telling me about it before!”

“So, at the end of 2012, we all turn into blue lava, that’s what happens when time ends. The Mayans knew all about it. Blue lava is the great equalizer. It renders all activity meaningless, it’s a beautiful thing.”

“I think that’s what I’m waiting for then, the metamorphosis into blue lava, sounds cool!”

“Then I pity you my friend, living a life of waiting like that. You should allow yourself the opportunity to fall and be laughed at, then laugh at others as they fall. It will make the feeling of being blue lava all the more sweet. In fact, it could be said that life’s meaning is to increase the bliss of our future metamorphosis into blue lava by creating a precursor state of anxiety.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“I’m a child genius.”

“Well, I’ve already reached a maximum state of anxiety, I can’t go any further.”

“I see. Then you do indeed need to wait. A critical mass of anxiety is what’s needed before the metamorphosis can be achieved. It looks like you’ve got a tough seven years ahead you my friend!”

I look at my watch and think, “What the fuck am I supposed to do in the mean time?”

Can we get kinky tonight?

2005-08-17T14:09:00.000+10:00

Instead of sitting here, I should be in a car hurtling toward the twelve apostles. I think there’s only three or four left now isn’t there? The others sill live on in memory though. It’s sunny and a friend of mine invited me to join him for a drive down the Great Ocean Road for a photography expedition straight out of Fear And Loathing. But as usual, I have work related activities tonight that promise to keep me out of the sun.

A cruise down the coastal freeway is what I need right now. I’ve been uninspired lately and in need of a dash through nature. We would be in the car pumping some wicked break-beats from the plumpist of all DJ’s while the wind brushes though our hair with that gentle feminine touch the wind is known to have. The music would provide the perfect soundtrack to the fractal nature of the trees and coastline surrounding us while the smile on my face and mild nodding of my head would be a true reflection of my soul.

European friend would turn to me and say, “Man these beats are broken! Faster I must drive!” I’d say, “Too damn true my son, toward the sun, light speed!”

To compensate for the lack of all of this, I found myself in a cleaning spiral. Initially I just wanted to move some crap off of my bedroom floor. Before long I had vacuumed, polished, and was in the beginning stages of unscrewing the back of my computer keyboard so that I could soak it in the laundry sink. These cleaning spirals are scary things.

During it, you get this obsessive idea that the more you clean your outer environment, the cleaner your mind will also become. It becomes obvious that the clutter in your mind is a result of the clutter in your home, and that somehow by putting everything in its right place, your mind will click like a solved rubicks cube.

The more you clean, the more you look for things to clean. You can’t stop until the mind clicks. You don’t know when it will happen, you just know that so far, you mustn’t have cleaned enough. Your eyes dart across the room. You spot a pile of cd’s that have fallen and spread across the floor. For an instant your life has meaning and purpose. You pick them up and re-pile. Still nothing. You alphabetize the fuckers and still nothing. Somehow, somewhere there must be another pile of cd’s that you haven’t yet noticed.

As you walk into the kitchen you spot a cupboard that is slightly ajar. You tap it shut and your mind clicks. You think, “Holy shit, it worked! I’ve cleaned and tidied my way out of depression!”

As per preparation for this exact moment, you glide toward the stereo, play the plumpist of all DJ’s, and let the fractal nature of the music join with the fractal nature of your biology. Soon you’re just a pile of numbers solving themselves into oblivion. You create imaginary fractal trees and coastlines that blur as you speed though them. You allow your body to become a mist that then liquefies and drinks itself. A fractal policeman in a funny hat pulls you over and with a mischievous grin gives you a breathalyzer to see how much of yourself is in your system. You’re way over the limit. The policeman that is now just a funny floating hat congratulates you and waves you through to the brighter light. Everything happens in both slow and fast motion at the same time. Time splits, then taps you on the back, then runs off with a giggle.

When you wake up, the highly toxic bottle of furniture polish is spilled all over the floor and over your clothes. You have a huge headache and yet another mess to clean up. Such is life.

Elbow deep within the roast chicken

2005-08-07T22:47:00.000+10:00

Blogging is weird. I was just in the shower, practicing my signature on the frosted up glass, when all of a sudden I remembered how fucking much I love gravy. At the same time it scared me because as of yet, I haven’t written this piece of private taste minutia down on my blog. I must have had other things on my mind. Feeling anxious about it though, I had no choice but to finish my shower half way (which for me is akin to stopping the flow of urine after five beers), dry up, and run to my computer to let the world know.

After all, there may be someone in Latvia who doesn’t know that Australia’s representative (me) simply adores gravy. They may not even know what an “Australia” is, but it may be through me and my love of gravy that they’d be given the opportunity to find out.

But I look back now and laugh, because it wasn’t until I sat down in front of my monitor, opened my word processor and began to type, that I realized how unimportant this fact was. I stopped in my tracks and laughed, picked up the portrait of myself that sits staring back at me beside my monitor, looked into my eyes and said, “silly, no one cares about your love of gravy!”

Boy did I laugh at my foolishness.

A blog is a persons opportunity to express free speech^TM with damning retorts to established ideas, thought provoking analysis on the where and what for’s of society's moral obligations, and hopefully, lewd and intricate descriptions of even the most taboo bedroom activities.

This is something I’ve only just realized, and looking back at my previous posts, I must say, I’m a little bit embarrassed. There is a brain behind this mass of mindless psycho-babble that I pass of as a blog, and sometimes I’m afraid that people don’t see it. I’ve read Kafka, I’ve heard of Baudrillard and I’m quite familiar with John Maynard Keynes analysis of market desensitization, so well expressed in his song Stinkfist from his band’s seminal work, Aenima.

This is why I’ve decided to turn things around, and after collating everything I’ve learned about existence, introduce you to my new idea that I think will change the world.

Alcoholic gravy.

This isn’t just about taking a good thing and making it better; this is about revolutionizing the roast dinner. I can’t believe no one had thought of it before, but to say that I’m not putting my life savings behind it is a lie. Of course, thinking shrewdly, I’ve decided to market toward the youth crowd. At bars and clubs, you’ll be able to by a bottle of roast. Inside the bottle will be a roast dinner, not unlike the bottles you see with little boats inside. People will wonder in awe how the roast got in there and will drink the gravy that surrounds it in rapture.

To begin I’ll market 5 different flavours, three different thickness’ and two different strengths of alcohol. It will start small and get bigger, much like the people drinking it. This will be the next big thing. Let me know if you want in.

Civis Icelander sum

2005-08-04T13:39:00.000+10:00

Sigur Ros. It was the first concert I’d ever been to by myself. None of my friends shared my immaculate taste in this band, so my single ticket for my seat up the back was filled with quiet and lonely appreciation. Being by yourself while in your seat isn’t so bad, but standing around in the foyer drinking a beer, while everyone else is in groups of two or more makes you feel like a smidgeon of a loser. Especially when you’re staring into a glass cabinet that contains an art piece which happens to be a plastered bust of a naked woman. Feeling uncomfortable, I quickly finished my beer, took a toilet break and found my seat.

I’d noticed as I first walked into the building, that this was definitely an artsy crowd, filled with hot artsy chicks. I find these sorts of girls endlessly fascinating to look at, although I’ve always assumed that inside they are as empty as Britney girls at the mall. I’ve never really spoken to one, I wouldn’t know how to start a conversation. I assume that I would say something and they would start labeling me, something like a pseudo-nouveau-anti-flexus-philistine that lacked expression. It wouldn’t even have to make sense for me to appreciate it. A part of me lusts after these sorts of attacks from artsy chicks. Even if I could easily defend myself against them, I wouldn’t. I would want to take their blows, I would want to receive their blows, ultimately, I would want them to blow me.

At my seat, usually reserved for the disablists, I waited for the show to begin. Once again, Hamer Hall inside the arts centre set a beautiful mood, this time however, I didn’t spoil my senses with drugs. I’m still not 100% sure if I regret this or not. The opening act were 4 women playing strings, bells and apple laptop in an experimental fashion. They looked like the kind of women that grew up on farms and spent their childhoods drawing pictures of horses. They got better as their set went on until the applause they received at the end was indeed well deserved.

The lights came up, and everyone that had been escorted to their seats in the darkness by the ushers suddenly decided it’d be good to once again leave back to the foyer for some refreshments. As this happened I heard one of the ushers curse about the help he’d offered, “well that was all a fucking waste of time!” Couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.

Twenty minutes later, and after much hot artsy chick spotting, the lights again went down and a translucent curtain formed a barrier between the audience and the stage. Four guys walked on stage as unassuming as you’d like, grabbed their instruments and settled while a loud cheer went up. The music slowly trickled into the hall, while lights went up behind them casting large silhouettes onto the screen.

It wasn’t however, until the singer opened his mouth that I was sent into a trance and given the opportunity to transcend. I have never in my life heard such a voice fill an auditorium like this before. Whatever he sounds like on their albums, to witness it live is truly something else. His guitar was played with a violin bow that offered an ethereal base, while the bass itself, helped keep the sublime melodies together. By the second song, I knew that I was witnessing something great.

These guys, that resembled skinny art student geeks, didn’t acknowledge the audience at all, they just played as if they were alone at home and didn’t get off on snowboarding like their jock Icelandic friends. At one point, the singer was up front, filling the hall with his voice, and a giant image was displayed behind him via a projector. The image almost became distracting, his voice was so pure and all encompassing, that it almost seemed like a parlor trick that the talentless use to keep peoples attention.

By the fifth song, these guys music was making me question my sexuality and their souls were making me question my circuitry. I wasn’t on drugs, but there were indeed chemicals in my body, and each and every one of them was giving me the thumbs up. Soon, the four horse loving ladies joined them on stage with violins. The music just got better.

Between songs, after the cheers and clapping had subsided, and before the next song had begun, there was nothing but an expectant silence. In the middle of one song, the band stopped and stood still. No one in the audience made a sound. It lasted about fifteen seconds…pure silence, then music again.

Eventually, but far too soon, they walked off stage to the cheers of the crowd. The translucent curtain that had come down after the first song was put back up, and the band once again entered the stage. The last song they played, the last one from their last album, was the one I’d been waiting for and had an idea would be saved until the end. Almost ten minutes of rapture followed with the song reaching a massive crescendo of cacophonous sound and flashing lights, then they walked off stage to a standing ovation. Their only acknowledgment to the audience came when they walked back onstage, clapped along with the audience and took a bow. The only reason people stood for the ovation was because they couldn’t levitate. It was just that good.

I actually felt high as I walked out of the arts center toward my car. All my neurosis and general life fears had been washed away and I felt all tingly and giddy. I’ve never felt that way after a concert before. A little disappointed that I didn’t have someone to share it with, but them the breaks. If you haven’t seen this band live before, then you’ve got something to look forward to. Even if you have to leave your country to see them, I’m sorry, that’s just what you’re going to have to do.

The exploding beer in the freezer trick

2005-08-02T23:39:00.000+10:00

My brain has a malfunction called forgetfulness.

Symptom 1. After drinking to intoxication, the subject decides he’s hungry and would like to cook a pie. He places the pie in the oven, sets it to a high temperature then waits in bed where he subsequently falls asleep. Subject wakes up next morning, moseys out to the kitchen where he wonders, “who the fuck left the oven on, and why is there charred mess on the tray?”

Symptom 2. Subject decides he would enjoy a beer, but remembers that he forgot to put some in the fridge. He takes a couple of beers out of the slab in his bedroom and puts them in the freezer for faster chill time. After closing the freezer he opens the fridge and finds that he did in fact remember to fill the fridge with beer, he’d just forgotten doing it. He subsequently becomes intoxicated on the beer until he realizes he’s hungry and would very much enjoy a pie. He opens the freezer in search of food, only to be confronted with beer dripping out from an exploded bottle.

Symptom 3. Subject decides to do food shopping on his lunch break at work. He keeps the bags of food at work until it is time to go home. Upon leaving work, driving home and pulling into his driveway, he remembers that he forgot to grab his food shopping, which is still at work. Pissed off and in need of calm, he decides he needs a beer, but realizes that he forgot to fill the fridge…

Hmm.

My forgetfulness is one of my Achilles heels. I generally try to walk around with a holier than thou attitude, offering lessons where I see the clumsy failures in others, but I’m always forced back to humility when my forgetfulness is pointed out to me. I need to fix this so that I feel more comfortable when I tell you how you should be living your life.

I have a theory about brains. There’s not supposed to be such a thing as a synapse. See, our neurons don’t actually touch one another, there is a gap. This gap is called a synapse and is filled with chemicals called neurotransmitters. Our neurons are trying to communicate with one another, but no matter how far they reach out, they are reduced to spitting at one another just to be heard (This, incidentally, is why I spat on my sixth grade school teacher. I felt the need to communicate and I just wanted to be heard). But no one likes to be spat on, least of all neurons, so many have decided to turn their back on the spitters and themselves, refuse to spit. It is this behavior, no matter how noble it seems, that is the cause of my forgetfulness and why I believe that neurons that physically touch one another is ahead in our evolution.

Consider yourself lucky, I usually charge for this sort of council.

Speaking of girls - and testing your neuron's ability to change thought-streams rapid-fire - I had one on the escalator the other day, telling me about a stalker she thinks she has. I’ve had a few girls offer similar stories to me in the past and have wondered whether it is common for a girl to fantasize about a stalker if they feel that no one is interested in them. A little more research needed; however, when I questioned, jokingly, about whether the stalker was a girl or a guy, she responded sarcastically therefore, self deprecatingly with, “oh yeah of course it could be a girl or a guy, oh I’m just so beautiful that I attract people from both sexes.”

I, being the amateur that I am, didn’t know how to respond so I just let it slide. Girls always throw out these little tests, and I know that as soon as they do, they are judging you on your response. I can see it happening, but I feel too much pressure to play, so I opt out, usually with a fart joke.

Sometimes I feel like talking to a girl is like doing a cryptic crossword while running on a treadmill. The person firing off the questions also has a gun to the head of one of my family members. “10 across, seven letters: Rose awkwardly after finish to show approval. You’ve got 3 seconds!”

“Holy shit, ummm….Rose awkwardly after…”

“Too late, say goodbye to daddy, junior!” [bang]

You’ve got be quick.

I wish I could be as awkward as Borat and still get a girl.

“So how long until we start with the sex please?”

LSA, LSB, LSC, LS.....

2005-07-28T19:16:00.000+10:00

Following the Neurocouncil, I decided to retrace the steps I took on my penultimate acid trip, this time, to take some photos. I was rather impressed with the surroundings behind Federation Square last time, but I wasn't sure if it was the drugs or the actual environment. Turns out it was a bit of both.

This first photo was actually taken a few weeks ago, but it fits in well with the theme and I like it.

To the right and up a bit is federation square and the beginning of my journey. To the left is the Yarra River, and behind me is where I’m headed.

Walking back a few hundred meters from the last photo is a set of stairs that leads up a large grassy embankment. At the top you get a panoramic view of the cityscape. Unfortunately my camera could only capture the middle part, once again, Federation Square. It’s an extremely calm and almost eerie place to stand. There is simply no one around for at least a few hundred meters in every direction. The hill is shrouded in darkness and has a desolate feel.

Directly behind the last photo is this walkway. It took me a while to get this picture as a bunch of naked women were running up the bridge toward me. I had to wait for them leave so that I could get a clear shot.

Half way down the bridge there is a little alcove featuring these upside down bells on the top of long…things. Behind them lay the buildings to the right of Fed Square that I couldn’t capture before.

Further down the walkway, looking back toward the city. Everything looks so clean and open and calm. There is just no one around.

At the bottom of the walkway you reach this sandy area with tables and chairs.

Panning left a bit, the river, and Fed Square again almost directly ahead. A girl could walk around here in lingerie at midnight without the fear of being raped. I’m about 45 minutes into my walk and I haven’t seen one person. Btw, any girls that would like to be photographed in lingerie around here, let me know.

This is directly under the bridge we just came down. Flooded with red lights…a funny story about this bridge...

So this is pretty much the route we took while we were tripping. There is this sandy walkway under the bridge which leads to a weird little art piece. Myself and one of my friends (D) were the ones tripping, and my other friend was e’ing. He decided to fuck with our heads and exclaimed, “Man, it looks like there is blood under that bridge!”
It only took a few seconds before our calm was disrupted, and it did indeed look like blood under the bridge. D and I looked at each other as if to ask, “Do you see that too?” Neither of us could walk under the bridge, it became horrific and evil.
Then we started thinking of how the developers could get away with putting blood under the bridge. We figured that the bridge must be powered by blood. This started us laughing. We imagined the board meeting where the plans were offered up.

The developers offer their visual presentation –

“Here we have pictures of the bridge we hope to build, we hope that you enjoy the design as much as we do.”

The boardroom suits all murmur,

“Why yes, isn’t it grand!” And, “It fits so perfectly into the environment!”

The chairmen stands up –

“Well gentlemen, great job. I think I can safely say, barring any irrational objections, that we have decided on a most suitable bridge. Well done!”

[Light applause]

One of the developers looks uncomfortably at the other then speaks up –

“There is, gentlemen, one problem”

“Oh, what is it?”

The developer tries to put it as delicately as possible.

“Well, the bridge does indeed need to be powered by the blood of small children.”

The boardroom is silent. After a few moments the chairman stands up and says,

“I can’t see a problem with that.”

All I know is, that on acid, the thought off all that was the funniest thing I’d ever experienced.

Further up there is a wall with red lighting and the spire to the left is the arts center where Tori Amos lulled me to sleep, and where I’ll be seeing Sigur Ros.

On the other side of the wall is yellow lighting. When we were here while tripping, there was a homeless guy sitting in here. I couldn’t believe that all the wealthy people were at home in their scummy side street urban dwellings while this down and out homeless guy was enjoying the magical vista.

Back in Federation Square, we sat here last time and ordered a pizza. It’s difficult to just be places without having a purpose - as I wrote about here - so we decided to order a pizza. We were tripping, of course, and didn’t really know if we were hungry. When the pizza came we all cracked up. We didn’t know what to do with it! We had these metal utensils that looked like surgical tools and the pizza…man it looked so funny. It looked like a computer game graphic of a power-up. We seriously sat there for a good 5 minutes, staring at the pizza and trying to contain our laughter. Eventually, after staring off into the distance, so as not to see the faces of my friends, and thinking about sad things, I quickly grabbed my knife and fork to begin eating. My gesture seemed so completely ridiculous though, that we all once again cracked up. I managed to eat most of the pizza by myself, mainly because I didn’t want the waiter to question our sanity. I don’t know why, it must have been so obvious that we were fucked anyway.

This photo isn’t such great quality though as the lighting is difficult to capture. I remember looking around on the night and thinking that the future had arrived. There is a big screen TV in the distance where the big white light is, the pillar with lights in the foreground had a scrolling red banner at the bottom. My eyes, at the time, were also seeing flashing lights that didn’t exist. It all looked so futuristic. I kept thinking that we shouldn’t have to work any more as the future had arrived. Nothing left to work for. Shouldn’t a world leader make a speech, thank all the companies for getting us to where we are, but that now it’s time to just sit back and enjoy our creations?

Martyred for the fembots

2005-07-28T14:15:00.000+10:00

I was a good bit late for the Neurocouncil. Most of the agenda had been dealt with by the time I showed up and being all the way down the end of the table, I found it difficult to hear the rest. At some point, Teigan admitted to being Robin Hely, then peeled his face off to reveal his true identity. I took a photo –

Afterward, Rorschach, Reanimator, non-blogger One Eyed Jack, and myself took to the pub for some beer. I asked non-blogger One Eyed Jack why he doesn’t change his status from non-blogger to blogger, or just One Eyed Jack. He said, “I’m afraid of the thought police.” Understanding his concern, yet attempting to remain brave I replied, “The thought police? Pft, the thought police are afraid of me!” then I rolled up my sleeve and flexed my muscles and said, “Go on, feel my bicep.” He tilted his head back and turned away as if he felt uncomfortable, so I sat down and tried to change the subject.

We all started talking about blogging and the weird shit people type into search engines which lead to our blogs. I think Rorschach had the query, ‘Dark lord neurocam’ or something similar, and Reanimator’s, ‘naked c3po’ were favourites. People are fucking weird you know?

I mentioned something about my blog and Reanimator turned to me and said, “Man, you must really hate women!” This took me back, because I know I talk shit sometimes, but I didn’t think it really came across that way. He then asked me to follow him into the toilet as he had something to show me. I thought he was soliciting me for sex, so I eagerly followed. Just as I was about to unbuckle my belt I felt a grip on the back of my neck and the bottom of a toilet bowl heading toward me.

“Women deserve respect, do you understand that?”

“Yes!” I said as my head was being dunked into the toilet.

“And the way you refer to them on your blog is unacceptable, do you understand that?”

“I do! I do understand that!”

I was getting dizzy and the water was getting up my nose. His grip was like a vice and his voice was angry. He pulled my head out of the bowl and said, “Explain yourself.”

“I’m sorry I don’t mean to be this way it’s just that I’m insecure and inadequate when it comes to women and I’m hopeless and I’m the loser. I love women but I don’t understand them and I’m a shit lay cos it’s been so long and…and I know which parts are supposed to go where but I can’t do it properly…I’m like a terrorist that doesn’t know how to work his bomb who just wanders around hoping Allah hasn’t noticed!”

With that I noticed a row of five or six men in the room, all of whom at the same time, started laughing. I had tears of humiliation and expended energy streaming down my face. The men mocked me, “Oooh, I’m like a terrorist who can’t work his bomb!! HAHAHAH!”

Reanimator looked at me with a mixture of pity and sympathy, he patted me on the back and said, “you did well mate, you did well.”

I walked out of the toilet in a daze, empty and fragile. There was a woman on a bar stool who I went to and hugged. “I love you” I said. She poured her beer over my head and said, “Get away from me loser!”

I walked away, but I still loved her. My humiliation and martyrdom for the cause of women was complete. Maybe one day they’ll come back to me.

Whiskey flavoured euthanasia

2005-07-25T20:42:00.000+10:00

You know you’ve been playing too much Half Life when you start looking for taps to turn and levers to pull while wandering around the house. Yesterday I was close to flooding my bathroom so that the rising water could help me float toward the ceiling, facilitating my escape through the manhole. Like this game, I’ve always wanted to get to the next stage in my life, but I’m constantly let down by my options. School then job. I seriously hope there isn't a God, because if there is, he lacks vast amounts of imagination. That’s why I like the tap and lever system in games. You flick a switch and some door somewhere opens. Where will it lead? Well, you’re going to have to walk through to find out aren’t you?

It constantly amazes me that the people I see around me are satisfied with their lives. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t at all think I’m better than anyone (of course I do), but if I had to lead the life of the myriad of droids I see around me I would perform seppuku with a spoon, a flint, and a piece of string. I know people who are studying business! Fuck me!

I wrote in a blog post months ago that I wish to be drugged and kidnapped, and yet, here I sit, as bored as ever. What are you pussies afraid of? I’m offering myself like a lamb to the slaughter, and you’re off studying business? FUCK YOU!

Feel my dreaded caps-lock!

I know what will make me feel better. CNN. Hours and hours of over sensationalized pain and suffering, presented in such a way as to make me believe that the world is ending, and if I sit and watch for just a few more minutes, I’ll see it live…the end…the end of it all.

I’d share the moment with a hooker if I thought for second that she wasn’t diseased.

Although…that brings me to a game show I want to pitch. Disease Wars. It’s like robot wars, but instead of robots, people design diseases that will battle it out inside a human host. It’s not necessarily required that the host die, but its occurrence would be referred to as acceptable collateral damage, and deep down, it’s really the money shot we’d all want to see.

A friend of mine told me that I should start watching the OC so that I’d have something to talk about with girls. I think he might be right. The only way I’ll ever get a girl is by pretending I’m something that I’m not. Vagina is like money. It's everywhere, but I just can’t get my hands on it.

Not getting laid is the root cause of terrorism. Women acting all haughty-like, waiting for Mr. Right. There’s no such thing. I’m it baby. Now come over here and give Li some lovin', and while you’re up love, grab us a beer…and some chips. None for you though, gota keep an eye on the weight. So baby, how ‘bout that OC; who could believe what that Julie said to Caleb. What’a’Bitch!

I guess nothing comes for free.

Even Freud was Jung once.

2005-07-22T13:40:00.000+10:00

So I was standing outside smoking a cigarette; pair of shorts, no shoes, no shirt – doing the local thing. I’m not a smoker but I have a pack that I bought for Krafty Kuts that I need to finish off. For some reason, when you’re pilling, smoking a cigarette is like inhaling the spirit of the Dalai Lama.

For me, smoking is an excuse to stand around and do nothing. You need the excuse though. For instance, once I’d finished, and had given the butt to my next door neighbour via a well crafted pitch over the fence (they haven’t moved in yet so I consider it all above board), I found myself remaining in my still stance, staring out toward the street. At that moment a guy who’s working on the house next door walked passed and looked at me standing there staring straight back. He quickly looked down and continued on, but at that moment, I was just some random weirdo staring at him. If I still had have had a cigarette in my hand, he would have seen my reasons for existing in that time and place and dismissed me as…well, some random weirdo but with an excuse for being so. It’s the excuse that matters.

Like, if I was out on the street, just standing and staring, it could upset parents.

“Kids get inside! Honey, there is some weirdo loitering out there just staring”

Husband comes to take a look

“Nah, I think he’s just smoking a cigarette”

“Oh okay, kids, back outside and enjoy the sunshine”

I had some Pumpkin’s b-sides playing on the stereo and I realized that it was probably the first time I’d actually listened to a cd rather than an mp3 since the 50’s. Personally I couldn’t care less if the music industry dies in the arse. Get rid of all industry I say. Industry is a word that was invented after people started doing for profit what they previously did for love. Plus there are three major by-products of industry: Pollution, toxic waste, and hippies. I’ve come to accept toxic waste and pollution, but hippies…surely there’s some spray for them by now isn’t there?

Everyone has some hippy in them, that’s okay, but in well balanced people it’s cancelled out by the same amount of yuppie. This was Freud’s major point and why Jung decided to go his own way. Jung believed the two were archetypes joined by the collective sub-industry, a theory that Freud believed inhibited his ability to enjoy cocaine.

I do home tutoring on this. Drop me a line.

Sunshinin'

2005-07-21T12:33:00.000+10:00

There's a chance there's just no pleasing me. My good friend the sun has been kind of shunning me these past couple of months. Wake up in the morning, take a bucket of warm water out to the car to melt the ice. By the time I get to work, the sun is just coming up and I don't see it again until I leave, and it's just going down. The coldness, oh not to mention the coldness. I feel it on my skin; I feel it in my heart.

So today, waking up at 11:00am, what do I see but the sun streaming through the cracks in my venetians like it just got passed a bouncer by soliciting a hot girl to fall down in front of him pretending she's broken her ankle. Fuckin' love it when the sun does that.

So what am I doing to celebrate the suns return to the one it loves? Sitting on my computer blogging. Then I may play some Half Life where I'll definitely have to close the blinds so that I can get the full effects of the dark alien atmosphere.

When I was younger and we had parties at our house with all our relo's, I loved to hide in my room and listen to the muffled conversations, laughter, and glasses clinking from a safe distance. Every once in a while, I'd mosey out to make an appearance and then scuttle back to my fortress. I used to love that there were lots of people and activity around me, but that I could shield myself from it by retreating to my fortress.

I still use this technique in my head when I'm at work.

[From my ex's]
"Why do you always have to be so damned aloof? It pisses me off no god damn end!!"

[Commander Li]
"Shut up! I'm in my fortress!"

But the sun is different. I'd make an effort to go out but my backyard is a mound of dirt at the moment and there is nowhere to stand. Plus I start work in one and half hours and just allowing myself a taste of it seems kinda evil right now.

But don't worry sun, I'll give you some pure white albino skin to burn soon. I'll let you have your way with me until I look like a lobster and cancer is the logical next step. I love you so much; I just know you'll be the death of me.

Here's to what we feel inside

2005-07-19T00:03:00.000+10:00

Was watching an ultrasound of my friend's girlfriend's accident last week or so. As I was watching it I was hit by the question, "has anyone seen an ultrasound of an abortion?"

Yeah, it didn't go down so well in present company, but due to alcohol, my usual filtering process had well been stood down.

So now I'm searching google for aborted fetuses filmed in 5.1 ultrasound.

Personally, I'm all for abortion. There should be no limit to the fetus’s age. I think it should be within law for George Bush's parents to have an abortion...still, after all this time.

Wed rine is intoxicating in more ways than ten. The ethanol in the current batch I'm tasting has a rather petroly taste, with a little bit of grape fruit thrown in. Grapes and gasoline, like sperm and egg, the pillars of many a bad decision to create a new human being. Unfortunately, I don't have the personality to attract an egg, so my creations are limited to blog posts. I'd sacrifice a child for a girlfriend...and have.

Have you ever been tired, and after remembering that you have to get up early in the morning, you decide to put the kids to bed, then after tucking them in all cosy and warm, you walk out of the room into the next room and realise that you don't actually have kids, and you don't really know what the fuck you just put to bed?

That's never happened to me, but it could be a cool beginning to a horror movie.

So today's post, I guess, is brought to you by the letter kids.

Damn the fact that my best friends girl is preggas and I'm about to be a quasi uncle. It's infiltrating my mind, just like Voltron used to do.

I'm the blue guy. As soon as I meet the black, green, yellow, and red guy to join up with and make a super robo-mecha-destroyer, you guys are all fucked.

....

The psychiatryst peered into Li’s eyes as if looking for a reason to retire early.

“What have you been engaged in during the last few hours?”

“Nothing, a beer with a friend, she told me she wanted me to move back to Fall Canyon. She always says that. I told her that the authorities were probably still looking for me after I broke into the chief of police’s house and erected a paper mache sculpture of myself in his lounge room. She queried my ability to have a serious conversation. I said, ‘chill baby cakes, this soul must remain free.’ Then she told me she hated me, but as always, she was betrayed by her gorgeous smile. I love that smile. To me, she can say anything she wants, as long as she sprinkles that smile on top. I sometimes hate that I still love her.”

Fielding looked unimpressed. He carried that look often.

“Amused…really I am. But it doesn’t explain what I’m looking at.”

“You know, for someone whose education extends beyond high school, you never really grasped the art of politeness did you?”

The old shtick again.

“And how does that make you feel? Really, let it all out.”

“Fuck off.”

Li sat, trying to keep his eyes focused upwards; he took another sip of wine then farted in a display of animalistic superiority.

He looked back at the psychiatryst.

“God it feels good just to be alive.”

And really, it did.

....

If, as the Buddhists say, death is orgasmic, is going gray at a young age a form of premature ejaculation? From my friends I asked for support...

"For you my friend I suggest a trip to hair house warehouse - see the fat Egyptian chick and take about $14.75"

I love my friends.

It's all over

2005-07-16T19:33:00.000+10:00

Sitting, blankly embedding phosphorescent images into brain-matter-created memories, lurid and detached, Li looks back in on himself, too aghast to experience directly, he decides to become the third person. If he could become the forth or fifth – even better.

He wants to pick up his beer and take a sip, and perhaps, yesterday’s Li would have – today’s Li can only ruminate over past, present and future mistakes, embarrassments and failures. “It’s all coming to a close prematurely” he mouths rather than whispers. Filtering out the background noise he ponders how, and more than that, he ponders why.

“Hehehe, don’t worry about it, it’s barely noticeable” his friends rally, “besides, you can just dye it.”

Li stares blankly ahead, not even bothering with politeness. A reticent smile may have been enough to placate concerned acquaintances, but these were his friends, and they should know better.

Plucking up some much needed bravado, Li snaps out of his reverie and declares, “Fuck it, my problems are zilch, people are starving, getting blown up…there are murderers out there.”

The girl with the amused look on her face – “I read in psych the other time, that murderers share similar psychological traits to murderers.”

“What does that mean? Why did you say murderers twice?”

The girl with the amused look on her face – “Why did I say what twice? What are you talking about?”

Knowing that he couldn’t concentrate, he walked into the back room and found a mirror, the evidence not even bothering to be coy or shy and at least pretend to not exist. Li, at that moment, and for many moments to come that year, was 25 years old. Li’s hair. It was going gray.

Images of his father ran through his mind; images of him wringing his genes out of his arm like it was a sponge, chinese burn style - maniacal laughter, “I started going gray in my thirties!”

Sweating and out of breath, keeled over and gasping, Li challenged the mirror with one more look of despair, “it’s alright, this isn’t happening.”

But it was.

“Fuck me, I'm twenty five, I don’t even have a girlfriend, and I’m going gray.”

It was happening, and it was the first day toward the end of his life.

Million Dollar Mouse

2005-07-13T13:29:00.000+10:00

I hate it when I forget to return a new release dvd, then I have to pay for the stupid thing all over again. One movie for the price of two, shit deal in anyone's language. That's why they don't advertise it on a big board out the front. It was Million Dollar Baby. At least it wasn't an Adam Sandler movie. Had a hardcore ending though. Who would have thought that a female boxer, after dying from syphilis, would return from the dead as a zombie and eat the brains of mutated pelicans. Clint Eastwood is a master at giving you what you least expect.

On my way out to see Batman Begins I think I ran over a mouse. It was dark, difficult to see, there was a storm 'a' brewin'...but the little bugger ran right out in front of me. I tried to swerve but think that I may have moved into him rather than around. It's possible he had made the correct calculations and I had thwarted his effort by being a life saving do-gooder. I know I'm not, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm just another mouse terrorist. Wouldn't it be funny if all the terrorists of the world were really just trying to kill mice, but humans kept getting in the way. There could be a script in there, for someone with BIG balls.

I used to collect basketball cards in early high school. I had heaps, all inside a folder in special protective sheaths; now they're all gone. I went looking for them the other day and they're nowhere to be found. I remember getting the Shaquille O’Neil rookie card and believing that it would finance my playboy lifestyle for the next thirty years. I even bought a special hard case cover for it. All gone. My house got broken into a few years ago; may have been those fuckers. I got a call while I was at work from my dad saying, "Shit's a mess, cops are on their way, they wanna look at your room."

My room? I have never left work so quickly in my life. My room? You mean the room with a type of class A scheduled drug hidden in every Lego gas station, farmhouse, henhouse, doghouse and outhouse that I could find a place for?

When I got home my drugs were gone, and a couple of my porno mags had been strewn across our dinner table for my parents to find. My room was the worst hit and I bet the perps were some B&E rich kids with a score to settle after I thrashed them at the local spelling bee contest. I probably took their girlfriends away from them and when they tried to hit me, I somehow pulled off some manoeuvre that loosened their belt buckles and made their pants fall down in front of everybody. Everyone would have laughed, then the camera would have returned to me and my winning grin while the picture faded out. I don't recall any of that happening, but when you piece two and two together...

I'm thinking of learning French. I think it's imperative that a person know at least two languages. It's just that...if only you knew how many things I've started to learn and then given up on. Three different types of martial arts, computer programming, 3d graphic design, guitar, drums, social skills, sex. I'm an eternal dilettante. Rarely do I see a job advertised for such a position. Needed: Eternal Dilettante with demonstrable skills in dabbling in French, some martial arts, the first few pages of a programming book and some music (ability to play popcorn on a keyboard after a week of study). The successful applicant will be a somewhat likable loser named Li who drives a car and terrorises mice.

A job like that would probably only offer $50G anyway. No way I'm lowering myself to that standard.

Krafty Sluts

2005-07-10T10:25:00.000+10:00

Krafty Kuts was damned amazing. Arrived at about 11:30 and straight away dropped half a pill. QBH is definitely the best venue I've been to and it was totally packed. Trying to get to the bar for preparatory drinks was half a nightmare. At the back of the queue, I had to get out binoculars to make out the tiny dots that did in fact turn out to be bar staff. At the bar I got a couple of bourbons and coke, for myself and my European friend, which were subsequently finished by the time we had re-battled our way back out of the queue. An hour later, the effects of the pill were starting to become apparent yet rather feeble. We decided to wait until the upstairs section opened, then drop another full one.

Upstairs the view of the main dance floor was amazing. For some reason it wasn't as crowded up there with full access to the bar, plenty of dancing space, and a view eye-level with a hell of a light show. We took another full pill each and waited for mashed up bliss to arrive.

Holly crabcakes did it arrive! At around the time Krafty made his way to the decks, angels began tickling my spine. I turned to look at European friend who stared straight back with a totally serious expression on his face, moved in close so as to be heard and said, "man, I'm mashed." I said, "it's cool though yeah?” and he said, "don't even question me!"

Krafty began to tear the building down, I couldn't stop moving. EVERYONE around us was smiling, looking at each other as if to communicate, "FUCK YEAH!" and dancing like it was the new standing still. I was living the raver cliché again and it never felt so good. I even txted a friend and said, -The pills are making me love man! Love! I'm a cliché!" He responded with, - You must love or your existence shallows to an empty shell, oh yeah and take more pills." I said, fuck yeah!

The light show was communicating to my third eye, something about friendly ants and turtles that could speak. I'm not sure, it was somewhere in the background, but funny. My limbs were light and blissful and my projection of love was so great that I felt like terrorist everywhere were about to give into my demands.

About 2 hours later we moved upstairs again to the third level to check out another dj. We also dropped another half a pill. Way more dancing occurred and happiness consumed.

Overall, the two sets I listened to were two of the best I've heard. Or maybe it had been so long between drinks that I've forgotten all the good ones. We started coming down at about 5am, and left at about quater to six.

The drive home was filled with the sound of air, Talkie Walkie. I dropped off European friend; got myself home and hopped into bed, slept for 1 hour, then got up for work. From heaven to hell, that's the way it goes.

....

I bought a ticket to see Sigur Ros a couple of weeks ago. A little disappointed that no one told me they were touring. There were only three tickets left when I went to get one. One was in the last row on the corner. One was in the last row, more central, right next to where they park people who are in wheel chairs, and the last one was outside the auditorium, at a bus station, facing the opposite direction. I chose to sit next to the disabalists and asked the girl if I could get a refund if I get dribbled on. She looked at me like her mother was in a wheel chair and that I was disgusting. I gave her a reciprocating look of self disgust and quickly moved away from her frame of reference. They're playing at the arts centre AKA, the trippy ante chamber of an alien spaceship. I may find the remnants of purple juggling ball ladies quest for peace and finally be able to put that nightmare to rest.

Anyway lovers, I'm off on a day trip to Rye. May go fishing if this icey wind doesn't blow us off the pier first. I don't know why. I fucking hate fishing.

Fried ricer

2005-07-04T11:53:00.000+10:00

This site didn't work on me; possibly not animated enough. Has science figured out why yawning is so addictive yet? I hope they do soon so that we can go back to looking for a cure for cancer. One thing at a time. At work yesterday one of my colleagues yawned, and as soon as he did, I knew I was going to yawn. I desperately didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that something he did in life actually effected me, no matter how small, so I desperately tried to stifle it. I only lasted about seven seconds, before I had to turn around and open my mouth really wide.

I woke up at 9am on Sunday to listen to Pink Floyd and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. It was strange hearing them back in action. Rather heart warming. I wanted to see the replay on TV, so at work I asked a foxtel representative who stands around flicking between four channels of foxtel on four different plasmas everyday, if he could switch it across to Fox 8. One of my mates says, "what's live 8?" I said, "a bunch of rock stars are changing the world again...fighting poverty and all." He said, "but if we get rid of poverty, where are we going to send all the flies?"

Me and my friends...my friends and me.

I like Bob Geldoff. He's kind of a loser. I can relate to that. He lost his wife to another rock star, who she had a kid with, then died and left the kid with Bob. Ouch. But he battles on, he puts on massive concerts, he liaises with the rich and powerful. He makes me feel there is hope for me yet.

I've felt a little weird over the last week and a bit because I just bought a new car stereo. This is very out of character for me. I drive a shitty little '88 Toyota Corolla which I take care of simply by not crashing it. I've never cared about cars and routinely try to get airborne over the speed humps that litter the streets surrounding my house. It's funny to watch people in brand new commodores etc. delicately mounting speed humps like it's a surgical procedure.

There's a few different ways of taking a speed hump. Ricers who lower their cars will cut diagonally across it so that at any point, one wheel should be on the hump itself. Others will try to find the shallow part of the hump right near the curb so that one side of the car is only getting a little hump. Others drive straight, but slow down to a crawl, then those who can't afford a good car, like me, hit them with such speed, it's a wonder the axels haven't snapped. Having a shit car must afford some pleasure.

Anyway, I cleaned the windows the other day, as I found that when driving to and from work, when it's rather foggy, I was routinely having to put my head almost directly over the steering wheel, just so I could see out of the little patch that wasn't frosted over. This gave me an almost 14 degree viewing angle. After cleaning my windows, and removing the seven empty soft drink cans and KFC rubbish, I decided to go buy a stereo. I chose a Panasonic one cos it has awesome blue lights. Once it's installed I'm going to cruise Chapel, while pumping Andrea Bocelli.

You’ll to come.

lying in weight

2005-07-02T19:07:00.000+10:00

I've just dropped some pills and I'm waiting for them to kick in. Panadol, for my headache...of course.

It's weird how drugs that reduce pain are totally acceptable, but drugs that increase pleasure are totally frowned upon. It doesn't really bother me as I've gotten used to people frowning at me. In my room I have 4 and a half tabs of acid. At my friends house I have two ecstasy tablets. All are waiting for me to set aside some time. LSD, especially, you need to give respect. Arrangements need to be made, plans drawn up. Music needs to be selected before hand and put into a reachable position, new batteries for music player need be acquired...these are all things you learn along the way.

I've been meaning to write up my last trip report, but I've kind of stopped half way through and I can't get started again. I'm doing it out of posterity more than anything. A good trip report is worth its weight in gold. A good trip is weightless. One of the hardest things you can ever do while tripping is try to pay for something. It's ridiculous.

Right now, I'm trying to drown my headache in chemicals so that I can go out tonight. A bunch of people at work are celebrating their birthdays on the same night. It's amazing how it happens, when two people decided to celebrate on the same night, then someone else thinks, Hey my birthday is only two weeks away, we'll do mine as well! Then others who's birthday's are *only* two months away get in on the act. Pretty soon you're celebrating the birthdays of people crossing five different star signs.

I kind of like the idea. Here's what I think. At every party, everyone who is invited should choose something to celebrate in relation to them. So if you bought new shoes today, then for you, it's happy new shoes day. That way everyone is the guest of honour and there is no single focal point. Focal points are too fascist. And I'm sick of the birthday boy/girl getting special treatment simply because it's their birthday. Fuck you; it's my new shoes day!

These are the things I think about while waiting for headaches to clear. At work I was coming up with creative forms of population control. Sometimes I wonder if serial killers are like humanity anti-bodies, and putting them behind bars is like holding back the cure for cancer. I can tell the earth is over populated because the other day, Friday in fact, I went to the mall - pig slough - and couldn't get a park. Every parking spot was taken. It wasn't even a weekend, don't people have jobs? As far as I'm concerned, in our black and white world, people who are against serial killers are for being packed in like sardines. Over population will wipe out humanity, serial killers will only wipe out randoms here and there. Serial killing is pro-humanity. I've written this to my member of parliament.

Fuck, what am I saying? Panadol should definitly be banned.

Virgins on drugs

2005-07-01T12:18:00.000+10:00

I need to share this, though I don't have any friends around, so I guess I just have to blog it. I have a Virgin credit card and I needed to notify them of a change of address. I've called their customer care number a few times and each time it's the same. Their customer service phone people are on drugs! Fucking good drugs too. I have never in my life spoken to such cult-like happy people. You HAVE to call them! It's a total experience. The girl I was just on the phone to was so fucking happy to be speaking to me I thought she was going to explode. It must be mdma, there is no other explanation. This isn't just a once off either, it's every time I phone them.

Fuck, I need to get a job there. Their number is 1800 080 000. Even if you don't have a card, just call for a chat or something, I don't know. Someone needs to investigate. It's not natural.

Next time I call I'm recording the conversation. I might call them every morning before work, just to get my day started. This may turn out to be my therapy. I hope it's not addictive.

I wanna dance.

2005-06-30T23:59:00.000+10:00

I’m thinking of declaring war on Luxemburg. Most people don’t know, it’s the gateway to Europe. I just need to wait for my visa to come through.

Who would have thought, Australians officially have intelligence. I know, I’m as surprised as you. It seems that we were tested recently and came through with flying colours. After two episodes, the American version of The Office was cancelled due to poor ratings. I may have to respect people on the roads now, they could be an-american-version-of-the-office-hater too.

Curb Your Enthusiasm. THAT is American comedy. THAT is what you’re capable of. LEARN!

As an Australian, I have to rely on overseas comedy. NOTHING we do is funny. It’s usually just kind of embarrassingly weird. Get it?!?! Hehe…(plop)

I don’t get it either….and that is our comedy.

One thing Australians are good at is living on a landmass that resembles paradise. We don’t have any great struggle to fight against, except for on-shore breezes. We know we seem far away to the rest of the world, but secretly, we wish we could push our country further out to sea, as we know that all you overseas belligerent fools will eventually start shooting nukes at each other. That’s all good, but please, don’t fuck up our beaches!

I’m addicted to google earth. It’s what I always hoped the net could offer, but there’s always more. I want to be able to zoom all the way into your pancreas. I want to see the synapse of a new thought firing in someone in Chad. I want to see it LIVE!

Omnipotence isn’t a big enough goal in society. People are too busy feeding their stupid kids, negative gearing, and watching home renovation shows on TV. Soon, every gene, every piece of DNA, every electron on Kofi Annan’s head will have its own IP address. One day, hackers will be able to make the Queen of England’s vagina shoot up into space and explode like a firework. These will be the days of our lives.

There used to be a show on TV called Beyond 2000. On this show they tempted us with science and technology that would be available “beyond 2000!” Well, guess what? We’re beyond 2000 and I still can’t tele-transport myself through fiber optic cables, put a seed the size of a grain of rice into a thermo-cooker 2000 and have a 7 course dinner materialize in 10 minutes, or…get laid.

Humanity fails me time and time again.

Yikes! In my drunken stupour I’ve realized that my margins are missing! What happened? They were here last time, and I haven’t changed anything.

…

I’ve just been through the template with a fine tooth comb and I can’t figure our why. All I know is that I used to use that comb for my teeth, but can’t now, as it has web site all over it. Fucking tooth combs, why do they have to be so fine!

Anyway, you’re tired and you need some sleep. I don’t want to keep you up anymore; you have a big day ahead of you. I wish you the best of luck, I know it’s going to be a tough day, but I’m with you all the way.

Love you long time,
Li

- ahh, margins are back. i'm about to pass out. did i hallucinate the whole thing?

Get behind thee reality.

2005-06-21T19:28:00.000+10:00

I'm thinking of going to the up-coming Krafty kuts, taking a cavalry of pills and dancing like a bell end. It's been years since I've allowed my ecstasy face to be seen in public and I think it's a part of my past that needs to be revisited. Back then, I didn't have a clue what was going on in the real world; it was all beats, lights, pills and distant stares into the 11th dimension. I hate that I know who Douglas Wood is, that I know how much he was paid for his story, that I know that he's thinking of going back to Iraq, and that he's a nob of the highest order. I would much rather be ignorant of all of this. Back then I would have been. Reality is getting too up close and personal, invading my space, acting like a stalker. Bitch, just step off.

I think I need to redefine my primary mission parameters and prioritise.

This may have been sparked by my recent "resume blues". Do you get those too? I hate my job (who doesn't?), I want to kill my boss (who doesn't?), and I want to defecate between two panes of glass, press them together and frame it for my wall (who doesn't?).

Based on this, thoughts arrive - without solicitation - that presume to know that a new job may be what's best for me. Pft. That would require me to revisit something so dark, so torturous, and so painful, that one, or both of my arms suddenly get the urge to reach for the television remote control. This darkness is my resume. Fuck, just thinking about it makes me wonder what 80's re-runs may be being shown on cable right now.

Must...watch...Family Ties!!!

I thought I had a good thought once. I thought, "Hehe, suckers. I'll check the net for the perfectly written resume, then base mine on that!" Good idea. Until I read them and saw that everyone except me had been in charge of million dollar accounts, rescued starving children from Cambodian death camps while creating infrastructure for a new water source, and been involved in pharmaceutical research that lead to the creation of a cheaper form of Viagra.

The only thing I was able to use as the basis for my resume was the font. Damn good font though.

Nowhere can a more powerful feeling be summoned, than when you become independent of your past dependencies. Turns out that those feelings are for those who study hard, and motivate themselves to "get-things-done". I still can't look people in the eye and admit this as true.

I'm an exception, and my subsequent death-by-starvation will truly be exceptional.

You're all inside my monkeysphere.

2005-06-19T13:48:00.000+10:00

I just signed up to be an organ donor. Seems my hatred of humanity hasn't yet become all encompassing. Originally I was going to introduce certain stipulations to be met by the recipient and their family before any organ donorship was to take place. Something along the lines of, "In order to acquire organs of blogger-bot Li, you simply must answer these riddles three:" and then I would think of three ridiculously cryptic puzzles to traumatise the dying person with. But then, like always, lack of motivation got the better of me, and I decided I would receive greater utility from not having to think on my day off, so decided to just give my stuff away. Pity the poor fool who receives my penis.

"Our Rog" is back! "Our Rog", my favourtist artistist of all timeistist has rejoined Pink Floyd! This could be a new beginning for humanity. I assume what will happen is, they'll hit the stage, and reality as we know it will start to crumble and fade away, to be replaced by Pink Floyd, which we will float inside, then dissolve into strings of vibrating energy. Brian Greene will be there saying, "see I told you string theory was the truth!" then we'll all laugh and make innocent love.

I hope they have a good sound guy.

For the first time in about 6 years, someone who had dialled a wrong number and called my phone, after realising I wasn't who they wanted to speak to, politely apologised and hung up...without swearing at me! It's ridiculous what I've had yelled at me for answering MY phone after THEY called the wrong number. As soon as I say, "sorry, I think you have the wrong number", they usually say something like, "yeah..ahh...well...FUCK OFF!"

I usually hang up laughing, wondering what it is about people that gives them the need to swear when they suddenly find they are anonymous and talking to some faceless human outside their monkeysphere. There's a lot of pent-up aggression out there.

Documentary of the day: Money Masters. Learning about how the Federal Reserve Bank of the US, based on the Bank of England, is a private enterprise that has a monopoly on the worlds money, and that this plutocracy, charging exorbitant usury rates, is systematically penetrating our collective arseholes. It seems they don't even have the common decency to use lubricant. If it wasn't for the fact that the worlds most rich and powerful people were all such hot women, I’d probably hate them.

Anyway, today is Sunday, and that's my fun-day, my, I don't have to run-day, so...seeya.

Maybe it's Maybeline

2005-06-17T18:19:00.000+10:00

Just got home from work, it's Friday night, the evening is young. Today at work, the stress was clinging to me like a child about to be dropped of at kindergarten for the first time. I brushed it off and gave it a kick, didn't listen to its crying and told it that if it didn't shut up, God would get angry and Santa Clause would kill an elf. I need to quit my job and take care of children instead. I mean, when you have a calling...

My team leader, sensing my distress, felt guilty enough to go and buy me two small bottles of Jack Daniels and coke. She did well with her choice, but I have a thing about giving and receiving presents. It's not something I normally like to engage in. My sister handles all family presents, birthdays, mothers and fathers day etc. I transfer money into her account after the fact. I've never given a girlfriend or regular friend a present. Not even on 21st's. I didn't ask for them to be born.

Then it was awkward cos I felt like I should give her a little kiss of thankyou and I didn't want to, but I did anyway. Then I felt like I should hang around her a bit and joke about life and work, as if we were sharing a moment...it all just added to the stress. Whenever stuff like this happens I always think, what would a normal person do? Say thankyou..."Thank you." joke about how quickly you're going to down these drinks..."hehe, these are going to go down a treat, won't even touch the sides...alcoholic! Not really, hehe."

It's all too much.

And I forgot to do my Neurocam assignment. It was the one where I was supposed to identify three places to be used as a dead drop. Where I live, there are cows only a few hundred metres away. I was going to be the world’s funniest smartass and place a box on the back of one of them and take a photo. Dead drop one: on the back of Maybeline, the Neurocam cow. Anyway, the same lack of motivation that kept me at the bottom of my high school classes kicked in and I subsequently didn't get it done. I'll probably get a letter asking why I didn't complete the assignment, I won't respond, then I'll get a promotion. 'Bout time too, there's a few changes I would like to make around here.

In other news, I have become utterly addicted to documentaries. With my adsl connection I get 20 gig a month to play with - docos have completely replaced porn. I'm watching stuff about physics, dna, the illuminati, the planet, ancient civilisations. I had to buy a new hard drive to fit them all on. But the weirdest addiction I have, and one that I'm not sure I should be talking about, is that of continually watching nuclear bomb test explosions. It's so damn hypnotising. I put on some music and stare at the mushroom clouds. It doesn't take long before I'm naked and shouting fascist slogans from my window.

A stressful day will do that to you.

Right now, it's all about Standing In The Shadows Of Motown, sipping Jack and monitoring my downloads. Lost Worlds, Vanished Lives - The Dinosaur, (episode 3). When this puppy downloads, I'll be enlightened.

The LPO

2005-06-11T19:58:00.000+10:00

I don't care what you think. I put up a profile on a web dating service site thing. I'm still a man. Player pimp to be exact. All my women made me do it.

I don't have a pic up yet, but if you wanna check my vibe, goto RSVP and search for ImsoAeriginal. I wanna put a pic up soon, the one I have in mind is from my sisters wedding where a professional photographer took a candid b&w snap of me in the crowd. I look like I’m in a Pierre Cardin catalogue. The chicks'll dig it.

I've shown the site to a couple of girl/friends; aquaintances; people-who-are-polite-to-me-out-of-sympathy, and the feedback hasn't been great. I usually get, hmmm, interesting! I'm just too bitter and I can't disguise it. It's who I am. Better you know now than after we say, "I do."

There's this girl at work I like. I would ask her out if I even had the genetic code for balls, but as I don't, she wanders past, always out of reach. We've gotten into a flirty thing every now and then. She told me once she takes tabletop dancing lessons! She's a cute little Asian thing who is smarter than all of us combined. She didn't just get into medicine at university. She was given money to attend! She's younger than me, speaks 4 languages, has travelled further than my imagination allows me to picture, and has two investment properties. Around her I'm nothing but a loser...I love it!

Once she was walking past me and I said, "how's the table top dancing going?” and she said, "Hehe, are you still thinking about that!” and I said, "Yeah, it's all I think about, I can't sleep at night!” and she said, "well, I guess I should show you some new moves, keep you awake for a week!” and I said, "don't toy with me woman!” then she didn't say anything else cos we were speaking as she was passing me, and at this point, she was too far away for the flirty conversation to remain viable.

Then...

The fucking LPO enters the scene. He's new at work. He's an LPO (Loss Prevention Officer) and his duty is to officially prevent loss. LPO.

He wears a security guard uniform, is, at best, average looking, and apparently has enough balls to ask cute little Asian girls that I like out. Curse the God that created a Big Enough Bang, which started the chain of cause and effect that lead to carbon, planets, life, and a situation within humanity that allowed the girl I like to accept his friggen offer!

I have a spy on the case who reports back to me via msn. He's a 26-year-old virgin; girls aren't threatened by him, therefore, they tell him everything. He's also helping me in my mission. This was his response after learning that she'd accepted a second date with the LPO:

9/06/2005 8:12:27 PM D: looks like I'm going to have to bump you up a schedule earlier than I planned... didn’t expect LPO to get this far
9/06/2005 8:12:43 PM D: my original plan was to let LPO demonstrate what a 'sex crazed wanka' was like
9/06/2005 8:12:49 PM D: then move you in as a viable alternative
9/06/2005 8:12:56 PM D: then send you a bill
9/06/2005 8:13:05 PM D: this fucks up my plans
9/06/2005 8:13:13 PM D: I must admit that guy is actually pretty good withy women
9/06/2005 8:13:37 PM D: he knows how to melt them - I've watched him in action kinda and even Nathan says he is good when he wants to be
9/06/2005 8:13:41 PM D: we both could learn something from the guy
9/06/2005 8:13:54 PM D: no response from [Asian girl] I'll keep you posted

The LPO is going down. This is war.

Recalling all those times...

2005-06-06T20:08:00.000+10:00

I had a bit of a cry yesterday after a dry spell lasting as long as I can remember. For a while I started to think that I was Krank from The City of Lost Children, ready to capture a tear in an eyedropper to be preserved as a reminder of my humanity. In the end, an eyedropper wouldn't have been big enough.

My ex girlfriend - who years ago cried herself after I, while lying in bed beside her, told her that we should be friends as I didn't love her - was languishing in a hospital bed after collapsing and subsequently being hooked up to life support from a rare kidney disease. I didn't know whether to visit her or not, we hadn't spoken much in the last few months or so. She works where I work, that's how we met, and it seems that she hasn't been getting many shifts due to what a few of us thought at the time, was the result of her possibly getting involved with drugs. She's always been really thin; it's something a lot of people comment on and it drives her crazy. Over the last few months or longer, around the time she met and moved in with her new boyfriend, we (myself and other work friends) noticed a change in her. She was getting even thinner and rather gaunt, she was emotional at work and was sent home when frequently spotted out the back crying.

As it turns out, she had a disease that has only just been discovered and that it seems, she will carry for the rest of her life.

I gave her a call in hospital, hoping that she would in fact want to hear my voice, and was taken back by how weak she sounded. I know her as being an extremely opinionated and feisty sort; on the phone she was the complete opposite. I kind of held it together and remained somewhat upbeat, despite my obvious concern. It wasn't till I got off the phone and walked to my room in a daze that I burst into tears.

A few years ago, as we lay in bed, she asked me why I was suddenly so quiet and aloof. Well, more aloof than normal anyway. I told her that I thought it would be best if we were just friends. She asked why. Idiot me only knows how to tell the truth. I told her I'd been in love before, and somehow, with us, it wasn't the same. That's when she started crying. Not only at my words, but probably from the feeling of being rejected by another guy. Her dad died when she was young, and although that wasn't rejection, a part of her felt that way. I knew this while I stared at her back, listening to her cry, wishing that I could drag a God that I didn't believe in down from heaven by the collar and demand that He make things better.

In the next few days, weeks, months, everything was actually kind of cool. We did in fact remain friends, which I think we were supposed to be in the first place. We hung out and even went on holiday together, never for a moment relapsing into sex. Then she got a new boyfriend and the obvious happened, we drifted apart.

But after speaking to her in hospital, and feeling terrible for her, mixed with a feeling of re-ocurring guilt about initaiting our break up, the ancient art of lachrymology soothed me and helped me deal with my emotions. Maybe a form of therapy I need to use more often. You know, if you fake a smile for long enough, you'll actually start smiling for real and tension will whisp away. Maybe if I don't feel like crying, I'll fake it and the tears will come. Afterward, I'll feel the emotional equivalent of stepping out of the shower. Cleansed and ready to look ahead.

Silly trix, the cam is for kids

2005-06-01T21:09:00.000+10:00

Ahh, so...yeah. I thought I had quit Neurocam, apparently not. I didn't do the last assignment they sent me, the one with a lot of fives in the title. Then I got a msg from Charles asking me to explain myself, and noting that if no explanation were offered, I would be dispelled from the organization. I offered no explanation. Now what do I have in my inbox but a brand spanking new Neurocam assignment! Yay, just like old times!

Who knows, maybe I'll do the assignment. I expect that they've stuffed up somehow, and will probably notice that I've given them the silent treatment and maybe retract the offer of new work, but fuck it, I'll do it anyway. Feeling as though I'm not technically in the organisation anymore, yet still doing an assignment is actually a rather freeing feeling. It's probably the most positive I've felt about Neurocam because I literally no longer give a fuck. I may even send in the most bizarre report I can muster, just to see how far I can take this. Just naked photos of geriatrics or something. I have reports of that nature lying around anyway so I may as well put them to use.

Apart from that, I been working my tits, cocks and ball off. So much so that my plural are lackings succinction. 12-hour days, no sunshine, interspersed with a cool as ice acid trip that I will write about shortly. Insanity can be a virtue. Or is it sin? I think it's a [sneeze]. "Sintue." "Thanks."

I have adsl now. My life is over. The other day I wanted to listen to a cd that I had in the lounge, but I couldn't be bothered getting up from the computer to get it...so I just downloaded it. I used to hate watching the download bar snail it's way across the screen. Now I get some popcorn and nachos and watch as it almost breaks through the side of my monitor.

I love it when girls who think they're hot (and probably are) advertise to whoever will listen that they're smart as well. I'm like, "woah, beautiful AND smart, that's like the whole package!!" Then I mime masturbation while pinching my nipples, just to get my sarcasm across. See, I may be a geek with my adsl connection, but even though you can't see me, take it from an expert that I am also hot. Now girls, feel free to send in video of yourself miming masturbation and pinching your nipples while telling me that I'm the full package. I need a big dose of sarcasm.

I am strong, no one can tell me I'm wrong

2005-05-19T20:55:00.000+10:00

Went and saw Tori Amos last night in the building next to the spire. Smoked a J before entry and spent 4/5ths of the concert legally asleep. Before she arrived on stage, while the house lights were still up, my bloodshot eyes became fascinated by the appearance of the concert hall. It looked like the giant ante-chamber of a futuristic space ship. I wanted to float out of my seat toward the ceiling, which from where I sat, was blocked from my view. In my head, I was scarpering across the walls, shooting aliens with my laser gun while receiving mission status reports from ground control. It was surprisingly realistic. It was one strong joint.

That was, until some clown lost her purple juggling ball.

I noticed some commotion coming from behind us, an usher seemed to be causing a disturbance among the crowd. There was a tone of importance in her plea for people to check under their seats. Because of the emrgency in her voice, and due to my incredibly stoned mind, I began to envisage a baby rolling under the seats, being kicked and behead by restless feet. My heart began to pound in my chest when the grave concern -- one step before realization -- hit me that the baby was definitely going to be found under my seat, flat as a pancake. I didn't want to check, I just wanted all the ruckus to go away; I didn't want to be picked out of the crowd!

I hunched down in my seat and stared straight ahead. In other words, I became a beacon of darkness in dire need of illumination by the usher and her torch. "Lost a purple juggling ball, can you check under your seats please!" I stared into her torch and exclaimed, "I didn't kill anyone...er anything...I haven't kicked the baby!" I waited for her to respond before realizing that those words were only audible in my own head, and that she was looking at me like I was stoned. A little known survival instinct then kicked in and I calmly explained, "No, sorry, I haven't seen it."

I was so proud of my ability to converse in such a calm and civilized way, that I may have actually smiled after I said it, which may have appeared to her as a smirk, as I was also trying to stifle it. Of course, a smirk after a denial, in sober people's language means, "of course I've seen the ball, it's currently down my pants."

I remained silent and eventually she moved on further down the aisle, interrogating the crowd as she went. I could hear others who where sitting in close proximity to me laughing about the fact that someone had actually lost a purple juggling ball and that such a big fuss was being made about it. I began to relax.

I remembered that I had a half full beer in my hand that was originally my mate's, who, needing to go to the toilet, entrusted it to me and consequently, never had it returned. I had no problem with any of this so I took a sip. I couldn't say the taste was appealing, but it was beer, and the weight of that fact alone was enough to keep me holding on to it in preparation for future sips.

After the inner stoned turmoil of the previous few minutes had subsided, I began to feel pretty good. The seat was comfy and the auditorium was still tripping me out in a fantastically futuristic way. As the room was filling with the quiet murmur of expectation, I allowed my breathing to deepen and slow, and my defences to be appropriately stood down.

Then, from out of the darkness, from the gates of Mordor, back comes the usher on a return trip. "I'm sorry, but we've lost a purple juggling ball, it rolled down, it must be here!" Next to her was a somewhat normal looking woman holding two purple juggling balls. "I have two, I've lost the third one", she says. At this point, I, and everyone around me were starting to question whether we were still on earth. A purple fucking juggling ball? Is this a joke? Another of my mates, sitting next to me asked her in a serious and weirdly apprehensive tone, "can't you just juggle with two?" He was stoned as well.

I can't even begin to explain how weird and out of place, a person holding purple juggling balls appeared to be in this particular auditorium, at this particular concert. Why did she have them? Surely there must be medical reasons.

Whatever her reasons were, one of them was lost, and no one gave a flying fuck, especially when the lights went down.

At this, my night became a series of dreamscapes synced up to the soundtrack of Tori’s music. I remained on the edge of sleep, only to be woken up every few minutes by the sound of people hitting themselves in appreciation. I find clapping weird at the best of times. Interrupting my stoned dreamscapes, it was also annoying.
Why can’t we be like Terence Mckenna’s DMT entities who sing Faberge eggs into existence? Here Tori, I made a special one for you, in the key of C…Laaaa!

Fuck, am I still stoned?

Anyway, it was probably the weirdest concert I’ve ever been to. I don’t think I’ll understand how sober people could have stood it. There was nothing up-tempo, just what seemed like an eternity of formless sound. Absolutely beautiful to dream to, but to be sober…I don’t know, couldn’t have handled it.

In any case, ‘twas a good night.

Now…time to sell a purple juggling ball on ebay.

Love is suicide

2005-05-14T23:54:00.000+10:00

I miss love. I've experienced it many times in the shape of a pill, a few times in the shape of a little square piece of paper, but only once in the shape of a girl. We broke up about 4 or so years ago and I still think about her a lot. I guess I'm one of 'those' guys.

Without love you become a shell. You begin to resemble a character out of a Brett Easton Ellis novel. When you get pricked you don't bleed, you simply lose air.

Love is the only true home there is. You can be anywhere in the world and feel at home if you're heart is filled with it. When you're broken, even family members can resemble opposition soldiers behind enemy lines. Humourless and absorbed in the act of recreating the next battle scene in your mind, you stumble through the motions of life, subconsciously hoping for a saviour, while consciously preventing anyone from being able to take on that role.

Well, maybe 'you' don't. Maybe it's just me.

We as humans have a tendency to believe that it's always, "just me." Behind our walls, the feelings we have are nowhere to be seen in the 'world-out-there.' Understanding the ubiquity of our darkest selves becomes almost impossible, stifling all our feelings of compassion.

Well, maybe it's not that way for you. Maybe it's just me.

I miss love because I miss the self that appears when that feeling erupts. It's a form of blissful suicide filled with celebration mixed with hurt, the responsibility of which, resembles that of walking on a tight rope holding a child. Hearts can be broken. There is a long way to fall.

I fell a long time ago; I have nowhere left to fall. I just want one more go on the rope.

A life can't be over at 25. Do you believe in life after love?

Love is in the air

2005-05-13T00:24:00.000+10:00

Every few days I get a kind of pressure cooker feeling, the alleviation of which involves blogger.com. Must...reach...out...to...world.

My biggest fear in this dimension is that of having nothing to say. Like now.

...and now.

But not now; Fart pudding.

That's better.

I was going to send in my resignation to Neurocam but I've decided not to. I can't be bothered wasting the bandwidth. Instead I just won't do the assignments with the expectation that they'll stop contacting me. Totally bored of the whole thing. The worst thing it did was leave Australia and incorporate a bunch of tosser overseas bloggers. It's weird 'cos usually I find Australians to be the biggest tossers of all; not very patriotic am I. Looks like the Brits and the Yanks have out-tossed us this time.

This is what I like to call, graduation.

As for reaching out to the world, who knows what that's about? I generally shun the world most days. This leads to an alienated feeling that erupts into unimportant blog posts. Chances are, I don't like you. I've met enough people in my time to know that the chances of me liking you are pretty slim. I've also met enough people to know that the chances of you caring are almost zero, and the chances of you encountering your next sexual experience with 'another person' before I do is almost 100%.

No sex, grumpy human.

I hope Corby gets the death sentence, then the day after the firing squad, incontrovertible proof as to her innocence is established. Who cares, life is a death sentence.

So ladies, wanna fuck?

Fuck off.

Designing women

2005-05-06T19:20:00.000+10:00

For the last few years I've apparently been sleeping in the Chinese Death Position. It's all about the Feng Shui (and here I was thinking it was all about sitting at home waiting for Xzibit to come "Pimp My Ride"). The foot of my bed has been opposite my bedroom door, meaning that negative chi has been having it's way with me in the night, like so many sweaty, ill intentioned succubus’s. Believe me, it's the closest I've come to having sex in a long time. Yeah, spank me negative chi, just how I like it.

All this has led me to re-evaluate my surroundings - clean up empty beer bottles, get around to putting a door on the toilet, that sort of thing. I kind of reckon it's all bullshit anyway, because the other day when I was feeling energetic and happy, I quickly rushed into the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror so that all my positive chi would be reflected back at me in a self sustaining feedback loop. Instead I spotted a pimple, realised that I hadn't shaved in a while, got embarrassed about my ridiculous self done haircut and reached for the razor to scratch a line in my wrist. Mirrors are for beautiful people...and monkey's discovering self-awareness for the first time. Self-awareness is a curse; monkey's, retain your innocence!

- "Monkey's, retain your innocence!" t-shirts coming soon -

I bought a bench press the other day. I'm looking to get buff so I can re-enter the dating scene. Apparently my personality is a failure with most girls, so I'm going to have a go at looking good and saying little. What my potential future conquests don't need to know is that I bought a woman's bench press. I would like to tell you that I knew that before the purchase, and chose it due to limited space. Actually, I picked it out of a line up believing it to be the perfect size for me. Only upon getting it home did I see the writing, "Designed for the active woman" printed across the side.

Doesn't matter though, I'll be huge in no time. Once I start my regimen of creatine, plus enhanced diet and the injection of 'roids into my system.

Watched The Motorcycle Diaries last night. A young Che, looking good and telling the truth. It was a pretty good movie, but come on, was there anything about the movie other than a young Che, looking good and telling the truth? What a fucking saint! I must have missed the scene where he ordered mass farcical executions via firing squad. Maybe that was an extra scene after the credits.

Anyway, back to the bench press. I'll post pictures of my pecs soon.

Raleigh, this is your last warning.

2005-04-26T16:21:00.000+10:00

Slept a lot today. Got up at 10:45, turned on my computer and netted for a while. Cleaned my body, ate some chow and netted for a while longer. Then after staring at my monitor for no apparent reason, I found myself standing at the foot of my bed in my room, which I subsequently fell on top of. I re-wrapped myself in doona and lay still for a while. Sleep wouldn't occur so I got out of bed again and went back to the computer. I looked through metafilter before realising that I can't stand lists of opinions, so I went back to bed.

In the kitchen I opened the fridge and stared at the cheese slices. I wondered if there was some way of combining them with celery and curry paste that hadn't occurred to me before. Could I soak them in the remaining dregs of orange juice I had left in the fridge door? I closed the fridge after realising that the food would be getting warm if I stood there in a dreamy state for too much longer, and then went over and opened up the pantry. Could I put onion on a Salada with Milo sprinkled on top? I decided it'd be best to go back to bed.

In the lounge room I slumped in a recliner and stared at the television. After 20 minutes I realised that the television wasn't on and that I'd been staring at my dark reflection. I turned on the television, began to feel uncomfortable and violated, so turned it off and continued staring at my reflection. I thought about hiring a DVD, but I knew I couldn't be bothered looking for socks so I decided to just sit there. I went back to bed.

Back in the kitchen I looked in the fridge to see if there was something that I'd missed earlier. Like roast chicken leftovers or some Thai food that I couldn't finish the night before. It took about 5 minutes to totally convince myself that there really were only cheese slices, celery and curry paste. I closed the fridge after deciding that I'd come back and look again in about half an hour. This time, I didn't go back to bed straight away. I stared at my reflection in the oven door for a while, wondered about what motivates other people, couldn't think of a thing, then went back to bed.

On my computer I searched through my mp3's for something to listen to. Everything looked boring so I started clicking random icons and opening directories for no apparent reason. It took me about 30 minutes to convince myself that I hadn't recently installed any new games or downloaded any new porn. I kept searching for another 5 minutes regardless. Then I went back to bed.

In bed I remembered that I don't believe that the rest of the world actually exists and that it's all in my head. I tried to use this knowledge to make my television float in the air but it wouldn't budge. I guessed that I must just need to try harder. I wondered whether I should jack off or not, but couldn't be bothered, so I didn't. I got up out of bed, then forgot why, then went back to bed.

I suddenly remembered that I had a free ticket to see a movie of my choice that was to expire at the end of the month. I looked through the movie guide to see what was playing, then I remembered that I'd have to find socks and brush my hair, so I decided I'd go tomorrow...or the next day.

I wondered whether it would be possible to get my hands on an IV drip. Then I could stay in bed all day, minus toilet breaks. Maybe devise a way of building a bed with a toilet down one end. I re-thought about the concept of humans having on/off switches on their bodies, and that if I had one, I would have switched myself off years ago. Not out of a hatred of life, but from a deep loving joy of non-existence. We were all dead before we were born, and is it just me, or were there no telemarketers back then?

Before we were born we were photons and quarks and neutrinos, shooting through the ether at the speed of laughter, exploding into ourselves and re-emerging as glass bubbles in other peoples dreams. Before we were born, the mornings weren’t cold and food wasn’t expensive and there were no opinions. Back then, sight was multi-dimensional, touch was a blissful tickle and the harmony of sound caused us to shiver new selves into fruition. Before we were born…

Michael Knight is no longer in Knight Rider?!?

2005-04-18T22:39:00.000+10:00

I have Feel Collins playing on my stereo; for me, it's another day in paradise. Apparently I have to think twice because some girl is on the street with blisters on her feet and I'm walking past her ignoring her tears even though my life if FUCKING PEACHY!

WE ALL HAVE PROBLEMS PHIL!

Shit, I need some serapax, or valium...or possibly a woman. My realdoll is still in the process of assembly though. Apparently they are having trouble matching the precise specifications I sent, as finding Margarite Thatcher's hair type is proving difficult. I've already had to compromise on the look and feel of 90-year-old wrinkled skin since according to these Hollywood 'artists', "Modern silicone simply can't achieve such an effect Mr. Li." Originally I was going to ask for various war wounds, shrapnel lacerations and such, but I didn't want them to think I was some weirdo.

Maxwell Knight is gone. Never spoke to the guy myself. I sent my first email to him two days ago in a somewhat disapproving tone, questioning something he wrote to Operative Cronin. Hope it wasn't anything I said. To clear that anything up, "Resign you pinko fucker" is something that is in my sig, it gets sent to everyone I email; Max, my apologies if you misinterpreted it.

Like xade, I don't quite have the right stuff for Neurocam advancement. I would like to think that the 'stuff' in question is a desire to share, how should I say...intimate moments with animals, but I suspect it has more to do with positive traits. It may serve me well to blame it on my alcohol problem, but then, I don't really have one. Might begin tonight engaging in the developmental stages of said problem so that I have something other than my rejected heart to focus on.

[One beer…Two beers……Three beers…Shot of vodka…Shot of Tequila…]

I love you Neurocam, we could have been together, think about it! You ruined it now, I hope you can't sleep and you dream about it! And when you dream, I hope you can't sleep and you scream about it! I hope your conscious eats at you and you can't breathe without me!

Hehehe, I'm just playing Neurocam, you know I love you ;)

Trails of smoke and reason

2005-04-13T12:40:00.000+10:00

I remember my daily commute into the city; trains, buses - on my way to school to study sound production. Years ago you would never see me without a set of headphones attached to my head. Air, water, food, music. It was not uncommon for me to spend 6-8 hours a day listening to music. By that I mean, listening to music exclusively, laying down on my bed, eyes closed, evaporating into the artist's reality. On the trains, listening to Adore, I felt like my surroundings were a movie set called reality, starring me. Every look, every gesture, every cough held meaning, contained beauty, happened in slow motion. Coming home it would be getting dark and the streetlights would glow against the evening clouds that to me, felt like a blanket.

During lunch, my friends and I would wander the city streets, discovering all the nooks and crannies of Melbourne's laneways and hidden stores. Once we wandered into the public library just to be near so much knowledge doused in the wan light of little green lamps. In the library, I didn't actually want knowledge; I wanted truth. I've always found my version of it in aesthetics. We went to occult bookstores just to smell the incense and experience the dark mood that perfectly contrasted the harsh sunlight outside. I didn't care about ghosts, astrology or palm reading; I just loved that they weren't - like everything else - vying for my attention. In a way, I was vying for theirs.

On weekends my friends and I would have fun playing with the normals. We'd go to parties covered in goth makeup. "Here we go, here come the freaks", would be the standard announcement as we entered the building. Routinely, by the end of the night, the blokiest of jocks was asking us to help him put on some makeup. He behaved as if he was parodying us, but once, I caught him alone in the bathroom staring at his reflection.

At one such party, as we were leaving for our walk home, we spotted a group of girls walking toward the party. One of the girls had a giant nose and her nickname came to be, Nose. Not that it was spoken to her face (or nose) at all, just a name we had affectionately given her between us, possibly because we didn't know her real name. Brad, one of my friends, influenced from the alcohol, recognised her and without thinking yelled across the street, "Nose!!" expecting her to wave back. It was immediately after that he'd realised what he said. We all laughed in shock disbelief; Brad was the nicest guy any of us knew, he simply didn't know how to offend with intent. Years later we learned that Nose had a nose job. Brad still feels a little guilty to this day.

I still see most of my friends from this period, some eight years ago now. These days our conversation revolves around house prices and work rather than finding the next victim to make watch Nine Inch Nails, Broken video. It was a pretty cool period in my life though. Just felt like the need to remember it today.

U: me P: notyou

2005-04-11T19:38:00.000+10:00

Ohhh, I've been feeling pretty shitty of late, quite depressed. Not for any reason of course, that would be silly. No, my brain just likes to fuck with me every so often, just to see how close it can get me too the edge. Whatever, I'll ride it out, the sun always ends up shining again. Although when it does it usually ends up burning my pallid skin until I'm a lobster and I want to kill myse...

Anyway...

Reformat complete, systems operational, computational effectiveness...100%.

What I have lost through all these compushenanigans are my passwords for just about everything. Including my email. Every time you sign up for something these days you have to have a user name and password. It's tempting to use the same one for everything, but entirely unsafe. It's just too much though, I can't be expected to remember every on-the-spot thought up username.

I emailed my web server, which is what I use for my email and said, "I'm a dick, lost my shit, can you send it?" It was a little more formal than that of course. Then I thought, how do they know I'm me? Last time I lost a password for something, I asked for it and they just sent it to me at some random email address. I could have been anyone. So now, because they haven't yet sent me my info I'm worried that they either don't believe I'm me and won't send it, or they will believe I'm me and send it. If it's the latter, I'll be pretty pissed off at their lack of security. If it's the former, I don't have any email. It's a catch 22.

Fucking Joseph Heller!

My computer has AIDS

2005-04-08T00:01:00.000+10:00

Speaking about things that irk me, what is it with programs that keep trying to access the internet on a constant basis? I have a firewall (with today’s economy, you can't afford not to) because like a parent, it's important to let your programs speak to other computers only under supervision. Now that my computer has aids*, it's important that I remain strict and limit access to only the essentials. At the same time, I don't want to come across as the bad guy.

It seems now, that every two seconds, some program that I hardly ever use all of a sudden needs to communicate over the net. "Warning: Soundforge attempting to connect...Allow, Restrict, Filter, Allow - but keep and eye on."

Soundforge? Didn't I last edit a wav file a year ago? What, does it all of a sudden want to tell a joke to a Soundforge installed on another computer in Moscow? Every time I say no I feel like I'm depriving it of food or something.

Maybe I've been watching too much of Larry David’s show, Curb Your Enthusiasm. The neurotic Jew, does it ever end?

*Adaptive Internet Distress Syndrome

Mans laughter about manslaughter

2005-04-07T19:01:00.000+10:00

Yup, I too had a good night meeting some fellow cammer's. Next time I will wear a cape...and possibly a fez. I have some cool photos but I won't be posting them. In all the time I've had this blog not one girl has propositioned me for sex. And you think you deserve photos! Riiiiggght.

Going through my finances today and have found that so far this year I have saved exactly $1.80. This is where it gets tough due to the whole, mo' money; mo' problems syndrome well documented by people who...well, by people who don't know how to spend money I guess. $1.80. I'm trying to find the right way to invest it. Does anyone know if lollies are appreciating in value these days?

I have to reformat my computer due to random acts of electronic disobedience. Something always goes wrong every time I attempt a reformat. Last time, my win 2k disc wouldn't load unless I already had a previous version of windoze installed. For four days I was without my computer and weird things began to happen to me. I walked outside; weird chirping sounds could be heard, there seemed to be a giant blue dome above the trees, the air moved. I got scared and ran back toward the computer.

One of the worst nights of my life also involved a reformat. I didn't want to back up all my documents (porn) onto cd's, so I yanked my dad’s hard drive out of his computer and used that to back up. All went well until I installed the drive back into his computer and realised that all the information was wiped, including years worth of work that he'd failed to back up. Apparently I'd shorted it out with static electricity.

I didn't get much sleep that night.

It cost me three thousand dollars to get the information back. Dad now keeps crime scene style tape around his computer area. I no longer try to make eye contact.

Nothing irks me more than leaving a full bottle of perfectly good whisky at someone’s house after a party. If you don't go back and get it first thing next morning, it no longer belongs to you. I constantly feel like I'm minus a bottle of alcohol and if I buy one to replace it, then all I can think is that I should have two. I can't ever catch up!

Firefox is the devil

2005-04-01T20:54:00.000+10:00

Take two. I've already written this post, but for some reason, firefox deemed it necessary to open up another tab in this same window. Only problem is that this window doesn't have any tab buttons so my post was stuck behind the new tab and I couldn't get to it. I just sat, staring at my monitor knowing that all my effort was trapped in a world that I couldn't touch. Feelings of helplessness engulfed me, I considered ending my life. The thing is that what I wrote was a damn masterpiece! There was happiness, sadness, profound tear jerking realisations...I created a new emotion more powerful than love, I wanted to share it with you. Now that it's gone, all I have to offer is the same ol' bullshit I always have. Strap yourself in.

Have you ever been bored, sitting in front of your monitor reading something, and at the same time semi-subconsciously playing with a pair of scissors to see how close you can get one of the blades to your eyeball, only to actually stab yourself in the eye, jolt backwards, and have to contend with a purple blob in your vision for the next 5 minutes? Ahhh...me neither.
(ed - Hmm, I think that was funnier the first time I wrote it. It was originally my big opener, an amusing little anecdote to portray my ditzyness. I shall push on.)

Those crazy Russians may have stumbled onto the reason behind fortitude's creation. Despite the games virtues, I still think it's missing something...possibly midgets...as obstacles...hanging from trees.
(ed - Hehehe)

The picture below this post is the result of a field trip into the city to test out my new camera. I chopped off the tops of some of the buildings but I'm really digging the panorama feature. I almost didn't make it out of my car due to realising that I didn't have any spare change for a parking meter. I eventually pulled into a street behind Southbank and parked in a one hour zone. I thought, I'll just dash out and get some pictures as it's unlikely there will be any little parking inspectors, for today, I'm invincible! I got about 20 meters from my car before turning around and spotting two such inspectors standing over it while pushing buttons on a PDA type gadget. I jogged back and explained that I was just getting some change because I only had notes, I opened up my wallet to prove it. I asked if it was cool if I got some change then came back? He said, "wiuth ounes yuerus", which I quickly identified as a foreigners take on, which one's yours? I pointed to my hotted up Toyota Corrolla (by hotted up I mean hot from the sun) and asked again, "cool?" He nodded at me in a diagonal direction and mumbled something, possibly to his God. I took this as a yes and scooted off to find some change. I ended up buying a drink as apparently no one gives change in the city, you have to move further out toward the suburbs before human decency is factored into human behavior. Anyway, I paid the parking tax and...so far so good.
(ed - On reflection, this definitely wasn't worth typing out twice. I felt the need to include it more as a snarky gesture toward firefox, which I think as a result, understands how unhappy I am with it.)

Mitch Hedberg died today. What a bummer.
"Last week I helped my friend stay put. It's a lot easier than helping someone move. I just went to his house and made sure that he did not start to load shit into the back of a truck"

Disclaimer. Sorry if some of the links don't work. My cut and paste isn't working so I have to type them out by hand. This usually results in mistakes.

2005-04-01T20:03:00.000+10:00

30/03/05 - Melbourne

More testes needed.

2005-03-29T11:27:00.000+10:00

For some reason, while cleaning out my computer room and stumbling across long lost documents - receipts, credit card bills, restraining orders, etc. - I realised something that my sub-conscious has been struggling to alert me of for some years now. I am in desperate need of a stainless steel keyboard. This is the one I have my eye on. For only $995.00 USD, I'd say it's a bargain.

It is, however, dangerous territory to be embarking toward, as I know, despite wearing my symbol of suburbon irony - Che Guevara t-shirt, that it will only be a matter of time before I purchase a glass modem and a backlit, mahogany and cashmere lined mouse pad. I will then be forced to change all my light fixtures, repaint a feature wall, and introduce elegant bleach and burn marks into my carpet, just to incorporate my true bohemian identity.

Does anyone know the name of a good interior designer?

But we've all seen this movie. We all know what I must do. Stand in a circle of men charged with sweat and blood lust, with an opponent charged also with sweat and blood lust, and to mechanically, yet animalistically joust and parry, with the result being the complete evisceration of my Ikea Nesting Instinct. One problem. I'm too much of a pussy.

Last time I got a splinter I thought about suicide as a better solution than digging the thing out. That’s why I sit here, stuck between two worlds. On my left sits an interior designer waiting for me to hand over my credit card number, on my right is a space monkey, sizing me up and blowing me kisses. The only way out I can see is to go put Fight Club on my friends brand new Fujitsu 50” plasma with Bose 5.1 surround sound system, that’s sits in front of his Dominion Ult Sofa and matching drapes, and quietly leave the room. Let the two worlds fight it out on their own.

Damn nice keyboard though.

SNAFU principal

2005-03-25T15:20:00.000+11:00

Knowing what I missed out on last Sunday has increased my disappointment. If anyone needs a paddlin’ it’s me. Seemingly inspired by the Merry Pranksters, with an Oliver Twist aesthetic, the question begs to be asked: Can it make the 2006 Commonwealth Games?

About to begin book three of the Illuminatus! Trilogy and I need a new letterbox…according to the ape. Apparently, I later learned, it was simply a man dressed in an ape suit. A house a few lots down has a brand new shiny black stone pyramid letterbox. I’m thinking of making a paper mache eye and sitting it on top.

Who recommended the Analyst? You are hereby disqualified from further recommendations.

The ASX share market game; I thought I was doing well coming 7th in the state, until I realised that I’d accidentally entered my state as Tasmania. Fixed the glitch, now I’m coming 250th, or thereabouts. BHP is bumming me out, as it has done, since my earliest memories allow me to recall.

Every now and then, when I have heaps to do and not a second to spend thinking about frivolous and idle ruminations, I realise how much I miss DOS. dir/p. No one can type that faster than me. Pointing and clicking is for people in remedial class.

cd\next\paragraph

This week: I’m addicted to the web page howstuffworks.com. I’m addicted to researching the best digital camera I can buy that’s low on noise, price and size – ixus 40 in the lead. I’m addicted to flirting with my team leader at work, knowing she puts a good word in for me with the boss, who, it has been observed, suffers, like the rest of us, from the SNAFU principle. I’m addicted to looking down and smiling when someone questions my motives – the world isn’t ready yet. I’m addicted to washing my clothes, then forgetting about them, then finding them in the washing machine two days later stinking from dampness and in need of another wash. I’m addicted to muesli bars, breakfast bars, chocolate bars and topless bars. I’m a dick, Ted.

I’m thinking of taking a girl I like to Goldfingers. She’s been to strip clubs before so apparently she knows what to expect. The way I see it, there’ll be naked chicks everywhere, straddling poles and sitting on my lap, yet, all the time, I won’t take my eyes off the girl I’m with, and carry on conversation as if these other girls don’t exist. Surely she’d see how into her I am and reward me with sex shortly thereafter. Or then again, maybe that’s why I don’t have a girlfriend.

More testing needed.

Carter Beauford's in the house.

2005-03-21T15:23:00.000+11:00

Yeah, Dave Mathews Band, I knew you'd come through and salvage my day! The Palais was a'rockin', despite the shit acoustics of the place. Am I the only one to be disappointed with the sound every time I see a band there? Previously it was Counting Crows and The Tea Party of which, both times I was on the second level. The sound always came across a bit muted, like there was a barrier between the band and me. This time on the bottom level, not far from the stage, I thought would be different. Not really.

What didn't help was the need for the guy behind me to yell out every couple of minutes. Don't get me wrong, if you're one of those people that feels the need to vocalise your feelings and emotions in the form of, "yeah!'s" or "Waoh!'s" then at the right time, sure, I’ll put up with it. Maybe even throw in a whistle as well and you won't get a look from me. But if you ever feel the need, like the guy right behind me did, to make seal sounds, just random seal sounds...THEN FUCKING DON'T!

What could happen to a child that could make it grow into a guy that makes loud seal sounds at concerts? The shear arrogance of assuming that sane people want to hear from you! Pft!

There were four of us that went and I had purchased the tickets on my credit card a few weeks before. As a joke, before the show, I mentioned that it would be cool to wait until a high point in one of the songs for them to pay me back. That way I'd be charged from the music, then look across and see hundreds offered to me, which I hoped would act like a turbo charge of happiness. We had a bit of a laugh about the concept then I forgot about it. During one of the songs, when Carter was channelling the Gods and making my head spin with delight, I get a tap on the shoulder from one of my friends, holding out a hundred dollars for me. It was damn funny!

From today onwards, my life is going to kick ass.

I hate plumbing

2005-03-20T14:40:00.000+11:00

I was supposed to take part in Neurocam Assignment NTC 6421/01 today. I woke up early, despite my hangover, and prepared my things to move back into my house after spending two weeks looking after my sister’s house and dog. I had everything prepared and ready to go when I made a last minute decision to use the toilet. Wrong move. Toilet was blocked; 5 hours later...

You've no idea how pissed off I am. Not just to miss what sounded like an extremely interesting assignment, but also to have spent five hours trying to clean up a mess never destined for civilized suburbia. The toilet is still blocked, so a nice surprise for the newlyweds to come home to.

I'm supposed to see Dave Mathews Band (or as I prefer, the Carter Beauford Band) tonight at the Palais but I don't know if I can be bothered. I'm simply in the worst mood, a kind of, "why is this shit happening to me?" (literally) mood. Sorry for anyone who didn't make the quota for this assignment, if only I had a way of contacting you, you could have taken my place.

One thing that puts bad moods into perspective is the movie Hotel Rwanda. What a movie. Beautifully made, wonderfully acted. Can't recommend it enough. My problems are zilch.

It's a jungle out there

2005-03-15T14:23:00.000+11:00

There's a whole dog walking world out there...and it's a jungle! There's passing etiquette, there's polite hellos, embarrassed appeals for forgiveness when one dog tries to eat another one. There's also the shared general humiliation of being pulled along by what many consider to be, an inferior being that shits where it wants to.

You see someone up ahead also walking a dog so you reel in the leash a little tighter. As you pass there is a flurry of activity, a moment of chaos and barking and sniffing and snarling, then back on your way. Then as you round the block, you see the same damn person with the same damn dog walking toward you again from the opposite direction. You think, not again!

Jackson, my sisters Maltese/Shitzu behaves as if he's on ecstasy. In the club that's okay, but on the street, that shit's dangerous. In our sober states, we're good at spotting a threat. On drugs, we skip up to the angry looking gang with knives while making doof doof sounds with the back of our throats. Too many times have I had to save innocent, loving Jackson from the jaws of a bigger dog. Jackson just wanted to play; I guess he's just like me.

During our walk today we diverted to the bike track. After studying the faces of all the women we walked passed who couldn't help but smile at the gorgeousness of Jackson, I pretended they were looking that way at me, just to see what it would be like to be a good looking movie star. (I'm not a loser really, I'm just not prone to winning) Turns out it's not that great anyway, much prefer my invisibility.
But what also struck me was the uniqueness of Australia's flora. No where in the world has vegetation like ours, I could spot it from a line up of a million landscape photos. It made me wonder about our environment and what effect the flora of this country has on the psych of the average Australian. As soon as I wondered this, I remembered that I don't have the intellectual faculties to answer such a question, so I moved on to thinking about hamburgers.

Having average intelligence sucks because the big and interesting questions don't go away, just your ability to answer them. I remember when I did my first online IQ test. I scored 168 and I was king of the hill in my own mind for the next week. That was until, I decided to do another one and scored 78, about average for someone with down syndrome. Other tests have concluded that I'm slap bang average.

I can read books, as long as they are written for the laity. Notice my use of the term laity. I could have just said, in layman's terms, but laity sounds more intelligent. Authors use that trick all the time; still I get fooled by it.

Hmmm, hamburgers.

Punch drunk

2005-03-14T16:55:00.000+11:00

Hungover. So hungover. It's 4pm and I can feel there's more vomiting to come before the days end. My sisters dog pissed on the floor this morning cos I couldn't get up to let him out. My phone was ringing all morning but I couldn't answer it. Turned out it was security at my Mcjob. Apparently a few hundred dollars is missing and I'm a prime suspect. Too sick to care.

2d is the new 3d

2005-03-07T20:54:00.000+11:00

House sitting my sisters place while she and her new hubby are hedonizing it up on their honeymoon in Thailand. They have a dog, smaller than most, that I have to walk every so often. Why haven't dogs evolved the responsibility to walk themselves? This evolution bullshit takes way too long. I feel like less of a man walking a small dog, and I'm barely a man to begin with so I end up feeling like a toddler on steroids. I've heard chicks dig that anyway, so...every cloud.

I've been a bit bored of late, not much to write or think about, but... what the fuck do you care about that? Nothin'!

If you ever find yourself thinking too much, start a blog and stare at the blank page. You'll either download a years worth of shit and be able to get some sleep, or you'll stare blankly and realise how unimportant your thoughts are. The first result is probably the best 'cos sleep rules and fixes broken bones; the latter, well it kinda introduces thoughts of suicide, which is really one big sleep so either way I guess...swings and roundabouts.

Something kinda cool happened to me on the buck's weekend a little while ago. One of the guys I met there suffers from intense back pain that he incurred from dodgy work place practices. He'll never work again, at least not in any physical sense. To help him get through the night, he smokes a shit load of pot. On one particular night, I helped him smoke a shit load of pot. I'd also drunk a shit load and was swaying a shit load, and when I eventually sat down, I stared straight ahead and zoned a shit load.

During my zoning, I experienced and intense realization, a kind of metaphysical, psychological realization. The only way I can describe it is to say that I was suddenly introduced to what existentialists might call, my authentic self. I don't even know what existentialism is; I haven't met anyone who does. Existence precedes essence...like...I'm the master of my domain? Rigghht, thanks professor! But I don't know how else to describe it.

To describe other intense drug states I've experienced as an example of what it wasn't would be to describe another rather intense pot episode. If you smoke pot, try this at home and tell me if you get the same results.

I was sitting on the floor in my bedroom with my back against my bed, listening to some music that I had playing through my guitar amp as my stereo was broken due to a problem I had with... Sorry, the pot has a way of steering me away from what it is I'm trying to say, like someone who always changes topics just when you're trying to....anyway.

So I was listening to music with my eyes closed and my head down and I began to notice that I could feel the music hitting the left side of my head like a laser of heat. The amp was directly to my left and this sensation increased until it felt like the laser was shooting straight through my brain. It felt kind of weird but cool at the same time so I sat and enjoyed the sensation. After a few minutes though, I suddenly shivered. You know that feeling you get when for no reason you just need to shiver, and the saying goes that somebody just walked over your grave or something equally morbid? Well, yeah that happened and because I shivered I moved my head, and because I moved my head, the laser of heat that was shooting through my head in a straight line, cut through my brain.

I jolted straight upright thinking that I'd just killed myself only to quickly remember that I was just stoned and everything was "cool Winston."

I got back into my tranced, laser cutting my brain state and resumed enjoying the sensation. Soon I began to play with the laser. I began to move my head around and enjoy the feeling of my brain being sliced apart. I kept doing this until I realised that I'd cut so much of my brain that it had turned to mush. Upon this realization, I suddenly stopped existing in this time and place and felt like...[insert ridiculous sounding religious experience]

I was everywhere and nowhere, all the time and never. It was a total feeling of infinite peace and unity, of existence and non existence at the same time...there was no time, no space...[how embarrassing it is to try to describe]

That feeling of ego less unity has been my usual drug and meditation experience since the beginning. The buck's night in question however was something completely new. It was the first time a drug has made me feel powerful. Not in an aggressive, arrogant way; but in a peaceful loving way. I felt like I could greet God and shake his had as an equal. I felt completely fulfilled and united with the core of my being, rather than the infinity of the universe. I felt fucking amazing. It only lasted about 5 minutes, and during it, I wondered if it were possible that I could possibly feel this way forever. That maybe I'd unlocked something that would now, never go away. I soon found out, when someone mentioned my name and asked me a question, and I snapped back into ineffectual worrying Li, that it was just another short-lived drug euphoria.

I've always gone for the egoless infinite, oneness experiences in the past, but I've only just realised that there is another Nirvana in the other direction. Two nirvanas; two paths. Can they be brought together? More testing needed.

Unrelated to everything

2005-03-02T19:35:00.000+11:00

Sore in the afternoon,
light in the evening,
we wish we could sleep,
but our ears won't cease ringing.

Silence pays tribute,
to golden retrievers,
bringing back memories,
that work to deceive us.

Wishing away all the stares of dismay,
piloting wisdom to the souls that have earned them,
shifting perceptions along paths toward heaven,
the meaning is lost and we call foul of treason.

Points and lines both static and changing,
make us feel safe, threatened, humble and alien,
coins made of silver and gold offer safety,
paper cuts burn, danger, lust and depravity.

Go back to the beginning, we'll wait patiently for you,
until you come back and find nothingness greets you,
upset and alone, cursing wind light and stone,
starving yourself 'till your skin clings to bone.

Truth only exists in the corner of eyes,
destined to remain on the edge of surprise,
confused by it's own lack of will to survive,
astounded that beings fight to keep it alive.

Tragically the principal dialect of Trishnian refugees contains only one sound echoed softly with ease. Unprepared to translate a sound so important, most of us stand around embarrassed by torment. We offer them clothes, food and shelter and medicine, out of pride they reject any pity for penitence.

Once the Pope said, "gerwhoo lukkin ark groted." He was anaesthetised at the time and probably shouldn't be quoted.

Walkabout

2005-03-01T13:39:00.000+11:00

3 guys; one backpack full of beer; 30km; no transport.

Since I was in high school a few of my friends and I have been planning a walk to the city. It's approximately 30km. After about eight years of deliberation, we finally went through with it last Friday night. Took 7 hours, plenty of bottle shop stops, and one pack of cigarettes. Most people can't understand why we did it. It wasn't because our cars had broken down, or we were too poor to afford a taxi or train; it was because it was a journey, a mountain to climb, a barrier to jump.

It ended up being an awesome night. We left from my house at 5:20pm and arrived at Hoddle Street a little after midnight. We had decided previously that Hoddle Street was going to be included as the city; from there we could taxi to wherever we wanted to go. We hitched a ride with a guy to Johnson Street and ended up at The Old Bar to see a band we knew. They dedicated a song to us; no one cared; we cheered!

At The Old Bar we met up with another friend from high school who we hadn't seen in years. We'd informed him of our mission and he decided to be a part of it at the end. He ended up driving us around the city to various establishments of debauchery until leaving us to wander around on foot again. We hailed a cab to drive us somewhere else, can't remember where, but still in the city centre. We told him of our journey and he was so impressed he didn't even charge us for the ride! It was probably about 4am when we decided to call it a night and get a taxi home. Most of the latter parts of the night are a blur, but aren't they always?

To say that my legs were killing me for the next few days is an understatement, in fact, the muscle toward the front of my shins is still a little tender. I went to a wedding on Sunday and had trouble standing throughout the ceremony. Not as bad as one of my friends who couldn't wear shoes due to a nasty reaction to Nurofen. A week in hospital with blisters all down both legs, who's heard of that?

Anyway, one mountain climbed, now for the next one. I think the next one will be based around doing something useful with my life. Then again...

Free trade

2005-03-01T13:06:00.000+11:00

Trade nights are like a little bit of spice sprinkled over my otherwise rotten dish of a job. Last night it was EA Games at the Victory room at Telstra Dome. I still haven't really stumbled onto the purpose of such nights, other than for me to get ridiculously drunk on free beer and bloated on finger foods. I guess I was supposed to be getting excited about the company and learning about the new stuff they have on the way; instead I positioned myself next to the bar and occasionally wandered to a game just to make it appear that I was interested.

These nights are a little bit of a joke at work. Management thinks they are important we attend, we also think it's important we attend, just for completely different reasons. Last year on the release of the playstation slimline, Sony invited us to the Lexus Centre which they lined with games machines, indoor soccer, heaps of alcohol and food, pumping music and a girl dancing in a cage. What they benefited from this I don't know; what I benefited from this night is in the history books.

It almost seems pathetic to us in a way; like the desperate bribery of the geek in school trying to get friends, promising people a swim in his giant swimming pool. Last week at the Toshiba night there wasn't a lot of alcohol, just a lot of charts and specifications and blah, blah, blah... We were sitting on a table up the back trying not to make it obvious that we weren't listening and only came for the beer. Toward the end of the night one of the Toshiba people came over to our table and asked us what we thought of the new range of products. We had to bullshit with this guy for about 20 minutes, trying to fool him into thinking we were interested. We ask, "We were just wondering about the dual aerial in the new notebooks; how does the phasing increase wireless reception in a corporate environment?" Thinking up these questions is hard enough, try sitting through the answer! We hoped that when he got home he slipped into bed next to wife and said with a grin, "I think I reached some people tonight honey!"

Hopefully these companies will never realise how disinterested in their products we really are. They put on kick ass nights that make you wonder why you bother to go out and pay for it at bars and clubs. Hopefully we can continue to fake interest in anything even remotely educational so that these management recommended nights continue to flourish.

Neurocam assignment

2005-02-27T22:21:00.000+11:00

I arrived at the docklands close to 5 o'clock. Not realising that there was a football mach about to begin, I battled traffic around unfamiliar streets until by sheer chance, one led me to a car park close to where I needed to be.

Out of my car, I spotted a couple of people up ahead walking down the north wharf; assuming they were fellow 'camers, I followed them toward the meeting place. At first it appeared as though we were headed to a rather desolate car park, scattered with fishermen and rubbish; up closer I saw a group of 20 or so people standing in a congregation against a railing close to the water. As there was no other reason one would loiter in a place like this, other than to fish or commit suicide, I 'sharp as a tack' realised that this was the group I was to join.

Walking up to the group I became aware that one guy seemed to be a focal point. Standing against the railing with a notepad and pen, he questioned each new arrival as to their operative id. Turns out this was operative shemjaza (sp?), and he has a thing for making intricate notes. We all stood around waiting for new arrivals and for the clock to tick over to 5:15, the time designated by neurocam to officially start the search. Not a whole lot of chatter in the group; we were probably all a little too weirded out, and too busy trying not to look as though we all felt a little too weirded out.

We began the search by splitting up in every direction. I jumped the railing we were standing against and headed along the water, as did four or five others. It's weird when you don't know what you're looking for, everything becomes suspect, and no place seems too 'out there'. I wandered up and down for a few minutes before noticing that something had been found on the other side of the wharf. I made my way across and was shown a bottle that an operative had found. I called out to the people searching down by the rocks that we'd hit something, soon everyone was crowded around.

There were two fisherman standing right next to us during this little escapade, totally confused looks on their faces, it was priceless. Turns out the bottle was attached to a rope that had been hanging in the water. It contained a card with a code on it which we deduced must be needed for a safe or a suitcase of some kind. The thought that it might be a phone number was also floated round. Again we split up and continued our search.

It seemed like forever until the next finding. I must admit, I was getting rather bored walking around looking at every piece of rubbish or strangely angled branch or fencing. It crossed my mind to go take a seat and wait for someone to exclaim Eureka!, but I though it might not go down well. I just kept walking around instead.

Finally those down by the base of the Bolte Bridge pylons did in fact discover the case. It was hidden fairly high up, at the bottom of a box, I think used to house lights or the power for lights. A couple of operatives went to fetch a ladder, the rest of us waited expectantly. I can't remember the name of the operative that climbed the ladder, I think he may have been the one that found the case, but he reached the opening and retrieved it despite every indication that the ladder that supported him was held together with clag.

The code to the case was punched in, or spun in, and opened without a hitch. I was standing in front of the case so it was like the scene in pulp fiction when case is opened and all you see the yellow glow without a hint of what's inside. I did however see a look of disappointed mirrored in people’s faces and a cry of, "there's nothing in it!"

Upon closer inspection a tape recorder was found leading us all to pack in tightly to hear what was on it. I was at the back of the pack with wind pummelling my ears so I didn't really hear anything. It was Charles Hastings congratulating us on completing the mission and directing us all to acquire kabuki masks which will supposedly be used in our next assignment.

When the message finished we stood around for a few minutes discussing kabuki masks and who did what. We left the area at about 5:50, just when the police showed up. It must have looked suspicious, 20 people crowded around such a nothing area, I don't, however, believe any arrests were made!

I sent my report into Charles and asked if neurocam had a talking to the police policy. He replied, "with regard to the police, we recommend absolute denial when it comes to all matters Neurocam. Believe me it makes life much easier..."

In my report when referring to the fact that I couldn't hear what was on the tape recording, I joked that all I heard was:

"'Congratulations...you are required...hurt...people...in...Kabuki masks.'
Those were the only words I heard, I don't know what I missed but I think I have a handle on what you want me to do!"

He responded with:

"PPS I don't think I mentioned anything about hurting people in Kabuki masks..."

Now I'm afraid that he didn't know that I was joking and has gone ahead and prematurely ticked the psychopath box in my file. Oh well.

Btw, did anyone else notice the coincidence related to the spot that Neurocam chose to inform us of our need for Kabuki masks?

You never know what's coincidence and what isn't with this mob.

Poetry etc.

2005-02-22T18:24:00.000+11:00

I just wrote a poem, it goes like this:

Love, etc.

What do you think? My sister wants me to read a poem at her wedding, however hers has more lines. Not that she wrote it, but the one she chose is a little longer, a little more embarrassing. In effect though, it’s says exactly what my poem says, only it’s a little more verbose.

“When the one whose hand you're holding is the one who holds your heart;
When the one whose eyes you gaze in gives your hopes and dreams their start;
When the one you think of first and last is the one who holds you tight,
And the things you plan together make your whole world seem just right;
When the one whom you believe in puts their faith and trust in you;
Then you've found the one and only love you'll share your whole life
through.”

I think mine says the same thing sans-cringiness.

While thinking of poetry I also thought up a new superpower. It’s called the net of ownership and it’s cast like a web over your enemy. Basically once the net is cast, whatever space is between the victim and the net is owned by the caster. As a consequence, when the victim moves to get out of the net, they have to move though space you own which of course, you charge them for. Once paid, you then use that money to buy kick ass weapons to kill them with. Looking around the world, I can spot many such nets. I guess we all want to be superheroes.

It’s amazing; the power of the blog. You write something, then not a week later, through no effort of your own, it happens. Two of my friends and I got chased by the police the other night. I won’t go into details as it’s still touch and go, but sometimes the cracks and fissures in indoctrinated behaviour become chasms when a little too much alcohol is ingested. There’s something about cops that’ll I’ll never understand. When you spot someone who you want to catch, and it’s dark out, and you could sneak up on them and surprise them, why on earth would you yell out, “Hey, stop right there!” when you’re more than 50 metres away? I could have had enough time to call a priest and confess before these badges arrived.

So ahh, I assume that most people who come here only do so to hear about Neurocam. That’s cool, in fact I prefer it that way. No one is really interested in the filler of peoples daily lives and thoughts, I know I’m generally not. I don’t really post much about it as apart from the assignments, it doesn’t really enter my thoughts. I don’t really have the same need to understand it, or figure it out as others seem to. I just think it’s funny and amusing and an excuse to get out of the house occasionally. I’ll be posting about the assignment from Sunday, next Sunday, once the veil of secrecy has been lifted, so no real need to check in till then. Next I might post about the buck’s weekend I’ve just been on, might insert some droll observation that will amuse myself. Will definitely in the next few days post nude pics of myself, but yeah, like I said, nothing worthy of note till the 27th. Oh, make it the 28th as I have a wedding on the 27th.

Psycho Chic

2005-02-17T17:27:00.000+11:00

I'm a huge fan of American Psycho. Patrick Bateman is my all time favourite character. This is why I almost bought a facial masque.

I already bought the suit a few days ago. I have two weddings coming up and it seemed a bit silly to rent a suit twice when for about the same amount I could get my own. I already have the detached from humanity feeling that keeps me from forming strong relationships and opening up to those who have the potential to be close to me. I don't work on Wall street, but I will be taking part the ASX trading game at the end of the month whereby I'm given 50G of, albeit, fake money to splash around where I see fit.

What I don't have is the apartment, the psychopathic desire to murder, or the facial masque. One of those is within my reach.

The problem for me is that I couldn't bring myself to buy one. I was innocently shopping for shaving cream when I looked up and saw a row of about 7 different types of male facial masque. Men buy these things! One was rather creamy; you keep it on for 7 minutes before splashing water over your face and lightly towelling dry. Another was called Sauna (I think you're supposed to loudly whisper it) and apparently it opens up pores and helps eradicate black heads. This one goes on like a clear gel, then hardens and is peeled off...American Psycho style.

It's difficult when you're put on the spot. Like when you decide to buy your first pack of condoms knowing they're going to be used for sex, rather than childish schoolboy pranks. You must work yourself up to it; role-play the exchange in your head for a little while. Then you've got to think of other items to buy; a loaf of bread, tinned soup, toothpaste etc. Then as you're going through the checkout you freak and start handing over money even though there are other items that haven’t yet been processed.

I think I know how I'm going to do it though. I'm going to wear dangling earrings, put heaps of gel in my hair, and call the checkout chick sweetie-darling-poo. Chicks love gay guys; they're so non-threatening. Maybe she'll also give me tips on how best to use the masque. If you behave excessively gay then people wont question why you’re buying a male facial masque, it may even be considered strange if you don't.

All this to facilitate my rendition of a simple monologue -

- Li stares into the mirror. The masque has dried,
giving his face a strange distorted look as if it has been
wrapped in plastic. He begins slowly peeling the gel masque
off his face. -

"There is an idea of a Li, some
kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an
entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold
gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours
and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably
comparable: I simply am not there."

Disclaimer: To avoid copyright infringement, don't read the above quote. The onus is on you.

Lucid screaming

2005-02-12T18:34:00.000+11:00

I still live not 50 metres from the primary school I started going to when I was 5. I'm 25 now. Some people are into that whole 'moving on' aspect to life; never gotten into it myself. But as I was walking to the post office box the other day, I passed the school and started remembering the old classrooms and teachers etc., and had the sudden urge to have a look inside. I wanted to stroll down the main corridor that I hadn't seen in 14 years and let all the memories flood back. The problem being that apparently it isn't so kosher any more for a strange man to walk uninvited through school hallways while children are around. At best I could make it to the front office before being asked of my business, maybe I'd get a quick glance around but it wouldn't be enough.

So as I was walking I started thinking of how I could get into the school. If during the day while it was open was out, I guess that leaves the night when it's closed and locked. So then I started thinking about the best way to break in; through a window; through the roof somehow; a window from the roof; should I break it or lever it open? I started thinking about the alarm system, could I disable it, if not, how long would I have? Before I'd recognised the train of thought I was on, I had established elaborate plans to break into a school.

Who the fuck am I?

I'm little ol' me, not some burglar. I'm innocent; I just want to be happy. So I ditched the plans and resolved never to set foot in my old school again.

Two nights ago I was walking down the street with a couple of my friends, each drinking a beer, on the way for some more. As we were walking we passed a house that had a tiny car parked in the driveway. It was the smallest car I'd ever seen. Our initial reaction was to run over and try to pick it up. It's probably a guy thing, or a semi drunk guy thing anyway. Then our rationality kicked in and we realized how weird it would look for the owner to walk out and see three guys trying to pick up their car. We then thought, why don't we just go to the door and ask the owner if it would be okay if we tried to lift the car...just to see if we can? We laughed at the ridiculousness of it all and thought best to just continue on our way.

I've been experiencing heaps of these little episodes lately whereby I'm the verge of either breaking the law, or looking as though I'm doing something that should be against the law. Like clockwork my rational, 'indoctrinated by the system' brain always kicks in (as it's been indoctrinated to do) and pulls me back and moves me off again with gentle guidance.

But it always reminds me of how not free I am. In the west we pride ourselves on our freedom, but if you're like me, and you experience cracks and fissures in your indoctrination, you'll always want to pursue experiences, albeit innocent ones, that fall outside the norm and are frowned upon, sometimes cringed upon by the society droids. It's almost enough to make one decide to join a secret society!

Maybe lucid dreaming is the only freedom one can achieve. The first thing I do during a lucid dream is fly. That and get naked. Sometimes I get naked and fly. Usually the excitement of it wakes me up pretty quickly and I spend the next 20 minutes willing myself back into the dream; never works though. My dreams are telling me that deep down inside, I want to break free from all the shackles of society and stand naked in front of the world. No walls, no secrets, pure and in love. There are people who do that in real life. They're in mental institutions.

---------------

Btw, was the ending to 1984 a happy or sad ending?

World War III

2005-02-11T14:31:00.000+11:00

Arab News - Ikea Stampede
London Ikea opening

Milk and cookies
Christian help

Maybe I've got to stop reading Metafilter. Too often it's articles like these, read first thing in the morning that get me to thinking about my up-coming role in World War III. I'm not a big guy, so picking people off from the shadows will probably be my forte. A small problem for me is my hatred of guns. I'll have no choice but to throw eggs and general household condiments at my enemy, hoping that the heat from the sun dries the gooey texture to their faces, gluing their eyes shut so that they trip over and discharge their weapons into their own bodies. I'm not sure if there is a name to this type of attack yet. There is a chance it'll be named after me.

But figuring out my defence and attack strategies is one thing; figuring out who the enemy will be is another. I'm not patriotic so for all I know, it will be the Australian government. I love Australian soil just as much as I love North Korean soil; I mean it's all just earth. As for the governments, they're all lying cocksuckers; as for the people, assholes reside everywhere. At the moment we've got the Americans against the militant Islamic terrorists as well as North Korea. The EU hints its adversarial nature toward America. China soon wont give a fuck about anyone, with over a billion people (potential soldiers) and a thriving economy; and then there's people like me who, while definitely aren't pacifists, ultimately just wanna chill and listen to Kruder and Dorfmeister.

One of my friends is a hard core Christian; dinosaurs on the arc etc. He keeps telling me about the apocalypse and the signs of its coming. Most of it is pretty straightforward stuff like the failure of justice, increased violence and volatility throughout the world, citizens stealing police cars and the emergence of the anti-christ. Then he starts getting into revelations which is like some William Burroughs nightmare and I generally start backing away.

But regardless of whether it's religious or man made, I get the feeling we're on some fight club style slide to reach bottom. Initially I thought Jerry Springer had achieved that, now I'm starting to think it's not enough. Bill Hicks believed that the earth needed a cleansing enema in the form of LA sinking into the ocean, leaving nothing but a cool breeze called Arizona Bay. However righteous that sounds, it seems more like a Yakuza slicing off his little finger as repentance for raping his masters wife.

I don't believe in gOD, therefore I don't believe in hIS judgments. I do however believe that humankind judges itself everyday and that subconsciously we're beginning to sense that we don't deserve the consciousness we've somehow been granted. Maybe after our extinction, the planet will begin to cool again, rainforests will grow again and smurfs will evolve. If they do, then I'll know my life as a precursor has been worthwhile.

I'll give you salt on your tomatoes!

2005-02-10T15:22:00.000+11:00

I've been noticing of late when in line at my local Subway sandwich dealer that upon arriving at the salad section, I'm constantly held up by people in front of me who demand that salt be put directly onto their tomatoes.

It's not like this is a huge hold-up or anything; the extra 4 or so seconds it takes will be added onto the end of my lunch hour anyway, it's just a little bit annoying. Mainly because I don't understand it. Is it possible to really tell the difference between salt being applied after all salads have been put on, compared to stopping half way, sprinkling salt on the tomatoes then adding more salads. Who are these sandwich connoisseurs that can taste this difference? Has anyone ever come back and complained, "Excuse me, I explicitly asked that salt be applied directly to my tomatoes, however, upon eating the first half I distinctly taste the salt as being situated somewhere between the capsicum and the onion. Unacceptable!"

I can understand that when cooking certain dishes, that seasoning, at the right amount and at the right time can make a drastic difference to a dish. But a freakin' Subway sandwich? Who you trying to impress here? Not only that, but if it matters so much, why ask for extra mustard? Unless you have a PhD in sandwich tasting, where the salt is applied won’t make a licking difference.

"Ahh yes, I'll have a big mac, large fries, diet coke (I am after all, watching my weight), and...oh could you make sure that the sesame seeds on the big mac are inside the bun? I need them to be touching the lettuce, thanks."

Pft.

Claimer: I am being paid $15 per word for mentioning Subway. None of this money will be going to charity. Most of it will go toward alcohol...for myself.

When all of your wishes are granted etc.

2005-02-07T19:59:00.000+11:00

Neurocam is interested in my availability for the 20th of this month as apparently a multi operative neuro-force is required for the next assignment. This could end up being a big weekend for me.

Ever been to a buck’s night? I haven't; my virgin experience will be at a buck’s weekend. My sister is getting married early march and my future brother in law requests the company of myself and 20 others in an effort to eradicate all traces of intelligence and dignity in the form of an alcohol and drug induced stupor. It will involve naked runs down the street, general shenanigans and, of course, golf. Covering over 60 hours straight, this mayhem will test the boundaries of my perception, the will of my conscience, and the depth of my character. But all of this means nothing. There is something bigger about this weekend than the sum of its parts times pi.

Police.

They are invited. Two of them in fact, plus an ambo which is always reassuring. Apparently smoking a J with these piggies is simply par for the course! This just blows me away. Well, I don't know if they themselves smoke, but they don't care if we do. I'm not sure if that means that I can blow smoke in their faces, or whether general manners still apply, but I'll be damned if I don't give it a try and blame it on the alcohol.

Now, that's all good and all, but...what if...one of them...brings...a...POLICE CAR!!

I'm clutching at straws now aren't I? I don't know, but this could potentially be one damned well big weekend. The problem I'm facing is trying to make it to the Neurocam thing. Will I get extra points if I arrive in a police car...alone?

If neither of the cops bring a police car, maybe I should just steal the car they are driving, it is after all, the car of a policeman. Nah, no amount of convincing myself will suffice, without the lights and siren, I'd just be another perp.

Whatever happens, I'm sure I'll have a lot of fun. Hopefully the assignment won't be too demanding, not sure if my brain and/or stomach will be up for it. I guess we'll see.

-------

This makes me happy. Looking through my referral log, someone found my site from this page.

2005-02-04T16:28:00.000+11:00

Bunch of envolopes.

Breaking the Law!

2005-02-04T13:03:00.000+11:00

Two nights ago my friend C and I broke the law for 80 minutes straight. Well technically we didn't break the law, but we came close. We watched a film called Base Moi. Banned in Australia, this film depicts extreme acts of sex and violence that according to our censors, should only be viewed well after Australia's bedtime.

After seeing the film, I wholeheartedly agree with this classification. I have never been so disturbed by a film...ever! It wasn't the explicit sex, nor the brains being blown out, nor the soundtrack of almost constant screaming; it was something far more depraved.

It was having C's mum walk into the room just as a close up view of a penis forcefully introducing itself to an unwilling vagina in rampant fashion plastered itself onto the screen. See, she could have walked in the scene before, when the two protagonists were driving along the freeway, or afterwards when they were drinking from a bottle and involved in some sort of French dialogue, but no. Out comes the recipe book; in comes C's mum on a quest to find a nice meal to cook for the family tomorrow; on the screen arrives hardcore violent porn.

Noticing the grins on our face as she was standing before us, she asks what's so funny? C says, "ahh, nothing, you just walked in at a really weird scene in the movie", turning around she sees things that no mother should ever see. C tries to remain interested in the recipe book pretending that what was playing on the TV was no big deal, he hadn't even noticed it was on, but damn, this recipe book looks good!

I just sat there waiting for it all to be over, much like I guess, how the women in the film felt during their raping.

She did eventually leave the room in disgust, and we continued to watch our hardcore gangbang (ridiculously disguised as art) movie in peace; minus our innocence.

The restriction of these movies is essential. Families must be protected from certain discoveries about each other, namely, a parent discovering her precious and innocent (24 year old) child no longer enjoys the wholesome entertainment of wheel of furtune. Now at 5pm, explicit rapage of screaming women is the order of the day's entertainment. No matter what you do in your own hours, the dinner table is a place for family unity, not for darting eyes of uncomfortableness which is, I guess what C went through over dinner that night.

But deep down inside I know that banning the film isn't the answer. Really, we should have been more careful. The only reason I ended up watching that piece of shit film is solely because it was banned. In fact banning the film is dangerous. If you live in Australia, chances are that the version you are watching is a burned copy from the internet. If it's a burned copy it probably doesn't have a pictured label on the disc, meaning that there is every chance that you may accidentally leave it lying around inside the wrong cover, say, the Lion King.

I bet the censors didn't think of that.

How could you possibly think it would work?

2005-02-01T20:26:00.000+11:00

Americans. I'm talking to you. All 10 of you that visit this site. I know you don't speak, act or behave on behalf of your country just as the other 290,000,000 Americans don't for you. I choose to believe however, no matter how false this belief is, that you make up a perfect cross section of your society and will, if asked, inform your fellow country men of what I'm about to write. It's that important.

Before I begin let me be clear. Any country that can produce a band like Tool, a movie like Fight Club and a porn star like Jemma Jameson is definitely doing something right. Your athletes continue to raise the bar of physical human limits and your space agency inspires us with its brave exploration of our solar system. And perhaps best of all, your corporations directly profit from your military industrial complex meaning that the tax you as citizens pay, is used to better computer micro processors so that little old me in Melbourne Australia can play Doom 3 with more polygons per second than ever before.

There is a lot about your country that I have to be thankful for.

HOWEVER...

[Deep breath]

...There is a concept called genius. No one can define it, though we all feel as if we know it when we see it. Plato, Mozart, Einstein, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Stephen Hawking, Shakespeare etc, they all had something in common. They weren't/aren’t American. There is a reason for this. Americans by nature aren't geniuses. BY NATURE!

I'm not "dissin'" you, I say it without ego.

Australians too aren't geniuses, neither New Zealanders nor Canadians. We're just...you know...not. Europe is where genius has historically occurred, and the message I want you to impart to your fellow land mass people is...accept it. Just accept it.

That way - and this is my main point - when you witness genius in the form of Ricky Gervais in his infernally funny work of art titled The Office, you will keep your dirty, narcissistic, xenophobic, arrogant little no genius claws off it! You will learn to stay the fuck away and let it be. Just let it be. You will no longer think, "Hey that show's pretty good, too bad it’s British. Pft, we'll do our own version, with our own 'pure' accents, hell, we'll even get ourselves a laugh track!"

There's something about British humour that I think you need to understand. [Whispers] It's implicitly British...by definition.

When we want competitive, adversarial comedy we'll watch Everybody Loves Raymond. When we want genius we'll look toward the experts. When we want a coke and fries, a transsexual midget prostitute, a "trial of the century" or a falsified reason to go to war, we'll come to you. When we're in the mood for wit and irony, we'll face in a westerly direction.

As I trust you’re not offended, I trust that you will pass on this message. Please.

Really…please.

"I have a dream, a dream that one day little American boys and little American girls will join hands and look outside their borders. A dream that one day ALL of humanity will laugh at the British version of The Office together. This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning, "My county, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, let's keep our filthy hands from true BRITISH genius. Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
- Martin Luther King

These people aren't just sitting around

2005-01-30T16:59:00.000+11:00

I have a new NC assignment already. Like the last one not much can be said about it, apart from the fact that it has "something to do with covert training."

Anyway...ahhh...ummm....

I got nothing else.

-edit-

ohh, except for the fact that I will eventually design this page. Templates are cool and all, if I could have a templated baby I would, but soon it will reflect my personal aesthetic a little more. I think maybe white on white, after all, it is the new black.

Now it's all uncomfortable

2005-01-29T19:48:00.000+11:00

This always happens to me.

So my house is on the market, people are always coming through, and things I don't want people to see have to be hidden. Today was a little different however as it was an open inspection for half an hour. This means anyone can walk through my house unaccompanied, alone, BY THEMSELVES! I was at work so I didn't have to circle the block ad infinitum, but before I left I had to make sure that small things of value were put away etc.

But you know how there's always one thing you forget?

Well when I got home, I walked into my room and straight away noticed that my lamp had been moved. It's a lamp on an arm, can be rotated and moved up and down depending on the lighting situation. It was still on my bed side table, however it had been pointed in another direction. As I was wondering why anyone would do that, I noticed a bottle sitting next to my lamp that I'd completely forgotten about.

Stud Oil.

That's what was in the bottle, STUD OIL! Amyl Nitrite if we were to be exact about things, not sure that being exact matters when printed across the front in bold lettering is, "STUD OIL".

I may as well have left gay porn playing on my television.

Now whoever moved the lamp must have seen it, can't be missed, but who moved my lamp?

It could have been a kid, messing shit up, apparently there were plenty of them running through; doubt it though. It could have been a potential buyer, noticed the lamp, thought that's cool, wonder how it works... doubt it also. It's not like it's space aged technology that no ones seen.

My guess is that it was an agent who upon noticing that the bulb in the ceiling light of my room was blown, decided to light the room with my lamp. Not liking the, "just before sleep" arm setting I had it on, decided to change it to the, "wow look at how cool this room is setting".

This means that one of the agents that I liase with on a continued basis, knows that I have "stud oil" beside my bed.

To rewind a little bit, my ex-girlfriend bought it for me before she was my girlfriend. I was doing her resume for her, I joked she could pay me back by buying me same amyl nitrite which she actually ended up doing. We used to smoke a cone, sniff some amyl and shoot out of existence for 45 seconds at a time. Bit of harmless fun, sometimes a bit of a headache afterwards.

Now it's all uncomfortable.

This shit always happens to me.

2003 Sultram $9.99

2005-01-28T21:14:00.000+11:00

I rarely hear my dreams communicated by others. My thoughts about the world; rarely do I hear them repeated back to me in the media or at the bar. This, over time has lead me to believe that the best way for me to communicate to most people is to nod and smile in the most sycophantic of ways. Straying from this course of action inevitably leads to looks of confusion and exclamations of "weirdo!". There are two things in particular that I want to experience before I die.

Now after watching The Lonely Planet the other night I know I'm not entirely alone in this, I just want to take it further. At some point in my life, I wish to be kidnapped, drugged, have my memory erased then left alone in the wilderness. There I've said it. [Deep breath]

I used to be into Dean Koontz novels in my formative years. No matter how many titles of his you see on the bookshelves, he really only wrote one novel. It always involved the brainwashing of someone who then had to go to a hypnotist who would delve into the deepest dungeons of the mind to unlock in revelatory leaps, truths that would blow the reader away; SECRET GOVERNMENT STYLE TRUTHS!!!

Ever since, the prospect of taking this journey or revelation has appealed to me. You think dropping acid and going to a rave, eating mushrooms and sky diving or taking ketamine and talking to dolphins is hardcore? Pft, try having your memory erased only to be left alone in the middle of nowhere. That's a fucking trip!

The second experience I want to have in life is that of stealing a police car. Please don't get me wrong here, I am a good natured law abiding citizen. I'm very polite and always willing to help out those in need. Don't want to hurt anyone, can't even bring myself to kill insects. But the adrenaline of taking a police car 230km down the freeway while being chased by a helicopter and well, pretty much the rest of the police force has to be attractive. We'd all play it if it was a game, but chicken out in real life.

Can't we all just get one go at this without consequence? Can't we write it into our constitution? This is why I'll never be a great leader, my desire to steal police cars is just too great. Why would they put lights and sirens on them if they didn't want them to be stolen?

In the end, I'm drinking red wine and this is what happens sometimes when I'm drinking red wine.
I get too honest.