I know the media is probably beating this story up somewhat, but I am stupid enough to bite.
For one thing, I don't know how a group called Define Statutory can possibly say they are merely "draw[ing] an analogy between rape and competing with another football team." How on earth does "define statutory" even fit into that? They are clearly referring to statutory rape. I just don't know how anyone can ever possibly think having sex with someone without their consent is ok.
Which reminds me of a conversation I had with an ex-boyfriend's brother once. We were at a restaurant for dinner. He had just finished reading in the news that a bunch of guys had been convicted of rape. He was outraged about it. Apparently, these guys were all soccer team mates of the girl in question's boyfriend. Wait, I'll reword that. Girl who was raped has boyfriend. Boys who raped said girl were all on said boyfriend's soccer team. Right. Now, apparently the boyfriend had gone out for a bit and the girl was asleep on the bed. The remainder of the team proceeded to "digitally rape" the girl, etc (I'm not sure how far they got). She woke up, wondered what the fuck was going on, and told them to stop (or something similar, I'm sure).
Now, the reason this guy was outraged was because... wait for it... the girl didn't say no before the guys started!!!! I looked at him wondering if he was joking. He wasn't. I told him that while she hadn't said no, she certainly hadn't said yes.
"But she didn't say no!"
"That's because she was asleep! She didn't say yes, either!"
"But she didn't say no!"
"Ugh! SHE WAS ASLEEP! She couldn't say no! But she didn't say yes!"
"Well, what's the definition of rape, then?"
"Are you serious? Sexual acts with someone without their consent!"
"But she didn't say no!"
"Oh my god, you're a fucking idiot! SHE DIDN'T SAY YES!!!!"
Anyway, I couldn't get as angry at this loser as I wanted to, courtesy of being in the middle of a busy restaurant. I ended up just refusing to talk to him for the rest of the night and pretty much every other time I saw him.
I don't get it. What sort of mentality must you have to think this sort of behaviour is ok? What kind of mentality must you have to form a Facebook group espousing your beliefs that rape is ok? And even if it was all just a joke or something, it still doesn't show very good character.
I resent these kids most because they're making me sound like my parents: what is with kids these days??
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
'1993: A Tale Of Three Cities'. Introduction.
I kept a diary between 1992 and 2004. Every single day was catalogued. Not in any deep way. "Tooth hurt. Had soup. Worked all day. Watched news. Bed." That sort of thing. Even if it was momentous or exciting it was still written that way. "Up at 4am. Became Buddhist monk. Long ceremony. Meditated. Bed at 8pm."
Now, you think I'm a love gumby now. You shoulda seen me in 1993, the year I turned 24. I was right amidst the 'All The World's A Stage' 'sighing like a furnace' stage. Right in the thick of it. I was in and out of love at the drop of a hat or the turn of an ankle. It also happened that in 1993 I was getting short stories and poems published all over the joint, I finished a novel, I lived in three cities (Athens, Copenhagen, Melbourne), lost my best friend, was imprisoned in a war zone, had an affair with a popstar, got mugged, and yes, became a Buddhist monk.
Life has been far more sedate ever since.
So, my plan is to serialise / novelise my 1993 experiences, and much of the inspiration to do this has come from Melba's 80's Diaries (which if you haven't read, I urge you to... particular if you were sentient in the 80's). But whereas Melba gives us her diaries verbatim, I'm going to attempt to post mine in standard current-day Perseus style.
I will of course change most names, but, I will post photos! I figure that's safe enough. Furthermore, there are four real names I will use, because they are celebrities / noted people in the public sphere (eg: Helena Christensen) and it makes it more interesting. There is a fifth name I am toying with using... the popstar I had the affair with. She's only famous in Greece, so it might be safe to use it, but, you never know. I need to think it out.
It might take more than a year to actually complete this task. I might give up on it if it's not working. But, I'll do my best to make it as salacious as possible, and although I may change some names, I assure you, everything is true.
I have to decide on the format. Present tense? Past tense? How will I introduce characters? I will decide over the next week, but by way of introduction, allow me to show you to the tiny apartment I was living in.
You can see two couches. Well, when you removed the cushions, they were in fact two beds. I slept on the one on the right, and my best mate Richie Swain (who will be one of the main characters) slept on the one facing the camera. The window above Richie's bed is at street level. That is, the apartment was underground. It was a tiny, tiny flat, but happened to be in the most affluent section of Athens: Kolonaki. It's where the rich people and celebrities hung out, and we lived in a beautiful apartment block filled with merchant bankers, successful artists and diplomats. It's just that we lived underneath the block... with Kenyans, Egyptians and Albanians. Whole families of them cramped into tiny flats. The cleaners. The janitors. All praying to Allah in the corridor at inappropriate hours.
Cramped as it was (and dark), we loved it, because we were two bohemian kids from the Melbourne suburbs living in the city of Athena, Socrates, Percicles, The Acropolis... the birthplace of philosophy and democracy. Hell, we even lived in Ploutarhou street... (English: Plutarch Street!)
Richie had a job singing with an opera company (as well as taking masterclasses in opera singing), and I was working as a stage-hand with the same opera company, as well as freelancing around Athens doing any job I could get my hands on, and writing novels and poems. Because we were illegal immigrants (our visas expired ages before) employers could get away with paying us well under-award money, but so long as we could pay the rent on this small dingy flat and scavenge enough food, cigarettes and grog to keep us going, we were happy. Mind you, we had discussed living in Athens when we were fifteen years old, and sure enough, almost to our mid-20's, we were doing it. Well, he had been doing it for three years, and this was my second time around (my first Athens sting was in 1990). But on this second stint, I was even toying with the idea of never leaving. Athens had become home.
Here we are in late '92, celebrating the arrival in the mail of 'Mattoid', an Australian literary periodical I had a short story published in.
Jeez. What's with my necklaces? How embarrassment.
My 1993 diary/novel will begin soon... I figure I'll just post when the mood takes me.
I'll start with waking up in the New Year after a massive night of debauchery at one of Athens' many punkrock clubs, at which Richie Swain fell down a set of stairs, then got vomited on by some chick (wearing my trenchcoat), after which, they pashed.
We had been living happily in Athens for about a year already, but things were about to get complex...
Chapter One coming soon.
Now, you think I'm a love gumby now. You shoulda seen me in 1993, the year I turned 24. I was right amidst the 'All The World's A Stage' 'sighing like a furnace' stage. Right in the thick of it. I was in and out of love at the drop of a hat or the turn of an ankle. It also happened that in 1993 I was getting short stories and poems published all over the joint, I finished a novel, I lived in three cities (Athens, Copenhagen, Melbourne), lost my best friend, was imprisoned in a war zone, had an affair with a popstar, got mugged, and yes, became a Buddhist monk.
Life has been far more sedate ever since.
So, my plan is to serialise / novelise my 1993 experiences, and much of the inspiration to do this has come from Melba's 80's Diaries (which if you haven't read, I urge you to... particular if you were sentient in the 80's). But whereas Melba gives us her diaries verbatim, I'm going to attempt to post mine in standard current-day Perseus style.
I will of course change most names, but, I will post photos! I figure that's safe enough. Furthermore, there are four real names I will use, because they are celebrities / noted people in the public sphere (eg: Helena Christensen) and it makes it more interesting. There is a fifth name I am toying with using... the popstar I had the affair with. She's only famous in Greece, so it might be safe to use it, but, you never know. I need to think it out.
It might take more than a year to actually complete this task. I might give up on it if it's not working. But, I'll do my best to make it as salacious as possible, and although I may change some names, I assure you, everything is true.
I have to decide on the format. Present tense? Past tense? How will I introduce characters? I will decide over the next week, but by way of introduction, allow me to show you to the tiny apartment I was living in.
You can see two couches. Well, when you removed the cushions, they were in fact two beds. I slept on the one on the right, and my best mate Richie Swain (who will be one of the main characters) slept on the one facing the camera. The window above Richie's bed is at street level. That is, the apartment was underground. It was a tiny, tiny flat, but happened to be in the most affluent section of Athens: Kolonaki. It's where the rich people and celebrities hung out, and we lived in a beautiful apartment block filled with merchant bankers, successful artists and diplomats. It's just that we lived underneath the block... with Kenyans, Egyptians and Albanians. Whole families of them cramped into tiny flats. The cleaners. The janitors. All praying to Allah in the corridor at inappropriate hours.
Cramped as it was (and dark), we loved it, because we were two bohemian kids from the Melbourne suburbs living in the city of Athena, Socrates, Percicles, The Acropolis... the birthplace of philosophy and democracy. Hell, we even lived in Ploutarhou street... (English: Plutarch Street!)
Richie had a job singing with an opera company (as well as taking masterclasses in opera singing), and I was working as a stage-hand with the same opera company, as well as freelancing around Athens doing any job I could get my hands on, and writing novels and poems. Because we were illegal immigrants (our visas expired ages before) employers could get away with paying us well under-award money, but so long as we could pay the rent on this small dingy flat and scavenge enough food, cigarettes and grog to keep us going, we were happy. Mind you, we had discussed living in Athens when we were fifteen years old, and sure enough, almost to our mid-20's, we were doing it. Well, he had been doing it for three years, and this was my second time around (my first Athens sting was in 1990). But on this second stint, I was even toying with the idea of never leaving. Athens had become home.
Here we are in late '92, celebrating the arrival in the mail of 'Mattoid', an Australian literary periodical I had a short story published in.
Jeez. What's with my necklaces? How embarrassment.
My 1993 diary/novel will begin soon... I figure I'll just post when the mood takes me.
I'll start with waking up in the New Year after a massive night of debauchery at one of Athens' many punkrock clubs, at which Richie Swain fell down a set of stairs, then got vomited on by some chick (wearing my trenchcoat), after which, they pashed.
We had been living happily in Athens for about a year already, but things were about to get complex...
Chapter One coming soon.
Girl, 12
Based on a true story:
Boy, 14: I wonder what would happen if I got my dick out.
Girl, 11: Out of where?
Boy: Out of my pants.
Girl: Do you need to wee?
Boy: No, but I have this evolutionary and totally instinctive desire to get it out.
Girl: Well I don't care, whatever.
Boy removes penis from trousers.
Girl: Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?
Boy: My dick.
Girl: Is that what they look like?
Boy: It's what mine looks like.
Girl: Shit, it's fucking disgusting.
Boy: Fair go! I bet your dick is ugly too.
Girl: I don't have a dick.
Boy: What do you have?
Girl: A front bottom. And it certainly doesn't have those revolting hairs around it like yours.
Boy: What the fuck's a front bottom?
Girl: A girl's penis.
Boy: I don't even know what the fuck that means.
Girl: Whatever.
Boy: How do you piss?
Girl: None of your business.
Boy: What would you think if I put my dick in there?
Girl: What the fuck for?
Boy: I dunno. See if it fits.
Girl: Yeah, whatever, I don't care.
*
Girl, 11: Mum!
Mum: What?
Girl: My belly's starting to get bigger.
Mum: Show me.
Girl reveals belly.
Mum: Oh my God! You know what this means?
Girl: No.
Mum: It means we're going to have to cut down to five meals of Maccas per week.
Girl: Aw mum!
*
Girl, now 12: Hey, Boy.
Boy, now 15: What, Girl?
Girl: The doctor says there's a baby growing in my tummy.
Boy: In your tummy?
Girl: Yeah.
Boy: How the fuck did it get in there?
Girl: How the fuck should I know!
Boy: Did the doctor tell you how?
Girl: He said my mum would tell me.
Boy: Yeah, your mum's pretty smart.
Girl: Yeah. She knows the price of everything at the supermarket.
Boy: Cool.
*
Dad: Whose fucken baby is it?
Girl: Mine.
Dad: But who else's?
Girl: Nobody's.
Dad: There must be someone else.
Girl: There isn't, I swear.
Dad: Jesus Christ. Get me a bourbon and coke will ya.
Girl gets Dad a Woodstock pre-mixed can while he lights up a Winnie Blue.
Dad: That's better. So, who the fuck did you sleep with?
Girl: Last night?
Dad: Last night! Anytime!
Girl: Golly.
Dad: Who the fuck's golly?
Girl: My gollywog!
Dad: Oh Jesus Christ, you fucking little shit! Mum! She's going to have a black baby!
*
Uncle Glen: She was always a good girl. She's the best shot in the family. She could hit a tin can from forty paces. Fuck me if she didn't know how to rope a steer. Christ, who the fuck's going to plough the back paddock now she's knocked up?
*
Auntie Gladys: She was always trouble. Always had a thing for the boys. God knows I slept with boys at 11, but I made them shoot their filthy stuff into the dirt. Girls weren't stupid back in my day. I didn't have my first kid 'til I was 15.
*
Midwife: Push!
Girl: Push what?
Midwife: Push the baby out!
Girl: what with?
Midwife: It's ok, there it is, it's a boy!
Girl: Thank God, Dad woulda killed me.
Boy, 15: What's his name?
Girl, 12: Rawlings.
Boy: Cool. What do you think about getting its ears pierced?
Girl: He's booked in for Thursday.
Boy: Awesome.
Midwife: Would you like to cut the cord?
Boy: Fuck that, I'm going out to get pissed.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Why yes, I'd love to give you my opinion
Perky Sounding Chick Who None-the-less is Probably on Minimum Wage and Really Doesn’t Want to speak to another Dickhead.A baking hot Sunday at Karl Kautsky House when the phone rings.
Me: “Hello”
Perky Sounding Chick Who None-the-less is Probably on Minimum Wage and Really Doesn’t Want to speak to another Dickhead (PSCWNPMWRDWD): “Good afternoon sir. I’m from Newspoll and I’d like to ask you some questions”.
Me : “Certainly. Do you mind if I put the phone down for a sec?”
PSCWNPMWRDWD: “No.”
I then put the phone down and run around for thirty seconds making yippee, woo-hoo noises, mainly because I love opinion polls.
Having finally found somebody who is employed to listen to my opinions, we have a very enjoyable chat; the highlight of which was when PSCWNPMWRDWD asked “Thinking about the opposition leader, Mr Malcolm Turnbull, are you satisfied or dissatisfied with his performance?” and I answered “Given I regard Mr Malcolm Turnbull as a gibbering buffoon, I’ll put that down as ‘dissatisfied’,”.
I always describe myself as a “swinging voter*” in the somewhat forlorn hope that some flunky in Liberal Party HQ will say “My God, the swinging voters think Malcolm is a gibbering buffoon. We’ll have to axe him at once.”
Happy, happy thoughts.
Fuck, I love opinion polls.
*I am not a swinging voter.
PQ's Top 10 Songs of the 2000s. No. 10.
Even if I was still writing Weekend Wraps all that I'd have written about this weekend just gone is that my garden got weeded until the point that my hand cramped and went into a semi-permanent claw and I had to stop.
I have ideas though for three weekly posts to keep you all entertained. The first, to be posted on Mondays for the next ten weeks (subject to availability) is my Top 10 songs of the 2000s.
I apologise profusely to Lewd Bob in advance for the following reasons.
1. Lists are Lewd Bob's schtick. Nobody compiles lists like he does. He has a list of his Top 10 Italian films from the 1950's. But now here I am doing a list.
2. He will be furious that I am not doing a 'decade' Top 10, which would still be a year away given correct mathematics (2001 being the start of the decade). When the world kept referring to the 2000 New Year as 'the new millenium' Lewd Bob nearly went postal.
3. He will also be furious that I thought of doing a Top 10 Songs post on this site before he did, because he knows more about music in the 2000s than I do. But, by way of recompense, Bob, I suggest that once I finish my Top 10, you can do yours.
4. Some of the acts in this list I only know about because he told me about them.
I also want to apologise to you all for posting something not nearly as exciting as my love gumbyness, but for my every Wednesday post I may have come up with a decent compromise. But you'll have to wait. Anyway, on with the Top 10, which I'm scared only Pepsi and Bob will take any interest in anyway.
THE RULES
No band or act can have two songs in the Top 10. When I did my real Top 10, one act had three songs, and two others had two songs. I realised that would make the list less entertaining so I just picked my favourite song from those acts.
Also, I banned cover songs, which meant the Pink Mountaintops cover version of Joy Division's 'Atmosphere', and Johnny Cash's cover version of Nick Cave's 'The Mercy Seat' missed out, even though both had claims to make my Top 10.
A POINT
It hurt to make this list, because I had to leave out so many great songs. For the record, Cat Power's 'Werewolf' came in at Number 11, so that I guess is the one that hurt the most. Beautiful song.
NUMBER TEN
Someone spoke to someone about my band and anyway, we were invited to Hobart to play some shows. We played one Thursday night at a pub called 'The Republic' which is their version of Melbourne's The Espy. It is the place to play.
Anyway, we were out the back talking to the owner of the band and he says, "Some American wanted to play here tonight but I'd never heard of him so I said no. His agent was begging me to cancel you guys, and then the artist himself rang me and asked if he could play tonight, even as a support, because it was the only night he could do Hobart, but I stuck to my guns and said no. I forget his name. Bick 63 or something."
"It wasn't Buck 65 was it?" I asked in horror.
"Yeah, that's him," said the owner.
"Oh, my, fucking, God," I said. "You bumped him for us? He could've supported us?"
"You know him?" asked the owner.
"They guy's a fucking genius!" I yelled, angry at the owner for putting my band before Buck 65. "He's a cowboy who does hip hop!"
Anyway, we played the gig, and I was half-tempted afterwards to make a permanent poster saying, "Perseus's Band... They chose us over Buck 65".
Buck 65's real name is Richard Terfry and he's a Canadian, not an American as the pub owner suggested. He jumps around genres and every album is different, but they are all very listenable. I don't like hip-hop at all, but there's just something about his soothing voice, his lyrics and his choice of musicians that sits well with me. The song I post here at Number Ten of the 2000s is in fact the first song I ever heard of his, so I guess it has sentimental resonance as well. It comes from his 2005 album, 'Secret House Against The World' and it is called 'Blood Of A Young Wolf'.
The song won't be for everyone, but I hope you can appreciate it for its uniqueness, and apreciate its soothing groove as I do. It's one of my favourite 'cleaning the house' songs. It might be hip-hop, but there is something truly beautiful about it and I never tire of hearing the song.
I have no idea what the song is about. It might not be about anything.
Unfortunately, there was no videoclip on You Tube that I could find aside from the this totally weird clip made by a fan of the song, who simply posted shots of his car to go with the music. It's fucken weird.
But, below the You Tube video I have the words, so maybe you can make your own fun by reading the words and singing along. Well, rapping along.
ten thousand horses, sable island, endless summer
oh my god i’m hot to steal, beside myself and friendless number
i ain't got no culture, nothing, dirty words, but that don’t count
flight attendants, waitresses, superstition, good amount
there’s work to do, hell to pay, memories and fingerprints
calling papa ignorance
and i don’t wanna go, sick and tired
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech
it’s an egg and spoon race, slow and steady, desert highway, a bientot
still i’m stuck, i cant afford it, picture postcard, small momento
echo, shadow, echo, shadow, sterling silver, burning furnace
frozen nowhere, just a kid, i had a friend named deadly earnest
cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my arm
praise the heavens, call the cops, relax, there’s no cause for alarm
diamond rings and little babies, startlements and miracles
i remember pretty faces so severe and lyrical
i’m talking amelia earhart, neko case and frida kahlo
all alone, the way it should be, i don’t even need a shadow
seeds of wisdom, found no purchase, we don’t even have a chance
birthday party, armageddon, long stemmed roses, avalanche
broken fingers, going nowhere fast and screeching to a halt
all that work for nothin', uh oh, whipping boy it's all my fault
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, tech, tech, tech
i don’t wanna go to pieces, easy going, afraid to fly and so i’m running
catching fish and chopping wood, the revolution, slow time coming
i don’t know what else to do, cross my fingers, teach the children
read your fortunes, storm the studios, come on all ye faithful pilgrims
no more same old song and dance, some good ideas get overplayed
i eat my breakfast, ride my bike, a knife between my shoulderblades
see i’m a man of many problems up against some scary odds
we kill, we hide, we all fall down, idiots love to bury gods
it doesn’t happen overnight though, never, still i’m filled with wonder
lonely like a tightrope walker, hitchhiker, long distance runner
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, good night for you bad night for me
but i still love you lying down, k i s s i n g
not bad, not bad, not bad at all i tried your shoes on
cigarettes and crucifixes, ingmar bergman, alphonse mouzon
really boring modern music, really boring modern girl
get me out of here, i’m drowning, i don’t like this modern world
anti-intellect and marketing, pretty, pretty, who needs talent
crying eyes, we’re so outnumbered, fight for the right to remain silent
what do i know, who am i, my two left feet my big dumb face
i’d do the same if i had the chance, cheat the system, rig the race
it’s all one big misunderstanding, inside out i turn my coat
don’t look back don’t move a muscle, one false move that’s all she wrote
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, tech, tech, tech
I have ideas though for three weekly posts to keep you all entertained. The first, to be posted on Mondays for the next ten weeks (subject to availability) is my Top 10 songs of the 2000s.
I apologise profusely to Lewd Bob in advance for the following reasons.
1. Lists are Lewd Bob's schtick. Nobody compiles lists like he does. He has a list of his Top 10 Italian films from the 1950's. But now here I am doing a list.
2. He will be furious that I am not doing a 'decade' Top 10, which would still be a year away given correct mathematics (2001 being the start of the decade). When the world kept referring to the 2000 New Year as 'the new millenium' Lewd Bob nearly went postal.
3. He will also be furious that I thought of doing a Top 10 Songs post on this site before he did, because he knows more about music in the 2000s than I do. But, by way of recompense, Bob, I suggest that once I finish my Top 10, you can do yours.
4. Some of the acts in this list I only know about because he told me about them.
I also want to apologise to you all for posting something not nearly as exciting as my love gumbyness, but for my every Wednesday post I may have come up with a decent compromise. But you'll have to wait. Anyway, on with the Top 10, which I'm scared only Pepsi and Bob will take any interest in anyway.
THE RULES
No band or act can have two songs in the Top 10. When I did my real Top 10, one act had three songs, and two others had two songs. I realised that would make the list less entertaining so I just picked my favourite song from those acts.
Also, I banned cover songs, which meant the Pink Mountaintops cover version of Joy Division's 'Atmosphere', and Johnny Cash's cover version of Nick Cave's 'The Mercy Seat' missed out, even though both had claims to make my Top 10.
A POINT
It hurt to make this list, because I had to leave out so many great songs. For the record, Cat Power's 'Werewolf' came in at Number 11, so that I guess is the one that hurt the most. Beautiful song.
NUMBER TEN
Someone spoke to someone about my band and anyway, we were invited to Hobart to play some shows. We played one Thursday night at a pub called 'The Republic' which is their version of Melbourne's The Espy. It is the place to play.
Anyway, we were out the back talking to the owner of the band and he says, "Some American wanted to play here tonight but I'd never heard of him so I said no. His agent was begging me to cancel you guys, and then the artist himself rang me and asked if he could play tonight, even as a support, because it was the only night he could do Hobart, but I stuck to my guns and said no. I forget his name. Bick 63 or something."
"It wasn't Buck 65 was it?" I asked in horror.
"Yeah, that's him," said the owner.
"Oh, my, fucking, God," I said. "You bumped him for us? He could've supported us?"
"You know him?" asked the owner.
"They guy's a fucking genius!" I yelled, angry at the owner for putting my band before Buck 65. "He's a cowboy who does hip hop!"
Anyway, we played the gig, and I was half-tempted afterwards to make a permanent poster saying, "Perseus's Band... They chose us over Buck 65".
Buck 65's real name is Richard Terfry and he's a Canadian, not an American as the pub owner suggested. He jumps around genres and every album is different, but they are all very listenable. I don't like hip-hop at all, but there's just something about his soothing voice, his lyrics and his choice of musicians that sits well with me. The song I post here at Number Ten of the 2000s is in fact the first song I ever heard of his, so I guess it has sentimental resonance as well. It comes from his 2005 album, 'Secret House Against The World' and it is called 'Blood Of A Young Wolf'.
The song won't be for everyone, but I hope you can appreciate it for its uniqueness, and apreciate its soothing groove as I do. It's one of my favourite 'cleaning the house' songs. It might be hip-hop, but there is something truly beautiful about it and I never tire of hearing the song.
I have no idea what the song is about. It might not be about anything.
Unfortunately, there was no videoclip on You Tube that I could find aside from the this totally weird clip made by a fan of the song, who simply posted shots of his car to go with the music. It's fucken weird.
But, below the You Tube video I have the words, so maybe you can make your own fun by reading the words and singing along. Well, rapping along.
ten thousand horses, sable island, endless summer
oh my god i’m hot to steal, beside myself and friendless number
i ain't got no culture, nothing, dirty words, but that don’t count
flight attendants, waitresses, superstition, good amount
there’s work to do, hell to pay, memories and fingerprints
calling papa ignorance
and i don’t wanna go, sick and tired
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech
it’s an egg and spoon race, slow and steady, desert highway, a bientot
still i’m stuck, i cant afford it, picture postcard, small momento
echo, shadow, echo, shadow, sterling silver, burning furnace
frozen nowhere, just a kid, i had a friend named deadly earnest
cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my arm
praise the heavens, call the cops, relax, there’s no cause for alarm
diamond rings and little babies, startlements and miracles
i remember pretty faces so severe and lyrical
i’m talking amelia earhart, neko case and frida kahlo
all alone, the way it should be, i don’t even need a shadow
seeds of wisdom, found no purchase, we don’t even have a chance
birthday party, armageddon, long stemmed roses, avalanche
broken fingers, going nowhere fast and screeching to a halt
all that work for nothin', uh oh, whipping boy it's all my fault
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, tech, tech, tech
i don’t wanna go to pieces, easy going, afraid to fly and so i’m running
catching fish and chopping wood, the revolution, slow time coming
i don’t know what else to do, cross my fingers, teach the children
read your fortunes, storm the studios, come on all ye faithful pilgrims
no more same old song and dance, some good ideas get overplayed
i eat my breakfast, ride my bike, a knife between my shoulderblades
see i’m a man of many problems up against some scary odds
we kill, we hide, we all fall down, idiots love to bury gods
it doesn’t happen overnight though, never, still i’m filled with wonder
lonely like a tightrope walker, hitchhiker, long distance runner
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, good night for you bad night for me
but i still love you lying down, k i s s i n g
not bad, not bad, not bad at all i tried your shoes on
cigarettes and crucifixes, ingmar bergman, alphonse mouzon
really boring modern music, really boring modern girl
get me out of here, i’m drowning, i don’t like this modern world
anti-intellect and marketing, pretty, pretty, who needs talent
crying eyes, we’re so outnumbered, fight for the right to remain silent
what do i know, who am i, my two left feet my big dumb face
i’d do the same if i had the chance, cheat the system, rig the race
it’s all one big misunderstanding, inside out i turn my coat
don’t look back don’t move a muscle, one false move that’s all she wrote
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, tech, tech, tech
Friday, November 6, 2009
A very special Perseus PSF
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
To honour the heroic work of our own Perseus, I post one of his favourites.
Pers, may all your romantic disasters be amusing in hindsight.
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
To honour the heroic work of our own Perseus, I post one of his favourites.
Pers, may all your romantic disasters be amusing in hindsight.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Weekend Wrap - Last Edition
As I expected, Ramon Insertnamehere in real life was not anywhere near the cantankerous cunt-cunt he purports or desires to be. In fact, he was a caring and charming fellow... something I'm sure he doesn't want anyone to know. Melba was her usual vivacious and sexy self.
What I want to know is how come Melba left with about 67 lemons, and I left with five.
*
Sorry everyone. I got home Tuesday night after The Melbourne Cup and wasn't in the mood to type. I planned to write the post Wednesday morning but two things happened. One, that mosquito of existence, reality, invaded, and I was forced to confront work things. Two, when I finally got the chance to do the post I found myself reluctant. I'm over my weekend wraps. There's the small issue of Obtusa reading these entries, but the larger issue is that the therapeutic value which I thought I was gaining by writing the posts turns out to be nothing but a fallacy.
In a way, the five days (Fri-Tues) shoulda / coulda been my greatest ever post. There were Suicide Girl tantrums, there was a mad and drunken party in my house with sex and fights and even a creepy room invasion. There was a band gig that involved classic rock-pig adventures. There was a post-Death family Cup Day party to ponder and examine. There was the Very Important 'Third Date' with Obtusa that of course requires subsequent reflection and decision and offer... So much to consider, and so little motivation to publish it all, other than to entertain you all. Which I want to do, but not at the expense of my dignity, which finds itself, for the moment, a little frail.
I am in a way melancholic, and in a way free.
If I ever get a girlfriend I'll let you all know.
This weekend I plan to do my weeding, and like Melba's accurate assesment of the narrative structures of contemporary Australian novels, this weekend "As Perseus takes to his garden with a trowel and gloves to rid the yard of unwanted growths, he unwittingly reflects on his own life and the emotional weeding he must attend to..."
All that's left is Discharge's 'Love Gumby' doll, with totally un-authentic tie-colour selection. And a much better tan than I have.
What I want to know is how come Melba left with about 67 lemons, and I left with five.
*
Sorry everyone. I got home Tuesday night after The Melbourne Cup and wasn't in the mood to type. I planned to write the post Wednesday morning but two things happened. One, that mosquito of existence, reality, invaded, and I was forced to confront work things. Two, when I finally got the chance to do the post I found myself reluctant. I'm over my weekend wraps. There's the small issue of Obtusa reading these entries, but the larger issue is that the therapeutic value which I thought I was gaining by writing the posts turns out to be nothing but a fallacy.
In a way, the five days (Fri-Tues) shoulda / coulda been my greatest ever post. There were Suicide Girl tantrums, there was a mad and drunken party in my house with sex and fights and even a creepy room invasion. There was a band gig that involved classic rock-pig adventures. There was a post-Death family Cup Day party to ponder and examine. There was the Very Important 'Third Date' with Obtusa that of course requires subsequent reflection and decision and offer... So much to consider, and so little motivation to publish it all, other than to entertain you all. Which I want to do, but not at the expense of my dignity, which finds itself, for the moment, a little frail.
I am in a way melancholic, and in a way free.
If I ever get a girlfriend I'll let you all know.
This weekend I plan to do my weeding, and like Melba's accurate assesment of the narrative structures of contemporary Australian novels, this weekend "As Perseus takes to his garden with a trowel and gloves to rid the yard of unwanted growths, he unwittingly reflects on his own life and the emotional weeding he must attend to..."
All that's left is Discharge's 'Love Gumby' doll, with totally un-authentic tie-colour selection. And a much better tan than I have.
So, it's come to this! Zombie kittens!
I don’t know what to do; scream in terror or say “aww, how horrifyingly cute”.
I can report that Melba, Perseus and I had a very enjoyable chat over beers and cigarettes* in a beer garden of a leading Northcote Hotel** on Sunday.
Lemons were also involved.
Beyond this, I’m sworn to secrecy.
*Although Melba was good and didn’t smoke, despite me saying “go on, go on, go on, go on, go on,” in a very annoying way.
**Not the one that’s always full of Northcote hipsters; the other one.
Monday, November 2, 2009
(Long) Weekend Wrap Preview
My Weekend Wrap will be posted Tuesday night to allow for the Melbourne Cup extended weekend festivities.
But the wait might be worth it!
How did my band cope with their second show of the 'comeback'?
Did Suicide Girl cause a scene at the gig?
Did I catchup with Obtusa again?
Who were those people exchanging bags of lemons at a Northcote Hotel?
And what of the drunken party at my house Friday night?
Will 'Leica Ding' win the Cup and make me rich?
These questions and many more will be answered on Wednesday morning.
In the meantime, here's one of my favourite ever songs, performed live. It's a good song to start the week with...
But the wait might be worth it!
How did my band cope with their second show of the 'comeback'?
Did Suicide Girl cause a scene at the gig?
Did I catchup with Obtusa again?
Who were those people exchanging bags of lemons at a Northcote Hotel?
And what of the drunken party at my house Friday night?
Will 'Leica Ding' win the Cup and make me rich?
These questions and many more will be answered on Wednesday morning.
In the meantime, here's one of my favourite ever songs, performed live. It's a good song to start the week with...
Friday, October 30, 2009
Ohhh, classy!
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Quite so.
That and "the worst Labor Government is better than the best conservative government"
Oh and "whatever you do, avoid Punt Road during peak hour".
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Quite so.
That and "the worst Labor Government is better than the best conservative government"
Oh and "whatever you do, avoid Punt Road during peak hour".
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