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".

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

World "Eat a Chop" Day to follow.




Self-absorbed bourgeois across the nation are gearing up for World Vegan Day; a celebration of narcissism, conspicuous compassion and appalling halitosis.

Independent film maker Marcus Hall said he was looking forward to the day, provided he could stay conscious that long.

“It’s really great to mingle with like minded people and assure each other what wonderful, special people we are,” he said.

“True, some people might regard this as a self-important wank-fest that doesn’t actually achieve anything practical; but those people are yucky and probably don’t even live in North Fitzroy.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to bath in my own urine.”

Organisers are using the image of the gorilla, citing the fact that it has an herbivorous diet but is known to have upper body strength at least six times greater than that of humans. Event organisers are said to be impressed by its strength and ability to live harmoniously with the natural world.

The fact that it’s a completely different fucking species and therefore completely useless for the purposes of comparison has been rated less highly.

Prominent meat eater and actor Sam Neill said “Have you ever been in the same room with Vegans? Phew, the smell!”

Mr Neill added “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to eat an entire cow.”

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

The Great Charity Swindle


I was strolling along Exhibition St with a friend, Tex, heading towards Chinatown. We were meeting my brother, Fanta, for a meal of steamed pork dumplings and cheap beer in a dark, dirty eating house located in a seedy alley where we planned to discuss obscure films viewed by perhaps just 8 people huddled in a dank theatre in the back streets of Brunswick.

"Great day, hey!" shouted Bubbly Young Irish Guy (BYIG) wearing a bright orange t-shirt and skipping over to us. "Hey! You dudes got a couple of minutes to chat about world hunger and the west's reluctance to make a difference?"

"No," I said, preparing to move on.

"Well, I have a couple of minutes," said Tex, always eager to please, and much to my chagrin.

"Great," said BYIG. "Basically what I need is for you to commit to many months of periodic payments to my organisation, Amnestfam Green-Vision, which will assist families to buy goats and shit."

"I already give to your organisation," I said, grasping Tex's shirt and encouraging him to keep walking.

"Really?" asked a sceptical BYIG.

"Yes, really," I said, sensing an argument and deciding to stay put. "I really do. I put coins in tins, I donate larger amounts when I can and I encourage others to do so."

"But signing up is really important. It means a constant flow of money, a good supply of goats..."

"I can't commit to regular payments. I don't earn much money. Like I said, I give when I feel I'm able to."

"I'll sign up," said Tex, trying to allay the tension and feeling somewhat positive after several cups of coffee at a dingy Flinders Lane cafe called The Bosch.

"But you don't earn much money either," I protested, annoyed Tex was getting between me and lunch.

"It's not much," said BYIG. "Ok. I'll need your bank account details."

"What?" said Tex.

"Your bank account details so we can make direct debits."

"You're shitting me," I said.

"I shit you not."

"I'm not giving you my bank account details," said Tex, beginning to realise he was in too deep.

"It's the only way we can sign you up."

"But I don't know them off the top of my head."

"I'll be happy to ring your bank and confirm your details. Give me your phone and you'll need to have your credit or debit card and driver's license handy."

"You're shitting me?" I repeated, so flabbergasted I was having trouble articulating.

"I already told you I'm not."

"Well fuck that. I'm not giving you my bank account details!" declared Tex, suddenly defiant.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I represent Amnestfam Green-Vision..."

"Yeah, but who the fuck are you?" I asked. "Come on Tex, let's go have dumplings."

"Think of the poor Africans while you eat your lunch," shouted BYIG, turning to a hapless business man eating a sushi roll. "Hey! Great day huh?"

*

This is largely a true story, and my attitude has finally been justified by the recent reports that many of these collectors are employed by a marketing company. This is, of course, not particularly surprising. However it means that a portion of your donation goes to a corporation and not to the kids or the goats. I'd want to know what portion makes it to the poor African fellow ploughing the field, and what portion to the managing director of Cornucopia, and I'd want this stated up front. If it's not stated, or the guy in the t-shirt doesn't know, then the whole affair can be considered a dodgy sham (as opposed to a fair sham).

For the record, I think people should give to charities if they are lucky enough to be able to afford to. But it should be the individual's choice which charity he or she gives to and when and how much.

*

Incidentally, it also pisses me off when someone does the hard sell on me in general. Whether it's a charity, a Lygon St restaurant or a professional tout on the streets of Bangkok, I will not buy a goddamn thing if somebody tells me to. I want the decision to be mine. I want to employ my free will, resist hard selling, resist advertising and resist all forms of marketing. Of course it's hard to say whether I've managed to avoid these influences, given the insidiousness of advertising. I mean, beer ads do make a great point.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Well, so much for that...

Leon Trotsky, a big fan of same sex marriage - apparently


Strolling to work the other day, homburg set at a jaunty angle, I came across a poster advertising a rally for the recognition* of same sex marriage.

Looking closer, I noticed it was organised by Socialist Alliance. I immediately thought “oh well, that’s that cause buggered then”.

My dealings with SA** and their ideological predecessors over many long years has taught me that these people are both deeply stupid and – at the same time – highly organised. A key Trot tactic is to enter an established organisation in large numbers, obtain key positions and use the organisation to spread their ideas.

The drawback, of course, is that the vast majority of citizens regard the SA’s third-hand Leninism with equal degrees of contempt and mirth and instead of radicalising the population the net effect is to make the cause a laughing stock.

Remember the Nuclear Disarmament Party? No, I thought not.

Talking to Trots one-on-one reveals they’re usually passionate, sincere and utterly committed to the cause. Unfortunately, it also reveals they’re usually doctrinaire, inflexible and utterly devoid of humour.

Not a good combination, I’m sure you’ll agree.

It’s also a bit odd because the last time I looked, the Trots were denouncing marriage as a “patriarchal, bourgeois institution”. Perhaps they’re keen on everybody to have the same right to be oppressed.

* Actually, I think they were “demanding” the recognition of same sex marriage. They tend to “demand” a lot – clearly their mums didn’t stress the importance of asking nicely.

**And what sort of pin-head chooses an acronym that brings to mind these dickheads?

A special song for Perseus

Hello everyone. Still working on my MS Paint artwork after that epic of modern blogging that followed Perseus' breathless tale of SG's implosion and the aftermath.

I was trawling through Youtube last night to soak up unused broadband before the end of the month and found this clip from Ween (one of my favourite bands ever) that is almost as if it's from the soundtrack of the-yet-to-be-written Perseus & Suicide Girl - the Musical (you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll cringe, you'll shout 'No Perseus, No!'). The song is called 'Even if you don't' and comes from their album 'White Pepper'.



I like Dean and Gene Ween. They write good music and they make me laugh. Don't judge them purely from the early annoyingness of 'Push the Little Daisies'.

Weekend Wrap

Friday night, as is my usual routine down here on the Surf Coast, I went to Surfer Joe's restaurant at closing time where a gang of about ten of us gather to drink some wine and smoke some cigarettes in the warmth of the closed restaurant. Surfer Joe was keen for me to meet his new girlfriend who I'll call Crytsal because she's a crytsal healer or something. Being that Surfer Joe is one of my best friends, I naturally made a huge effort to bond with Crystal, but after three wines the mouths were loose and I unfortunately got into an argument with her. It spanned about an hour but this was the jist of it...

Crystal: Nice necklace. What is it? Some sort of agate?
Perseus: Yes, I believe so.
Crystal: Is that a favourite stone of yours?
Perseus: No, I just liked the look of it.
Crystal: It chose you.
Perseus: No, I chose it.
Crystal: Because of it's energy.
Perseus: Maybe, but mainly because I liked how it looked.
Crystal: You chose it for a reason.
Perseus: Yes, I liked it.
Crystal: No, because you were meant to have it. It chose you as much as you chose it.
Perseus: No, I chose it because I happened to see it and had some money on me.
Crystal: But it's two-ways. Precious stones also choose who wears them.
Perseus: No it doesn't. It's not sentient.
Crystal: The Universe decides these things, not you.
Perseus: The Universe is not sentient either.

(Insert half an hour of argument... which leads to her reading my palms...)

Crystal: You had great tragedy in your childhood.
Perseus: Nope. None.
Crystal: Yes, you did.
Perseus: No, I didn't.
Crytsla: You have buried the deep pain from your childhood.
Perseus: No, I have not, because there is none. My childhood was spent climbing trees and playing footy with Lewd Bob and his brother. My family loved me and we all had much fun.
Crystal: The palms don't lie.
Perseus: Mine does. It's a lying bastard.

(Insert more arguments... but fuelled my more wine, it was becoming loud)

Crystal: What star sign are you?
Perseus: Vicrailia, the mosquito.
Crytsal: Seriously.
Perseus: I'm serious.
Crytsal: You;re obviously a scorpio.
Perseus: Wrong.
Crytsal: Then you're an Airies. You're very Airies.
Perseus: Nope. I believe based on my birthdate, I am what the star-sign nutters refer to as a 'Cancer'.
Crytsal: Ah, yes, it all makes sense now.
Perseus: No it doesn't.

(More arguments, getting heated now...)

Crytsal: I used to be like you.
Perseus: A 40 year old man?
Crytsal: No, someone searching for the Universal truth.
Perseus: I'm not searching for any Universal truth.
Crystal: Yes you are.
Perseus: No I'm not. I was once a Buddhist monk. It was a laugh.
Crystal: Then you should understand all that I've said. You should appreciate that our souls are our higher self and that the Universe decides our fate.
Perseus: That entire sentence is completely anti-Buddhist. They teach the exact opposite message.
Crystal: No, they do not.
Perseus: Yes, they do.

I went home at about midnight, and poor Surfer Joe, who was far less opinionated on these matters, was forced to endure a few more hours of her explaining drunkenly the purpose of the Universe. He rang the next day and ordered me never to discuss matters spiritual with his new girlfriend whilst drinking ever again. I really need to learn how to keep quiet in these situations.

**

I had a date Saturday night with Obtuse, who you may recall I met at Melt-Banana only two weeks ago whilst on a date (a final date) with Suicide Girl (who, by the way, is still texting... she has bought me a painting from an art exhibition and wants to me to go to her house and pick it up. I'm scared she will have laced the frame with anthrax.)

The date was 'drinks' at 9pm. I arrived at the bar ten minutes early (my Dad drove me there, and we worked out that the last time he drove me to a bar was 1987), and I asked for a table for two and explained to the waitress that it was a first date. She took control and told me not to have anything but water until Obtuse arrived, and that I should immediately hand over my credit card and start a tab.

Obtuse arrived on time.

I was of course nervous in advance. Dates are nerve-wracking, but I was put to ease the second she sat down and pulled out a pack of fags. The next three hours was spent devouring many cigarettes, two bottles of wine, and discussing art and literature. I loved every second of it. The only awkward moment was when she leant across, held my hand and said, "You can relax," and I was forced to tell the truth and say, "I am relaxed. I'm just like this."

The taxi from her house back to Mum and Dad's the next morning was $55!* Fucken taxi-driver went the long, long, way and with my lack of sleep (plus attending to work matters) I failed to notice until it was too late.

Last night I went out for dinner with Surfer Joe and Crystal plus a few other locals. This time, we didn't touch on The Universe and instead discussed GST and accounts software, surfing, and the weather.






*Obtuse reads this blog so that's all you're bloody getting!

Friday, October 23, 2009

For Stuart

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that
.

Stuart was a mate of mine from Uni days. He was one of the funniest men I've ever met, a mad bugger and had an encyclopedic knowledge of music that would put anybody on Spics and Specks or Rockwiz to shame.

He died in an accident at work.

He was 35.

There's not a day when I don't think of him.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

My God Ritchie, there's a cat on the field!

The following conversation occurred late last night at Lenin House.

Me: “By the way, who won Celebrity MasterChef?”

The Mrs: “Some cricketer. Simon Kitty or something.”

Me: “Simon Katich?”

The Mrs: “Yes, that’s him”

And talking about odd conversations; Pers old son, are you still getting pleading messages from Suicide Girl?

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Road Rules in Real Life

Last week, my sister's husband died. The funeral was yesterday. There were so many events in and around the death that one blog post won't cut it. I figure, in a few months, when it's not all so raw, I'll serialise the story here. The story has a lot of twists... gangsters, death-threats, drugs, families fighting, a bizarre 21st in Canberra, and a eulogy speech from my Mum that rivals Marc Antony's 'Brutus is an honourable man' from Shakespeare.

In amongst the emotional carnage, there was a small event that made me smile.

My brother-in-law was a biker. Harleys. He was somewhat an expert in the field of Harley reconstruction, and he was popular amongst Harley riders - particularly hardcore gang members (the types of gangs you read about in the news) and many of these bikers came to the funeral.

When it came time to travel from the church to the cemetary, the order of the procession was supposed to be the hearse at the front, then my nephew (on his motorbike), then my car with me driving my sister (the bereaved), then behind us, my other nephew (in his car), then everyone else. But the bikers saw that my nephew was alone on his bike behind the hearse and decided to join him. So, the order ended up being the hearse, then about 30 scary biker dudes on Harleys, then me and my sister. Nothing was going to stop them from taking up this position, and besides, my sister pointed out that he would've been proud of having the Harleys behind the hearse.

Because we were driving through the suburbs, there were lots of red lights to navigate, and naturally, the hearse drivers were driving very slowly waiting for the long procession to catch up. The bikers helped. Two of them in particular kept driving in front of oncoming traffic, ignoring lights, and waving through the procession, then riding back up to the front.

When we hit the freeway, the hearse took a position in the left lane and was doing about 50km p/h, allowing everyone to catchup, but one man, not involved in the procession, cut in front of my car so he was between me and the bikers. My sister said, "It's okay, he probably wants to take the next exit," but when the next exit came, he didn't take it; he just stayed in our lane, at the front of the procession.

Then, he did a stupid thing. He tooted. And gesticulated. He wanted to go faster. He couldn't get out of the lane because all other lanes were doing 100km p/h, so he was stuck in ours. Tooting bikies in a funeral procession is not a good idea. He should've just pulled up in the emergency lane and waited, but no, he wanted to go faster so he was tooting the bikers. A couple of bikers dropped back to be beside him and they gesticulated back. In no uncertain terms, using hands, legs and frightening bearded facial expressions, the driver was urged to remove himself from the procession. But he had his back up. He was enraged that we were going so slow. Maybe he had a meeting to go to? Maybe he was hungry and wanted some cake?

And so, in order to end this farce, the bikers, somewhat symbiotically, all slowed down even more, and like a gang of lions in a BBC documentary, surrounded the hapless driver and quite literally ran him out of the lane and into the fast lane, nearly causing a massive crash with the fast traffic bearing down on him. And he still tooted at the bikers as he drove away!

I saw one scary biker take a good look at his number plate.

Oh dear.

I don't know anything about motorbikes or bikie gangs, but it is surely a VicRoads approved rule (and if it isn't, it should be in the driving license test), that when confronted by a mob of them on the roads, all existing road rules are out the window and they have right of way, whether they are on your right, on your left, on the wrong side of the road or in your driveway. Just pull over and let them ride, and maybe use the free time to check your hair in the mirror and see who is on 'The Conversation Hour' with Jon Faine.

When we got to the cemetary, the bikers set up a guard of honour into the property by blocking all oncoming cars (allowing the entire procession to turn right against the traffic and into the cemetary). At least 30 cars were made to stop. None of them tooted. They knew the real road rules.

Hold the Onions


Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the King's horses and all the King's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again


Ok, I was tempted to blog about the suggested alteration to this classic nursery rhyme from 1810 but, as you can see, it's already been done and, anyway, it's probably just a beat up and, anyway, I really don't care that much because we've been down this road before and we've all got annoyed about it - perhaps even angry - and we're probably mostly over the ridiculousness of these acts of stupidity and the ludicrousness of these crimes of absurdity.

After all, are kids really going to be offended, scared or saddened by some dimwit (and clearly fictional and largely comical if we can make a judgement from the picture above) egg taking a tumble off a wall and smashing his protective shell into smithereens, and thereafter dying a horrible death while being picked over by the King's four and twenty blackbirds (ok, that's a different nursery rhyme but I'm imagining a Tarantino or Altman-esque screenplay where nursery rhyme characters' lives intersect)?

I mean, there's even a moral here: kids, don't climb shit cos it's dangerous. Eggs are, after all, things to be eaten (and that's apart from their very important role of providing a cosy, gestational home for foetuses). I personally like mine fried with a side of bacon and mushrooms and liberally seasoned with pepper. Eggs, not foetuses. Preferably on thick, heavy, European style toast if it's available. And I'll sip a flat white while I'm about it thanks very much waitress and do that walk as you head back to the kitchen that's the girl.

But it got me thinking about nursery rhymes in general. Many of them revolve around death, injury or violence. Let's look at Jack n Jill. Two stupid kids climbing shit, falling over and cracking their skulls open. Ring a Ring a Rosy is about dying horrifically from the Black Death. Goosey Goosey Gander? A guy gets thrown down the stairs for not saying his prayers. I suspect Perseus and Boogey could entertain us with a grandiloquent discussion about the merits of this one. A baby crashes to its presumed death in Rockabye Baby. And then there are the sudden beheadings in Oranges and Lemons.

This all occurred to me as I recited nursery rhymes to my son in attempt to get him to sleep last night. No wonder he has nightmares.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

30-second book review, part whatever.

A review of Heart of Europe: The Past in Poland’s Present by Professor Norman Davies (Oxford University Press, 2001).

Stalin was a cunt.

Next week, Sense and Sensibility and Sea monsters!

Monday, October 19, 2009

Dickhead of the week

News comes from the United States that the parents of six year old “balloon boy” Falcon Heene may be charged by local police.

The ABC reports:

The flight of a home-made helium balloon that sparked a frantic rescue attempt for the young boy thought to be aboard was a publicity-seeking hoax, a Colorado sheriff says.

Police say the stunt was designed to drum up publicity for a reality television series, and although parents Richard and Mayumi Heene have not yet been arrested, charges are likely to come.

There was a massive search and rescue operation and a media frenzy last week when it was thought that six-year-old The flight of a home-made helium balloon that sparked a frantic rescue attempt for the young boy thought to be aboard was a publicity-seeking hoax, a Colorado sheriff says.

Police say the stunt was designed to drum up publicity for a reality television series, and although parents Richard and Mayumi Heene have not yet been arrested, charges are likely to come.

There was a massive search and rescue operation and a media frenzy last week when it was thought that six-year-old Falcon Heene was stuck in a runaway flying saucer-shaped helium balloon floating through the skies above Colorado.

The boy was later found hiding in his family's garage

Leaving aside the issue that any father who calls their kid “Falcon” deserves a swift punch to the solar plexus; it seems this bloke has form when it comes to being a dickhead.

The internet magazine Salon reports Richard Heene has – shall we say – a somewhat jaundiced view of modern women and a YouTube produced by the family includes this little screed;

"Pussification [poo-si-fi-ca-shun]: The modern day teachings of human beings living a superficial lifestyle of consumerism, obesity, and over protectiveness [sic] for themselves and their children (put them in a corner for "Time Out") in an effort gain [sic] as many supporters as possible to believe that they are better than everyone else around them. The females are typically referred to as "Soccer Moms" while the males are referred to as "Pussies."

What a putz.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Another PSF poem about death. Yay!

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And I was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos,--stopless, cool,
Without a chance or spar,--
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Turgenev: Before He Pissed Off His Mates


We're such a literate and art-appreciating bunch here so, following on from Ramon's Monday painting session, as well as Puss's similarly inspiring contributions and the always wonderful Poetry Slams, I'd like to draw your attention to Ivan Turgenev's shorter works.

His 1852 compilation of short stories entitled Sketches from a Hunter's Album (also called A Sportsman's Sketches depending on the translator) gained him due recognition, and also drew the attention of the likes of those twin towers of Russian literature, Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky (or Dostoevsky depending on the translator).

For what it's worth - and it's not worth a great deal - my favourite of these sketches is The Clatter of Wheels (or The Rattling of Wheels...) the suspense of which surely inspired Hitchcock. It's a terrific read about a carriage journey between towns taken by the first person narrator (quite unusual in 19th century Russian literature) and his driver, in search of more shot with which to kill stuff. It's one of my favourite short stories although is rivalled - in my humble opinion - by Nabokov's best. You can read it in full here (it's not painfully long or anything, but it will give you something to do while we await Perseus's next post...or you could do some work). I don't know which translation it is but my preferred translation is Richard Freeborn's (published by Penguin).

Good day to you.

Monday, October 12, 2009

More paintings that rock!!

Jean-Paul Marat is no longer receiving visitors


The Death of Marat is a 1793 painting in the Neoclassic style by Jacques-Louis David and is one of the most famous images of the French Revolution. It refers to the assassination of Jean-Paul Marat, killed on the 13th of July 1793 by Charlotte Corday.

As you may recall, I have a particular fondness for large, dramatic paintings with large, dramatic themes and The Death of Marat has all these in spades.

It's also very, very big.

Paintings like these played an important role in spreading the message of the Revolution. For a largely illiterate population familiar with religious imagery the image of Marat, displayed in a pose similar to the dead Christ taken down from the cross, was unmistakable – a Christ like figure, sacrificed for the Revolution. The Revolutionary leaders were careful to make sure cheap reproductions of painting like The Death of Marat were widely available.

After the fall of Robespierre, the painting was removed from public display before finally re-surfacing in 1846.

Fans of Cold Chisel may recognise it as the inspiration of East, with Jimmy Barnes filling in for the Marat figure.

All's Well That Ends

Get this:

On Saturday afternoon, Suicide Girl and I headed to the birthday picnic of my good friend Spud (who is the little sister of Artemis). It was a nice picnic in Edinburgh Gardens (though the state of the men's toilets was a disgrace... on yer bikes, council) with nice food and good company. Normally, Spud has rather big birthday parties with 50-100 people in attendance and I thought it was going to be one of those affairs, but no, it turns out that this picnic was just for her inner sanctum and there was in fact only 14 of us. This gave me a good chance to see how Suicide Girl mingled, close-up and soberly, with my mates.

She did well! We were at the picnic from 2pm-6pm and she talked with everyone and I was thinking, "This is good, she can mingle!"

We then went back to Spud's flat for more drinks and food by which time we were all getting a bit drunken. Suicide Girl not only continued to mingle well, but actually made an appointment to have lunch with one friend of mine, and talked to others about catching up at my house for a weekend of fun. I was very, very impressed.

Then, six of us headed off to see Melt-Banana at The Forum. In the taxi there, now quite shickered, she even discussed with me the possibility of her and her Mum and two younger siblings spending Christmas day with my family and I was open to this.

All was travelling smoothly.

But what's a Monday on TSFKA without some sort of drama arising from the pathetic choices I make in my life?

The first sign of trouble came in the queue to get in. Doofus appeared and stood with us. You may recall, Doofus is the guy that spewed on Suicide Girl a month ago after she took him home during a brain-fade. This made her very tense. In my life, I have found that when normal, well-adjusted people get tense over something, they do what has to be done to recover, but, maladjusted and unhinged people with a bellyful of 'issues' can't do that. They let situations take control.

I didn't know it yet, but Suicide Girl had lost it.

But before I get to that, here's an aside...

I spent the first half hour of the Melt-Banana gig looking for Mr. E Discharge (who I discovered the next day was unable to make it due to a family medical emergency - yo, Mr. E, I hope all is okay). I texted Mr. E and told him to meet me next to the stage right bar, back section, near the first booth (where the rest of my gang were sitting), and I stood there waiting.

Whilst standing there, an incredibly hot and beautiful woman approached me. She leaned up close and said, "You're Perseus, aren't you?" and mind you, she said 'Perseus' and not my actual name.

I didn't recognise her. "Who is this?" I thought, "Pepsi?"

I asked her, but the band had started and it was very loud. She told me her real name, and said she had recognised me from my blog. I figured she meant this blog, I figured further that she had read my entries over the last two weeks and I figured she was on the look out. So, I figured I'd point out the characters. "That's Suicide Girl there," I said, pointing to our booth, "And that's Artemis," I said, pointing. The girl looked at me confused. She had no idea what I was talking about, so I got confused too. It seems she was not a TSFKA person, but just, somehow, recognised me, maybe from my book blog. She told me her internet name but I was all a bit freaked and I can't remember it now, but it had two words, and it was some sort of description, like 'Didactic Explosion' (but not that).

I sat back with my friends. Me and Hippy Mate decided to go into the moshpit for a few songs. On my way back out of the moshpit, I bumped into the hot chick again. Jeez she was hot. And seemingly alone. So I said to her, "We're going to Cherry Bar after this," and she said, "I can't. I'm going to The Carlton Club," and that was it.

Whoever she was, that was the last I saw of her, and who knows, she might be an enemy, but even so, wouldn't mind knowing thine enemy, so if you're reading, umm, hi.

End of aside.

The gig itself was awesome. As soon as it finished, Suicide Girl and I bid goodbye to the other four, and we headed to Leggy's birthday drinks at Cherry Bar. That's when the night went sour.

We got in there and Suicide Girl refused to mingle with anyone, including her good friend Fanboy (Leggy's boyfriend, and the one who set us up). She refused to talk to me. She started flirting with men, and if I went near her she shunned me, and started getting physical with whichever man was closest. I didn't know what I had done, so I confronted her, and she said (in a drunken drawl), "This place is so fucking boring unless I'm on the prowl,,, I only like coming here with my girlfriends," so I said, "Well, we can go home if you like," and she said, "No, I just don't want you here... I don't want to be responsible for anyone," and I said, "Okay," and I left the Cherry Bar, and that, dear readers is the last time I will speak to her.

You see, I spent six years with Andromeda 3.0 and I learnt a lot about the unhinged. Put alcohol in them, their issues arise, and they take it out on whoever is closest and nothing can stop them except years of therapy. I am wise. So wise in fact, that I knew exactly how this would play out... I would get grovelling messages the next day.

They started at 6am.... seven missed calls from an unknown number. When I checked the messages they were drunken, howling messes. She was saying, "I got robbed, I lost everything including my phone so I'm calling on my flatmate's phone... I'm so sorry, I fucked up, I can't believe I did what I did, I am soooooo sorry, call me, please call me, I love you..." and so on and so on.

During the course of Sunday she called eight more times, on two other phones, plus SMSs, all of them grovelling apologies, but six years of putting up with this sort of pattern from Andromeda 3.0 has hardened me. She can get fucked.

It is one thing for issues to arise. It is another to take one's insecurities or turmoil out on the very people who can assist you with these things. There's no excuse for it.

So, here I am, back to square one, but I feel, in a way, proud of myself. I am not a whipping boy. I saw the danger, I avoided it, and I am safe and secure again.

The greatet adventures are those that end safely at home.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Weekend Light Reading: The Continuing Adventures of P and H

“I once slapped a bloke who misplaced an apostrophe,” said H suddenly, as he and P strolled along one of Kalamaki’s busiest streets.

“You slapped him?”

“Yes.”

“Open handed?”

“Yes. Pretty hard.”

“But a slap nevertheless.”

“Yes.”

“Poof,” accused P.

“Why? He wrote on his cafĂ© blackboard that customers were free to choose from five types of pasta’s…”

“That sounds like a good variety.”

“He wrote pastas with an apostrophe! Pasta, apostrophe, s!”

“Did he? Why?”

“Because he’s an imbecile.”

“Well I can’t say he didn’t deserve it," agreed P.

“Of course he fucking deserved it.”

“Yes, but I called you a poof because of the slap, not the apostrophe.”

“What, do you think I should’ve punched him?”

“Indeed! It’s the worst type of apostrophe abuse.”

“No it isn’t," said H, shaking his head. "Spelling 'you’re' without an apostrophe is my nomination for worst offence.”

“I hate that. That deserves prolonged beatings. What was your relationship to this apostrophe molester?”

“He’s my uncle.”

*

“What the fuck is that?” shouted P, jumping to his feet and trying to distance himself from the marine creature that had entered the boat via H’s fishing hook (which wasn’t particularly far given that they were bobbing in the ocean in Tim Merhackerty’s decrepit, timber fishing boat which measured, from bow to stern, eight feet).

“How the fuck should I know?” responded H, poking it with his finger.

“Don’t touch it, you fool! It might be poisonous.”

“Jesus Christ it looks like that woman from Alipanopolis’s bar.”

“Throw the fucking thing back in,” shrieked P.

“Are you kidding? This could be a new marine creature that’s never been discovered before.”

“Yeah that’s likely. 200 metres off the coast of Athens.”

“Stranger things happen at sea.”

“We’re not at sea.”

“What do you call this?” said H, pointing at the water.

“We could wade back from here, pea-brain.”

“It’s the sea!”

“We’re not tossing in the middle of the Atlantic.”

“You’ve been tossing in the Aegean for an hour now.”

“That’s neither a well-formed joke nor very funny,” said P.

“It has the makings of a joke.”

“The bare bones perhaps.”

“I’m going to write it down. Have you got a pen?”

“Of course not.”

“You claim to be a writer and you don’t have a pen?”

“I use a fucking typewriter! Anyway, I’m fishing!”

“So? What if you have a great idea?”

“I’ll fucking remember it. And I’m in the fucking ocean for fuck’s sake!”

“Aha! It is the ocean!”

“You said the sea.”

“What’s the difference?”

*

“We were unbelievably drunk,” said P, “stumbling through the back streets of Surry Hills on our way home to…”

“Who was drunk?” asked H, looking up from his lunchtime moussaka: they were seated in a restaurant in the shadows of the acropolis. P had finally gotten around to being a tourist.

“I told you. Me and Bambi and Lola.”

“Two prostitutes?”

“What?”

“Were they prostitutes?”

“No, Bambi was my girlfriend and Lola was Bambi’s friend.”

“They sound like pros.”

“Pros? What are you, a 1970s undercover detective?”

“Yeah, like Popeye Doyle.”

“You don’t remember Bambi?”

“No.”

“You met her a least five times,” sighed P.

“Did I? Did she go by any other name?”

“No. Bambi! My fucking girlfriend!”

“Can’t remember her.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“Where’s Surry Hills?” asked H.

“Sydney.”

“When were you in Sydney?”

“I lived there for four years! You stayed with me for six weeks.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Oh, you fucking retard!”

“Well, go on,” prompted H.

“We got back to the house and Bambi and Lola collapsed on the lounge room floor. I struggled upstairs and fell into bed.”

“Oh, I thought you were going to sleep with them both.”

“I wish! But that’s not the point of the story.”

“Too expensive?”

“They’re not prostitutes!”

“Oh that’s right.”

“During the night I was half asleep and saw somebody come into the room. I thought it was Bambi coming to bed.”

“With Lola?” asked H.

“No.”

“Was she naked?”

“Just listen to the story. It’s not sexual!”

“Fine.”

“I sat up in bed and the person in the room ducked behind a towel that was hanging over the wrought iron frame at the end of the bed. I realised it wasn’t either of the girls.”

“It was an intruder!”

“Yes. He didn’t know if I’d seen him or not so he remained crouching there. I was frozen, didn’t know what to do. It was a silent stand-off, neither of us knowing what our next moves would be. We were like that for about three minutes.”

“I’d have shat myself.”

“My arsehole was closed up due to the tension. I started thinking about the girls: they were asleep on the lounge room floor. I suddenly realised I had to be a man. I leaped up and screamed something inane at the top of my voice which contained as much aggressive swearing as I could muster, and the guy raced out of the room, down the stairs and out the front door.”

“Jesus.”

“In our drunken state we’d left the front door not only unlocked, but ajar. This guy had walked in, stepped over the girls and had come upstairs. He could have done anything.”

“Did he take anything?”

“Lola’s hat was missing but she figured that was unrelated.”

“Oh.”

Shame, Loose Shunter, shame.

This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes.

Dawn freshens. Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes,
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs
Men long for news.

Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from the girl and the boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations,
And applications for situations
And timid lovers' declarations
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled in the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep
Dreaming of terrifying monsters,
Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
And shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Man Booker winner "not unreadable crap" shock!

In a move that has the Australian literary establishment reeling, the judges of the Man Booker prize have awarded the top gong to a book that isn’t the traditional pile of horseshit they usually give the nod to.

People in black leather jackets and funky glasses across the nation said the Man Booker judges have gone too far.

Independent film maker from North Fitzroy Marcus Hall said he was disgusted by the decision.

“From what I understand Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall is an immensely readable, well crafted novel, which is exactly what we don’t want in a Man Booker winner,” Mr Hall said.

“Man Booker is all about books that are so painful they make you bleed from the eyes; books all about dung beetles from the POV of the dung, so you can demonstrate to everybody how clever you are while reading it.

“If we’re going to give prizes to books like Wolf Hall, then what’s the point?

Media personality Marieke Hardy said “I’ve got my hair in pig-tails even though I’m 30, how zany am I? And I’ve got a dog called Bob Ellis. And my grandfather was a famous communist.

“Did I mention I’ve got a dog called Bob Ellis?”

Ms Hardy was later advised to have a nice cup of tea, a lie down and to “get a grip, for fuck’s sake”.

Hey Hey Go Away


This is the best thing that could've happened to the "return of variety television". A bit of controversy to wash away any hope of this show returning for another season.

Marieke Hardy sums it up nicely and this was before the black and white minstrels sketch. What a bunch of old school, double entendre-spinning, washed-up fuckwits. I hope we never see their (the 'Hey Hey Gang') faces again. And that goes for the 2 million knobs who watched it.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Perseus's Soap Opera (cont.)

I did it again. I fucked up, but this was a reverse fuckup of the most profound kind.

For three years I’ve been a barren, single and pathetic love gumby... suddenly, I feel like a central character in a rejected ‘Bold And The Beautiful’ story arc.

Here is what happened:

WEDNESDAY

In the days following our date last weekend, Suicide Girl (hereinafter SG) and I kept in constant contact via telephone calls, SMS and Messenger while at our respective works. The chatter was always friendly, often flirty and even saucy at times. One can get to know a lot about a person online as opposed to real life because physical barriers are removed. One is not worried if there’s a bit of spinach on one’s tooth, for instance. I also reckon we are more brave talking in type rather than in person – at least at the fledgling relationship stage, because you’re not worrying about your body language or the same of the person you’re talking to; you just speak (type). Inanities, often, to be sure, but inanities help in the ‘getting to know you’ stages.

“Fucken printer shat itself,” she said on one message.

Yeah, it’s a basic message, but it’s enough to get a grip on what she does, how she thinks, what you can say to her. The funniest thing she said was about adding Kevin Rudd to her Facebook contacts and I asked if she sends him messages, and she said, “Yeah, we chat. I keep asking him for another stimulus package but he thinks that means I’m coming on to him. Cunt.” That made me laugh, and I was starting to really enjoy her banter, and we talked heartily and often. And with that free and easy chatter, walls were coming down. We were starting to open up a bit...

So anyway, it was all really breezy and charming, until Wednesday night. She was about to go out with some of her best friends. Meanwhile, I had a friend over at my house.

In came this SMS:

“I just want you to know that I am so happy right now. You have given me so much pleasure in the past few days. You have brought happiness back into my life. Where have you been hiding?”

Now, that’s a fine message, but see, I was with a mate, and we were in deep conversation, and I didn’t really have time to take it in, I wasn’t thinking straight, and, well, I kinda rushed my reply, which was just one word.

“Wow.”

I have since been informed by many people that this response was insufficient.

This was made obvious a few hours later, by which time she was shickered with her mates, who were horrified enough that their 24 year old little metal-chick suicide –girl buddy was dating a 40 year old businessman from Skegville, let alone one who just writes ‘wow’ after she blurts out her most heartfelt feelings.

The next message, later in the night, said this:

“I just want you to know that I do NOT want a relationship with you. I’m just not interested. Sorry.”

Well, fuck me dead. It’s not like I had even suggested it, or even entertained the thought. I was, admittedly, eyeing off summer... you know, summer lover, maybe, but I hadn’t mentioned it.

She had turned on me.

THURSDAY

I got to work and signed on to MSN and started chatting, but the tone had clearly changed. She was due to come to my house on Friday (she had even organised with her boss to take the day off) but suddenly she was being evasive to the simple question of ‘What time will you be arriving at my place?’.

Excuses were being flung about like confetti. Pay-day is next week. Her car was at her exes house still and she wasn’t sure if it was running, and anyway, the dashboard lights were out, and she wasn’t in the mood for seeing her ex, and she hates driving, she’s a nervous driver, and she hates buses (the other option), and she was feeling really ill, and tense, “I feel bipolar, I’m depressed I think,” she said... In the end, I said, “I get the feeling you are hesitant about coming now.” She replied, “You’re right. I’m just not feeling up to it.” I had a think and realised that was actually a good thing. She wasn’t into me anymore, she’s on the rebound, it’s starting to crash over her, and I’m suddenly an annoying and complex sub-plot in her life. Add to that, I was starting to think, “What the hell am I doing anyway? 24 year old porn chick? God, that’s just impossible.”

So, as the Thursday working day came to a close, she wasn’t coming to spend the weekend with me, and I was strangely but most decidedly relieved. One less complication for my life.

Enter Leggy.

You may recall from the MS Paint Trophy Award Winning Weekend Wrap’ post that Leggy is the new girlfriend of Fanboy, who in turn was the man who hooked me up with SG in the first place. Leggy was also the one who had offered me her friend that looked like a Horse. Anyway, Fanboy, Leggy and SG were all going to see a band Thursday night but Fanboy couldn’t make it, so Leggy and SG went together, even though they had only met twice.

Leggy and SG had a few drinks and got chatting. SG explained that she had decided not to come to my house for the weekend, but get this: Leggy, keen to impress Fanboy (by being good to me) TALKED HER INTO COMING. She apparently told SG that I was ‘awesome’ and that she should just ignore her gut feelings and come and stay with me.

FRIDAY

I got an SMS from her mid-morning, telling me that despite feeling very ill, a bit bipolar and hungover, she was coming on the train/bus, leaving Melbourne at 2pm. I had heaps of work and meetings, but calculated I would be right for a 5pm arrival.

At about 2.30pm she SMSd me to tell me she was on the train and having a panic attack.

I had to go to a meeting.

More SMSs came in... the panic attack was getting worse and she had to get out of the carriage and stand in the bit between carriages.

I SMS’d back and said, “Breathe.”

Later, she SMS’d from the bus. She wanted to vomit but the toilet was out of order and the bus driver wouldn’t pull up. She said people were staring at her and she was very frightened.

I was waiting at the bus stop at 5pm. She got off the bus and ran to the public toilets and spewed up for a bit, then came back.

So here is what I was thinking...

“I am 40. I like my life. But for the next 48 hours I must entertain a 24 year old porn-chick with a penchant for Death Metal who just had a panic attack and had to spew.”

I mentioned at the start of this post that I did a reverse fuckup.

Well, this is how that happened.

I was charming as all hell.

I had decided that this could be a weekend from Hell, or, it could be a nice weekend if only I was prepared to give the girl attention and proper care, and decided that it should be the latter because I am first and foremost, a gentleman.

I said to her, “Look, I know this has been a drama... getting here has been all turmoil. I had planned to take you out to a cafe and a bar tonight, meet the locals, get pissed and have a rockin’ night, but I don’t think that’s a good idea any more. You’re on edge, and you’re not sure about me, I understand this. I also know what to do when people are having panic attacks. I know not to expect you to communicate with me, but I know I should also offer you company, support, and something to focus on. So, here’s my plan. I know you love nature documentaries. I have Blue Planet and Planet Earth complete series. That’s 20 hours of nature documentary. How about we go back to my place, have baked beans on toast and cups of tea, sit in the dark and watch them?”

She took a deep breath, looked me in the eye and said, “That is the best thing you could possibly say to me right now.”

I took her home.

I turned the lights off.

We got into pyjamas.

I put on Blue Planet.

We watched it for two minutes.

She grabbed my hand and put it on her boob.

There was sex.

Then there was more documentary.

Then there was sex again.

More documentary.

Then more sex. I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I have sex three times in six months now I’m having it three times in one night.

Luckily, I cramped.

I was standing, and my calf cramped and I had to get off and do all these very un-sexy stretches (in the nude) to get rid of the cramp and I was thinking, “Well, she’s never going to want to have sex with me again. I look so hideous doing this,” but no, once the cramp was gone, there was more sex, so I reckon it was four times in the one night, but she would claim three.

We were asleep by 10pm.

SATURDAY

Started with sex.

Then we went for coffee and brekky and she met my best mate in town, The Mermaid (mentioned here often) plus a few other members of my local gang.

Then there was more sex.

And then some more.

I seriously feared dying. I was so puffed, and my leg almost cramped again and I think my appendix started to flare.

We went for a walk, and also did some shopping (I bought her a bikini). To thank me for the bikini she gave me more sex. We walked to the beach and she sat in her bikini as I lay beside her fully clothed. She lay on top of me.

It’s not that I’m being ungrateful, I mean, the sex and the attention was awesome and welcome, but jesus, I’m 40, and I wanted to watch Lateline.

Saturday night, everything went totally weird. And by that, I mean 'weirder'.

I took her out for dinner at a place that is run by one of my best mates, Surfer Joe, which doubles up as a hangout for me and my particular gang of locals (there’s about 8 regulars in my life here), all of whom were keen to meet SG. Because she was with me, they all laid on the charm and made her feel welcome and she mingled well enough (though as she drinks, she does ramble a bit), and all was cordial and comfortable.

Then she spoke to me, and this conversation I include below is actually a composite of several conversations we had over the course of the next three hours, but everything in here was said...

SG: I love it here. Love it. Everyone I’ve met has been so nice to me. It’s a great town and you know how much I love the beach. You may have to drag me out of your house tomorrow. I don’t want to go back to Melbourne. Ever.

Perseus: Heh, yeah, it is pretty good down here, and I have a nice bunch of mates.

SG: You think I’m joking about staying here, don’t you?

Perseus: Aren’t you?

SG: No, I’m not. I don’t like Melbourne, I don’t like my job. I’ve noticed there’s heaps of work around here. If you gave the okay, I’d just move in with you. I have fallen in love with this town, and you.

Perseus: We just met.

SG: I’m impetuous.

Perseus: I’m not.

SG: What if I found a place nearby?

Perseus: That would be weird.

SG: I am utterly besotted with you. You have to understand this. It’s blowing me away. I haven’t been this happy in so long. This is the best weekend I’ve had in recent memory. I want more, and more... and get this, that bloke I was talking to over there... he was trying to pick me up and I said to him, “I’m Perseus’s girlfriend”. I actually said it, and meant it, and want it to be true.

Perseus: But only three days ago you said you didn’t want to have a relationship.

SG: Yeah. Dumbest thing I’ve ever said. I didn’t even mean it when I said it... I just said it because that’s what I’m supposed to say after only splitting up with a guy a few weeks ago. But, what the hell... I was only with him for a few months and hated it. I don’t even consider it a relationship. I feel like I’m ready now to be in a real one.


My take on all this was that she was on some sub-conscious level over-compensating for turning on me earlier in the week. It turned out, I was a harmless, nice enough guy with a pretty cottage by the beach who can afford dinners in restaurants, and bikinis. The weekend was turning out much better than she had feared – the panic had subsided and she was happy. Add beer to that, and she was getting emotional and letting the euphoria cloud her judgement, so, I decided I had to nip it in the bud, so I pulled out the line that always scares young women away...

Perseus: I want babies.

SG: What?

Perseus: I want babies. It’s a non-negotiable for me, if I’m in a relationship. I’m 40, and I’m starting to panic that I’m not going to have a baby. Now, it’s all well and good for me to bring this up with a woman in her 30’s, but you’re only 24 and you want to travel and do all those things that 24 year olds do, and so you should, so we can’t have a relationship anyway. I would never ask it of a 24 year old, even if she loved me. It’s unfair of me. I won’t do it. There was this other chick, Ponygirl... I never asked her, but she did make it clear she wasn’t interested and wouldn’t be for a long time. She dumped me because of age-gap, and she was older than you. So, you know, I’m very flattered, but, we just can’t have a proper relationship because of this...


She stared at me for a bit, in what I thought was shock or anger, but I was wrong, very wrong.

SG: So, if I have babies?

Perseus: What?

SG: You want babies? You can have them. I want them too.

Perseus: Yeah, but later.

SG: Now.

Perseus: What?

SG: I’ve wanted them for two years now. I’ve just never told many people, because when I do tell it to people they tell me off and treat me like I’m sort of freak for wanting to have a child so young.

Perseus: Ummm...

SG: I say that I want to travel, because that’s what I’m supposed to say, but you know what? Haven’t planned anything, haven’t saved anything, never had any intention to go away. The thought of being away from my family for more than a month terrifies me. You know what I want? To find myself an awesome man, and move in with him and have three children and live in a house and maybe own a shop in a country town by the sea.

Perseus: Has someone scripted you for my benefit? There’s a hidden camera somewhere, isn’t there?


The reverse fuckup was complete.

**

After the pub shut, there was a small party at my house, about 12 people, but it was noisy. There were these two girls there, local girls, but I hardly knew them. They were being really quiet, drinking water, while the other ten of us were being loud and silly. The two girls got up and left, saying polite goodbyes. They walked out into my courtyard and Suicide Girl yelled, “Come back when you get a personality!”

I live in a small town. They were local girls. You do NOT say these sorts of things. You can think them, but you don’t say them. It made us all feel a bit awkward because a couple of my mates who were there in my kitchen were good friends with the quiet girls, and they were offended at what SG had drunkenly yelled. But, because she was new in town, and with me, they didn;t say anything to her. But, one of them pulled me aside and said, “She’s sexy, I’ll give you that, but if she’s moving in, you have to take responsibility for her mouth. She’s a loose cannon, Perseus.”


SUNDAY


I was in a blur. Her gaffe at the kitchen table was worrying me, even though she had said and done everything else right on the night. I brought it up, and she was very apologetic, sincerely so, but I was thinking, “Well, that’s the second time in three weeks she’s had to apologise profusely after doing something totally stupid when she’s drunk.”

In my head, I was building up pros and cons.

PROS
She likes me
The sex is good, if not a bit too frequent for my fragile body
She wants babies
She wants to live on the coast
She’s happy to work in a shop by the coast
She’s 24
She likes documentaries
She’s a homebody
She was very kind to my cat

CONS
She’s a loose cannon
She has panic attacks
She talks shit when she’s drunk
She’s 24

In fact, I was thinking (but not saying)... you can take the girl off the pig farm, but you can’t take the pig farm out of the girl. You can pierce her clit and make her a nude pinup girl, but she’s still a pig farmer. But I kinda like that. But it kinda can't last. Or can it?

We had sex two more times.

Because I couldn’t bear the thought of her having another panic attack, I drove her all the way to Melbourne Sunday night (along with the Mermaid, who wasn’t happy with SG’s choice of Norwegian Death Metal in the car, so she watched Seinfeld on her laptop the whole way).

**

I spoke with Fanboy about all of this and he said, “You idiot! Your dream girl is a mid-20’s goth chick who wants babies and likes coastal towns. I find this dream girl for you and you’re being all weird. She’s your dream girl! Knock her up!”

But what of love? I ask, like a spastic Romeo. I don’t love her. Yet. Maybe never will. Maybe I will though. But she’s a loose cannon! She’ll start a fight. She’s a fighter. She punches blokes. She’ll punch a local and it’ll be on... Oh, something’s wrong. It’s just not sitting well with me. Oh, the confusion, the confusion.

I don’t know what to do.

Oh, I can't deny it any more, here's the fucking problem: Ponygirl emailed from Peru and she’ll be back for Christmas.

I'm an idiot.

(In next week’s episode of Bold and The Beautiful, Perseus and Suicide Girl attend a Japanese noise band concert and in the process meet Mr. E. Discharge).

Monday, October 5, 2009

I wish I'd said that

"Step outside and say that, fat boy"


I dip into the Australian these days more in despair than hope, but this piece about writers going the knuckle on other writers rather amused me.

Especially this bit;

A new book of "literary invective" has brought together evidence of how writers really view other writers. It shows that some authors are at their most inventive and scabrous when sinking their teeth into other literary stars.

Take Jane Austen, one of the most revered and enduring English authors. Mark Twain, the American writer, was so irritated by Austen that he wrote in one letter: "Every time I read Pride and Prejudice I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin bone."


Quite.

Although oddly enough, it refers to Kathy Lette as a "novelist", instead of "geological outcropping", which is the correct term when talking about Kathy Lette.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

London Turns it Around


Bob contesting the origins of Bangers and Mash with the Barman at Charles Dickens' local 'The Lamb and Flag'.


I've just returned from a two week trip to London. Last time I was there was 2002 and at that time I found the place staggeringly expensive. The exchange rate was around 30c to the pound and I distinctly remember the Missus and I buying 2 tuna sandwiches and 2 coffees for around forty fucking dollars and walking out in, respectively, a fury and an apologetic smile. Despite staying with friends in Maida Vale for the duration of our stay for the low price of nothing, we got out of London as quickly as we could: every time we moved it cost us.

This recent trip was for work, although I did manage to fit in enough beer drinking to satisfy even the hardiest among us. And I discovered this: in 2009, London is cheaper than Melbourne.

There, I said it.

Sure the exchange rate is much more in our favour (around 50c to the pound), but even so, things have changed somewhere. Either Melbourne has become very expensive, or London and the UK - as a result of the GFC perhaps - has become much, much cheaper. Beer was marginally cheaper than Melbourne (around 3 quid 30p for a pint), food was cheaper (perhaps 3 quid for a large, filled baguette), travel was cheaper, books were cheaper, petrol was cheaper.

I was most pleasantly surprised. Also, the sun shone, unlike during my previous 2 visits which had me believing London was a grey, morbid shithole.

On the flip side, London public transport commuters are the most depressed, rude and stupid group of people on the face of the Earth.

You're Joking, Right?



It's a joke, isn't it?

You're not really calling it that are you?

My friend said it tasted 'velvety' so she actually entered your competition with 'velvemite'. I said she wouldn't win because it sounded too much like 'vulvamite', so she put in a second entry, "Vegemite: Velvet".

Are you trying to tell me iSnack 2.0 beat that?

No.

Surely not.

Really?

Well, you're a cunt, Kraft.

Here's a list of names for your product that are better than iSnack 2.0

BVUFJS34ANVDS[ONJK
DEAD PUPPIES
CUNT YEAST
SMEGMAMITE
MICROSOFT
ZIMBABWE
WAKE ME UP (BEFORE YOU GO GO)
STAPLER
VEGEMITE II
SATAN WILL RISE
FRANK PENHALLURIC, THE REBEL TRADER
CDYSJQA[pvfjosp333
WHAT?
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
NICE TITS

Change it. Now.