Science rocks!

The other day I received my free H1N1 (swine ‘flu) immunisation, thanks to the Australian Government.

This was a good decision and I would urge people who can safety receive this vaccine to do so, for a number of reasons.

One. Although the H1N1 virus has not caused the same number of deaths in the western world as it did in Mexico, this is still a still a relatively new virus and we have no idea how it will mutate and whether it will become more virulent. It therefore makes sense to be vaccinated now, rather than later when the next ‘flu season arrives in winter.

Two. The more people who become immunised, the greater the “herd immunity”. Briefly stated, the more people immunised, the less the likelihood that the virus will become widespread in the community – which in turn reduces the possibility of a pandemic and death.

Three. It’s safe. The H1N1 vaccine uses technology that is proven and has been operating successfully for a number of years. True, it does use a small amount of a mercury-based preservative called thiomersal to prevent growth of bacteria in vaccine. However, thiomersal has a very long safety record and the levels of mercury in the vaccination are not sufficient to warrant concern. Thiomersal is not used in the MMR jabs – despite misleading nonsense from the antis.

So, there you have it.

Next time you’re talking vaccinations and somebody says “oh, but of course you know it’s not safe” you can say – with some confidence;

“No, no, no, you’re wrong and stupid and evil. Shut yer nonsense before I stab you in the eye.

“RIGHT IN YOUR MOTHER-FUCKIN EYE!!!*”.

*Not recommended by most medical authorities**.

**It is, however, recommended by me.

The Adventures of P and H - The Denouement

Hugo realising he misplaced an apostrophe on page 700

“Hey, that’s my t-shirt!” shouted H, grabbing the yellow medium from P. “You know I haven’t made my numbers this week and you’re trying to steal my stuff!”

“I don’t give a fuck whose t-shirt it is,” snapped P. “Take it if you want. You think I want more fucking t-shirts?”

“I have taken it and even if you wanted it you couldn’t make me give it back.”

“But I don’t want it back. It’s a moot point.”

“It is fucking not moot. You know you’re not as strong as me and you’re not prepared to admit it.”

“Pretty much everyone’s stronger than me and I don’t give two fucks.”

“You do give two fucks. You’d like to be stronger.”

“Not enough to actually bother doing anything about it. Anyway, I’m faster than you.”

“As if that matters."

“Well why does strength matter?” said P, straightening up, having folded his 400th t-shirt of the day. He sealed his fourth box with brown tape and pushed it across the table to Rancid. Rancid carried the box to the warehouse where the trucks would pick them up later that evening.

“Fucking hell,” said H. “You finished your fourth already?”

“Yeah, because I don’t stand around whingeing about everything all day like some fucking moron.”

“I haven’t even finished my third.”

“Oh well. I’m off. I’ll see you back at the flat.”

“Don’t go yet! Help me with the rest of mine and then we’ll finish quicker.”

“What do you mean ‘we’, white man? I’ve finished mine and I’m going home for cigarettes and a bottle of wine.”

“You selfish cunt!" creamed a suddenly panicky H.

“Fuck you.”

“When’s fucking Vince arriving?”

“Vince? Who the fuck’s Vince?”

“Your mate, Vince.”

“I don’t have a mate called Vince. I don’t have mates for that matter.”

“Fuck off. You know, Vince. The cunt who fucked up the lighting during my play.”

“You appear to be senile.”

“Oh, not Vince. Arne!”

“Arne?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean Earl?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know when he’s arriving. Sometime between March and December he said.”

“So he’s really narrowed it down.”

*

“I bet you can’t read Les Miserables in one sitting,” said H suddenly, putting down his newspaper and looking across the filthy room at P.

“Why the fuck would I want to?”

“I didn’t say you’d want to, I just said I bet you can’t.”

“Of course I could. Anyone could. As long as you’re allowed to get up for food, water and a shit.”

“Ok, you’re on.”

“What do you mean? I’m not going to do it.”

“You just said you would!”

“Balls I did! I said anyone could do it.”

“You couldn’t.”

“Of course I could, fuckwit. But who could be fucked?”

“I’ll put money on it.”

“How much?”

“A hundred bucks.”

“Not enough. It’s days out of my life.”

“No it isn’t, you’ll be reading classic literature. You want to read it anyway don’t you?’

“Yeah, in my own time, relaxed, without you watching over me.”

“I won’t watch you.”

“How will you know I’ve done it?”

“I’ll quiz you on it.”

“Two hundred bucks?”

“Ok. Go!”

“Go? You want me to start now? I’ve got work in three hours.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“I dunno. Fifty hours.”

“Are you an imbecile?”

“It’s 1000 pages!”

“No it isn’t!”

“At least.”

“Let me get it.”

H left the room and returned directly, clutching the penguin classic edition.

“It’s 1232,” he announced.

“Well, even if you could read a page a minute, that’s 1232 minutes.”

“Well calculated.”

“Which is about 20 hours.”

“Uh huh.”

“Am I allowed to sleep?” asked P.

“No. And anyway, I reckon it’s a minute and a half per page at least, maybe even two. It’s small writing.”

“So up to forty hours! I can’t do that without sleep!”

“Just read fast.”

“I might die.”

“I’ll allow naps. Three one-hour naps. But you have to finish in thirty reading hours. That’s the bet.”

“Two hundred?”

“Yep. The only breaks are for the naps, eating, drinking, pissing or shitting. But try to piss and shit at the same time.”

“So with each break you’ll stop the clock?”

“Yeah, it’ll be like time out.”

“Ok. I’ll start on Thursday when I have three days off.”

“Ok. Do you think Lou will arrive soon?”

“Lou? Who’s that?”

“Your mate Lou from Melbourne.”

“Earl?”

“Yeah.”

*

“Jesus Christ, I gotta go to that fuckhole of a factory tomorrow and fold those infernal fucken t-shirts,” cried H suddenly, throwing down his empty can of beer. It settled amongst a pile of identical cans. “What a fucked up job.”

“Not me,” said P, cracking open another can. “I got three days off.”

“Yeah so you keep fucking telling me you fucking clock.”

“Yeah except I’ll be spending it reading fucking Hugo.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Whaddya mean? You bet me two hundred bucks!”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to.”

“Oh, what’s the alternative? Hand you cash and drink beer for three days?”

“That’s what I’d do.”

“Well I don’t have two hundred to spare. I can’t afford to lose the bet so I’ll have to read it. Wait a minute. How will you be able to ensure I stick to the rules?”

“Fuck the rules! What difference do the rules make? You either read it over thirty hours or you don’t. I’ll be able to decipher that in the quiz. I know the book intimately.”

“Fucking nerd.”

“When are you starting the read-a-thon?”

“Tomorrow morning first thing. I want to get a good night’s sleep before I start. I’ve bought a heap of coffee and cigarettes, I won’t drink, and I’ll fucken show you what a fucking intellect I am.”

“Intellect doesn’t enter into it, cock. You read it or you don’t. You don’t have to understand it. Just relate the plot in detail.”

“Well, while I’m reading the fucking tome I may as well appreciate it.”

“Fine, whatever.”

“Have fun folding t-shirts, you cad.”

“Suck this, fuck-top,” concluded H, flopping his dick out.

“That repulses me.”

*

“Let’s go,” said P, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah I’m fucken ready,” answered H, stubbing out a cigarette on P’s copy of Les Miserables and picking up his bag.

“Hey, it was a good bet, a real contest. Well done. A fine challenge! Your mistake, however, was to believe that I’d take two minutes per page. A miscalculation to be sure but them’s the breaks.”

“Fuck off.”

“Look, I’ll spend some of the money on stocking up the beer fridge when we get to Rhodes.”

“You’d fucken better, you ball-less hack.”

“You’ll get over it, piss-face.”

“What time’s the fucken ferry leave?” asked H, shaking his watch which hadn't ticked since 1987.

“In two hours so we’d better fucken hurry.”

“It’s just over at Pireus. Seven kilometres away.”

“We’d better get a cab,” decided P.

“Hey, what if Evan arrives when we’re away?”

“Who the fuck’s Evan?”

“Evan! You never know who I’m talking about you dim-witted rake!

“You mean Earl?”

“Yes! Earl!” shouted H.

“I’ve left a note and a map with Maria.”

“But he was expecting to work at the t-shirt factory wasn’t he?”

“He knows nothing about the t-shirt factory.”

“I told you numerous times.”

“Even if you did, which you didn’t, why should I have told him?”

“Making small talk?” suggested H.

“Anyway, he can get work at the restaurant at Rhodes. Much better job.”

“Washing dishes?”

“Think of the women there.”

“T-shirts pay better,” pointed out H.

“I’d rather eat shit than fold another t-shirt. He’ll thank us for it.”

“Alright, let’s get going you pin-dicked wonder.”

This isn't going to end well.

My young love said to me,
My mother won't mind
And my father won't slight you
For your lack of kind"
And she stepped away from me
And this she did say:
It will not be long, love,
Till our wedding day"

As she stepped away from me
And she moved through the fair
And fondly I watched her
Move here and move there
And then she turned homeward
With one star awake
Like the swan in the evening
Moves over the lake

The people were saying,
No two e'er were wed
But one had a sorrow
That never was said
And I smiled as she passed
With her goods and her gear,
And that was the last
That I saw of my dear.

Last night she came to me,
My dead love came in
So softly she came
That her feet made no din
As she laid her hand on me
And this she did say
It will not be long, love,
'Til our wedding day

Dead chicks, eh!

Always trouble.

Rules for Safe Flying

Captain Ardoz cops a fine for parking on the nature strip

Please be aware that flying is much safer than driving a car. Many more deaths occur through standard usage of earthbound vehicles than through normal usage of aeroplanes. Planes rarely fall from the sky or crash into objects such as buildings, mountains or other planes without a rather grand explanation.

Please also note the following list which outlines several other means of dying which are statistically more likely than death by flying:

- heart attack
- earthquake
- snakebite
- the use of power tools
- industrial accidents
- suicide by various means
- watching The Nanny
- shooting
- stabbing
- backgammon*

However, to further minimise your chances of the termination of life while on the aeroplane, please adhere to the following rules. These will also enhance other passengers' enjoyment of the flight:

1. Do not jump from the plane at any stage, unless it is still on the tarmac and preferably stationary or moving at a very slow rate.
2. Do not shoot any pistols, revolvers, rifles or other firearms or detonate any ordnance of any kind while in the cabin. If a bullet must be fired, please ensure it lodges in a seat, a passenger or the food cart.
3. Do not eat the fish, even if the stewards encourage you to do so, or indicate its safety by eating a bit first.
4. While in the cockpit, please avoid touching buttons, switches or the pilot unless specifically instructed to do so by the pilot or somebody wearing his hat.
5. Do not attempt to open a window as these are usually fixed. If the plane gets hot, try fanning yourself, fanning the person next to you or removing articles of clothing, preferably your own.
6. Do not attempt maintenance on doors or windows, even if they appear to be malfunctioning. Opening doors can be dangerous and should only be done under strict supervision and preferably only for a short period of time at cruising altitude or by a two thirds majority of business class.
7. Do not fly in an aeroplane piloted by a child, a drunk or an animal. If the plane is captained by a woman, it is usual to enquire whether the plane will need to be reverse parked.
8. If the pilot appears to be distracted (e.g. eating popcorn, reading non-aviation magazines or studying the aeroplane's instruction manual), you should assume the 'brace' position for the entirety of the trip.
9. Do not attempt to 'pop the hood' as this can cause immediate depressurisation.
10. If the plane crashes in water, be first to the door to ensure a good spot on the raft.
11. If the plane crashes on land in an isolated location, collect any food available to ensure you will not have to eat other passengers.
12. Do not play any sports during the flight, especially football, rugby and javelin.
13. If the passenger adjacent to you is snoring with his/her mouth open, do not be tempted to pop peanuts into his/her mouth, as he/she may be allergic.
14. Do not bring dangerous animals onto the plane unless they have their own ticket.
15. Do not rub up against any other passengers if you have a contagious skin disease.
16. Do not invite fascists, dictators or tyrants such as Stalin, Hitler or Mussolini onto the plane, as they tend to upset others.
17. If a doctor is called for, don't pretend to be a doctor, paramedic or pharmacist if you are not one. If you are a doctor of meteorology, mathematics or literature, these are almost certainly not the types of doctors required. In the rare case that a patient is dying of lack of understanding of the weather/trigonometry/the complete works of Pushkin, your services may be required.

Have a pleasant trip and thanks for flying Garuda.

Regards,

Untung.


* factually incorrect

PQs Top 10 Songs of the 2000s: No.9

I like The White Stripes. Particularly their first three albums when they were more about rockin' out and singing about 'my baby' and gettin' it on and all that shit. Since then, they've got a bit earnest for my liking. But two of their early songs, 'Fell In Love With A Girl' and 'Let's Build A Home' were shortlisted for my Top 10 but neither made it. They did get into the Top 40 though.

That could've been a blow for old-skool lo-fi two-piece drums n' guitar rock music, but enter, at No.9, the band called No Age.

No Age are the same lineup as White Stripes. Drums and a guitar, and that's it. Like White Stripes, they rock out (though where White Stripes have that blues influence, No Age seem to have come via the artcore/grunge school), but beyond the similarities end. White Stripes are cool, hip, stylish. No Age are dags. They're just two suburban kids, rockin' out.

They have a couple of EPs out and one album that was released in 2008 called 'Nouns' and it is fucking awesome. It's rock, it's punk, but it's also very lush and soundscapey. They have found a 'sound' that suits them, the way they play, and the result is one of the best albums of the decade.

I think what I love about the band is their everydayness... I grew up in the 'burbs and I like rock music. It's like they are what I wished I was, or something.

The song I have put in at Number Nine is Eraser, which is Track 2 of the the Nouns album. Track 1 is a kind of noise piece, so this song heralds the rest of the album. It's like the gateway to the masterpiece.

I have included below two videos, and I urge you to watch them both.

The first is them performing the song live on a TV show. They actually do a pretty poor version of the song, like, really shit, in fact, if you watch it you'll think 'how the hell did he put that at number 9'? But the background story of the performance, as you will see, is interesting, and you do get to see them totally raw.

The second video is the actual videoclip, where you hear the song as it appears on the album, so really, if you could only be bothered to watch one, watch the second clip... which, by the way, wins my 'Best Videoclip of the Decade' award. It is a strangely beautiful video.

Here is the first video, where they play it badly.




Because the second video is issued to You Tube by the record company, I can't embed it so THE CLIP IS HERE.

Enjoy.

Oh, and Weekend Wrap. Got a kitten. 6 weeks old. Male. Meet Lord Byron:




Is it gay to own two cats when you're a single, neat male?

The Dutch

Nigel Powers:
There's only two things I hate in this world. People who are intolerant of other people's cultures, and the Dutch.

I happen to quite like the Dutch. I like their bread, tulips are my favourite flower and Amsterdam is a fucken great place to kill an hour. And it's not just the drugs, although I did smoke a reasonable amount of hash there when I passed idly through in 1992 on my circuitous way to meet Perseus in Athens. It's the canals, the streetscapes, the buildings. The cafes in Jordaan, the pubs of Leidesplein, the buzzing markets full of useless stuff nobody needs. The people are friendly, they cycle everywhere, they speak excellent English - much better than my Dutch - and the beer is outstanding, despite the mediocre but ubiquitous Heineken.

So what did the Dutch do to provoke the ire of the British? I mean, let's look at the following examples of English idioms, most of which are at least vaguely derogatory:

"In Dutch with the wife." Implying that Dutch women are ball-breakers? Perhaps. I particularly like this expression. Almost as good as "In the doghouse".

"Dutch courage". Courage obtained from drinking. Does this infer the Dutch are wimps, and only gain courage from drunkenness? Probably.

"To go Dutch." To pay for one's own meal. Surely a shot at the alleged cheapness of the Dutch.

"Dutch tilt/Dutch angle". A tilted camera angle, particularly in film. Are the Dutch so drunk they can't keep the camera steady?

"A Dutch Act." Suicide, which is often regarded as cowardly.

"Dutch Auction." Effectively an auction where the price goes down instead of up. It's a twist on the supposed stupidity of the Irish. (Incidentally, you think the Irish are dumb? Scotch finger biscuits.)

"Dutch Oven". Sure it has culinary connotations but, let's face it, it's all about farting in bed and pulling the sheets over your girlfriend's head.

"Double Dutch." Shit that nobody understands.

Not to mention quite a number more, however dubious, on this list.

I love the Dutch, but I love the English language more.

The Adventures of P and H, Part 3

“Whose dog is that?” asked P, taking a seat opposite H and cracking open a beer.

“Maria’s.”

“What a fucken ugly mutt.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“It’s the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen!”

“What about that creature we hauled in when we went fishing?”

“I question whether that was a creature.”

“Yeah it looked more like a turd with eyes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Did we name it?”

“Not the turd, the dog.”

“Oh. Mustard. Well, that’s the translation.”

“So he won’t answer to mustard?”

“Nuh.”

P sipped at his beer.

“Did you know that Brent Walker pulled off a horse?” he asked.

“Pulled what off a horse?”

“Pulled off a horse.”

“Where to?”

“What? He pulled the horse’s cock.”

“What for?” asked H.

“To see if it would cum.”

“And did it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. I thought you meant he pulled it just once, rather than repeatedly.”

“And you’re not surprised that he pulled off a horse?”

“No, I’ve met the guy. Seems like something he’d do.”

“I guess so.”

*

“Look at this bloke,” said P, nudging H and indicating a German backpacker who was the t-shirt factory’s latest employee. The German was working at a hell of a pace. “He’s going to make us look bad.”

“Nah. That pace is unsustainable.”

“He’s been going at it for a while.”

“I’ve seen cowboys like this before. They fold like crazy for a couple of days then burn out suddenly. Nothing to worry about. He’ll be back in Frankfurt by Friday.”

*

“You ever had warts?” asked H, studying the palm of his hand.

“No,” answered P, stabbing at a typewriter he’d bought from the Kalamaki market for about three dollars. It had no S. He uzed Zs inztead.

“I think I have one on my hand.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I’ve had them regularly over the years. I know what to look for.”

“Terrific.”

“You know I once had warts on my anus.”

P was suddenly listening. “What was that?”

“I had warts on my anus. A cluster.”

“I’m not interested, you dirty pig.”

“Yes you are, you stopped typing.”

“I have writer’s block. Did you get fucked by a man with a warty cock?”

“That’s what the doctor asked, although somewhat more diplomatically. But no. I have this habit of scratching my arse in my sleep. I made the mistake of doing it while I had a wart on the tip of my finger…”

“Not listening anymore.”

“…and the anus, unfortunately, is an ideal breeding ground for the virus. It was more than happy to take up residence and proliferate. I thought I had anal cancer for a minute.”

“How did you get rid of them?” asked P.

“The doctor tried to freeze them off with liquid nitrogen.”

“Tried? Did he miss?”

“No, he nailed them but it didn’t work. So then he had to cauterise them.”

“Cut them into four?”

“No, dickhead, burn them.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Of course it fucken hurt! He burned warts off my arsehole!”

*

"Look what I bought, “ said H, holding up a box.

“What the fuck is it?” asked P. “A box?”

“Yes, it’s a box. Was the box included in the price of the transaction? I should hope fucking not. It was provided as a gratuitous added-extra. The contents, you see, would have been difficult to transport in any other way.”

“Well what the fuck’s the contents?”

“Allow me to show you, my ludicrous associate.”

H opened the box, placed his hand inside and revealed a turtle, its legs slowly floundering as he turned it over.

“What’s that?" asked P. "A terrapin?”

“What! Are you insane? Who guesses terrapin?”

“Well what is it?”

“What do you mean?” asked H, forgetting that he was still holding the turtle.

“I mean, you cretin, what the fuck is it?”

“Are you toying with me? Have a fucking wild guess!”

“A turtle?”

“Oh, you’re a genius! Perhaps I missed the part where you obtained your marine biology degree.”

“Why do you have a turtle?”

“I have two turtles,” answered H, revealing the second one. “I intend to call this one Raskolnikov.”

“Which one?’

“Doesn’t matter. Um, this one!” He held up the turtle in his left hand. “You can name the other one.”

“Raskolnikov II.”

“Surely you should’ve called him Razumikhin.”

“Why?”

“You can’t just call the other one Raskolnikov II!”

“Why not?”

“It’s unimaginative, uninspired and it shits me.”

“Too bad. You told me to name it. Anyway, what do you mean 'should’ve'? If anything, I should have called it Porfiry Petrovich. Or maybe Sonya!”

“Either of those would have been good! Even Dunya!”

“You can’t annul the naming. Deal with it.”

“Fucking hell. When’s your buddy Ertapp arrive?”

“Firstly, dickwad, I don’t have buddies. Secondly, his name is Earl. Thirdly –and for the last fucking time – I don’t fucking know!”

“Well the t-shirt factory needs more workers.”

“You got shares in that fucking place?”

H looked down at himself, his filthy clothes and the sparse nature of the flat.

“Yeah, I have a share portfolio.”

I used to have a car like that.

Childe Harold, wondering where he parked his car.

Did ye not hear it? -- No; 'twas but the wind
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet --
But, hark! -- that heavy sound breaks in once more
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is -- it is -- the cannon's opening roar!

How about I define scrotectomy instead?

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??

'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.