Boy, 14: I wonder what would happen if I got my dick out.
Girl, 11: Out of where?
Boy: Out of my pants.
Girl: Do you need to wee?
Boy: No, but I have this evolutionary and totally instinctive desire to get it out.
Girl: Well I don't care, whatever.
Boy removes penis from trousers.
Girl: Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?
Boy: My dick.
Girl: Is that what they look like?
Boy: It's what mine looks like.
Girl: Shit, it's fucking disgusting.
Boy: Fair go! I bet your dick is ugly too.
Girl: I don't have a dick.
Boy: What do you have?
Girl: A front bottom. And it certainly doesn't have those revolting hairs around it like yours.
Boy: What the fuck's a front bottom?
Girl: A girl's penis.
Boy: I don't even know what the fuck that means.
Girl: Whatever.
Boy: How do you piss?
Girl: None of your business.
Boy: What would you think if I put my dick in there?
Girl: What the fuck for?
Boy: I dunno. See if it fits.
Girl: Yeah, whatever, I don't care.
*
Girl, 11: Mum!
Mum: What?
Girl: My belly's starting to get bigger.
Mum: Show me.
Girl reveals belly.
Mum: Oh my God! You know what this means?
Girl: No.
Mum: It means we're going to have to cut down to five meals of Maccas per week.
Girl: Aw mum!
*
Girl, now 12: Hey, Boy.
Boy, now 15: What, Girl?
Girl: The doctor says there's a baby growing in my tummy.
Boy: In your tummy?
Girl: Yeah.
Boy: How the fuck did it get in there?
Girl: How the fuck should I know!
Boy: Did the doctor tell you how?
Girl: He said my mum would tell me.
Boy: Yeah, your mum's pretty smart.
Girl: Yeah. She knows the price of everything at the supermarket.
Boy: Cool.
*
Dad: Whose fucken baby is it?
Girl: Mine.
Dad: But who else's?
Girl: Nobody's.
Dad: There must be someone else.
Girl: There isn't, I swear.
Dad: Jesus Christ. Get me a bourbon and coke will ya.
Girl gets Dad a Woodstock pre-mixed can while he lights up a Winnie Blue.
Dad: That's better. So, who the fuck did you sleep with?
Girl: Last night?
Dad: Last night! Anytime!
Girl: Golly.
Dad: Who the fuck's golly?
Girl: My gollywog!
Dad: Oh Jesus Christ, you fucking little shit! Mum! She's going to have a black baby!
*
Uncle Glen: She was always a good girl. She's the best shot in the family. She could hit a tin can from forty paces. Fuck me if she didn't know how to rope a steer. Christ, who the fuck's going to plough the back paddock now she's knocked up?
*
Auntie Gladys: She was always trouble. Always had a thing for the boys. God knows I slept with boys at 11, but I made them shoot their filthy stuff into the dirt. Girls weren't stupid back in my day. I didn't have my first kid 'til I was 15.
*
Midwife: Push!
Girl: Push what?
Midwife: Push the baby out!
Girl: what with?
Midwife: It's ok, there it is, it's a boy!
Girl: Thank God, Dad woulda killed me.
Boy, 15: What's his name?
Girl, 12: Rawlings.
Boy: Cool. What do you think about getting its ears pierced?
Perky Sounding Chick Who None-the-less is Probably on Minimum Wage and Really Doesn’t Want to speak to another Dickhead.
A baking hot Sunday at Karl Kautsky House when the phone rings.
Me: “Hello”
Perky Sounding Chick Who None-the-less is Probably on Minimum Wage and Really Doesn’t Want to speak to another Dickhead (PSCWNPMWRDWD): “Good afternoon sir. I’m from Newspoll and I’d like to ask you some questions”.
Me : “Certainly. Do you mind if I put the phone down for a sec?”
PSCWNPMWRDWD: “No.”
I then put the phone down and run around for thirty seconds making yippee, woo-hoo noises, mainly because I love opinion polls.
Having finally found somebody who is employed to listen to my opinions, we have a very enjoyable chat; the highlight of which was when PSCWNPMWRDWD asked “Thinking about the opposition leader, Mr Malcolm Turnbull, are you satisfied or dissatisfied with his performance?” and I answered “Given I regard Mr Malcolm Turnbull as a gibbering buffoon, I’ll put that down as ‘dissatisfied’,”.
I always describe myself as a “swinging voter*” in the somewhat forlorn hope that some flunky in Liberal Party HQ will say “My God, the swinging voters think Malcolm is a gibbering buffoon. We’ll have to axe him at once.”
Even if I was still writing Weekend Wraps all that I'd have written about this weekend just gone is that my garden got weeded until the point that my hand cramped and went into a semi-permanent claw and I had to stop.
I have ideas though for three weekly posts to keep you all entertained. The first, to be posted on Mondays for the next ten weeks (subject to availability) is my Top 10 songs of the 2000s.
I apologise profusely to Lewd Bob in advance for the following reasons.
1. Lists are Lewd Bob's schtick. Nobody compiles lists like he does. He has a list of his Top 10 Italian films from the 1950's. But now here I am doing a list.
2. He will be furious that I am not doing a 'decade' Top 10, which would still be a year away given correct mathematics (2001 being the start of the decade). When the world kept referring to the 2000 New Year as 'the new millenium' Lewd Bob nearly went postal.
3. He will also be furious that I thought of doing a Top 10 Songs post on this site before he did, because he knows more about music in the 2000s than I do. But, by way of recompense, Bob, I suggest that once I finish my Top 10, you can do yours.
4. Some of the acts in this list I only know about because he told me about them.
I also want to apologise to you all for posting something not nearly as exciting as my love gumbyness, but for my every Wednesday post I may have come up with a decent compromise. But you'll have to wait. Anyway, on with the Top 10, which I'm scared only Pepsi and Bob will take any interest in anyway.
THE RULES
No band or act can have two songs in the Top 10. When I did my real Top 10, one act had three songs, and two others had two songs. I realised that would make the list less entertaining so I just picked my favourite song from those acts.
Also, I banned cover songs, which meant the Pink Mountaintops cover version of Joy Division's 'Atmosphere', and Johnny Cash's cover version of Nick Cave's 'The Mercy Seat' missed out, even though both had claims to make my Top 10.
A POINT
It hurt to make this list, because I had to leave out so many great songs. For the record, Cat Power's 'Werewolf' came in at Number 11, so that I guess is the one that hurt the most. Beautiful song.
NUMBER TEN
Someone spoke to someone about my band and anyway, we were invited to Hobart to play some shows. We played one Thursday night at a pub called 'The Republic' which is their version of Melbourne's The Espy. It is the place to play.
Anyway, we were out the back talking to the owner of the band and he says, "Some American wanted to play here tonight but I'd never heard of him so I said no. His agent was begging me to cancel you guys, and then the artist himself rang me and asked if he could play tonight, even as a support, because it was the only night he could do Hobart, but I stuck to my guns and said no. I forget his name. Bick 63 or something."
"It wasn't Buck 65 was it?" I asked in horror.
"Yeah, that's him," said the owner.
"Oh, my, fucking, God," I said. "You bumped him for us? He could've supported us?"
"You know him?" asked the owner.
"They guy's a fucking genius!" I yelled, angry at the owner for putting my band before Buck 65. "He's a cowboy who does hip hop!"
Anyway, we played the gig, and I was half-tempted afterwards to make a permanent poster saying, "Perseus's Band... They chose us over Buck 65".
Buck 65's real name is Richard Terfry and he's a Canadian, not an American as the pub owner suggested. He jumps around genres and every album is different, but they are all very listenable. I don't like hip-hop at all, but there's just something about his soothing voice, his lyrics and his choice of musicians that sits well with me. The song I post here at Number Ten of the 2000s is in fact the first song I ever heard of his, so I guess it has sentimental resonance as well. It comes from his 2005 album, 'Secret House Against The World' and it is called 'Blood Of A Young Wolf'.
The song won't be for everyone, but I hope you can appreciate it for its uniqueness, and apreciate its soothing groove as I do. It's one of my favourite 'cleaning the house' songs. It might be hip-hop, but there is something truly beautiful about it and I never tire of hearing the song.
I have no idea what the song is about. It might not be about anything.
Unfortunately, there was no videoclip on You Tube that I could find aside from the this totally weird clip made by a fan of the song, who simply posted shots of his car to go with the music. It's fucken weird.
But, below the You Tube video I have the words, so maybe you can make your own fun by reading the words and singing along. Well, rapping along.
ten thousand horses, sable island, endless summer oh my god i’m hot to steal, beside myself and friendless number i ain't got no culture, nothing, dirty words, but that don’t count flight attendants, waitresses, superstition, good amount there’s work to do, hell to pay, memories and fingerprints calling papa ignorance and i don’t wanna go, sick and tired zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech it’s an egg and spoon race, slow and steady, desert highway, a bientot still i’m stuck, i cant afford it, picture postcard, small momento echo, shadow, echo, shadow, sterling silver, burning furnace frozen nowhere, just a kid, i had a friend named deadly earnest cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my arm praise the heavens, call the cops, relax, there’s no cause for alarm diamond rings and little babies, startlements and miracles i remember pretty faces so severe and lyrical i’m talking amelia earhart, neko case and frida kahlo all alone, the way it should be, i don’t even need a shadow seeds of wisdom, found no purchase, we don’t even have a chance birthday party, armageddon, long stemmed roses, avalanche broken fingers, going nowhere fast and screeching to a halt all that work for nothin', uh oh, whipping boy it's all my fault zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, tech, tech, tech i don’t wanna go to pieces, easy going, afraid to fly and so i’m running catching fish and chopping wood, the revolution, slow time coming i don’t know what else to do, cross my fingers, teach the children read your fortunes, storm the studios, come on all ye faithful pilgrims no more same old song and dance, some good ideas get overplayed i eat my breakfast, ride my bike, a knife between my shoulderblades see i’m a man of many problems up against some scary odds we kill, we hide, we all fall down, idiots love to bury gods it doesn’t happen overnight though, never, still i’m filled with wonder lonely like a tightrope walker, hitchhiker, long distance runner zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, good night for you bad night for me but i still love you lying down, k i s s i n g not bad, not bad, not bad at all i tried your shoes on cigarettes and crucifixes, ingmar bergman, alphonse mouzon really boring modern music, really boring modern girl get me out of here, i’m drowning, i don’t like this modern world anti-intellect and marketing, pretty, pretty, who needs talent crying eyes, we’re so outnumbered, fight for the right to remain silent what do i know, who am i, my two left feet my big dumb face i’d do the same if i had the chance, cheat the system, rig the race it’s all one big misunderstanding, inside out i turn my coat don’t look back don’t move a muscle, one false move that’s all she wrote zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, tech, tech, tech
Never until the mankind making Bird beast and flower Fathering and all humbling darkness Tells with silence the last light breaking And the still hour Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round Zion of the water bead And the synagogue of the ear of corn Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound Or sow my salt seed In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child's death. I shall not murder The mankind of her going with a grave truth Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath With any further Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter, Robed in the long friends, The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother, Secret by the unmourning water Of the riding Thames. After the first death, there is no other.
To honour the heroic work of our own Perseus, I post one of his favourites.
Pers, may all your romantic disasters be amusing in hindsight.
As I expected, Ramon Insertnamehere in real life was not anywhere near the cantankerous cunt-cunt he purports or desires to be. In fact, he was a caring and charming fellow... something I'm sure he doesn't want anyone to know. Melba was her usual vivacious and sexy self.
What I want to know is how come Melba left with about 67 lemons, and I left with five.
*
Sorry everyone. I got home Tuesday night after The Melbourne Cup and wasn't in the mood to type. I planned to write the post Wednesday morning but two things happened. One, that mosquito of existence, reality, invaded, and I was forced to confront work things. Two, when I finally got the chance to do the post I found myself reluctant. I'm over my weekend wraps. There's the small issue of Obtusa reading these entries, but the larger issue is that the therapeutic value which I thought I was gaining by writing the posts turns out to be nothing but a fallacy.
In a way, the five days (Fri-Tues) shoulda / coulda been my greatest ever post. There were Suicide Girl tantrums, there was a mad and drunken party in my house with sex and fights and even a creepy room invasion. There was a band gig that involved classic rock-pig adventures. There was a post-Death family Cup Day party to ponder and examine. There was the Very Important 'Third Date' with Obtusa that of course requires subsequent reflection and decision and offer... So much to consider, and so little motivation to publish it all, other than to entertain you all. Which I want to do, but not at the expense of my dignity, which finds itself, for the moment, a little frail.
I am in a way melancholic, and in a way free.
If I ever get a girlfriend I'll let you all know.
This weekend I plan to do my weeding, and like Melba's accurate assesment of the narrative structures of contemporary Australian novels, this weekend "As Perseus takes to his garden with a trowel and gloves to rid the yard of unwanted growths, he unwittingly reflects on his own life and the emotional weeding he must attend to..."
All that's left is Discharge's 'Love Gumby' doll, with totally un-authentic tie-colour selection. And a much better tan than I have.
My Weekend Wrap will be posted Tuesday night to allow for the Melbourne Cup extended weekend festivities.
But the wait might be worth it!
How did my band cope with their second show of the 'comeback'? Did Suicide Girl cause a scene at the gig? Did I catchup with Obtusa again? Who were those people exchanging bags of lemons at a Northcote Hotel? And what of the drunken party at my house Friday night? Will 'Leica Ding' win the Cup and make me rich?
These questions and many more will be answered on Wednesday morning.
In the meantime, here's one of my favourite ever songs, performed live. It's a good song to start the week with...
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".
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.”
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.
Posts
