| I've got a bastard behind the eyes. |
[Sep. 13th, 2009|10:43 am] |

"I have of late - but wherefore I know not - lost all my mirth; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! How like an angel in apprehension. How like a God! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me: no, nor women neither. Nor women neither." |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 8th, 2009|12:15 am] |
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I am 24 years old. I cannot believe that I just got in trouble for editing someone's Wikipedia entry to call them an 'arsehat'. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 23rd, 2009|03:47 pm] |
And ripped your fucking heart out! |
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| Catalunya. |
[Aug. 18th, 2009|03:14 pm] |
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"It is difficult when you pass that way, especially when you are peacefully recovering from sea-sickness with the plush cushions of a boat-train carriage under your bum, to believe that anything is really happening anywhere. Earthquakes in Japan, famines in China, revolutions in Mexico? Don't worry, the milk will be on the doorstep tomorrow morning, the New Statesman will come out on Friday. The industrial towns were far away, a smudge of smoke and misery hidden by the curve of the earth's surface. Down here it was still the England I had known in my childhood: the railway-cuttings smothered in wild flowers, the deep meadows where the great shining horses browse and meditate, the slow-moving streams bordered by willows, the green bosoms of the elms, the larkspurs in the cottage gardens; and then the huge peaceful wilderness of outer London, the barges on the miry river, the familiar streets, the posters telling of cricket matches and Royal weddings, the men in bowler hats, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, the red buses, the blue policemen--all sleeping the deep, deep sleep of England, from which I sometimes fear that we shall never wake till we are jerked out of it by the roar of bombs." |
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| Keeping the Aspidistra Flying |
[Apr. 14th, 2009|11:35 pm] |
"For some, including Push historian Anne Coombs, 'the co-operation between the [Builders Labourers Federation] and a section of the Push over Victoria Street was the sign of a long-awaited rapprochement between libertarianism and communism'. For others, such a rapprochement was neither long-awaited nor welcome. Frank Moorhouse, derisive of the whole struggle, dismissed it as 'a romantic alliance engineered by the women who were seeking fresh sexual fields to explore'. Bacon's reply was simple and angry: 'There wasn't much fucking going on; there wasn't much time!' Nevertheless, relationships between the BLF and the women of the Push soon emerged around the squats - Bacon and Mundey, Fell and Owens, and others. I mean, I hate to gossip, but all this is kind of awesome to me. There people who in a lot of ways seem so legendary were so much like us - the same half-annoying, half-awesome meetings, the same feelings of collective achievement, the same blurring of the social and the political, the same complexly incestuous sex lives. It's just how things are meant to be."
Sandy, Victoria St Forever Crowbar my Heart #3, Feb 2009 |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 24th, 2009|11:04 pm] |
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Oh God, we're all doomed. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 12th, 2009|10:09 pm] |
"but it did not function, as he seems to imagine, like a magic beam of light that emanated from a single brain. It was the product of institutions, of bureaucracies, and above all individual choices and decisions of millions of people. This is supposed to be a book about evil, in other words, but it doesn't even attempt to describe the base, nasty, and small-minded forms of evil of which even the most ordinary human beings are easily capable, given a base and nasty form of government...
"Yet while plenty of fellow-travelers were quite stupid, far more found the slogans and the language of totalitarianism genuinely appealing... The lesson here is not that he was stupid, but that even people of average intelligence usually ask the wrong questions, usually find it hard to recognize horror when it doesn't look like a horror movie and are therefore quite easily fooled." |
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| Association Meme, sight! |
[Mar. 2nd, 2009|05:25 pm] |
Comment to this post and I will give you 5 subjects/things I associate you with. Then post this in your LJ and elaborate on the subjects given.
Associations courtesy of missmalice.
Call Centres. Lauren and I have worked in two call centres together. One was the Metlink Melbourne public transport call centre in Richmond, soon after I'd moved to Melbourne. It was basically a bunch of douchebags wondering why a tram was running two minutes late, by their watch, in peak hour. Suffice it to say, it sucked. But on the upside, I got to know Lauren. We drank absinthe together, and our lifelong friendship began.
The second one was the Foxtel call centre on Franklin St. Lauren actually got me this job, and by this time we were housemates. I had fifteen unexplained absences before I was fired, whereas she just decided to stop rocking up sometime before Christmas. I still had enough money to go overseas, and I didn't join Salesforce's crazy Scanner Darkly brainwashing cult.
Politics. What can I say, I do talk about it a lot. Lauren has always been quite abiding in my politics rants, mainly because the only times I subjected her to them was when we were blind drunk on box wine in our dank backyard. I think I hugged her profusely the day after the 2007 election, then bitched about Kevin Rudd while we were drinking that even.
Pop tarts. Another staple of our friendship. Lauren has always known that food is the key to my heart (which is why I always tell her that her cupcakes are going to revolutionise human cuisine). That aforementioned absinthe was drunk on a two person 'pop tarts and absinthe' soiree.
Shaun Micallef. I even made Lauren watch Newstopia when it was on. We would have to wait half an hour because we didn't want to watch it with one of our housemates, and it wasn't uploaded to the SBS website until after the episode had screened on TV.
Pho'. Lauren once bought me XO sauce for my birthday. She made me tofu pho as well. Yet no matter how hard I tried to convince her, she never came with me to Chu The, the Vietnamese restaurant down the street from our house, most famous for being the single reason why I decided to travel to Vietnam in the first place.
Yes, Lauren's rad. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 19th, 2008|08:34 pm] |
From Bernard Keane in Crikey today:
"...In fact politics is more or less based around people of high principles and good will discovering that the obtaining and exercising of power involves doing bad things, distasteful things, amoral things, involves unpleasant trade-offs and not just the famous half-loaves of compromise but stale, mouldy crusts. And it’s all the more that way because its symbiotic partner, its Siamese twin the media, dislikes complexity and nuance, in favour of the same simple narratives, repeated with an ever-changing cast of characters but the same plots and moral lessons over and over again. That’s what sells. And what gets votes.
It’s the media’s job, or one of them, to make much of little and it has done that expertly for much of the year, as it does always. History suggests that, barring incompetence on an inordinate scale, Labor will be in power for several terms, but that’s not going to attract many eyeballs. Instead, the most minor political events are forensically analysed, with each tiny feature placed under the microscope so that it looms large to the viewer despite its irrelevance..."
In other news, an article appeared on page three of The Age's Saturday Insight, based on a bunch of lies I made up while speaking to the Education Editor. Boy, is my face red. Good press for Monash though. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 3rd, 2008|01:24 am] |
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All these stars, all these stars, all these stars! |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 28th, 2008|12:08 am] |
I am on Wikipedia, yo. Now I just have to contrive something really awesome to move me into the section before. Or I can do what Kelly Griffin did and edit the article myself. Why would someone do that? It's gauche. I know you're meant to prostitute yourself in this industry-of-sorts, but surely one would feel dirtier than receiving payment from a 150kg Samoan man after getting brownboxed up the bum in Laundry's unisex toilets if they edited themselves into a Wikipedia article. Jesus, unless you can afford to pay someone to insert you into Wikipedia, you probably shouldn't have an article on Wikipedia.
Then again, It didn't stop Drazic.
I've been feeling bleak and dreary all week. Nothing done, too much drinking, immune system failing on account of changes in the weather, global financial crisis, etc. Lame. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 8th, 2008|12:52 pm] |
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Turns out, you actually can't fight city hall. FUCK. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 26th, 2008|05:01 pm] |
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New blog. Did try this about a year ago and failed, but I think I've got a nice bit of momentum going this time. I got my colour scheme down and shit. |
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| 201 part two: the progressening |
[Apr. 19th, 2008|05:06 pm] |
(i) On Wednesday night, a woman came in to buy a bourbon and coke and promptly shot up in the back toilet. I spent the next little while giving her the benefit of the doubt, and though it slowly dawned on me what was going on out there, I had already poured her drink and taken her money and I was worried about a scene in front of new patrons who weren't really accustomed to sharing space with drug users. I maintained my benefit of the doubt while she asked who was on the stereo and followed with a gushing appraisal of Neil Young's harvest, though her pupils were pin pricks and she spoke as if the world was all white light and rapture and her voice was unmoderated in her complete obliviousness as to how far it was carrying across the room. It was putting everyone off, but I'd already chosen my course of action: let her finish her drink and wait for her to toddle off. And I still couldn't believe it, and she was wearing short sleeves, and surreptitious glances at her forearms revealed nothing incriminating. So I had the chef supervise her while I checked the back toilet. She was conscientious enough to put her used fit and alcohol swab packets in the waste bin. I muttered something to the effect "fuckin hell" and went back inside.
She was only there five or ten minutes. It felt like forever. By this time most of the people sitting around the bar that weren't completely sheltered had sussed it out. I felt embarrassed, but more than that, I was overcome with this weird sensation of simultaneous pity and contempt, some emotive that's probably a single word in Deutsch that wouldn't transliterate properly in English. I hated her in the way I would've hated someone I'd formerly loved who'd done something unspeakable to me. I pitied her more than anyone else I'd ever served in the bar, or indeed ever met, particularly after she insinuated she was on her way to sell herself. When I first started working there, smackies who'd just scored in the commission flats across the road were coming in every other day to shoot up, but we scared them all off. They were all men, and they were all physically ruined, and their voices were like toddlers with no teeth, and they were easy to write off as such. But I've spent the last six months behind this bar getting emotionally involved with anyone who cares to divulge their stories - and even after doing ten hours of fuck all but listening to my regulars I feel emotionally drained on a nightly basis like very few times in the rest of my life - and this was a Neil Young loving, beautiful, friendly woman who had so fucking obviously a hard luck story worth listening to; something valid and something traumatic and something horrible and something to inspire boundless sympathy which I should've been receptive to. But I hated her.
(ii) Last night, I fucked up in front of a girl I've been quite enamoured with and quite eager to impress. It's possible I didn't actually fuck up at all, perhaps it was a sin of omission, in any case. We went to Grey Daturas to witness some aural self-indulgence at the East Brunswick Club. The journey was stressful. Belligerent people on the tram, police chasing some East African dudes down the street out the front of the venue, what have you. People I just couldn't be fucked to see at the show, etc. She has excellent taste in music, I thought she'd appreciate the band from an artistic standpoint, you know? And it was funny to stand and watch them, and think to myself "I am such an absolute wanker for loving this band", and then looking across the room and seeing numerous other people having the same identity crisis. The projectionist during the set showed a human cadaver being dissected, and they looped a segment showing the coroner playing with the corpse's penis. They did the Y-cut down the chest; they scooped out organs. Suffice it to say, she was not impressed. After the last three Sundays together, I don't think she's coming around tomorrow or ever.
(iii) Jerry is a Czech man who has been drinking at my bar every night for longer than I've been alive. Charlie is the same, an old bloke who's lived in Richmond his entire life and has cavorted with numerous criminals, painters and dockers, clergymen, Richmond royalty, etc. Charlie gave me a pair of bright red braces this week. Jerry said I shouldn't walk by DTs (rainbow flagged bar down the corner of Church and Highett) while wearing them.
"Ten years ago, brewery strike jou know? My friend and I go in search of beer, we go to DTs. Big fucken Maori, tall like jou but fucken HUGE! he have big rings [in his nipples] he say 'your friend is cute,' I say 'jou fucken have him, give me farken slab!'" (toothless cackling ensues).
Jerry. Drunk by 10am. Spends the day tiling and painting, comes to me to provide two hours of comic relief before toddling off to the Prince of Wales to throw whatever money he has left into a random number generator. Also the only one of my over sixty y.o. regulars completely at ease with his life, joyously debasing himself and loving every minute of it, making friends everywhere and becoming some kind of North Richmond celebrity. He's also the only one of my regulars I don't fid emotionally draining
(iv) Another thing on the subject of freedom from fear, one day, one way. I have a horrible habit - accentuated when I'm intoxicated - of comparing people older than me to myself, and assuming that my life is going to follow their miserable trajectory. When I was living in North Fitzroy, I was over at Mon and Robin's Elgin Street abode, and offered these three guys a lift to Ivanhoe in exchange for some ganja. One of them was thirty years old and looked very much like me: about the same height, but a bit more heavy set and missing some teeth that he'd knocked out when he'd fallen over the month before. He was the worst kind of stoner, living in utter filth and telling self-aggrandizing stories that were impossible to follow with the amount of tangential information and brain fart pauses. He had the same facial features as me, almost exactly the same. And this is me in ten years, I kept thinking.
(v) It was condescending pity, after all. The Fall. I should've tipped my hat. I realized this on Friday night, when we were waiting on Swanston Street for our next tram. That's the sort of doctor/patient relationship that being in charge of the flow of alcohol teaches you, a la Jerry and Charlie. Would I have asked her her story under other circumstances? Someone was saying "get your Big Issue, support the homeless and the long-term unemployed". That's me in ten years, doncha know. For now there's plenty of distractions in noise bands and abortive courtships. I didn't buy it because my book review's not in till the next issue.
I told all this to Ben, sitting at his bar while he leaned over sympathetically and listened to my sob story. He's better at it than I am. He even lit my drink on fire with a piece of lime; we don't even have a cocktail kit. The man's got skills; I've got boring stories and red braces. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 19th, 2008|03:10 am] |
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everything's fucked. |
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| 201 |
[Apr. 15th, 2008|01:38 pm] |
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....whoever examines the conscience of the present-day European, will always elicit the same imperative from its thousand moral folds and hidden recesses, the imperative of the timidity of the herd: "we wish that some time or other there may be nothing more to fear!" One day, the will and the way thereto is nowadays called "progress"... |
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| my fucking underground track two, infinite wisdom tooth |
[Apr. 10th, 2008|01:01 pm] |
Since Pip's election party, Bojan has taken to calling me Indiana because apparently I look intrepid. I don't recall Indiana Jones ever climbing onto the roof of a Mobil and yelling at passing motorists in his pursuit of archaeological treasures.
Such a panic-attack inducing amount of shit to do and neither the inclination nor the time management skills to do it. I blame the relaxed morals and easy virtues of the present age, moreso for my popper lobotomy over the weekend.
At CSS, I insisted on doing the I like your booty, but I'm not gay dance with Lauren, despite not remembering how it went. Lauren is the best person to break into spontaneous dance with, especially with Atari Teenage Riot in the background and scotch in the liver. Now that Youtube has reminded me, I'm going to go show her. Note to self: consult Youtube for Windsor knot lessons; my sloppy knots are making me the laughing stock of Spring Street. |
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| a brief history of the 21st century |
[Apr. 2nd, 2008|01:14 pm] |
Give me Christ or give me Hiroshima! Jerico and I sat out the front of her Addison Street abode and had our conversations cut off mid-sentence by low-flying Boeings. Conveniently, it was usually when I was making quite a rambling and elementary point that my voice was drowned out by jet turbines, and by the time the plane had landed in Mascot, I could pretend I'd forgotten what I was talking about and start afresh.
It's so pleasant to have contemporaries who can call your bullshit. I'd get too cocky otherwise. Being excessively verbose often lends arguments an authority that they don't otherwise deserve. Example - the other night Myles and I were having heated Pro Evo Soccer 5 battles; extra time and penalty kicks abounding as much as the shit talking about each other's ball control. He's kind enough to defer use of the big X-Box controller to people with hands suited to it; it didn't save me this time, though. Joints were smoked. The virtues of our 3121 postcode and our Baker Street pride were espoused (He's now living across the road). Red wine, maybe? Bob Marley was insisted upon. I said that liking reggae was the domain of boat shoe-wearing, jeep-driving Young Republican American kids in gated communities. Xavier Rudd? Xavier Fucking Rudd, it was my adamant contention, was the regular soundtrack of the sort of people wearing Australian flags as capes and yellow zinc-ing "WE GREW HERE..." into their chests for pleasant outings at Sutherland Shire beaches. Bullshit was duly called. Now every time I open my mouth to impugn his music tastes, he shrieks "Cronulla!" until I stop talking over the speakers.
Newtown royalty are much more interesting than Fitzroyalty. You forget how even the boho crowd down here are staid and self-conscious. Wearing grey and gale force winds aren't conducive to some spirited sense of abandon. People are too reserved; I want to be able to raise my voice in public without worrying about a front page headline in MX. The average person is more colourful in Sydney, and even the 428 bus driver said I was full of shit when I tried to pass off my Monash card as an accredited concession.
With the family, I went to the landscape exhibition at the NGA while I was in Canberra. Turner, Monet, Cezanne, Constable, etc. I went and saw the last Turner exhibition with my father about a decade ago, and it was good to go with an open mind this time instead of getting bored after five minutes and generally being a little twelve year old shit. Unfortunately, exposure to high culture at a young age doesn't pre-empt shitty taste in later adolescence, but it was the late nineties after all and mistakes were made by all and sundry.
This time round we were all better positioned to appreciate it, but everyone I spoke to about it pre-empted me by saying they hated impressionism. Fuckers. Personally, I find something endearing in taking an easel out to a field, getting frustrated and putting a revolver to your chest - but I tend to be one of those mopey sorts that enjoys suicide-inspiring artforms. Wikipedia tells me I may be confusing impressionism with post-impressionism in this instance, which pretty much explains why I had to let fuckers be fuckers instead of making a fool of myself by arguing my opinion.
I need at least a referent of big words if I'm going to get away with talking rubbish. My history tute on Monday: I put a very persuasive sounding argument about how the author's dismissal of the dichotomies of 19th C romance was undermined by her reliance on them to explain the life story of AJ Mumby, or something equally airy. A complete crock of shit, but the tutor is too polite to call bullshit. I'm really relishing in that, and I think I'm going to spend the next eight weeks getting progressively more outlandish. So Sean, what did you learn in university? I learnt how to find the right person to schmooze, how to lie and get away with it, and that emotional abuse accomplishes more than the physical.
The other thing on at the NGA was an exhibition on Australian surrealism. There was only one artist whose work I liked. Everyone else's stuff was derivative of the better things going on in Europe at the time. Jerico and her lovely housemates and I had a sprawling conversation about culture cringe when I was talking about how much it sucked. Being Australian means you have to hold Sidney Nolan in high esteem. At a pokies place, I tested the water in the beer garden by asking J's opinion of the cultured ones that fucked off overseas (Greer, Clive James, etc.) instead of overcoming it from within. I still reserve the right to leave Australia forever and bitch about it for the next 30 years. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 20th, 2008|04:00 am] |
Here is a list of nice things people living on Baker Street have done for me in the last week: - Lauren dedicated the JAMC's You Trip Me Up on her radio show the other night. It was awfully sweet of her, especially as she sold me her V Fest ticket. - Belinda cooked me pumpkin and pistachio pie today, and served it with salad and tomato chutney while we watched Never Mind the Buzzcocks. - Kim and Ricky came to have a goodbye drink at my pub before they disappear into suburban obscurity in Oakleigh. - Gabriel told me interesting stories about getting into fights with riot police in Stuttgart. - Tony said I pour a good beer. - Myles let our cats escape, but that's okay because he made me tea and played against me in Pro Evolution Soccer 5. - Billy didn't scare me all week by forgetting to take his medication and pacing up and down the sidewalk, having imaginary conversations with an old cordless telephone. - Emmy had coffee with me at Cafe Laity and listened politely while I talked utter shit for half an hour - Rosa and Milton (while not technically people) have taken to keeping me warm at night, and have stopped shitting on random bits of clothing lying around my room. - The neighbours didn't play Bloc Party remixes at their pill come down party last weekend. |
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