A youngish singer of popular tunes by the name of Britney Spears came to Skinny City recently to perform some of her better-known songs. Perhaps you have heard of her. I must confess I had not; an oversight for which I forgive myself. I found, however, a number of odd conditions attached to her visit.
Firstly, I’m told the youngish lady in question did not actually sing, but rather mimed her way through the show. Vicarious karaoke is a new concept to me, and I shall have to ponder its worth. By all means, convey your thoughts on this matter.
Secondly – and this I experienced first-hand, as Ms Spears stayed in a well-known establishment offering short-term accommodation opposite my place of employment – there was considerable media interest in the visitation. This led to Ms Spears employing subterfuge; to wit (and I quote Skinny City’s fine daily newspaper), using a “decoy Britney.”
Holyfuck.
A decoy Britney!
Friends, I want one. Oh, no, please: not for prurient reasons; nothing lurid here. I would set up the decoy Britney on my front veranda, to wave at passers-by and cause immense envy amongst the neighbours. A status symbol if you will. A decoy Britney. I just had to write it again.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
James Moderate, citizen
One cold evening in mid June 1901 - the seventeenth, to be exact - it being too late to use the miraculous coming together of six disparate states to form the one indivisible commonwealth that would come to be known simply as Australia as an excuse, but with the death of good Queen Victoria (bless her) perhaps on his mind, one James Moderate was charged by Kalgoorlie police with being drunk.
Which can only mean, in this all too interconnecty world, that somewhere there's a chap by the name of Albert Pisshead who can think himself very lucky not to have a police record.
Which can only mean, in this all too interconnecty world, that somewhere there's a chap by the name of Albert Pisshead who can think himself very lucky not to have a police record.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
nude
Well.
Movan' did not turn out to be be quite the joi i had been expecting. That Beatnik thang about the journey being more than the arrival: that's bollocks. And, to introduce a historical perspective, let me say that when i write my 'History of the Real Estate industry' it will be a one-word affair. And that word? A noun; plural.
Here's a thing: Though it grieves me, as a very competent historian, to do this, i must. I read this mos' excellent book one time and now i forget the source. So i can't tell y'all... I can't cite, and that's upsetting. And unprofessional. But it's such a great story.
So here's what happened: This guy, from the Ravensthorpe district on the south coast of Western Australia, goes off to fight in the First World War. He goes through a bunch of shit, but survives, and comes back a changed man (no surprises there). In the early 1920s he self-publishes a book about his experiences, in which he, firstly, shreds the British officer he had served under (the aphorism that WWI Tommies were bulldogs under the command of rabbits comes to mind). Thus far, standard fare, very popular in Aust. But then he lays into the Aust Army - critical of their lack of organisation and rationale on the Western Front. The Aust Army tries to ban the book but people are having too much fun.
So this guy has, in time-honoured style, upset the authorities, including his assault on the Aust Army at a time when pride in our fighting guys was at its peak (didja know we started celebrating Gallipoli in 1916 - just twelves months after the landing took place). And i like that. But it gets better. In a fit of pique the guy returns to the Ravensthorpe district, takes up a returned soldier's land grant some miles out of town and stop there the rest of his life, doing the minimum amount of farming to keep himself alive. And he strips off. He spends the rest of his life out there on his block, naked. The locals joke about how you have to sound your car horn when you go visit, so he can put a shirt on (1920s car horn - toot, toot!!). It's a great story, and when i relocate the book i'll tell more.
I completely endorse the notion that we are pygmies, standing on the shoulders of giants. It just gets a little ick when one realises some of those giants were starkers.
Movan' did not turn out to be be quite the joi i had been expecting. That Beatnik thang about the journey being more than the arrival: that's bollocks. And, to introduce a historical perspective, let me say that when i write my 'History of the Real Estate industry' it will be a one-word affair. And that word? A noun; plural.
Here's a thing: Though it grieves me, as a very competent historian, to do this, i must. I read this mos' excellent book one time and now i forget the source. So i can't tell y'all... I can't cite, and that's upsetting. And unprofessional. But it's such a great story.
So here's what happened: This guy, from the Ravensthorpe district on the south coast of Western Australia, goes off to fight in the First World War. He goes through a bunch of shit, but survives, and comes back a changed man (no surprises there). In the early 1920s he self-publishes a book about his experiences, in which he, firstly, shreds the British officer he had served under (the aphorism that WWI Tommies were bulldogs under the command of rabbits comes to mind). Thus far, standard fare, very popular in Aust. But then he lays into the Aust Army - critical of their lack of organisation and rationale on the Western Front. The Aust Army tries to ban the book but people are having too much fun.
So this guy has, in time-honoured style, upset the authorities, including his assault on the Aust Army at a time when pride in our fighting guys was at its peak (didja know we started celebrating Gallipoli in 1916 - just twelves months after the landing took place). And i like that. But it gets better. In a fit of pique the guy returns to the Ravensthorpe district, takes up a returned soldier's land grant some miles out of town and stop there the rest of his life, doing the minimum amount of farming to keep himself alive. And he strips off. He spends the rest of his life out there on his block, naked. The locals joke about how you have to sound your car horn when you go visit, so he can put a shirt on (1920s car horn - toot, toot!!). It's a great story, and when i relocate the book i'll tell more.
I completely endorse the notion that we are pygmies, standing on the shoulders of giants. It just gets a little ick when one realises some of those giants were starkers.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
movan!
Movan'!!!
Inquilinate no longer.
Above and beyond, I am concerned by Corinthians II:14 "If a man has long hair, he is an abomination unto nature." I entirely agree, but there is a fine line. What constitutes long hair? Collar-length? Shoulder-length? Arse-length? I mean, you might be thinking to yourself, 'I really do need to get a hair cut,' but you don't have time all week, leave it to Saturday etc etc, but at the three mm per week normal growth rate, by Saturday, voila, Y're an abomination. Meanwhile, nature (whether or not equated w/ god is up to the individual's conscience) is giggling, and preparing an especially heavy tree branch to teeter just thus, a block down the road from your house on the route y normally take to the newsagent.
Or: some fucker takes intrusive photographs of you and sells them to A Current Affair, and you are = the new yeti
Congratulations.
Inquilinate no longer.
Above and beyond, I am concerned by Corinthians II:14 "If a man has long hair, he is an abomination unto nature." I entirely agree, but there is a fine line. What constitutes long hair? Collar-length? Shoulder-length? Arse-length? I mean, you might be thinking to yourself, 'I really do need to get a hair cut,' but you don't have time all week, leave it to Saturday etc etc, but at the three mm per week normal growth rate, by Saturday, voila, Y're an abomination. Meanwhile, nature (whether or not equated w/ god is up to the individual's conscience) is giggling, and preparing an especially heavy tree branch to teeter just thus, a block down the road from your house on the route y normally take to the newsagent.
Or: some fucker takes intrusive photographs of you and sells them to A Current Affair, and you are = the new yeti
Congratulations.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
BEWARE! IT'S OPUS DEI!
So at five the next morning I’m woken by a loud banging on the door. This irks me somewhat, but I have a golden rule. Always answer the front door.
It’s two men – dressed from head to toe in black; only not in the Johnny Cash cool kind of way. They speak with heavy accents.
“Did you go and see Steve Poltz last night?”
“Wha’ the fuck?”
“Did you go and see Steve Poltz last night?”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask.
“We are, ahem…” They look at each other. “Representatives of Opus Dei.”
“Oh, right,” I say, “the shadowy ultra-right wing Catholic organisation founded by Josemaria Escriva in Spain in the 1930s. Why didn’t you say so?”
“How do you know about us,” one scowls.
“Ah, c’mon. Everyone around here has heard of you guys. Anyway, what the fuck do you want?”
“We want…” The one on the left pauses…
“Look, for fuck’s sake, it’s five in the morning. If I hadn’t been drinking last night and subsequently had the alcohol in my body convert to sugar while I slept giving me a strange energy boost, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now, I repeat, what the fuck do you want?”
“We want to know if Mr. Poltz played the I got a handjob on the church bus song last night.”
That got me thinking. How I didn’t much like the look of these guys, and how I had no desire to accommodate them. How totally uncool it would be to rat on Steve Poltz. How morally bankrupt. How, let’s face it, un-Australian. And how, since I had really enjoyed the song, I was, as Mr. Poltz so correctly pointed out, complicit. No way was I telling them.
“Tell us, or we will be forced to take drastic and unpleasant measures.”
“Don’t threaten me, you cocksuckers.” So Deadwood. And I’m still thinking: morally bankrupt, un-Australian etc etc etc. And anyway, I enjoyed the song immensely.
The one on the right, now clearly the ‘bad priest,’ says, “Unless you tell us, we will torture you, torture your family, behead your cat and stick its head on a pole in your front garden so it’s the first thing you see each morning when you leave the house.”
This seems a little extreme, but I tell them, “Look my friends, I am not revealing anything. It would be immoral and cowardly. And this song you mention sounds like something I might have (theoretically) enjoyed very much.
Under no circumstances will I rat.”
“Well, this is our last offer. We are prepared to replace your scratched vinyl copy of Let It Bleed with a brand new shiny CD.”
“Ahhh,” I say, “One of the recently-released ABKCO remastered versions?”
They look at each other, one whispers something, and then after a pause, says, “Yes, all right.”
“Well, sure,” I say, “He played the I got a handjob on the church bus song. And, frankly, I found it to be quite disgusting.”
It’s two men – dressed from head to toe in black; only not in the Johnny Cash cool kind of way. They speak with heavy accents.
“Did you go and see Steve Poltz last night?”
“Wha’ the fuck?”
“Did you go and see Steve Poltz last night?”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask.
“We are, ahem…” They look at each other. “Representatives of Opus Dei.”
“Oh, right,” I say, “the shadowy ultra-right wing Catholic organisation founded by Josemaria Escriva in Spain in the 1930s. Why didn’t you say so?”
“How do you know about us,” one scowls.
“Ah, c’mon. Everyone around here has heard of you guys. Anyway, what the fuck do you want?”
“We want…” The one on the left pauses…
“Look, for fuck’s sake, it’s five in the morning. If I hadn’t been drinking last night and subsequently had the alcohol in my body convert to sugar while I slept giving me a strange energy boost, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now, I repeat, what the fuck do you want?”
“We want to know if Mr. Poltz played the I got a handjob on the church bus song last night.”
That got me thinking. How I didn’t much like the look of these guys, and how I had no desire to accommodate them. How totally uncool it would be to rat on Steve Poltz. How morally bankrupt. How, let’s face it, un-Australian. And how, since I had really enjoyed the song, I was, as Mr. Poltz so correctly pointed out, complicit. No way was I telling them.
“Tell us, or we will be forced to take drastic and unpleasant measures.”
“Don’t threaten me, you cocksuckers.” So Deadwood. And I’m still thinking: morally bankrupt, un-Australian etc etc etc. And anyway, I enjoyed the song immensely.
The one on the right, now clearly the ‘bad priest,’ says, “Unless you tell us, we will torture you, torture your family, behead your cat and stick its head on a pole in your front garden so it’s the first thing you see each morning when you leave the house.”
This seems a little extreme, but I tell them, “Look my friends, I am not revealing anything. It would be immoral and cowardly. And this song you mention sounds like something I might have (theoretically) enjoyed very much.
Under no circumstances will I rat.”
“Well, this is our last offer. We are prepared to replace your scratched vinyl copy of Let It Bleed with a brand new shiny CD.”
“Ahhh,” I say, “One of the recently-released ABKCO remastered versions?”
They look at each other, one whispers something, and then after a pause, says, “Yes, all right.”
“Well, sure,” I say, “He played the I got a handjob on the church bus song. And, frankly, I found it to be quite disgusting.”
Thursday, August 27, 2009
I mean to have it; even if it must be burglary
Now this aroused me from my afternoon torpor.
Ah, memories, and none of them mine.
I think i'll raise a toast in honour. Something even the wankers in the street wouldn't drink.
Ah, memories, and none of them mine.
I think i'll raise a toast in honour. Something even the wankers in the street wouldn't drink.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Hildebrandts!
Oh, my: there’s more to this Hildebrandt thing than first meets the eye. Sometime in the northern summer of 1904 (yes, kiddies, happier times - the signing of the Entente Cordiale) Karl Hildebrand set off to walk around the world.
Why?
Well, it could have been because this was the olden days, and most everyone back then was seriously fucking lulu, or;
He was “sent by a committee in London, the members of which were anxious to find out whether a man can possibly accomplish the tour on foot around the world without asking for any help on the way.”
People, I wouldn’t make this shit up. Well, I would, but I’d cough to it if I did.
On reflection, I think reasons 1 and 2 apply.
Seven and a half years later, he had reached Jerusalem. OK so far, except by then he had been across Europe, Africa and America. America? Between London and Jerusalem? How do you get that fucking lost? Karl, mate, you should have asked for help on the way. Your stupid fucking pride cost you three years of your life and an unnecessary side trip to the U.S. Particularly unfortunate as at that time it was mandatory, under the Ninth Amendment, that any person entering the United States allow the president teabagging rights.
That’s not all: Karl Hildebrand had two masters. He was also reporting back to the German Labour party (remember them?) “with descriptions of foreign labour conditions as to housing, pay, and hours.”
Don’t laugh, you bastards; two of his fourteen companions had died by the time they reached the big J. According to the account I read, this was from “their strenuous pedestrianism and the hardships they encountered.” I say it was more likely they reached a level of boredom where self-inflicted death was a gratifying alternative to Hildebrand’s endless recital of how much Nigerian workers were paid, how many hours Canadian abattoir workers put in each week and how small were the houses in Liechtenstein.
Little more than a century later, two of his great-great-great-great grandchildren are marrying each other.
Now, I’m prepared to call it: CONSPIRACY
Why?
Well, it could have been because this was the olden days, and most everyone back then was seriously fucking lulu, or;
He was “sent by a committee in London, the members of which were anxious to find out whether a man can possibly accomplish the tour on foot around the world without asking for any help on the way.”
People, I wouldn’t make this shit up. Well, I would, but I’d cough to it if I did.
On reflection, I think reasons 1 and 2 apply.
Seven and a half years later, he had reached Jerusalem. OK so far, except by then he had been across Europe, Africa and America. America? Between London and Jerusalem? How do you get that fucking lost? Karl, mate, you should have asked for help on the way. Your stupid fucking pride cost you three years of your life and an unnecessary side trip to the U.S. Particularly unfortunate as at that time it was mandatory, under the Ninth Amendment, that any person entering the United States allow the president teabagging rights.
That’s not all: Karl Hildebrand had two masters. He was also reporting back to the German Labour party (remember them?) “with descriptions of foreign labour conditions as to housing, pay, and hours.”
Don’t laugh, you bastards; two of his fourteen companions had died by the time they reached the big J. According to the account I read, this was from “their strenuous pedestrianism and the hardships they encountered.” I say it was more likely they reached a level of boredom where self-inflicted death was a gratifying alternative to Hildebrand’s endless recital of how much Nigerian workers were paid, how many hours Canadian abattoir workers put in each week and how small were the houses in Liechtenstein.
Little more than a century later, two of his great-great-great-great grandchildren are marrying each other.
Now, I’m prepared to call it: CONSPIRACY
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)