"Short term he oughtta settle for getting his head out of his ass."
-Andy Sipowicz, NYPD Blue.
The tea house lay on the corner of Fleet street and Harley. A block and a half down from apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four of the same long street and seemed to be made entirely of wood. The weather boards clothing the portly warren and sealing away the brick foundation from the public. Tarquin was a regular and would always try to act like one even though Chirpy Waitress thought that Tarquin wanted her every time he ordered at the counter. I want her. He felt that the added tension of her knowing that he wanted her and him knowing she knew he wanted her left a particular strain on the waitress/regular customer interaction thus making it difficult for him to relax his anus. When Tarquin got tense, his anus would too. That was the typical Tarquin/anus interaction. Am I tense because my anus is tense or is my anus tense because I'm tense?
How many times did I just think of the word anus just then? Five times? Is that too much? I think there might be something wrong with me.
"Sorry I'm late" the voice broke Tarquin from his worry and sat down opposite him. "Check out that waitress I'd totally tap that huh?" the voice talked at Tarquin as it took off it's coat and scarf. "Does she make you tense your asshole?"
"Shut the fuck up" hissed Tarquin "I wish I'd never fucking told you about that" leaning into the centre of the small table, a mix of ply wood and old milk crates glued and nailed together, a beacon to the theory that anyone label even the shittiest of things trendy. "You are such a cunt. I forgot how much of a cunt you are" Everytime Tarquin would throw the 'C' Word at the other side of the fusion of MDF and old Brownes' crates he would clench his teeth and take it off voice making it seem as though he was both allergic to something and mildly retarded.
"You're doing that allergic retard thing again do you realise this? I can't believe you still do that I thought you grew out of it after the shit I gave you in school?"
Tarquin took a breath and leant back into his chair, it was, like all the other chairs completely unique, the entire tea house looked like it had been requisitioned from countless estate auctions of countless dead little old ladies.
Before Tarquin could retaliate, the voice made a a pre-emptive strike onward "...never mind about that come on now listen I need some help here I met this girl and she seemed real nice but it turned out she was a bit of a junkie and one time you wouldn't believe this one time I was sleeping over at her place and I woke up the next morning and she was gone man like you wouldn't believe this she was totally gone like fucking disappeared but get a load of this like she totally stole my wallet it's fucking unbelievable..." Tarquin lifted his hand to the voice's face "Osric please. How much do you need?"
My anus is tense.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt 2
"Everybody's sin is nobody's sin, and everybody's crime is no crime at all."
- Alfred, Kinsey.
The city sprawls mercilessly on. A figure stands on the brink. Haze settles. The sun shows the first signs of it's triumphant return. Babies cry, Postmen wake up, Bakers get on with it. In the Northern district the ugly remnants of last nights party painfully make their way home. The scars of the evening's revelry fresh. Machinery turns on to help clean away the fun had by others. Water falls, heavy, cold, strong.
In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street the silence is broken only by heavy, deep, clumsy breathing. The one man apartment is dark, a small slice of gold protrudes from the light left on in the toilet, a halo around the edges. Old food on old plates lie sleeping in an old sink, the last of the original kitchen, a beacon in a kitchen owing it's allegiance to the Swedes.
The slumber of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street is sharply disturbed by a fast, authoritative knock at the door. It becomes part of Tarquin's dream, the man with no face looking to the sound and telling Tarquin it's for him. Tarquin, who is clad only in his underwear goes to the door which bubbles and bleeds. The doorknob is frozen but useable. Another knock enters Tarquin's dream and it makes the door angry, it seethes and breathes and growls. A greater knock brings him back to apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street, followed by a voice demanding he get up and open the door. What the fuck? Tarquin looks around and throws off his sheet. Stumbling, still half naked and half asleep he open the door.
"Tarquin Dangerfield?" Suited Man says showing him identification, Tarquin pretends to read it and nods, rubbing his left shoulder for something to do. "Sorry to disturb you Mr Dangerfield, we need to ask you a few questions" Tarquin staggers, he isn't wearing any pants. Where are my pants? "What's this about?"
"Please, if you wouldn't mind coming with us to the station. We need to ask you a few questions concerning Ozzie"
"Osric? Can't you ask him?"
"You're brother is missing Mr Dangerfield. Please come with us and we'll let you know all the details."
Where are my pants?
To be continued...
- Alfred, Kinsey.
The city sprawls mercilessly on. A figure stands on the brink. Haze settles. The sun shows the first signs of it's triumphant return. Babies cry, Postmen wake up, Bakers get on with it. In the Northern district the ugly remnants of last nights party painfully make their way home. The scars of the evening's revelry fresh. Machinery turns on to help clean away the fun had by others. Water falls, heavy, cold, strong.
In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street the silence is broken only by heavy, deep, clumsy breathing. The one man apartment is dark, a small slice of gold protrudes from the light left on in the toilet, a halo around the edges. Old food on old plates lie sleeping in an old sink, the last of the original kitchen, a beacon in a kitchen owing it's allegiance to the Swedes.
The slumber of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street is sharply disturbed by a fast, authoritative knock at the door. It becomes part of Tarquin's dream, the man with no face looking to the sound and telling Tarquin it's for him. Tarquin, who is clad only in his underwear goes to the door which bubbles and bleeds. The doorknob is frozen but useable. Another knock enters Tarquin's dream and it makes the door angry, it seethes and breathes and growls. A greater knock brings him back to apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street, followed by a voice demanding he get up and open the door. What the fuck? Tarquin looks around and throws off his sheet. Stumbling, still half naked and half asleep he open the door.
"Tarquin Dangerfield?" Suited Man says showing him identification, Tarquin pretends to read it and nods, rubbing his left shoulder for something to do. "Sorry to disturb you Mr Dangerfield, we need to ask you a few questions" Tarquin staggers, he isn't wearing any pants. Where are my pants? "What's this about?"
"Please, if you wouldn't mind coming with us to the station. We need to ask you a few questions concerning Ozzie"
"Osric? Can't you ask him?"
"You're brother is missing Mr Dangerfield. Please come with us and we'll let you know all the details."
Where are my pants?
To be continued...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Bile and Turpentine.
"Oh, as if you had no choice? There's a moment, there's always a moment, "I can do this, I can give into this, or I can resist it", and I don't know when your moment was, but I bet you there was one."
-Alice, Closer.
Tarquin sits in the old car, the windows opaque with condensation. The rain washes outside. The white, stark lights of nearby strip malls and service stations glitter in the distance through the water running down the windshield. Tarquin sits. His eye is enlarged; the surrounding skin red and broken. His nose runs and the eye can't stop weeping. Tarquin tries to touch it but finds out he can't. He squeezes his Ventolin inhaler, hands shaking, empty. "...fuck" he throws the Ventolin inhaler at the windscreen, bouncing and reflecting around the tight confines of the old Ford.
How did this happen?
One and a half hours ago
"I'm just not feeling it, you know?" Blonde Haired Girl said looking blankly at Tarq. He had let his hair grow longer for some reason and as a result his head seemed larger with the added hair of relatively unremarkable colour. This was all Tarquin could think about while Blonde Haired Girl sat and stared at him for a reply. "Great." Tarquin mouth farted. Blonde Haired Girl's eyes mixed in an orgy of uncertainty then settled to meet Tarquin's apathy, after all, that was what first attracted him to her. Blonde Haired Girl leaves the silence leaving Tarquin in his.
Sigh.
An hour ago
He walks, the lights of the nearby strips malls and service stations under lighting the approaching dark clouds, there is still the faint hint that the sun has set only moments ago. Rain in the distance, appearing to evaporate before getting close to the ground it's over. Tropical. Tarquin looks to a sound of a man, yelling. A brief sound underneath that sounded familiarly female. Tarquin looks to see if anyone else is around who can care about it so he doesn't have to. No one. He swallows hard and squeezes his Ventolin.
I need more.
45 minutes ago
The two small men seem to encircle her. One wears jeans, one has a beanie sporting an Aussie Rules team. The other has a tight t-shirt, it has something in Latin on it and faux worn print. Blonde Haired Girl stands, her bag on the sweating bitumen. Blonde Haired Girl is pricked up. Blonde Haired Girl stands, pricked up like a cat. "Do you need some help?" The Two Small Men look to the sound.
Oh no.
10 minutes ago
His keys slip through his red hands. The rain is thick and cold. Tarquin awkwardly bends down, falling onto all fours next to the old Ford. The cool of the bitumen against his palms. Tarquin drools and picks up his keys, the taste of iron and wine on his tongue. The old Ford lets Tarquin in and he slumps to the seat, his wet jumper compressing and releasing it's contents on the back of the old velour seat. After watching him being beaten she said thank you. She offered him a ride. She smiled and said she would call him to make sure he's okay. She thanked him again. Tarquin leaves the silence leaving Emily in hers.
20 minutes later
The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. Tarquin sits on the couch that folds out into a futon. Tarquin sleeps. Tarquin feels good. Tarquin is a hero.
Tarquin is a hero.
-Alice, Closer.
Tarquin sits in the old car, the windows opaque with condensation. The rain washes outside. The white, stark lights of nearby strip malls and service stations glitter in the distance through the water running down the windshield. Tarquin sits. His eye is enlarged; the surrounding skin red and broken. His nose runs and the eye can't stop weeping. Tarquin tries to touch it but finds out he can't. He squeezes his Ventolin inhaler, hands shaking, empty. "...fuck" he throws the Ventolin inhaler at the windscreen, bouncing and reflecting around the tight confines of the old Ford.
How did this happen?
One and a half hours ago
"I'm just not feeling it, you know?" Blonde Haired Girl said looking blankly at Tarq. He had let his hair grow longer for some reason and as a result his head seemed larger with the added hair of relatively unremarkable colour. This was all Tarquin could think about while Blonde Haired Girl sat and stared at him for a reply. "Great." Tarquin mouth farted. Blonde Haired Girl's eyes mixed in an orgy of uncertainty then settled to meet Tarquin's apathy, after all, that was what first attracted him to her. Blonde Haired Girl leaves the silence leaving Tarquin in his.
Sigh.
An hour ago
He walks, the lights of the nearby strips malls and service stations under lighting the approaching dark clouds, there is still the faint hint that the sun has set only moments ago. Rain in the distance, appearing to evaporate before getting close to the ground it's over. Tropical. Tarquin looks to a sound of a man, yelling. A brief sound underneath that sounded familiarly female. Tarquin looks to see if anyone else is around who can care about it so he doesn't have to. No one. He swallows hard and squeezes his Ventolin.
I need more.
45 minutes ago
The two small men seem to encircle her. One wears jeans, one has a beanie sporting an Aussie Rules team. The other has a tight t-shirt, it has something in Latin on it and faux worn print. Blonde Haired Girl stands, her bag on the sweating bitumen. Blonde Haired Girl is pricked up. Blonde Haired Girl stands, pricked up like a cat. "Do you need some help?" The Two Small Men look to the sound.
Oh no.
10 minutes ago
His keys slip through his red hands. The rain is thick and cold. Tarquin awkwardly bends down, falling onto all fours next to the old Ford. The cool of the bitumen against his palms. Tarquin drools and picks up his keys, the taste of iron and wine on his tongue. The old Ford lets Tarquin in and he slumps to the seat, his wet jumper compressing and releasing it's contents on the back of the old velour seat. After watching him being beaten she said thank you. She offered him a ride. She smiled and said she would call him to make sure he's okay. She thanked him again. Tarquin leaves the silence leaving Emily in hers.
20 minutes later
The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. Tarquin sits on the couch that folds out into a futon. Tarquin sleeps. Tarquin feels good. Tarquin is a hero.
Tarquin is a hero.
Monday, May 26, 2008
By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt
"You are what you love, not what loves you, I decided that a long time ago."
-Donald Kaufman, Adaptation.
Tarquin puts down his pen to drain the last of the grainy blackness from his cup and wipes the corner of his mouth. "Thanks a lot!" Chirpy Waitress spurts as she steals away the empty. Tarquin smiles, for a split second catches the eyes of Chirpy Waitress. "Thanks a lot" Tarquin replies, immediately wishing he hadn't. Chirpy Waitress pretends to ignore him and walks away. Why do I want to fall in love with every woman that shows me the least bit of attention? Tarquin puts his imitation Moleskine into his bag and begins to leave.
The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. The one hundred dollar a week apartment is colder than the outside and feels like another person besides the young Tarquin hasn't stepped into it's austere embrace for some time. He travels to the bathroom, coffee always makes me wee. Tarquin's satchel lay open; his cheap fake notebook lay exposed, the rounded corners resting out, glasses and various painkillers rolling in slow motion under the couch that folds out into a futon.
I may have done something bad. Something I may have underestimated and not fully understood. But now I'm in it and I have no idea where I stand. All I know now is that I am now responsible for some one's misery. It seems I can now scratch that one off the list. The sad truth is, that one may have been scratched off the list a long time ago and I may not have even realised it.
To be continued...
-Donald Kaufman, Adaptation.
Tarquin puts down his pen to drain the last of the grainy blackness from his cup and wipes the corner of his mouth. "Thanks a lot!" Chirpy Waitress spurts as she steals away the empty. Tarquin smiles, for a split second catches the eyes of Chirpy Waitress. "Thanks a lot" Tarquin replies, immediately wishing he hadn't. Chirpy Waitress pretends to ignore him and walks away. Why do I want to fall in love with every woman that shows me the least bit of attention? Tarquin puts his imitation Moleskine into his bag and begins to leave.
The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. The one hundred dollar a week apartment is colder than the outside and feels like another person besides the young Tarquin hasn't stepped into it's austere embrace for some time. He travels to the bathroom, coffee always makes me wee. Tarquin's satchel lay open; his cheap fake notebook lay exposed, the rounded corners resting out, glasses and various painkillers rolling in slow motion under the couch that folds out into a futon.
I may have done something bad. Something I may have underestimated and not fully understood. But now I'm in it and I have no idea where I stand. All I know now is that I am now responsible for some one's misery. It seems I can now scratch that one off the list. The sad truth is, that one may have been scratched off the list a long time ago and I may not have even realised it.
To be continued...
Thursday, May 15, 2008
No, I am Spartacus!
My aging computer constantly spirals into the dark, tartan depths of obsolescence and groans as the once mighty machine opens the ever pretentious iTunes. I find my artist of choice amongst my dense Forrest of music and I begin.
I generally write with music, I find it helps me think. Of recent I have found Radiohead's latest album In Rainbows quite fruitful and recommend it to anyone. But it doesn't just help me think but also greatly influences my writing.
That is why I have decided to see if this little experiment will work. It's part to better my writing abilities and part to see if anyone actually reads this poor excuse for a blog (which this with any luck boosts the content and gives the blog more substance than just an excuse for a small angry man to vent his frustrations in a tawdry and pretentious manner.)
Comment on this post with any musical suggestion, I will find it, if I don't have it I will get it and I will write a short story while playing only that piece. I will do this every fortnight, starting with the first suggestion I get. The stories may be fiction or non fiction and with any luck will reflect what music was playing through the old 80's speakers that I rescued from a garage sale when I was 15 years old.
With any luck, it won't be shit. So please, throw some at me, I will choose one at random and begin.
With any luck, it won't be shit.
NOTE: Submit comments by clicking the small link saying comment. I really shouldn't need to put this note but hey, kids these days.
I generally write with music, I find it helps me think. Of recent I have found Radiohead's latest album In Rainbows quite fruitful and recommend it to anyone. But it doesn't just help me think but also greatly influences my writing.
That is why I have decided to see if this little experiment will work. It's part to better my writing abilities and part to see if anyone actually reads this poor excuse for a blog (which this with any luck boosts the content and gives the blog more substance than just an excuse for a small angry man to vent his frustrations in a tawdry and pretentious manner.)
Comment on this post with any musical suggestion, I will find it, if I don't have it I will get it and I will write a short story while playing only that piece. I will do this every fortnight, starting with the first suggestion I get. The stories may be fiction or non fiction and with any luck will reflect what music was playing through the old 80's speakers that I rescued from a garage sale when I was 15 years old.
With any luck, it won't be shit. So please, throw some at me, I will choose one at random and begin.
With any luck, it won't be shit.
NOTE: Submit comments by clicking the small link saying comment. I really shouldn't need to put this note but hey, kids these days.
Friday, April 25, 2008
The National Anthem
He puts the iron down and pulls himself through his warm, crisp pinstripe collared shirt. He's got a nice pair of slacks on, some affordable yet expensive looking square toed shoes that he picked up at an affordable yet expensive looking shop in the city two weeks ago. His hair is gelled, his teeth are white, his undercurrent of rage bubbles away, unrelenting beneath.
Where does he go? Where can possibly satiate his lust for goodtimes? Where can he go to pick up? Where the women bubble with the same rage?
The atmosphere was palpable when for the first time in 6 years I walked past the fast food burger place on Stirling st and entered what I liken to the place God ate some expensive food, pulled down his trousers and squeezed out a fat turd onto Perth.
We had been taken (against our good judgement) to a party in Claremont. This party turned out sour and so a friend and I took our leave and walked down the street to the party area of the illustrious suburb. A man passed in a blur, chased on by another with a police issued baton, girls shreaking and worrying behind them. We walked on.
One bar had a line like it was to get into a ride at Disney land, except the kids are jostling and shouting and beating the shit out of eachother while others attend a nearby hotdog stand that's sole buisness is said line. We walked on.
We went into another bar and began the usual pilgrimage to the bar for drinks. At the bar there was a tender who was the angriest person I have ever seen in the Hostility industry. He couldn't even do his job properly because he was so angry, kept breaking glasses. I don't know about you but I love my drinks served with a side of seething hatred. It's very easy to get pissed off when you work in the Hostility Industry but I worked in it for nearly 4 years and I was never has openly hostile as that young lad before us. After receiving a gin with the least amount of gin I have ever seen. We walked on.
At another bar I spent half an hour talking to two girls who's enquired as to wether I was gay or not. Now I can forgive them for this because I am definately not the most manly man in the history of men. I don't give a shit about cars or football, I like clothes, the arts and have the arms of a 13 year old. But the reason they gave me as to why they thought I was homosexual was not these things. It was because I was enjoying myself, I was outgoing, loud, laughing, generally doing what I do when I am in good company and well oiled with liquor. To me that shows that something is not right in your life if these are your reasons for making assumptions on others sexuality. We walked on.
It's a completely different world to what I experience. These guys and girls are rich and miserable and angry. They go out for a what they brand A Good Time and the result couldn't be further from the truth. Wether they hate their job, their studies, the fact that they are trapped in a predetermined life set forth by their family or themselves. They use alcohol as a means to escape and it only serves as the only release of these emotions. Claremont prides itself as a bastion of good taste and opulence. But beneath the façade is a place uglier and more perilous than other low socio economic suburbs like the ever vilified Balga. A place where boys hang out with boys and girls hang out with girls, conversing only when it serves the need to breed. The fact that I was having a great time with both male and female and fucking laughing and smiling and therefore I must not be interested in females reinforces this statement. Being a miserable cunt must be so in right now. In Claremont's case. I Walked on.
This may sound like a practise in arrogance and over inflated sense of self. But I honestly wasn't expecting to find that in Claremont. Maybe I am too old for my age, if so when did I become such a jaded old bastard stuck in the body of underdeveloped 24 year old? I don't mean to sound this way, I really just don't get it. Something Daniel Kitson said when I saw him MC one night at the Hifi Bar comes to mind and I'm not sure its totally relevant or suitable to sum up with but fuck it. If your boyfriend is an asshole that likes to get in fights then you are just as much of an asshole as he. Because only an asshole wants to hang out with other assholes. So walk on.
Where does he go? Where can possibly satiate his lust for goodtimes? Where can he go to pick up? Where the women bubble with the same rage?
The atmosphere was palpable when for the first time in 6 years I walked past the fast food burger place on Stirling st and entered what I liken to the place God ate some expensive food, pulled down his trousers and squeezed out a fat turd onto Perth.
We had been taken (against our good judgement) to a party in Claremont. This party turned out sour and so a friend and I took our leave and walked down the street to the party area of the illustrious suburb. A man passed in a blur, chased on by another with a police issued baton, girls shreaking and worrying behind them. We walked on.
One bar had a line like it was to get into a ride at Disney land, except the kids are jostling and shouting and beating the shit out of eachother while others attend a nearby hotdog stand that's sole buisness is said line. We walked on.
We went into another bar and began the usual pilgrimage to the bar for drinks. At the bar there was a tender who was the angriest person I have ever seen in the Hostility industry. He couldn't even do his job properly because he was so angry, kept breaking glasses. I don't know about you but I love my drinks served with a side of seething hatred. It's very easy to get pissed off when you work in the Hostility Industry but I worked in it for nearly 4 years and I was never has openly hostile as that young lad before us. After receiving a gin with the least amount of gin I have ever seen. We walked on.
At another bar I spent half an hour talking to two girls who's enquired as to wether I was gay or not. Now I can forgive them for this because I am definately not the most manly man in the history of men. I don't give a shit about cars or football, I like clothes, the arts and have the arms of a 13 year old. But the reason they gave me as to why they thought I was homosexual was not these things. It was because I was enjoying myself, I was outgoing, loud, laughing, generally doing what I do when I am in good company and well oiled with liquor. To me that shows that something is not right in your life if these are your reasons for making assumptions on others sexuality. We walked on.
It's a completely different world to what I experience. These guys and girls are rich and miserable and angry. They go out for a what they brand A Good Time and the result couldn't be further from the truth. Wether they hate their job, their studies, the fact that they are trapped in a predetermined life set forth by their family or themselves. They use alcohol as a means to escape and it only serves as the only release of these emotions. Claremont prides itself as a bastion of good taste and opulence. But beneath the façade is a place uglier and more perilous than other low socio economic suburbs like the ever vilified Balga. A place where boys hang out with boys and girls hang out with girls, conversing only when it serves the need to breed. The fact that I was having a great time with both male and female and fucking laughing and smiling and therefore I must not be interested in females reinforces this statement. Being a miserable cunt must be so in right now. In Claremont's case. I Walked on.
This may sound like a practise in arrogance and over inflated sense of self. But I honestly wasn't expecting to find that in Claremont. Maybe I am too old for my age, if so when did I become such a jaded old bastard stuck in the body of underdeveloped 24 year old? I don't mean to sound this way, I really just don't get it. Something Daniel Kitson said when I saw him MC one night at the Hifi Bar comes to mind and I'm not sure its totally relevant or suitable to sum up with but fuck it. If your boyfriend is an asshole that likes to get in fights then you are just as much of an asshole as he. Because only an asshole wants to hang out with other assholes. So walk on.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
15 Step
20 odd shows. 26 nights. 18 odd gigs. 20 good people. Too many litres. Spell check tells me I've spelt litre wrong. I know when I'm right. Except for when I'm wrong in which case I think I'm right until I realise I'm wrong. Stupid American spell check.
I can say that because I am an Australian/American, unlike one comedian I saw at the Hifi who thought that because he lived there once for a year he thinks it's okay for the first thing to leave his mouth when he came out on stage to be "I hate Americans. Who here hates Americans?" to which a gaggle of ignorant morons reply with woots and yeahs. It would be a completely different story if he came out and said "I hate Jews. Who here hates Jews?" I'm not saying that Jews have it sweet but to come out on stage and the first thing that you expound to the audience is "I hate Americans" says to me that you have some mighty fine blinders on. After all, whether you like it or not people we are America Lite. The fact that I sit here typing this with a Krispy Kreme doughnut by my side only serves to reinforce my statement. It's not as though by saying this I am advocating the outrageous violations to both basic Human rights and decency that the United States has and will commit. All I am saying is that in 100 years people will look back with mouths a gasp and fists clenched at the US and we will be right there beside it. This notion that Australians are somewhat better, holier, less to blame than our American counterparts is true only in our fiction loving minds. We followed the President like we followed the Queen into Gallipoli and for that ladies and gentlemen we can only blame ourselves and those bodies which represent us. It is a sad fact that Internationally, Australians are becoming social pariahs just as much as our annoying soya mocha latte decaff with a twist Yankee brothers and sisters. But no. It's so much easier to hate than to acknowledge that we are becoming more and more similar ever day and try to make a change from there. But it's so much easier.
When it boils down to it, it's just plain racist. It's just us and them. Which is awesome. It makes me proud to be Human. If you're not part of the problem you're part of the bigger nastier all encompassing problem that will ensure the ultimate destruction of us all. "I'm not racist. I love black people. But I fucken' hate Americans"
One more night. 3 more shows. 20 good people. Too many litres.
A long way to go.
I can say that because I am an Australian/American, unlike one comedian I saw at the Hifi who thought that because he lived there once for a year he thinks it's okay for the first thing to leave his mouth when he came out on stage to be "I hate Americans. Who here hates Americans?" to which a gaggle of ignorant morons reply with woots and yeahs. It would be a completely different story if he came out and said "I hate Jews. Who here hates Jews?" I'm not saying that Jews have it sweet but to come out on stage and the first thing that you expound to the audience is "I hate Americans" says to me that you have some mighty fine blinders on. After all, whether you like it or not people we are America Lite. The fact that I sit here typing this with a Krispy Kreme doughnut by my side only serves to reinforce my statement. It's not as though by saying this I am advocating the outrageous violations to both basic Human rights and decency that the United States has and will commit. All I am saying is that in 100 years people will look back with mouths a gasp and fists clenched at the US and we will be right there beside it. This notion that Australians are somewhat better, holier, less to blame than our American counterparts is true only in our fiction loving minds. We followed the President like we followed the Queen into Gallipoli and for that ladies and gentlemen we can only blame ourselves and those bodies which represent us. It is a sad fact that Internationally, Australians are becoming social pariahs just as much as our annoying soya mocha latte decaff with a twist Yankee brothers and sisters. But no. It's so much easier to hate than to acknowledge that we are becoming more and more similar ever day and try to make a change from there. But it's so much easier.
When it boils down to it, it's just plain racist. It's just us and them. Which is awesome. It makes me proud to be Human. If you're not part of the problem you're part of the bigger nastier all encompassing problem that will ensure the ultimate destruction of us all. "I'm not racist. I love black people. But I fucken' hate Americans"
One more night. 3 more shows. 20 good people. Too many litres.
A long way to go.
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