All About Yves
Current mood: Plain

Yves St Laurent died this week and i found myself strangely affected by it. Bo Diddley died this week too and that affected me too. You see, when i was about twelve and had just moved to Australia, we, meaning my parents, brother and i went to see a concert called GREATS OF ROCK 'N' ROLL or some such title and it was a package tour of performers. On the bill were acts like Leslie Gore, Jerry Lee Lewis and Australias own king of rock, Cole Joy(!?!?!) What the fuck Cole Joy was doing there i don't know but also on the bill was the one and only Bo Diddley and amongst the freeze dried, partly defrosted acts of ye oldedays, Bo Diddley came across lke an amped up vision of cool, a tornado with a guitar and he took the roof off the fucking place. The stage rotated around to find him in mid song, mid beat of M.A.N with his all girl group around him, hat and shades firmly in place, commanding the rhythm that he himself had created. Imagine that, creating a style of rhythm! That would be like creating a new type of air.

I was only twelve and Mr Diddley had blown my wee ears wide open.

Yves St Laurent's death affected me in a different way though. I identified with that crazy mixed up French man in a strange and non sensical manner. Yes, yes, i know,  we're both VISIONARIES of style (don't worry, not all off us can pull off the jeans stuffed into our socks look, you'll catch up to me one day) but that wasn't the only reason.

Yves was one of the last doyens of old world STYLE dammit! He was a throwback to something pure and good in fashion, a true expeditionary of what's important in the world; sewing pieces of cloth together!!! Alright, so he ended up losing most of his mind and suffering what was described as 'a lifelong nervous breakdown' in complete seclusion but i loved that crazy Frenchman. 

Once a long time ago someone told me that  looked like Yves St Laurent in a very specific way, told me that something about me captured something about him and it meant the world to me. I felt sophiticated and capable of walking in a world completely outside of my own. And i think that's why Yves death got to me this week, as in a world so devoid of flamboyance and expression and style and culture as the one i currently live in(I LIVE IN CRONULLA EVERYONE!!!) i need every bit of flamboyance i can get. With Yves passing i feel like a little bit of that Yves in me has gone too and i don't think i can afford to lose anymore.

So bye Bo. Bye Yves. I hope that just a little of what you had trickles down to the rest of us.

And i hope it's not too sticky.

Currently listening : Mirrored By Battles Release date: 2007-05-22

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Nobody Really Loves You.
Current mood: Pointy

A lot of the residents where I work have been married twice. At least twice.

Those partners are invariably dead now, one replaced by another replaced by another replaced by another. For the most part, when they talk about these deceased partners, the surviving spouses talk about them matter of factly, as if they were transactions that occurred during their time here, as if they were a trip down the shops that had to happen or some such thing. Yet the one that suffers the greatest indifference is the first husband, as invariably, it is the woman that outlives the man. The fact that someone remarries denotes a lot of things, depending on what you believe and the circumstances and the whatnots and the whatevers.

Yet the blasé way these elderly ladies talk about their deceased first husbands sometimes makes you wonder about the permanence, about the lasting effect we ever really have on others lives, even those we love most dearly. Are we all interchangeable to each other, important only in the current circumstance but instantly dumped into the bargain bin when those circumstances change? In the end, all we are is ourselves, as much as we attach ourselves to others or have others attach themselves to us we are the stars of this movie and essentially it is only our thoughts and emotions that matter in this film for they are all we, individually know. All that we see is filtered through ourselves, through our experiences, our tainted eye and our shaky beliefs so really, all we ever know of other people is ourselves, aspects of ourselves coloured by who and what we are. All is simply ourselves reflected back at us.

So how close can one person really get to another? How much can a person matter to another person? Can you give everything of yourself to a person only to have it disposed of when you are no longer present? At the time that person must have meant something to these widows and I understand that necessity dictates that grief has a life expectancy and that life goes on, but then when that surviving partner goes on and remarries and THAT person is the one that becomes remembered as the widow marches to the grave, what becomes of that first love? What love are you to your partner? Are you the first? The last? Just one in a line somewhere in between the one that meant the most and the one that meant the least?

Sure, right now it feels like the be all and end all, but I bet it did at the time for those poor dead lovers who had no idea that there would be more to come after him, after they were dead. I'll bet they thought they were the love of their partners life. Then that partner remarried after they died and all trace of them was gone. Such is life. So what is the point of any interaction? What is the point of giving yourself up to anyone, thinking you're a major player in someone elses life only to find out that all you have is a walk on role, a cameo? Does anyone really matter to anyone else?

Perhaps, in the future, the human form will evolve, enabling us to have more than one reserve of emotion, more than one heart to give, as it were. 'Sacks of devotion' they will be called and through them you will be able to discern where you are in another's affection; are you first or last? There will be three sacks, for after all, we all make mistakes and these sacks will hang from the armpit area and when you feel that you are falling in love with someone your can count their sacks and see if the last sack is for you or if you are the first horse out of the gates and there are more sacks yet to be dished out. Sacks can not be faked and refilling and sticky taping another's discarded sack will not be allowed and will be punishable by indifference.

Love is a beautiful thing, I don't discount that, but all I'm saying is keep a close eye on your partner and don't expect too much from them. After all, they have a life to lead, no matter what happens to yours and if fucking another on your still warm corpse enables them to carry on?

Well hey, no one said that love was easy.

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BlimeyTASTIC! Go or DIE!!!

I can’t make it so YOU have to! AAARRHHH!!!

7:28 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Tiredness.
Current mood: Rested

Tiredness has ever been the enemy of intention.

Most of the time we’re tired and we see the world as a terrible place, everything is unobtainable and we are tied up in rubber bands, balls of twine and the testicles of the singer of Dire Straits.

Yet, it only takes one good night of sleep for you to wake up a MacGuyver, realising that the world, the whole world is yours with but the simple arrangement of a rubber band, a ball of twine and the testicles of Mark Knopfler.

And what do we do with this clarity, this singularity of thought that comes from rest? What great heights do i reach within my own mind when waking with rest on my side?

How do nudists raise their children? Do paedophiles watch Play School? Did Hitler trim his moustache before he shot himself? Did Goofy even know what he was? When the man who first invented the hat wore it out for the first time did he feel like a cock? Who invented spitting? And did Jesus really grow a beard for our sins?

The mind is a beautiful thing.

No one said it was useful. 

Currently listening : Marquee Moon By Television Release date: 25 October, 1990

6:12 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

The Cricket Diaries
Current mood: Googlied

Donald Bradman went out for a duck in his last game of cricket.

A duck, apparently, means a zero score in cricket, yet just what this acquatic fowl has ever done to warrant such an appaling label is beyond me. Yet, in that one piece of information about Sir Don, you have one immutable fact; That is all i know about cricket.

Pretty impressive, huh?

So now, every second Saturday, i go to school with my 'Insta Family' and we watch our Bean play for his team and i, seeking purgatory, sit alongside the other parents; the faithful, the tired, the few, the bewildered, yawning and impassioned and watch two gangs of ten year olds attack each other with a ball. Some defend themselves with a large stick, whilst the others are left with nothing but their hands and non-sensical battle cries like 'OWZAT to defend their tiny frames.

They are ferocious, these precocious pre-teens. They strike the poses of older men and speak in the clipped, affected tones of proffesionals, strolling, unflinching through swarms of flies whilst facing down the sun beneath hats with brims as broad as this brown land we call 'Stralia.

They do not laugh and they do not cheer, these garden party weekend warriors, as if to move, emotionally or physically would dispel the illusion that the game rests upon. Instead they stand about, like alabaster sentinels and await the moment when two of the players, stood at opposite ends of a clay gangplank make their break from the pack. Yet, confoundingly, they do not escape. No. They simply run as far as where their opposite had once stood, before spinning on their heels in perfect synchronicity and  charging back to where they previously stood themselves. To repeat this confusing act as many times as possible before the ball is passed to within your general vacinity is, apparently, a very good thing. It causes the puritanical parentage that surrounds me to shout short sentences of little weight with much passion.

I clap too, though i am rarely sure at what.

Occasionally, the word "over" will be mentioned, though, as is frequently brought to my attention, this is NOT a cue to pack up your bags and sprint for the car.

In actual fact, an "over" is what the game of cricket is divided into, much like life is divided into waking and sleeping or living and dying. To some, and i'm not naming names here, but to some cricket would be the equivelant of a coma; a state of being somewhere between the conscious and the brain dead where nothing much happens. It is a meditative state of sorts where you learn many important lesons in life like how to spot a googly and the socially correct place to rub your balls.

When all was said and done, someone won.

I'm not sure how, or who, but no one seemed to be very excited either way. The players meandered about the field like extras in a Pinter play. The melancholy air that hung over the participants left me believing that some form of "dancing monkey, chorus girl type thing" was needed on the sidelines to buoy spirits and provide some much needed colour to the field. A distraction of some sort is sorely needed; cricket gives you far too much time to think. I believe that mindless and exuberant titilation would be greatly appreciated.

Our Bean, who we had come to support, see play and confuse with our non-crickety behaviour didn't even get to bat. I found this to be an atrocity more affronting than the holocaust and had i the strength, i would have protested in a highly inappropriate way. As it was i yawned and helped repack the car; never have so many suffered,so early in the morning, for so little.

Donald Bradman went out for a duck in his last game.

That's all i know about cricket.

Currently listening : If I Should Fall from Grace with God By The Pogues Release date: 19 September, 2006

2:53 PM - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Bye.

Goodbye everyone.

This is my last day in Melbourne.

I'm upping stumps and moving to Sydney. Yes, yes, i know, i never thought i'd live in Sydney either, but we go where life leads us. I'm going to be with my lady love and our bean and, chances are, there won't be too much myspace action for some time. Then again i could end up blogging about eggs tomorrow.

Who knows.

All i know is that this is undiscovered country and i can't wait to get my boots dirty.

Bye Melbourne.

Bye everyone.

I'll let you know what this life is like.

4:43 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Come And Handle My Privates

MASSIVE GARAGE SALE!!!
That's right, EVERYTHING about me must GO!!!
We've got shitloads to sell and it's all GOOD!
TOYS, RARE MUSIC VIDEOS(Nirvana, Lydia Lunch, Fugazi, Hendrix, Pearl Jam, more, more, more), CD's, MUSIC MAGS, MOVIE MAGS, FASHION MAGS, FURNITURE, BRILLIANT VINTAGE CLOTHES AND IT'S ALL YOURS FOR INSANELY CHEAP PRICES YOU LUCKY, LUCKY BASTARDS!!!!
There's even a table of free shit to get you going.
So where? When?
Well, it starts 9am, Saturday the 6th(TOMORROW!!!) and continues Sunday the 7th. We close each day when we either can't be fucked anymore, OR we're too drunk.
It's at 96 NEWCASTLE STREET in YARRAVILLE, MELBOURNE, the real happiest place on earth.
If it's a bit of a trip to get here, TRUST ME, it will be worth your travels.
Come and help support my imminent move to Sydney by buying crap i don't want anymore.
It will make the world a better place, and HEY! You get to meet me TOO!
Isn't that the thrill of a lifetime!?!
Spend over twenty bucks and i'll give you a piggy back ride.
Can't say fairer than THAT!

4:48 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Bacon.
Current mood: Rindless

I love bacon. Love it.

It's my favourite. It tastes good, it looks good, it makes you feel wonderful.

If i could wake every morning and be greeted by the smell and taste of bacon... well... i'd be a very happy man.

Bacon is the answer to all lifes problems.

Spin the wheel and let bacon decide for ya! If bacon don't know, well, then it ain't worth knowing. And if you take a tumble? Squirt out some life juice with the old scrapey on the knee? Well, let bacon look after that one for ya too.

What that free toy is inside is anyones guess, but i'd imagine it's more pig.

But if bacon bandages don't work for ya, maybe you just need a whole meal to stop your bleeding tiger! 

If that don't make the blood congeal, nothing will.

Of course, one of the main concerns with bacon is how your breath smells afterwards. But now, you need not worry anymore as you can ensure that your breath has that delicious aroma all day with...

Yummy. Breath just like you just walked off the killing room floor. Personally, if i can't smell bacon on someone elses breath, then i just assume that their the spawn of satan. God loved bacon. What? Sure he did. It's in The Book OF Ham, page 73 and a half, "And God did say unto his local deli owner, 'I fucking love bacon me!'" See!

Yet one of the downfalls of bacon, is that it is fibrous and if, like me, you have trouble removing those strands of half chewed meat from 'tween your teeth whilst trying to retain that juicy, fragrant bacon taste, then worry no longer the angels of sliced meats have heared our plea... 

Mmmm. Completely sensible and essential in this day and age i think.

But how do you follow bacon? What comes AFTER bacon? It is the most sumptuous meal there is, so what do you do for an encore. Huh? Answer me that fat college boy! Waitaminnit... Did someone say, Dessert Bacon !?!

No, those aren't turds on a rack, it's, that's right, CHOCOLATE COVERED BACON. Yumbo! Elvis will be spinning in his own juices after he hears about these bad boys. And that's right, your eyes do not deceive you, those ARE sprinkles on top. What!? Can't have chocolate covered bacon without sprinkles can ya! What are you, a weirdo or sumfink!?

But don't worry if chocolate isn't your bag bacon lovers. Gummy bacon more your style?

Or bacon flavoured jelly beans?

Or perhaps you like the simple elegance... of a bacon bar.

Siiigh. Sometimes the world just works as it should.

Of course, there are many other types of bacon. Half digested for example, or the kind served in McDonalds which is, as we all know, made from the back skin of orphans. But there are other kinds...Sir Francis for example;

Franky Bacon was an essayist, a profound mind, a philosopher, an historian, a purveyor of modern thought and, of course, tasted great between two slices of bread with some sauce on him. On his death bed, he was heared to remark, "Fuck i'm tasty... be sure to eat me." Before carking it and being burnt to a crisp and dunked in runny egg.

BAcon Bacon Bacon. Have i mentioned my fondness for it? Of course, the most famous kind of bacon, is this one;

That's right, Kevin "When The Bomb Drops All That Will Remain Will Be Cockroaches And Kevin Bacon" Bacon.

Made truly famous by the game, Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon, in which players see how many bacon sandwiches it takes to get into Kevin Baons pants (it's six), what most people don't know about Kevin is that he is, in actual fact, a pig. I know! Amazing huh!? Twice voted 'Best Pig Actor Of His Generation' by the Acting Academy Of Snouts, Kevin has shown his range in roles as diverse as Babe, Charlottes Web and the lead role in Police Story. His most famous role though, of course, was Footloose, in which he played a boy with no ankles.

So many bacons, so many bacons to live up to...I don't know who this guy thinks he is though;

Pft... amateur.

You know, after all that bacon talk, i need me a drink.

Mmmm... like quaffing down a can of liquid pig... with gas.

Ahhhh... bacon. It makes a good day great and a great day artery hardeningly wonderful.

I love my bacon.

It's my favourite.

Currently reading : Mere Christianity By C. S. Lewis Release date: June, 1996

8:01 PM - 6 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

FREEDOM!!!
Current mood: Relieved

I can't believe it. The imossible has happened. Let ye of little faith be bolstered in your beliefs, for whatever ye may think, the imposiible is most rightly possible. Oceans can be turned. Worlds can be spun our of orbit. The wind can indeed be bottled. All can be accomplished.

That's right.

I paid off my credit card debt.

FUCKIN' YYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!

I can answer my phone again now, after months and months of being pursued by slightly aggitated indian men from a call office somewhere in the deepest recesses of Poona.

For you see, after my injury at wofk and after getting royally SCREWED by the Uniting Church (Who run the nursing home i work for) i found myself having to live off my credit card awhile as i was getting NO money whatsoever coming in. Of course, then, the repayments came to be so much that i couldn't afford to pay them with my meager income of, oh, NOTHING! So i ran,. for months and months i ran, not knowing what to do, scraping together what few bucks i could here and there and finally, after sweating bullets and due to the love, support and patience of my extremely bodacious grrr fred, i managed to SOMEHOW get the money together and pay it off. I can't believe it. My punjabi friend was nearl crying when it was done, so relieved was he to not have to deal with me evr again.

"It was a pleasure dealing with you Mr Adams." He lied as we hugged over the phone, "Please be careful in future."

The cutting of the card ceremony was one of the happier moments in my life. GOD it felt good. It was like cutting chains from your leg, a steel collar from your throat. I did jig. I did jig and hoot heartily. There may be more to come.

So, my months of hermitage payed off. I got there. To all those i have neglected and have not seen, i apologise. I will try to make amends. To all those who work in thos little AMEX stands asking people if they'd like to sign up... BURN IN HELL!!! PEDDLERS OF SATANS SPHINCTER!!!!

The reign of terror is over. May we all breathe a singular breath of relief...

AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...

Now... who wants to lend me a couple o' bucks?

Currently listening : Voice of the Xtabay By Yma Sumac Release date: 05 March, 1996

4:58 PM - 3 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

HUGE! BIG! QUITE LARGE! ENORMOUS! MICE THINK, "HM... BIGGER THAN ME..." THAT’S QUITE BIG!!!!!!!
Current mood: urh...

Great towering blocks of sound and noise and wonder and gumboots filled with greatness and flubber and pandas of a fantastical nature who reverse cars where they shouldn't and who balance unbalancable things on objects of a dubious spherical nature... and rubber mallets... and papier mache eskimoes...... and... and...

Grand blogs.... huge statements...

Here it is. Blog o' the century....

Uh... Um... Well.... you see... urh...

I've got nothing.

I know what i want to blog but it won't come out.

I have blogstipation.

Someone call a doctor.

Currently listening : Superfly (1972 Film) By Curtis Mayfield Release date: 20 July, 1999

7:14 AM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment