The death of an old bar

This blog has been edited upon request.

If it turns out there are gigs involved with this, then I'd like to apologise.

In the meantime, here are some bands infinitely better than my pathetic attempts.

Thank  you and good night.

1. The Hot Sexuals

2. The Injured Pets (I love this name!)

3.The Ruptured Teens

4.The Manginas

5The Foolhardy Rapist Martians

6. The Infertile Livestock

7.Pants Niggers

8.Joni Mitchell's Nana Juice

9. The Incestuals

10. The Cowboys of Jizm

11. Homo Jesus

12. Teen Animal Shelter

13. The Sluts of Crack

14. Santa's Christmas Sluts 3

15. Musical Turd

16.  The Guerillas of Shit

17. Forceful Gas

18. The Bank Band from ANZ

19.  The Birdshits

20. Dr Casei Shirota and the Strains

21. The Lusty Zoologists

22. Bronstantine and the Prostitutes of Hate

23. Negroes of Disney

24. The Rusty Portals

25. We Ate Our Own Body Parts

26. the Shit Fisted Poofters

27. Mud Race Nazis

28. The Pregnant Ostrogoths

29. The All New Pregnant Ostrogoths

30. Today We kill Tomorrow We Die

31. The Cyclopean Clitorideans

32. The Sea Ulcers

33. The Vagina Dentates

34. Fusting the Gonads

35. Hot Early 30's Couple

36. Loins of Fury

37. The Cunt Fuckers

38. The Turd Burglars

39. The Disinterested Youngsters

40. Hookers for Christ

41.  Healthcare Card Whores

42. The Poopy Bears

43. The Savs (Australian Savage Garden Tribute Show...)

44.The Comission Flat Kids

45. Who's Your Daddy?  I don't Know!!

46.  The bleeding Pussies

47. The Penis Addicts

48. The Crack Smoking Mamas

8:25 PM - 5 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The hour of the broken

It fast approaches the hour of all broken things.  Hearts especially, but all broken things.

I am awake and taking stock.  I am also sober.  As though closing my eyes would protect me from the wraith that haunts the recidivist insomniacs.  Now it hovers over my bed, looking right into my eyes, and I can smell its fetid breath.  It smells of the loneliness of my future as an old man.

I’m thinking about defeat.  I’m wondering about Napoleon’s last ditch effort to getthe band back together, how poorly the tour was organised, how pathetic he was for believing in the second time round, after Waterloo.  As if anyone would buy his records.  He was naught but a lazy cunt.  Crawling back into the warmth of his blankets when all the world said "Get up!  Get up!"

But empire building was all he knew.  He could have gone to America and made steam trains.  Even caught bears or beavers.  He could have been a painter of barns.

But he followed the corpse of a dream, and in the end they poisoned the selfish narcissistic fucker.

He’s dead now, old Boney.  There’s lots of them too.  All cold and dead.  They would like to believe that on their bones are carved "I am Ozymandias, King of Kings, Gaze upon my works and despair."  But there’s nothing except mould and dirt.  They’re dead.

But while I breathe, while my eyes bare witness to the stagnancy of these white walls of wakefulness, and at the damned wraith hovering like some succubus of goodwill, I live.  I don’t know why.

God plays yo-yo with my purpose. 

It’s always bad to be sitting at this hour of night ruminating.  But when I get close to nodding off it prods me, this willowy wraith.  And the chimney of my mind gives a cough and splutters back into activity, spewing out black putrid smoke.

I am thinking about defeat.  I am thinking about Burke and Wills.  I am thinking about irony.

I have no counsel, or council.  I’m just sitting here with the committee of shades in my head.  Wondering what to do now.

I’m thinking about taking a butcher’s knife and pushing it into my skull, deeply, then jiggling it around.  This is an effort to make myself retarded.  To damage my brain.  Then maybe I can find a home on this rock of sorrows called Dirt.  I’d be loved then, if i was helpless.  Masturbating while my nappy is changed, oblivious.  Ignorance is blistering.

Oh fuck off. 

8:41 AM - 7 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

What they say about us: An article about the BSoT by Catherine Whitington

Duttigalla Exile: New EP from the Black Swans of Trespass

BSoT at a glance:

9:38 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Australia, you didn’t become America. You became nothing at all

You and your mate were walking along a long, straight, narrow , pointless country road.  Heading from one vacuum to another.  You'd gone down to Bordertown, where Bob Hawke was born, to piff yonnies at some bloke's glass house.

Heading back to Nalangil, where the articulate cripple was born, (nevertheless a tiger, despite his ruined legs,) used to take you a tank of petrol.  But you didn't have the money for a tank.  For the first time in your life, you didn't have enough.  You ran out of money.

You could have done a runner.  After all. the country is yours to travel over at your whim.  Your great grandfather murdered and poisoned and massacared it into his rightful possession, and your grandfather legitimized it in a war more about fashion than justice or even spoils.

But you prefered to whinge.  So chucking the money at the attendant and calling him a bastard, like you and your mate call each other, you drove off.

You get out the back of Olivine country, where they hide the buskers and roll them out once a year to make sure they're clean and working.  And your car, a clapped out holden or a shiny pajero, both equally iconic, sputters out of drive.

So you and your mate, in the heat and flies, get out and start walking down the road.  You stick out a thumb, knowing that all Aussies, when the chips are down, pitch in to help the less fortunate.

But no one stops. 

They just scream past you and your mate, on the narrow road.

After hours of walking and cursing, you see two figures in the distance.  The fly blown carcass of a kangaroo, probably smashed by a truck or a ute, and further off, another figure.  A man, walking.

You get to the carcass at about the same time, you and your mate from one direction, and the stranger from the other.

Only, it's not a kangaroo at all.  It's a man.  It's a dead and rotting swagman by the side of the road.

You and your mate stare at him like circus freak.  His skin is ruddy beneath his white beard.  The flies cover his bulging, bloated eyes and set up a visitors'centre in his mouth, crawling over his bloated protruding tongue.

The stranger walks a few feet into the paddock.  Looks at you both.  He picks up a stick and says to you, "Come on."  And starts digging.

"What?" you say.

"Dig" says the stranger.

"Fuck off." you say.  "Why should I dig?"

The stranger looks at you like you just bad mouthed his own mother.  "Because it's the decent thing to do.  Just fucking dig."

"It's not my problem." you say.  Your mate backs you up.

"Yeah.  It's not our fucking problem, mate." he says to the stranger.  "If he's too poor and got no bloody mates to funeral the bastard.  I don't give a fuck."

So you and your mate watch as the stranger digs a shallow grave.  He drags the stinking corpse off the road, lays him gently but quickly down in the trench.  The smell is overwhelming.  Your mate gags, and you hold back your sympathetic response.  The stranger just stays grim and focused.

 He kicks the dirt over the body, and covers the mound over with large stones that lie all around this country, left by volcanoes 10,000 years ago.

"Aren't ya gunna say something?" says your mate with a sneer.  "Aren't ya supposed to get a priest or some shit?"

The stranger pulls out a fiddle and starts to play a song.  You and your mate stand next to the grave, watching fascinated and disgusted and confused.

The stranger plays "Nearer My God to Thee." After a few rounds, he sings, by himself.  You and your mate just stand there.

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!
E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me,
still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee.

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
darkness be over me, my rest a stone.
yet in my dreams I'd be nearer, my God to thee.

There let the way appear, steps unto heav'n;
all that thou sendest me, in mercy given;
angels to beckon me nearer, my God, to thee.

(You feel embarrassed by now, but he goes on.)

Then, with my waking thoughts bright with thy praise,
out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise;
so by my woes to be nearer, my God, to thee.

You think to yourself like your mate: surely that's the end of it?  But the stranger sings on.

Or, if on joyful wing cleaving the sky,
sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I'll fly,
still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to thee.

"Oh for christ's sake." Mutters your mate under his breath to you.

There in my Father's home, safe and at rest,
there in my Savior's love, perfectly blest;
age after age to be, nearer my God to thee.

Finally he finishes.  And then you realise something.  You say to him, "That's a bloody Seppo song.  This is Australia.  Shouldn't you sing an Australian song?"

He looks at you with those grim eyes.  "What then?"

"I dunno." You say petulantly. You and your mate sit there in silence, but the stranger's hard stare demands an answer eventually.  Your mate offers one.

"Click Go the bloody Shears?"

"Click Go the Shears?" He says plainly. 

"Well it's fucking Australian."

"Is that all you got?" he asks.

"Waltzing Matilda?" Says your mate.

"Thunderstruck?" You chip in.  Your mate sniggers. "Back in Black?" he offers.

The stranger's stare is as hard as ever.  It makes you and your mate feel somehow empty.

"There are none.  Are there?'"  He says at last.  "We got nothin' for times like this, do we?  We got nothin'." 

There's a long silence.

Eventually, your mate says "Da na na na, na na na na..." and you reflexively chant "Thunder!" and you both look up, but the stranger has left you, standing beside the shallow grave of the tired bloated corpse of the swagman.

"Where ya goin?" you call out to him.  "Town's this way!  There's nothing that way for bloody miles!!"

He calls back -

"Where your headed is no where.  I'll take my chances in the past."

8:08 PM - 9 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Ode to the butchers

..> ..>

Ode to the butchers

Now, here's a funny thing.... I've heard endlessly, from all sorts of sources, how eating meat is bad for you, physically, spiritually and even environmentally. I've hung out with a lot vegetarians and even lived withhardcore vegans. I also like many, many people, have eaten vegetables. And also shopped, totally nonchalantly and undetected, at wholefoods places and other kind of health shops. And sure enough, I had watched enough episodes of Monkey Magic in my youth to make me more influenced by the tennants of Buddhism than the garbled nonsense of Christ-worship. I don't exactly like eating meat. I mean, it tastes great, but I feel kinda bad. I mean, I don't even kill bugs where ever I can help it. I absolutely loathe and detest fishing, and idiots that have no other recourse to recreation than driving past the fish and chippery to the local waterway and pull out part of the ecosystem from the shore line, while the lights of hundred commercial fishing ships blink over the water as they collect the produce to sell in the fish and chipperies that are ubiquitous in my country. But while the vast majority of vegetarians I have met strike me as intensely dissatisfied individuals, and while ALL the vegans I have met have exhibited symptoms of depression and often times proved themselves to be loveless, self serving bastards, and while, too, the impression I am left with the staff of the local Wholefoods store and all the organic produce sellers and health shop proprietors I have met is one of elite snobbery, I have never... ...never once.... ....ever in my life.... met a sad, or a nasty, or an aloof, or elitist snob, or selfish butcher. In fact, every butcher I have ever met, right across the country, with out a single exception, are some of the most robustly gregarious, generous and welcoming people I have ever met. So what the hell does that say? Are human beings most satisfied in life when they weild the power of other life forms to rip them and divide their flesh with sharpen steel? Are we subconsciously primed to devour those we share our planet with? Are we all murderers and butchers underneath it all?? Are we happiest when we take part in the rendering of another being to its base components, when we waste our resources, our water, our grains, our earthly bounty - on victims of our appetite? Are we happiest when we piss our own world up a rope? Hmmm I guess it would seem so. So here's to the Butchers. May you live long and prosper. May all the world follow the example of your big, warm, meaty hearts. Love Carlos BSoT

1:52 AM - 4 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

Bulletins you may have missed

Good.

Here's some bulletins I posted recently I thought I'd keep for posterity....

**************************************************************

Good Evilling,

Soon, all this will change.

I am so sick of hearing the same god damned songs. The same stupid bio.

By the 7 christs of mars i fucking hate bios.

My god. hate is such a strong direction. But so necessary for the rival of the species.

Soon all this will be swept away.

new songs for old, old tricks for dogs, new dogs a'fart, the lot.

Rip it all down. Damn your "ayes", I do what I look like!

Enough. It's time you new the truth of it all. As if the old wasn't true. But true enough we'll new it up.

for you.

As a collection of individuals. You and you, and yes. Even you. But you two, you're just damned lucky we don't blow the whistle. We know your watching but we can do nothing as well as various other complicated tusks. Like balancing.

We don't love you. We just use you for the sexy numbering. Yeah....that's right.

i pity the food.

In war, the price of oil is the first casualty. the screaming babies' mothers, they were well paid. there's no integrity in that. Any mammal can do it. What you need is economics! the chimps - did they have economics? The nut-crackers - were they all thumbs and left feet? no....that's why.

Adam Smith was right. I guess. But he was boring.
So boring. Which is why I don't read the financial times, only the hard ones.

Our a genders, they will change too. Mostly into something bigger, longer and uncut.

you watch. You'll see.

you'll all see

and you'll be sorry.....

Sorry,
Carlos Boutros "Speak Wisdom to fools and they'll shit you a vegemite breakfast for nothing that you're obliged to eat otherwise you won't have your visa renewed and Anna Coren will claim you the way naomi cannabilised Jill Singer even though they were both women and if Singer was such a fucking lefty why was she on the damnable show inthe first place and what the hell did you expect and what the fuck did they do to her brain in that hospital to make her share the opinion pages with that human pustule Bolt so she can pay for her suburban fortress when she of all people should know the Inidans were right when the phoned her at dinner time to say 'Excuse me please but you can't eat money now the crops have failed and the sea threatening to rape your pool and gazebo' and when we're all treading water who the fuck will remember Kath & Kim anyway"

take a deep breath

.........

Carlos

Thankyou..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

*****************************************************

yes I've been beating around the bush and you know it.

So quickly,
GOOD EVENING

Now I can begin...

As some of you know recently it may appear as though I had gravely embarrassed myself on the O'Reilly Factor (An American Current Affairs program.) and I am writing to apologise to our American fans who may have seen the epsiode on youtube. (It never went to air)

It looked pretty hardcore I admit thru the TV but I can assure you there was no malice on my behalf. Bill, David Letterman and I are all still good friends and although I did take Bill by surprise with my antics after the show it was all ok and I explained to him why I did what I did and he accepted my apology. The fox studio security did not hurt me at all and indeed Bill and I did not come to fisticuffs in the car park after the show.

It was just a terrible case of poor judgement on my behalf and I am writing this public, open apology on Myspace to quell any fears Bill's or our fans may have that it was a serious conflict.

For those who did not see the show, it happened like this:

I was asked to come on the show as a representative of an artists'collective that protest various things. Three seconds into the interview, maybe it was more like ten, I was being pulled off Bill and was escorted out of the Fox premises by Dave and Sanjeet, the two security guys, who are wonderful guys. I know dave's kids and he's a great guy and all I want to say is they were doing their job and they did it in an exemplary way.

So anyway, what happened was Bill was going to ask me about some war related issue or something but I kind of misheard the question. I thought he was having a joke with me, so I came back at him very belligerently and I can see how that may have been construed as aggressive but I assure you I was taking the piss.

I told him to fuck off.
He called me a slacker and a moocher.
I called him a two bit puppet cunt.
He said I can't come on and use the language.
I told him to fuck him and his language, that I'd utilise the full range of my expression to ellucidate the many ways he could indeed fuck himself, or words to that effect.
He got red in the face and grabbed his coffee cup, which I thought he was going to throw at me,
So i false-started him by lurching to the edge of my seat.
He got a bit spooked buy that and started pointing his finger at me.
I hate that.
So I told him he was a fucking parasite and was so full of shit rats wouldn't eat his guts when he was dead (I was only joking, of course no one really thinks that about the guy!)
He said I was threatening him,
I said i don't fucking "Say" when I threaten, I fucking "do"and he'd know about it and get what he fucking deserved (JOKE people! It was a joke!)
He said he'd kick my arse, that he had "friends in high places"or something like that.
I told him I had friends in dark corners with prison shivs.
And i false started him again, saying what are you gonna do Bill huh? huh? and all this macho nonsense (Which I think is a joke, but I can see now how some people take it seriously.)
Anyway he said he was gonna end it right there, (he meant my interview) and said for me to shut up, just shut etc..
So I told him -
Look Bill, you two bit cunt, You're born year of the ox, I'm year of the tiger. Your own value system is choking you to death. You sit on the earth like you're trying to euthanise your sick grandma by shoving her head up your fat crack. You have no ears to listen to the reality of the world coz your so busy protecting your own bullshit (I was joking! Joking!)
I said you know its a risk stepping in the ring with a tiger coz I'll rip your fucking leg off and you can't crush me like you can your kids and your fucking wife and your gay lover (JOKING!!!! I was JOKING!!!)
then I banged on the table trying to get a reaction because by now he was ignoring me and signalling to his staff to cut it and get me out.
Anyway I must have got under his skin with the gay thing, and when I banged on the table he jumped a bit and THEN he threw the coffee in my face.
So I jumped across the table and started pounding the fat old bastard (it was playfights, guys, not real punches. And we call our friends bastards in Australia so don't think I meant that either, alright?)

And we were going at it hammer and tongs and thats when security threw me out.

Afterwards I explained it was just a clever ploy to boost ratings and I was only doing it as a favour for him and so forth and I was really sorry, and the next night me and Dave Letterman and Bill O'Reilly went out for some drinks and we picked up some whores but only I fucked them. Bill and dave went home. (I'm not married)

SO DON'T GO MAKING A BIG THING OUT OF IT!!

It's nothing like the Kramer thing so don't think it's the end of the Black Swans of Trespass or anything. It is NOT the reason we have been taken of high rotation at all.

The episode never went to air because, as I realise now, it was inappropriate and its all water under the bridge now and I'm sorry.

Ok?

I'm really sorry.

If you want more details it's still on youtube somewhere or just email my or Bill's myspace.

Thanks,
Carlos Boutros Carlos
Private Dancer

***************************************************

Good Heaving,

Last night, during a zombie attack, my fucking car wouldn't start. Only it's not my car, it's my Girlfriend's, and I don't have a license. I was only using it to get away fast from having my brains eaten.

It was bullshit.

Luckily they couldn't figure out how to open the doors. All night I sat there listening to these bastards shuffle around my car moaning till the next morning when the RACV guy showed up with a shotgun and cleared them away. He got the car started and we used his jerrycan of petrol to burn the remains so they wouldn't infect any one else with zombitis.

Turns out I needed an ignition cap or something.

It was bullshit.

I mean, there has got to be a better way. What if it was werewolves? Or vampires? I'd have been screwed. I think the Ford Motor Co. should invent a more reliable system. It could have happened to any of us.

While I was sitting in the car, shitting myself, I got out my mobile and made some calls....

ME: Hello God? It's me, Carlos...

PHONE: I'msorry. the number youhave called is out of range or not connected. Please try again later.

Later....

ME: Hello God? It's me, Carlo.....

GOD: Hi! You've called God. Unfortunately I can't come to the phone right now. Your prayers are important to me, so please leave a message after the tone. thanks!

ME: fuck.

later...

ME: Hello Jesus? It's....

JESUS: Hi! You've called Jesus. I'm not...

ME: Oh for Christ's sake.

Later....

ME: come on, pick up, pick up!

PHONE: Hello. You have called the office of the Choir Invisible. If you have a question regarding holiness, press 1. If you have a prayer for Jesus, God or the VirginMary, press 2. If you are calling regarding recent wars or catastrophes, please press 3. If you are being attacked by Zombies or Werewolves, please press 4.

ME: (Presses 4)

PHONE: (Engaged signal. Cut off.)

ME: Oh fuck! That's bullshit.

ME: (Sighs...rings again.)

PHONE: Hello. You have called the office of the Choir Invisible. If you have a question regarding holiness, press 1. If you have a prayer for Jesus, God or the VirginMary, press 2. If you are calling regarding recent wars or catastrophes, please please 3. If you are being attacked by Zombies or Werewolves, please press 4.
If you would like to speak to an operator or Architect, please hold and a consultant will be with you shortly.
(Harp music for about ten minutes...)
Thankyou for waiting. Your call has been placed in a queue. You are number 2.7 Billion. Thankyou for your patience. A consultant will speak with you shortly.

ME: Screw this. (Dials again) Hello, is this Santa?

SANTA: Ho Ho Ho!! You've called Father Christmas! Or Saint Nick! Our office hours are from late November to Decmeber 26. If you'd like to place an order or inform on a bad child, please leave a message after the...

ME: Oh this is bullshit. (Dials again....) Hello, is this Satan?

Satan: Yes...How may i help you?

ME: I am being attacked by zombies and my car won't start. Can you....hello? Hello??

My phone ran out of battery.

Now I have a crick in my neck from sleeping in the front seat.

This is SUCH bullshit.

Please come to our gigs.

Thank you.
Carlos Beloved Carlos

6:30 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

From Rational Responders

Good Evening folks,

I didn't write this.  It's from Rational Responders.  Link is on our myspace called "Jesus Mythicist" It's very good!

***

This morning there was a knock at my door. When I answered the door I found a well groomed, nicely dressed couple. The man spoke first:

John: "Hi! I'm John, and this is Mary."

Mary: "Hi! We're here to invite you to come kiss Hank's ass with us."

Me: "Pardon me?! What are you talking about? Who's Hank, and why would I want to kiss His ass?"

John: "If you kiss Hank's ass, He'll give you a million dollars; and if you don't, He'll kick the shit out of you."

Me: "What? Is this some sort of bizarre mob shake-down?"

John: "Hank is a billionaire philanthropist. Hank built this town. Hank owns this town. He can do whatever He wants, and what He wants is to give you a million dollars, but He can't until you kiss His ass."

Me: "That doesn't make any sense. Why..."

Mary: "Who are you to question Hank's gift? Don't you want a million dollars? Isn't it worth a little kiss on the ass?"

Me: "Well maybe, if it's legit, but..."

John: "Then come kiss Hank's ass with us."

Me: "Do you kiss Hank's ass often?"

Mary: "Oh yes, all the time..."

Me: "And has He given you a million dollars?"

John: "Well no. You don't actually get the money until you leave town."

Me: "So why don't you just leave town now?"

Mary: "You can't leave until Hank tells you to, or you don't get the money, and He kicks the shit out of you."

Me: "Do you know anyone who kissed Hank's ass, left town, and got the million dollars?"

John: "My mother kissed Hank's ass for years. She left town last year, and I'm sure she got the money."

Me: "Haven't you talked to her since then?"

John: "Of course not, Hank doesn't allow it."

Me: "So what makes you think He'll actually give you the money if you've never talked to anyone who got the money?"

Mary: "Well, He gives you a little bit before you leave. Maybe you'll get a raise, maybe you'll win a small lotto, maybe you'll just find a twenty-dollar bill on the street."

Me: "What's that got to do with Hank?"

John: "Hank has certain 'connections.'"

Me: "I'm sorry, but this sounds like some sort of bizarre con game."

John: "But it's a million dollars, can you really take the chance? And remember, if you don't kiss Hank's ass He'll kick the shit out of you."

Me: "Maybe if I could see Hank, talk to Him, get the details straight from Him..."

Mary: "No one sees Hank, no one talks to Hank."

Me: "Then how do you kiss His ass?"

John: "Sometimes we just blow Him a kiss, and think of His ass. Other times we kiss Karl's ass, and he passes it on."

Me: "Who's Karl?"

Mary: "A friend of ours. He's the one who taught us all about kissing Hank's ass. All we had to do was take him out to dinner a few times."

Me: "And you just took his word for it when he said there was a Hank, that Hank wanted you to kiss His ass, and that Hank would reward you?"

John: "Oh no! Karl has a letter he got from Hank years ago explaining the whole thing. Here's a copy; see for yourself."

From the Desk of Karl

1. Kiss Hank's ass and He'll give you a million dollars when you leave town.
2. Use alcohol in moderation.
3. Kick the shit out of people who aren't like you.
4. Eat right.
5. Hank dictated this list Himself.
6. The moon is made of green cheese.
7. Everything Hank says is right.
8. Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.
9. Don't use alcohol.
10. Eat your wieners on buns, no condiments.
11. Kiss Hank's ass or He'll kick the shit out of you.

Me: "This appears to be written on Karl's letterhead."

Mary: "Hank didn't have any paper."

Me: "I have a hunch that if we checked we'd find this is Karl's handwriting."

John: "Of course, Hank dictated it."

Me: "I thought you said no one gets to see Hank?"

Mary: "Not now, but years ago He would talk to some people."

Me: "I thought you said He was a philanthropist. What sort of philanthropist kicks the shit out of people just because they're different?"

Mary: "It's what Hank wants, and Hank's always right."

Me: "How do you figure that?"

Mary: "Item 7 says 'Everything Hank says is right.' That's good enough for me!"

Me: "Maybe your friend Karl just made the whole thing up."

John: "No way! Item 5 says 'Hank dictated this list himself.' Besides, item 2 says 'Use alcohol in moderation,' Item 4 says 'Eat right,' and item 8 says 'Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.' Everyone knows those things are right, so the rest must be true, too."

Me: "But 9 says 'Don't use alcohol.' which doesn't quite go with item 2, and 6 says 'The moon is made of green cheese,' which is just plain wrong."

John: "There's no contradiction between 9 and 2, 9 just clarifies 2. As far as 6 goes, you've never been to the moon, so you can't say for sure."

Me: "Scientists have pretty firmly established that the moon is made of rock..."

Mary: "But they don't know if the rock came from the Earth, or from out of space, so it could just as easily be green cheese."

Me: "I'm not really an expert, but I think the theory that the Moon was somehow 'captured' by the Earth has been discounted*. Besides, not knowing where the rock came from doesn't make it cheese."

John: "Ha! You just admitted that scientists make mistakes, but we know Hank is always right!"

Me: "We do?"

Mary: "Of course we do, Item 7 says so."

Me: "You're saying Hank's always right because the list says so, the list is right because Hank dictated it, and we know that Hank dictated it because the list says so. That's circular logic, no different than saying 'Hank's right because He says He's right.'"

John: "Now you're getting it! It's so rewarding to see someone come around to Hank's way of thinking."

Me: "But...oh, never mind. What's the deal with wieners?"

Mary: She blushes.

John: "Wieners, in buns, no condiments. It's Hank's way. Anything else is wrong."

Me: "What if I don't have a bun?"

John: "No bun, no wiener. A wiener without a bun is wrong."

Me: "No relish? No Mustard?"

Mary: She looks positively stricken.

John: He's shouting. "There's no need for such language! Condiments of any kind are wrong!"

Me: "So a big pile of sauerkraut with some wieners chopped up in it would be out of the question?"

Mary: Sticks her fingers in her ears."I am not listening to this. La la la, la la, la la la."

John: "That's disgusting. Only some sort of evil deviant would eat that..."

Me: "It's good! I eat it all the time."

Mary: She faints.

John: He catches Mary. "Well, if I'd known you were one of those I wouldn't have wasted my time. When Hank kicks the shit out of you I'll be there, counting my money and laughing. I'll kiss Hank's ass for you, you bunless cut-wienered kraut-eater."

With this, John dragged Mary to their waiting car, and sped off.

5:07 AM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

New Band Bio

Good even better,

Recently I ask several friends and strangers to write us a bio.  I hate bios, and it has dawned on me that Band Bios exist only for people that hate music.  They are writtem for people that won't listen to your music, won't come to your gig but are instrumental in booking you.  Bios are for people that need to be told by some one else what is good or bad.

Bios and people who need or request them are the equivalent to arse holes who, when going for a job or renting a shitty, run-down rat infested hovel for a ludicrously over-priced amount, insist on you filling out meaningless forms and submitting "references".

Now it occurs to me as downright bizarre that during one of these suchlike interviews the interviewee stands before you, looks into your face, hears your speech, witnesses the style of your accoutrements - yet to make a proper judgement on your eligibility to lift boxes, shovel shite or pay for the priveldge of living in a rat hole - that theyneed to telephone a complete rank stranger to make the final decision.

Despite the fact that you stand face to face with these idiots, they need to call somebody they have never seen nor heard of before, and are prepared to accept their word over yours that you are a decent fellow based solely on the fact that their number is written down on a piece of paper.

This happens on every level of our twisted, upside-down, post-christian society.  It happens atthe scummiest boarding house, all the way up to the highest echelons of government.  I refer to the latest Tony Mokbel shenanigans.

Here was a complete scum bag, murderer, violent psychopath, that managed to get a liquor license from no less than the shadow-attorney's office yet the shadow-attorney (the shadow attorney is the guy who prosecuted Peter Pan, by the way, for you non-Australians out there,) even though he'd NEVER seen or heard of Mokbel before gleefully wrote him a sterling reference that got Mokbel his liquor licence.  All because of a sequence of numbers loosely related to a bunch of rank strangers that were written on a piece of paper.

True, to be fair, the paper DID have a letter head on it, further enhancing the validity of its claims.

But seriously, all they had to do to discover Mokbel was a greedy wog bastard as trustworthy as a crocodile in a kinder was to phone Namoi Robson.  She used to go out with him.

And all you have to do to discover that we are a good musical company is to listen to the demo you just threw in the bin.

Here's is one of only two bios we recieved after our request -

Bio: Carlos Boutros Carlos otherwise known as Gustave the Cheerio
Strangler felon of Pentridge.

C.C. Thornley (trade: Carlos Boutros Carlos) is tirelessly multi-
talented and painstakingly dedicated, as an actor he has appeared in
several widely screened short films such as "Unknown Combo"
directed by Steve Travaskis and feature filmmaker Rupert Owen's
error of comedy "The Oscars." Carlos has also written and performed
in his own plays including a successful season in Fringe 2003 with
his play Internal Drug Subversion and Spotted Dick for Fringe 2004.
Musically Carlos is maestro banjoist in The Black Swans of
Trespass, a quartet of evenly carved bluegrass and mountain soul,
served swinging on a platter of garnished twang and jive. The band
has swooned melodies extensively in and out of bars and pubs across
Melbourne including  residencies at The Old Bar and many other venues.

C.C. Thornley's foursome of frivolity will make you not only tap your feet but
potentially have them re-fauceted. Not only all that but also,
Carlos is a nice chap, emotive and a seasoned contributor to the
cultural crust that earns us the rich spice of life found in all
the arts. He is also currently standing right behind you.

That was from my favorite pornographer, Rupert.

Thank you.  That is all.

CbC

7:42 PM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

A Tasmanian Ninja
Current mood: Subterfugilist

The Tasmanian Ninja..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Good Evening

This is a true story.  It happened long ago.  If you are, by some quirk of the law of six degrees, involved in this story, then you are about to be told a great secret.  A legend.  You are about to be told the secret of the Tasmanian ninja that got away.  If you are, then please be my guest and respond to this blog.

MY FRIEND Quinn was a knockabout little ragamuffin when he was a grommet.  He lived way down in the south of Tasmania, in a town called Dover.

There's not a lot to do as a youngin' in Dover.  Popular activities involve killing wildlife.  Rabbits and wallabies with guns and fish and sea mammals with spear guns, and whatever else with whatever you've got.  When you get older you can drink and kill things, or get stoned.  And kill things.  You can also fuck, but Quinn when I knew him, and when this story took place, wasn't interested in girls yet.  At least not Dover girls.  He did have quite a good selection of porn, but that wasn't really where Quinn's interests lay.

Quinn was interested in killing things.

But he was a discerning killer.  He only killed bad guys.  Or the occasional fish.  Quinn was also a bit of an artisan.  He made his own nun chukkas, and rudimentary shurikens.  For those not in the ninja-know, a shuriken is a metal star that is flung unseen from the darkness, landing with a treacherous thump into the pine tree or wall just near your ear. 

When I used to hang out with Quinn we used to play with his homemade bow and arrow.   It was a long piece of green wood with a string that was capable of launching an arrow through the target, through the hay bale, through the fence, across the street and into the neighbor's letterbox.  It was pretty cool.  Another thing we used to do would be to wait on either side of the road, and when a car came passed we'd stand up and pretend to pull a piece of rope or something invisible taught as the car approached.  Once a lady stopped, wound down the window and yelled at Quinn.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she said irately.

"Striking manly poses." Answered Quinn matter of factly, flexing his biceps at her.

Well, there wasn't very much to do in Dover.

Luckily I didn't live there.  I was just passing through.  But Quinn did.  He had to use his imagination to keep stimulated.  And he needed a lot of stimulation.  He was a tiger.  '74, that is.

Amongst his paraphernalia and home-fashioned arsenal, he also owned a full blown, authentic ninja suit, including the slippers, with the toes.  He didn't have a sword, so he made one up.  Quinn's favorite game was ninjas.  When he was a grommet he'd deck him self out in his ninja suit and ninja about.  He'd sneak around houses and back flip off garages, use his mind powers and meaty treats on the neighbor's dogs.  All the things that would otherwise get an adult man – or female astronaut for that matter- arrested and locked up in a psych ward or Guantanamo Bay, but are endearing, indeed enterprising, in a young 12 year old boy.  Particularly for the macho standards of the little southern town of Dover.   It's all about killing things, more or less.  Tasmania is a rugged and bloodthirsty little island.  It has the highest number of unsolved missing persons in Australia because not only do you die in the woods, but also the Tassie devils eat you and your backpack.  They love it.  Until recently they were in plague proportions, ever since the white man arrived in the place.  But now they are dying off, because of the pesticides.  If only the farmers had of used ninjas instead of chemicals, the world would be a happier, more cyclical one.  They could have employed thousands of out-of-work ninjas, displaced from Japan since the fall of Tom Cruise in 1854, and sent them out to protect the multi-thousand dollar apple trade by catching bugs in their chopsticks and eliminating enemy fruiter-ers.

But there are two things Taswegians don't like.  One is aliens, (you know, wogs, frogs, deigos, clogs, chinks, nips and so forth and so on) and the other is poofters.

Which is ironic, because it was once the Australian capital of buggery, but there it is.  And ninjas are a little bit poofy.

A real man with an interest in the orient and pugilism would do karate.  And Dover had a fairly popular karate dojo.  To the Taswegian, it is more manly to don white pajamas with colorful belts, and dance together in a room with other sweaty pajama clad lads in a manly kind of line dance, then kick the shit of each other, than it is to wear a black jump suit, use your inner chi to transform into an echidna, and borrow secretly along the undergrowth, unseen.

Therefore, had Quinn simply gotten the white pajamas and headed down to the dojo, maybe even joined the footy club, he'd have been ok, and this tale would not have unfolded for the telling of.  But Quinn was a rebel.  And not only was he a rebel, he was a master criminal type rebel.

His Friday night entertainment in Dover was to dash unseen all about.  Through neighbors' yards, into fishermen's boat sheds, and across roofs.  Across the Dojo's roof.  Where, like a tiger stalking his prey, he would peer down the skylights at the big burly men striking manly poses below.  He could see them.  But those barbarian oafs had no inclination he was there at all.

He was the master ninja!!  Mwoohahahahaarr!!  Shhh!!

He was very good at it.  But a ninja's work is lonely work.  He wanted to share his adventure with other ninjas.  Or ninja-minded individuals. 

So it was one night that Quinn had a friend over to stay.  It wasn't me.  I was far away when this happened, but rest assured the story is true.  I can't recall the friend's name.  Let's just say it's Ralph.

The ninja hour approached, and Quinn could feel the tension in the air. 

"Hey Ralph," he said, "Let's play ninjas tonight!"

He showed Ralph his authentic ninja suit and Ralph was impressed.  But they had only one ninja suit.  One ninja suit doesn't go into into two ninjas unless they are giant oversized pantomime ninjas.  They were going to have to ninja Ralph up.

They blacked out the "beach crew" insignia from his black hooded jumper.  They stole some black material from his Mum's haberdashery cupboard and made a ninja mask.  Ralph had a pair of convincing black cotton trousers.  They got black gloves from his mum's bedroom, sticky-taped up the non-black parts of his shoes.

They were ready.

Off they cart wheeled and somersaulted into that cold Tassie night.  Across the park, the yards, the jetty, back and forth.  Possums dodged shurikens left right and center.  The night was filled stealthy whistle of high velocity steel and the springy foot padding of dread unseen assassins, and nothing more.  The moon was a slither, reflected on the still waters of the estuary.  You could only hear the gentle lap of the little waves on the rocks…and…wait……

…..something else…..

…the enemy perhaps?

It was the far off chant of the dojo, counting katas and moving with militant regularity. 

In the flash of an instinct, the two disappeared.  Quinn, the keen hunter, knew this hunting ground well, and in seconds he was up the drainpipe and across the shelter shed, like a Hadean Shade.  He turned and…oh no!  Where was Ralph?  In his haste and focus he'd lost Ralph.  By now he was up on the dojo's roof, looking down into the skylights and across into the courtyard, hidden by an over-hanging pine branch, perfectly melding in the shadows.

He could see Ralph.

Ralph was hiding in a bush, right next to the footpath leading from the car park into the community center where the dojo was held.  He wasn't hiding very well.  Quinn used his mental telepathy to tell Ralph to stay out of the light and move back a bit, but for some unknown reason, incredible as it sounds, it didn't work.

Quinn felt footsteps.  Someone was leaving the dojo, going outside.  It was a karate guy.   He was big, and much older, and had hair on his face and sweat and chipped teeth.  He walked out of the center.  He walked up the path.  He walked right near to the bush Ralph was in.  He….what was he doing?  Quinn strained to see…he was…oh shit.  Taking a piss.  On Ralph.

But not quite on Ralph, because Ralph moved out of the way of the piss. 

The karate guy stopped pissing awkwardly, as you do.

"Who's there?" he demanded, jumping back, getting into stance.

"What the fuck?" he said next, and grabbed Ralph.

"Holy fuck!  I caught a ninja!  I caught a ninja!  Holy shit!" he exclaimed.

If you do karate in Tasmania, and if you're involved in karate culture, and if you hire all the Bruce Lee movies and get the magazines, probably the single best, most awesome thing that could ever happen to you or any human being for a hundred lifetimes, is to catch a real live ninja. 

Tasmania is a wild and rugged place, as I've said.  And there are parts of Tassie that no one has ever been to before.  Or at least, been back from.  Anything could be out there, in the southwest wilderness.  And if you live in the southeast, the only thing really in between you and the great unknown are trees.  And mountains.  And who's to say that there aren't some lost species of marsupial ninjas out there that modern science is unaware of.   And what's to stop the odd on wandering out of the forest, up the main street of Dover to the front door of the local karate dojo.  Nothing, I tell ya.  Nothing at all.

Karate guy grabbed his ninja by the arm.  (As all good karate kids know, if you catch a ninja, you can never let them go, or keep your eyes of them. They, just like leprechauns, will disappear.  )  He dragged Ralph up to the doors, shouting out

"Hey guys!  Guys!! Look what I caught!!  I caught a ninja!!"

From atop the roof Quinn looked in horror as two big burly karate fellows, much larger than the ninja-catcher, and with a brown and black belts, got up and headed out to see what the trouble was. 

Quinn scrambled silently down roof to get a better look.

The three karate warriors stood, two agog, one totally beaming of his nut in profound karate ecstacy, blinking in disbelief.  There before them was a fair dinkum ninja.  It must have been a sick one to be this close to town.  And to let it itself get caught.  And it must have had a hell of a fever because it shook like a leaf.  And ninja's don't usually shake.

It was one of those moments that takes but a second but lasts a lifetime.  A time-warped heartbeat.

Just as they were about to unmask their ninja, Quinn dropped from the roof with a war cry.

I should point out that ninjas also don't do war cries.  They don't cry at all.  But details like this in the heat of the battle don't get the scrutiny they warrant.  As far as the Dojo boys were concerned, ninjas were attacking.  From the mother fucking roof!

Quinn leapt the twelve feet to the ground. He used his elbow to break his fall by driving it into the neck of the biggest karate chap.  He hit the deck seeing stars.  The ninja catcher didn't know what the fuck to do.  He jumped into his stance looking wildly about for the rest of the ninjas (according to legend, ninjas attack in flocks) but he'd made his fatal error.

Never release your ninja.  Quinn drove a shoulder into another karate guy sending him winded and sprawling to the ground in absolute shock.  He grabbed Ralph and didn't let his ninja go.  They raced of, high as a kite on adrenalin, pants wet and greasy, into the night.

They were never seen again.  The ninjas, that is.  Quinn and Ralph went home a got changed and didn't speak for hours.  The only would they could manage was a trembling fuckfuckfuck.

Meanwhile, back at the dojo, the word was out.  Ninja attack.  The sensei ran to the office and pulled out the manual, but there was nothing in it at all about ninja attacks.  (Nor, for that matter about giant moth or lizard attacks.  Altogether pretty pissy kind of Japanese martial art if it omits these kind of things in the manual.)  Karate kids were going crazy all over the center, around by the park, in the bushes, hunting ninjas.  But the ninjas had disappeared.

From that day on, guards were actually posted outside the Dover dojo, keeping an ever-watchful eye out for ninja spies.  The reputation of the Dover dojo grew rapidly, as the only dojo in Tasmania to be spied on by ninjas.  They marketed a new secret fighting style - "Grabbing The Ninja" which involved kicking shit a little bit harder.  It was based on killing stuff. 

Many years later, when Quinn had grown out of his ninja fetish, he moved to Hobart and hooked up with a nice girl.  He never lost his hard-core ball tearing sense of danger and immortality.  I never saw Quinn again after Hobart, when we were much older.  Some one told me once he'd gotten into hardcore stuff and a piece of dirt from a syringe blew out part of his brain and he had a sort of stroke.  But I don't know.  I think it was the intensity of his ninja mind powers if anything.

This story was true.  Of course I wasn't there, but the people involved existed.  This is the story Quinn passed on to me, and I know he wasn't bullshitting.  I know because I saw the guards at the dojo!  I believe.

Hope you enjoyed this, and remember kids –

….er….

….it'll come to me….

Hang on…….what was it?

Nope.

Sorry.

Gone.

Mucho Gracias!

4:26 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

3PBS 106.7 fm, www.pbsfm.org.au

How fucking good is PBS?

We're lucky in Melbourne.  Bet you didn't expect to see something like that in a Blog?  But we're lucky.  For a patch earth we live cheek-by-jowl with every kind of dipshit bastard  you could imagine, to live in the world's biggest musical ghetto, surrounded by backstabbing arseholes for friends and slimy fat bastards for enemies, we're pretty amazingly lucky to have something like PBS

I often ruminate on how such a lovely and pristine part of the world became so horribly fucked up.  In short, we all know the answer is WHITE man.  But here's what I like to think happen.  I reckon it began at the beginning.

When John Batman, (who for all his darkness and light, was ostensibly still a man of great character, and fucking integrity,) showed up he basically was looking for a nice little hill to build a house and drink rum with his brother and his mates.

Then that little bastard Fawkner shows up, immediately proceeds to build a hotel and sell watered down rum at huge prices to all and sundry.   Then he sells of all the land in little packages to other uptight and greedy white fellows, beginning a tradition of urban subdivision Melbourne seeks to export over every square inch of the Earth. 

While Batman was a down-to-earth currency lad, who couldn't give a shit about the pretentious English social protocols, who called convict, laborer, black fellow, (although he did play an instrumental role in the Tasmanian Black War,) his friend, and saw no one beneath his status so far as to be a complete fucking snob, Fawkner, on the other hand, was the antithesis.  He was desperate for status, wealth and class propriety.  He knew, accepted and maintained the importance of class distinction, and (even though, or perhaps because of the fact that his parents were lowly convicts) sought to elevate his position through his good mercantile and capitalist industry.

So while Batman and his son enjoyed a lovely afternoon drowning puppies by the waterfall that once stood down the end of Flinders St Station, (it was what you did back then, and how his son actually died – drowning puppies.  Talk about karma!)  Fawkner was busy pouring bitumen and concrete fucking everywhere, and whacking in Toll gates any where he could find two posts of close enough proximity.

Two very different Melbournes, to this day, in one Melbourne town.  One for the greedy bastards, one for the lowly peasants.  One for MMM, and one, of course, for PBS.  Real radio and real people.  Just like it says on the packet!

Anyway, I ain't here today to paraphrase inaccurately 170 years of history.  I want to tell you about PBS.

As those of you who know, supporters and trolls, I've been blogging the crazy antics of a band in Bearbrass.  Our many adventures and misadventures.  Early in the start of the year I had some dealings with quite a few fuck wits.  More than I believe was my quota for the year, and it's not yet February. 

I'd had enough.  I just couldn't take another condescending fuck wit.

So I was sitting around my room one day, thinking about these fuckwits when the phone rang.

Somebody had actually rang me!  It was a private number, so I braced myself.  It could have been a debt collector, or a fuckwit calling me to abuse me.  (I'd prefer if they e-mailed.)

Turns out it was Helen Jennings.  From 3PBS.  She had actually rang me up to pass on some details for a festival she thought we'd do well at.

How fucking nice is that?

And just on its own, that is pretty much a good thing.  It can make the rest of your week.  But what got me was that we stayed on the phone for about an hour, just talking about music.  

She didn't cut me off.  She didn't talk over the top of me.  She didn't crap on about her many years experience.  Although she could easily have.  She was just good to talk too.  And I shouldn't really find that amazing or unusual, but I really did.

I've been listening to PBS all week, and have heard some fucking amazing shows.  They've supported us so much that we all took subscriptions personally and signed our band up to Helen's show, Roots of Rhythm, Wednesdays at 9am-12. 

If you've got a band, they've a got a show for your genre.  You should sign up.  The presenters are actually real people.   They actually speak to you.  With their mouths, not their gonads or their egos. 

You've GOT to try that some time!  It's unbelievable.

But Melbourne has 2 radio stations like PBS, run by the people for the people.  The other is RRR, and I don't know if you heard but yesterday they had some mad interview with Blowfly and a whole bunch of his songs.

PBS is definitely better though.  More music, less fashion.  Actual music, not like some MMM or FOX or TT etc "More music double shot two up $50k give away triple work weekday secret sound with Bovine and the Greaser".  More just actual fucking music.

The only other radio station I respect is Golden Oldies.  NOT Gold 104.  I mean, golden oldies.  Golden Days Radio, 3GDR, 95.7.  They play the maddest shit, and the DJ's are way too cool.  Even on PBS you would not hear great marching bands of the 1910's to the 1930's, and we all know that was the shizznit of the marching band era.

I just wanted to say that.  Not especially a good blog, but it's nice to know there are good people still out there.

C

7:47 PM - 3 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment