Thursday, September 30, 2004

PENIS ENLARGEMENT!!!, not for me silly!

There's a show on TV called 'Body Work', and they feature things like Paula's transformation into a real woman (good on her!), Anne-Marie's GG breast reduction (so she can realise her dream of becoming a personal trainer), and Roxanne the idiot, exploring the utterly bourgeois art of permanent makeup tattooing ($2300). She even gets a local anaesthetic! What a punisher!
And of course, after she gets her lips finished, she decides she doesn't like the colour *pukes all over her face*.

But Steve the ex Marine is the guy getting his dick track remixed. The coolest thing about Steve is, as a young man he looked exactly like Tom DeLonge from Blink 182!
Cue lots of stupid TV tricks like Steve barbequeing sausages, and mentions of his "lengthy procedure"...get some new tricks you TV bastards.
The evil thing about Steve is, he went ahead and made baby sons with his wife, without any thought for the locker room anguish those poor kids are gonna get from well hung studs like me.
I'm a bastard, I know...

Paula has a new vagina now!
The doctor is inserting a 'dilater' (a dildo to you and me), to make sure the vagina doesn't close up. It's either use that for 20 minutes a day, or have lots of sex- yum!
Maybe I could get a job as a dilater operator for people who have just undergone gender reassignment? I'd be awesome at it!

I will never get used to seeing doctors going to work with the liposaction vacuum cleaner...that's some savage shit people! *shudders*

I have bad news for Steve though.
It's not going to be any bigger when erect, and who cares anyway?
I've got an enormous member, and I have never had women chasing me down the street to get some. OK, so I do have women chasing me down the street to get some every day, but that's different. I'm hot. So why bother, especially that late in life? Call me insensitive (go on!) but I just don't get it...unless you're Paula or Anne-Marie.
He should invest his savings carefully, buy a ridiculously expensive sports car, and drive it down Chapel Street like every other mid-life crisis.

I have to go check out Channel 9's Greatest Moments now, to see if they include one of my two 3 and a half minute visits on their network.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

All My Friends Are Murder Victims paraphrase someone no-one seems to like.

So here it is- I have INSOMNIA.
I don't have a shitty movie starring on Al Pacino on DVD, I mean the real thing.
I can't sleep until the sun has well and truly come up, like around lunchtime the next day. It sucks.

I sleep in the afternoon, and wake up after dark.
My face isn't liking the sleep defecit, believe me.

And so I watch TV.

Problem is, the networks (being the total and utter cunts they are) keep changing the shows around. Just as soon as you get into the groove with one show, they can it.

Like 'Action'.
God I loved this show! It has my vote for best TV show eva (mainly because Illeana Douglas *swoon* was on it).

It's gone now, so I'm gonna help you out by posting my picks of late night TV's Greatest Hits, but only if you live in Australia.


I love Canadia (I can spell, I'm just being cute in the hope some bored young internerd hottie reads it and wants to date my awesome sense of humour), but if there ever was a reason to hate them, this is it. Everything people in Canadia (heh heh) have ever filmed in their country is horseshit. Really.

Starring Victora Pratt, Karen Cliche (a pratt and a cliche, and I've only just begun!) and a couple of male models, this is a show like Dark Angel, except unlike Dark Angel, it sucks the chrome right off my trailer hitch (and not in the good way).
IMDB says: "A fugitive geneticist and four of his "creations" search for others of their kind while attempting to stay a step ahead of a morally ambiguous government agent."
I say: "We wish we were X-Men".
Still, I should stop concentrating on the negative, because it has a good point (singular).
The evil nemesis is like some supervillian mutant Andy Warhol. Beat that!
Anyways, they all have special powers and zzzzzzzzz.............

-Walker Texas Ranger.

Put simply, if you haven't seen this show, you are an asshole.
All you need to know, is Chuck Norris is the protagonist, and he kicks the crap out of guys like me every Wednesday night after Letterman. He's so cool he even has his own action figure!
The story lines are so middle America Anti-drugs/Stay in School Bobby etc I'm amazed I even like it, but there's so much asskicking in it it kinda makes up for it.
Besides, Chuck even fought Bruce Lee, it doesn't get harder than that.
I'd like to see you hassle him for being a ginger nut!

I can't be bothered doing any more of these shows, besides, I think they're the only two half decent (I said half) shows still on late at night.

I don't have any stunning finale to this blog unfortunately, so I googled 'best picture ever', and it gave me this:

Google = awesome!

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

My friend Jess... probably the coolest and least fucked up girl I know.
She's been so goddamn good to me, always there when I need her.

I love her 2 tha mizaxxx 4 eva!

This pic was taken after I'd been up all night in Sydney, hanging out in Kings Cross with my hot Brazilian 'exotic dancer' love-interest, and generally having the time of my life.
I had been kicked out of KFC on George Street an hour before...I was fixing my hair with a straightening iron, plugged into the wall in the upstairs dining area, using the shiny back of my iPod as a mirror. (No, i hadn't purchased anything).

So this is us, hanging out at Ali-Babas, waiting for my train to the airport, in between crazy flying visits from our friend 'Image Peace'.

In this case, a picture really does say so much more, than the thousand words I just wrote.

Kiss kiss Jess, you're the bees knees.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Breakin the Law...Breakin the Law ...etc, etc...

For all 3 of you that read this thing, you'll remember I had previously posted about being evicted from my flat (with a great still shot from Futurama of a whale puking).

Well my friends, those days are gone.

I went to the pub tonight, and who should I meet? The son of my landlord.
It took us half an hour of chatting to realise it, but his Mom is my landlady.

But it gets better.

To say this guy is a drug fiend would only make regular fiends look like churchmen.
Let's just say, he's a slowly unfolding disaster over a number of a big, cocaine covered flower.

He was desperate to score, and I was desperate to not move out, so I made him a deal. I combed my sources (being drug free and all) for the cure for his ills, and he went home and told Mommy not to evict his friends.

I just love it when a deal comes together.

So to celebrate, here's a pic of my friend Isobel, and her enormous boobs.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

"It's time to go...KNIFEY !!!"

I just got evicted...never had that happen before!

All this time I've been paying rent, and it looks like it's been lining someones pocket, and not quite making it to the landlord (viva la receipts!)

I feel like this:

So if any of my Melbourne buddies know someone who wants me to live with them, drop me a line please. $100 or less a week, close to transport, Northside only.

Fank u.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Monday, September 27, 2004

Justin Hawkins is a Liar.

Yeah, so you love to sing 'I believe in a Thing Called Love' whenever you're drunk at the bar with your friends, feeling extra pleased when you get to showcase your stunning command of falsetto.

But did you know that everyone's favourite Darkness frontman, Mr Justin Hawkins, has been lying to you?

Born on the 17th of March 1976 to proud parents Bobby and Luccia Macarone in Brooklyn U.S.A, baby Rocco loved music.
But his first love was, is, and always will be, Sexy Brazillian-style Beach Volleyball.

Rocco changed his name to Justin Hawkins, and affected an English accent after a hamstring tear that totally dashed his hopes of winning the World Series, and wrote the now multi-platinum album, Permission to Land.

As succesful as he now is, those that know him best (read: me) know of his deep pain at having to give up his sexy first love.

Here is a photo of Justin (on the right) in happier times, with Ryan Phillipe, Lou Diamond Phillips, and me (I'm the hunky one with the tan).

You heard it here first.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

How Stupid do you think we are?!



The thing that blows my mind is, the example of 'the rest', was the same shit they were flogging us on late night TV last summer! (As well as looking not entirely dissimilar to a B-2 Stealth Bomber). Is this a conspiracy?

Did you think people were so stupid, they wouldn't notice that the thing you're telling people is played out and doesn't work, is the same thing they have under their beds, after believing you the first time?!

Like, duh!

And why are we so stuck on getting/maintaining abs anyway?
They have to be the most useless muscle group to work, they seriously don't need to exist for you to operate and be healthy, and even strong.

It's like saying having bushy eyebrows are your ticket to a fitter healthier you...and we have an entire industry that preys on your insecurity about it!

The other thing that boils my blood is when they say:

"Here we are at the beach, and we have a bunch of people who are not paid actors. (Even though all of them speak to camera, have no shyness at all, and not one of them does that cool thing where you hold up a 'v' sign behind your friends head like a pair of rabbit ears, denoting the fact he's a dick, and you totally own). We're gonna find out what these guys all think about the ab-generator 6 bazillion!!!"
And all of these obviously paid actors give it a try, and talk about "reps", and "the burn", and "muscle groups", and "feeling worked", and all those other terms you and I use every day.

Or even better:

"Here we are in the lab with Doctors from the Swiss Institute of Health, who are testing out the effects only the Fat Laser Death Star System can offer."
And you have a bunch of poindexter-ass looking motherfuckers with like, clipboards 'n' shit, taking notes while some punisher on an exercise machine flaps around so he can afford to go to the real Swiss Institute of Health and run up a mountain, instead of Studio Z-99 in Burbank, California where he is now.

I think I might start a database of celebrities who lie to their fans so these companies like Danoz direct and Guthy Renker can suck you in.
My guns are aimed at Jessica Simpson, Elle MacPherson, Vanessa Williams, and Stephanie Seymour. Next time I run into any of these girls, I'm gonne let them know I think they're total doodie-heads. They're all definitely off my birthday party invite list. Tough, I know, but I have to make an example of these parasites...

Eat whatever you like in moderation, exercise often, and you too can look like me (ie: mega-rad).

No weird machines, no special diets, no pills. And you can have it all for 5 easy payments of nuthin. That's right! Nuthin! And if you call now, I'll throw in a free knifeyard cd, hand burned from my cd drive to you.

I have to say though, seeing Tony Robbins (Get the Edge!) infomercials actually have made me feel so much better about myself.
Because I swear to Christ, that guy is such an alien, he makes me feel like the World Standard Measurement for Normalcy and General Averageness.

In the immortal words of that barometer of social barometric pressure, Steve Stifler, comes my retort- "Suck me, beautiful!"

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Sunday, September 26, 2004

S U I C I D E .

Good news never arrives in black helicopters, and never in 5am phone calls.

God-dammnit, this world has lost another one.

It's been a 6 months and 3 weeks since Marty died, and I still can't get my head around it. I've lost a lot of friends to suicide, and I've never cried for one of them, but I'm crying tonight.

This isn't to say my other brothers are worth less in any way, but this one hits me in a special place.

Story time...

The night we met, will always be one of the funniest nights of my entire life. When he walked into my apartment, I'll never forget it. His sense of humour eclipsed anything I'd ever come across before, and I'd say the same to you if he was still breathing right now. My buddy Shilo and I had tears in our eyes, he was relentless.
We were literally lying on the floor, our stomachs aching from laughing so hard.

I don't know how, but we not only kept in touch after that, but we hung out a lot as well. I don't normally bond with guys so well, but when I do, it's usually for life. It didn't hurt that we were neighbours for a few years, or that we were both insanely nocturnal. But we hung out for a long while I was still in New Zealand, and we talked about all our dark secrets. I still keep his, I figure he's still keeping mine too.

Marty was an artist, and by artist, I mean he lived, breathed and sweated art.
His work was phenomenal, but it was a natural by-product of being Marty.
He made art like I shit.
I'm not sure how much bigger or more respected he could have gotten in his chosen field, I mean, everybody just loved the guy, and he had the most amazing contacts and lifestyle of anyone I know. He was a total rock star.

But to me, he was like, the strongest guy ever. He had a very concrete view of what was acceptable, and what wasn't. He was a total tough guy, and I related to that a lot. But at the same time, his heart was all rainbows and unicorns 4 eva. His generosity just went beyond anything I've ever encountered, but it wasn't blind either. There were a few times he could have rescued my ass from trouble (being a millionaire and all), but he didn't.

And that's what Marty taught me: Stand up, and help yourself, coz yourself is all you're gonna have one day. Bite down hard and deal with it. That's what makes this so confusing.

He was my understanding friend, even when he didn't really understand me.
He stuck by me when I was so self-destructive, most everyone else just shook their heads and walked away.
He was the first person I saw when I got out of jail.
And he was the guy who came to see me in hospital, after I had my attempt at suicide, all those years ago.
He looked at the rope burns around my neck and said "Rough day, huh?", one hand on my shoulder, not judging me for a second.

And I have to admit, I just don't get this.
I've never been good at life, and his death just makes me go "What do I do now?"
I mean, if Marty couldn't make it, what hope do any of us have?
It just kills me to think of how much pain he was in, to do what he did. I have a pretty good idea, because I did it too. But like all things, Marty made a more permanent job of it.
Where was I when all this was going down? Why didn't I know? He had emailed me in Melbourne from L.A, and made no mention of anything not going smoothly. I had no idea.
I found out later he had already attempted suicide recently, and that his other friends knew about it. I wish I knew about it. But that's hindsight.

He was always so stoic, he seemed so incredibly strong.
And even though I knew he was in pain, I never thought it would come to this.
I never thought...

But I know one thing-
I'm going to keep on trucking, and do the best I can with this life, because I'll never take it for granted again. I'm never giving up on my dreams, and I'm not gonna let this evil fucker of a world break my heart.
Every day I live I'm going to find time to celebrate this incredible thing that I have, and Marty never will again.
I am so honoured to have known him, I'm gonna love him til the day I die, and I'm going to let this be a lesson to me, that I would never have learned fully without him.

This is me paying tribute.

And I know that, if he was looking down on me from Valhalla, he'd mess up my hair and say "Don't cry numb-nuts".

R.I.P. Martin F Emond.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

A Reason for Exercise.

Simon was working the counter of Dean and Deluca, making coffees, and serving endless droves of Georgetown University students.
This was his job, he had no other.
He wanted to be a painter one day, but not yet.

He figured there's time for everything.

I guess you could say he was a pretty normal guy.
Normal, except for the fact he was fucking Ivanka Trump.
Normal, apart from that.

She would come in from time to time, and of all things, have coffee.
He would serve her, and treat her like a person.
It was that simple.

One day, while drinking coffee out of a cardboard cup, Ivanka decided she couldn't live without him.

"Hey." she said.
"Hey." he said.
(Young people nowadays...)
"My name's Ivanka."
"I am Simon."
And she liked that.
Like, he was the one and only, all-consuming, all-knowing Simon.
Like, "I am Buddha."
Very cool.

"Well Simon, I was wondering if you would be into doing something with me tonight."
There's no question mark, because that's the way she said it.
Like, "That's how it is."
"No." said Simon, the Buddha of Georgetown.

Insert uncomfortable silence here...

"Riiiiiiiight..." said Ivanka, not really having counted on this outcome whatsoever.
"Can I ask why?" Ivanka looked vulnerable.
(She looks best this way, but then you know that).
"All I want to do, is grab one pizza, one video, and go to bed with them both..."
(by way of explanantion). "...I need to hide from the world tonight."
Simon made a coffee.

"How about you forget the video, and we just fuck instead?"
She was polite enough to include a question mark this time.
Simon says "I could do that."

And do it he did.

I'm not going to go into detail, because this isn't reality tv. Suffice it to say, the pizza went cold, but was utterly demolished around 3.15 am the next morning.

So what happened next?

Well, nothing really.
Simon went to work, and made coffees for endless droves of Georgetown University students, as well as eating pizza's, watching video's, and kicking out the occasional painting.

Ivanka went to the aforementioned University and majored in Finance (she's a Trump), as well as going on holidays to St Tropez and Monte Carlo with her girlfriends, and modelling in Paris for Thierry Mugler.

Every now and then she would call, or pop in to the shop, he would take her home, and they would do the things
young people in lust do.

And share cold pizza.

So why am I telling you this?
I'll tell you...

No matter how dull or insignificant your life feels, you just never know when a glamorous and beautiful
international model, is going to want to fuck you.

And that certainly is a warm feeling, isn't it?

You'd better start working out...

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

When Robots go shopping.

JoBeth worked at IKEA.

she would always get a kick when people would come in and say
"wow, if we put this with this, we could come up with something really different!"

...really different.

When Planets Collide.

max was listening to fear factory at ear-shattering volume,
when the meteor vaporised his wall.
when later asked if he was shocked or surprised, max replied:
"when you're listening to fear factory, shit like that seems entirely appropriate, not surprising".

"all in all i'd have to say it was quite a satisfying home entertainment experience".


marcus built himself a robot, and programmed it to say
"you are so sexy!" to him every morning.

he found the experience empty,
and fitted it with a vacuum cleaner and microwave oven instead.

he found that worked out a lot better.

Max & Betty- an Evil Love Story.

maximillian was an evil overlord who lived on top of a mountain.
the mountain was called 'mount plague'.
he had a girlfriend called betty.

they met when she answered an ad in the local paper for a hearse cleaner.
she'd worked at a carwash the summer before, and figured hearses were just big cars.
maximillian owned ten.

after seeing betty wash his cars in her cut off jeans, bubbles in her hair, and her t shirt nicely soaked,
maximillian did what most evil overlords would do.

he masturbated furiously.

betty caught him at it, and being a cheerleader, she followed the porn directors code, which clearly stipulates that any and all masturbatory activity accidentally interrupted by hot carwash girls, has to be immediately remedied
with oral sex.

she was very good, having practiced on brad, billy, bobby, chuck, mikey, moose, and everyone else in the football team.
and maximillian fell in love.

betty was happy to go out with someone different. besides, "maxi" had ten big, muscular cars.
and so it started.
all was not well, however.

betty would go to high school, or to the mall with her friends, while the jealous maximillian watched her with his telescope, from high atop mount plague.
he would page her at the craziest times, and cry jealous tears down the phone line.
he was insane with insecurity.

betty thought it was sweet at first, but it all ground her down, eventually.
she tried to talk it through, but it's not easy talking down maximillian.
"kneel before me!" he would say.
betty would invariably take this the wrong way, and pleasure him orally.
nothing would be resolved.

it all came to a head (so to speak) one day, when betty awoke to find everyone in town had been "neutralised' by maximillians henchmen.
everyone she'd known, her whole life, had been destroyed by a jealous order.
maximillian thought it would make their life together easier.
he was just too naiive.

betty ran away to florida, where there are a lot of dirty cars.

the fbi came for maximillian that very day, and took him to a secret building downtown.
they conducted weird experiments on him, like cutting off his arms and legs, to see if they did evil things on their own.
maximillian was a mummy's boy at the best of times, and the shock promptly killed him.
his arms and legs weren't really evil.

Just misunderstood.


...and then all the Vikings went home and built
geodesic domes in the forest, to house their
innovative new furniture design companies.

To Fiji !!!

Max stopped writing for a moment, and looked out of his window.
In the park across the street, he saw the most amazing thing.
It walked on two legs, its little body kind of swaying as it moved,
and this tiny little head on top of a very short neck, if you could call it that.
He seemed to recall he'd seen something like this somewhere before,
like in a book of mythical creatures or something.

He became terribly excited, and his heart began to race, as his eyes typically
picked this precise moment to have trouble focussing.
Max was in absoloute awe of this amazing creature, when he realised it was only a bird.
It was only ever a bird, he was just so distracted and stressed he'd
completely forgotten that birds exist.
He looked again- it was a pigeon.

"I need a fucking holiday".

The Truth about Insects.

insects can't stand music.

it causes turbulence in the air, it confuses them.

that's why wasps sting - they are quite moody.

The Readers Digest.

vincent read the words on his computer screen intently, in the middle of the night.
his eyes passed over a joke, and as he laughed, he scared the hell out of himself, his laugh breaking the silence.
he looked around nervously, like you do when you see a rat as big as your car sitting on the sofa, drinking your sasparilla.

laughter not always the best medicine.

The Obvious.

rex wore a t shirt that read "misogynist".

"misogynist!!!" screamed women from passing cars.

rex would look amused, and go on his way.

Hobby Class this week: Insanity.

I was tired of the usual things- wanting money, eating, having sex.
Paying my rent.
Washing my body.
Getting up in the morning to piss.

I had to do something different, before the monotony of plain old everyday existence turned me into a stalagmite.
Like Rodin's thinker- fossilized by a concept.

I was inspired by this woman I saw outside a department store in Paris.

She was incredible.

It was raining, but the warmth of the store's air curtains blasted out the doors, turning the area under
the awnings into a tropical paradise (with perfumes for rum drinks).
The woman was late 30's, with long, brown, straight hair.
Mousy hair. Tucked behind her ears, like a librarian, like a rape victim.
She looked damp all over, rained on, but unmoved by the experience.

Like carine roitfeld, editor of french vogue.

She looked cold, or rather, like she should be cold, but it just didn't register.

She was someplace else.
No longer plugged in.
She was gone.

She stood in the doorway, looking at the ground.
Nothing was happening there, nothing at all.
Not unless she could see sub-atomic particles, and micro organisms at work.

Otherwise, no.

And she looked so forlorn, like she'd lost everything in the world, with only the time she was
wasting standing there to get it back.
She looked like she was in shock, trying to weigh out some huge planet of news, into bite size pieces.
Manageable, digestable.
And maybe she was.

But the news was just too big.

Everyone on the street noticed her (doing nothing), especially small children.
But no-one stopped or stayed.

It occurs to me now maybe I should have comforted her, put my arm around her.
But I'm a Pisces, I always think that way.

I was inspired.

The next day, I felt energised.
I got up at 10am (early for me), and did push-ups til my arms turned to jelly.
I crunched my abs. I tasted sweat.
I ran up and down on the spot, and threw punches and kicks at my shadow on the wall- the shadow of my former self.
I ate breakfast, and scrubbed myself clean.

I wore: black boxers, black Levi engineered jeans, white sport socks with no logo, adidas gazelle's, a black t-shirt,
and the black sweater my Mother bought me for Christmas.
It's a nice sweater.

I walked to the corner, striding like a stock broker.
And I stopped without warning, my inner spasser guiding me to the place of emancipation.
I looked at the ground, and the people who had been more or less keeping pace with me glanced sideways to see what was up.
I could feel them turning to look for a hundred metres or more.
I was doing it for real.

I let my face fall, not like I was going to start crying, more like I'd just remembered something tragic...
something that happened to someone else.
Dark and impenetrable, like real jazz.
And secret, too.

And I stared at the same spot of nothing for half an hour, feeling waves of private elation consume me,
every time a new set of eyes slowed to look.
People were asking themselves questions, about the state of my mind.
I was the source of discussion, in a hundred offices at morning tea.
People visiting Paris from Cairo, Wyoming, and Nassau, all leaving again with memories of my special condition,
amongst the grandeur of Notre Dame, and Le Tour Eiffel.

Suspicious policemen, looking, but not wanting to approach.
I was a case for the Salvation Army, that was the common conception.
Too advanced for normal people.
Too sick for the gendarmerie.

They wanted to know, but were scared to ask...what could possibly be the matter?
As if my secret was a poison- once spoken, they would be infected, until the whole of Paris stood sentinel over little
pieces of ground; cars ground to a halt, no-one to buy your bread from.

As if the stone I stared at was an eye magnet, inpossible to look away.
Like the end of the world was a word, waiting to be uttered.

Paris was not ready for that word today.

People were shocked when I 'came back around', looking up, and simply walking away.
Walking back home, through the door, and out of sight.
I could feel their relief, allaying the confusion of this Lazarus-miracle.
Their sighs, after the initial heart-stopping surprise.

It was a big day for everyone.
I wonder, what then, for tomorrow?

The Future has yet to Hurt Us.

Most people didn't like Arabella.
It wasn't that she wore only black.
Or that she never smiled.

People were scared of her, because she was honest.

Most people, you see, have a 'them' that not even they really know.
They hide from themselves all their lives, by working and playing and sleeping; until one day they are old,
and are shocked to realise they have no idea who they are, or if they even
like themselves.
They project a personality to the world, good or bad, but there nonetheless.
Like 'the moralist', 'carefree', or 'the goth'.
All valid choices, as choices go.

But Bella 'just was'.
She projected nothing at all.
She was a blank canvas.
You could see nothing of her on the surface, but it was frightening how if you came
close enough, you could see your own reflection.
Like looking into a pool of dark water, or a deep, cold dam.

If you asked her a question, she would answer you.
Free of the filtered language imposed by culture.

Q. "Hello, how are you?"
A. "Like you give a fuck?!"
That sort of thing.

She wasn't trying to be rude, but really, who does give a fuck when they say that?
Polite people and teachers ran in fear.
And negatively phased rebellious peers were cut down too, like pale saplings, exposed to the chainsaws of their own hypocrisy.
"Don't waste my time!", said Arabella. "I don't want to attend to your stunted emotional pliagarism. Do something original."

She stayed home on prom night.

But Bella was happy, happier than anyone could ever realise.
Happy, because she was realistic.
Life has no purpose, but that's no reason to be sad, is it?
She was secure, she knew the secret.
So - she was happy to not go to college, happy to read books inside all day.
She had no-one to impress, no higher power to answer to.
No reason to aspire to anything other than 'here' and 'now'.
No future to be hurt by.

I met her at the gas station.
She was filling up her ride, playing games with the pump.
Staring it down, trying to get exactly $100.00 worth of gas in her tank.
No more, no less.
She looked like a mirage, through the waves of rising petrol fumes.
Like Cleopatra before the asp.

Her hair was raven black and long, except for a precise fringe, laser cut to her eyebrows.
No makeup.
I'll say it again - no makeup.
I was having impure thoughts.

She caught me looking, and stared like Mr Spock at a rock show.
And she didn't smile at all, not even when I did.
She gave me nothing, but the weight of her gaze, the responsibility of her attention.
Like, "I'm looking, now what?"
I was in her movie.

Pickup lines do not work here.

We're staring at each other, the smile on my face retreating shamefully behind a look of chastisement and woe.
She made me feel like a dog.
Like I'd shat on her rug.

She broke her stare, bored with this game, and went inside to pay.
So I stole her car.

Not so bad really, as I'd left mine fully gassed and ready to go back on the forecourt.

I saw her in my rearview, a good half mile behind.
She must have been driving slow, as her Honda wasn't exactly built for speed.
So I pulled over to the side of the highway.
I debated whether to wait inside or out. Out won.

I sat on the edge of her bonnet, the butterflies in my stomach being consumed by snakes, and scorpions.
And bears.

She pulled up in my car, and parked in front of her own. She got out, and walked back to me like a cop...that stare again.

I was braced for injury, she looked like she could kick if she wanted to.
She was right in front of me now, the gravel crunching under her boots, like in a western.

"What's your name?" she demanded, sounding tired, and not at all frightened of anything.
"Ray", I replied. "Ray Manzarek (no relation)".
"Well Ray" she exhaled, "You had better be worth it".
I didn't know what she meant at all.
"My name is Arabella".

"I guess you'd better come back to my house." said Arabella,
in exactly the same way an overworked emergency room doctor would say "I guess we'd better amputate".
I loved the way she said that.
Like it was fact.
Like it was inevitable.
Like it was obvious.

Our first date.

The Dead Park Scrolls.

at the park, jesus noticed a pair of crows
sharpening their beaks on a rock.

they were pure black, with shiny feathers, and white eyes.
they were easily the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen -
he simply had to posess them.

he thought about how cool it would be
to walk everywhere with a black dobermann
and a pair of those crows.
like an evil overlord.

but it would probably wouldn't go down too well with his dad.

Tasty Snack.

Krista's job was to be the most beautiful girl in the universe.
This was her place in the natural order,
in the scheme of things.
It was a secret, like all great mysteries, but she kind of knew it anyway.

Pretty girls are strange like that.

She was so perfect, that if she was mutilated in a car accident,
Jupiter would fall straight out of the sky, and land on the Vatican.
Every cow on the planet would fart simultaneously, choking the world in methane.
The Chinese Government would play nice.

Krista looked goood.

She was far too self-satisfied to be likeable, though.
Her friends were transparent and shallow.
She didn't work.
A series of high-profile "one month stands" with very rich men guaranteed a life of extreme comfort.
She owned a yacht, and three apartments, as well as a black Lamborghini.

Krista was fast and single.
Just like meal-in a-minute microwave Cordon Bleu.

Superstars of Buddhism.

samsara's video glared mockingly at her from on top of the television.
the clock on the front worked, the power indicator worked.
but the video didn't work.
"ha ha" thought the video.
samsara threw it out the window.

"time for a new video!"

the endless cycle of death and rebirth - samsara.

Steve Gallagher.

he clapped his hands, face smiling, perfect posture.
his head making imperceptible movements from the left
to the right, like one of those nodding dogs old
people in england put in the rear windows of their
morris minor cars.

he was handsome and composed, and bordering on the

a sort of 'nine out of ten sexual'if you will.

he was a professional keyboard player.

'nuff said.


jill ran from the bus stop to her front door, as if giant eagles and hawks were circling overhead,
waiting to pluck her from the ground, and to feed her to baby monsters in some far away mountain eyrie.

needless to say, the giant eagles and hawks were quite pissed off at having missed her.


i used to be in love with a girl called colomba sepkje, but i had to break it off.

because as wonderful as she was, her name sounds too much like an exotic disease in a far away place...

or a south american pus-inducing spider.

Reverse Pleonasm.

There are 2 words I can never remember:
'conceited', and 'initiative'.
The funny thing is, none of my friends can remember these words either.
When you need one of those words, they're just not there.
Like verbal safety pins.

"God! she's so a...a...ohhh, she's a ...a bitch!"

"You're fired Wayne. In the 16 months you've worked here at the cheese factory,
you have never shown one scrap doing things that need doing
without supervision. So, get out."

I wonder if no-one remembers?
What could happen to these words?
Is it possible, they could be forgotten?

In ten thousand years, a group of archaeologists will be excavating Volkswagen microbuses in Kenya, when they will discover a hole.
This hole, will be ten miles deep, and full of forgotten words.
Like, "serendipity", that cool 'bubble bath' feeling.

And when the light hits them, they will all evaporate- gone forever.

No great loss...
As long as I've still got "yo", "werd", and "4 eva!", I'll be happy.

Millie & James.

james was an omnivore, who was in love with his librarian.
he would write love notes on dried bacon strips with a paint marker,
and place them between the leaves of borrowed books for her to find.

millie was a librarian, who was enchanted by this.
she sprayed the strips with clear p.v.c., and hung them in her bay window,
until it looked like her venetians were made entirely of flesh.

love is blinds.

Oceans of Kansas.

when you think about it, sea creatures can grow as big as they want to.

there really is no limit, in a vast, cold ocean.
no gravity.
they can just grow and grow.

maybe god is just a huge satellite-dish of flesh, that lives on the ocean floor at the bottom of the mariana trench,
feeding off all the rotting matter that drifts down from above,
and transmitting his thoughts to crazy people via telepathy.

his mouth could start at venice beach and end at cape town.
he could have a tentacle in each of the seven seas, and one just floating around wherever,
just for the hell of it.
he could have offices in sydney, brighton, and atlantic city.
god can fart geothermal.

maybe god is just the oldest animal alive- the one we all came from, the proto-everything.

the virgin mary impregnated by sperm in the bathwater.

baptism, loaves and fishes, walking on the waves, noah and the flood, fisherman disciples, revelations style seas of blood,
tears of the devoted, jonah and the whale- it all comes together, in a nicely packaged, hydrous kind of symbolism.
jesus the fish, scuba christ.

that's probably why there are so many flying saucers over the american midwest.
there used to be oceans over kansas, when there were dinosaurs.
maybe that's the last place the aliens saw god.
they've just kept looking ever since.

They should put up posters.
"have you seen this deity?"

the tides are just god breathing.
and every time you go swimming at the beach, you get a mouthful of his piss.
there's your communion, right there.

praise god for sodium chloride.

that must be why the romans crucified jesus at golgotha, waaaaay out there in the desert.
...far away from dad.

jesus - "father, why hast thou forsaken me?"
god - "what's that? i must be going deaf! sounds like jesus, but i can't really tell. can't hear shit underwater...
fuck it, he's 30 fer chrissakes! he's a big boy, i'm sure he's fine."
jesus - *dies*.

if you want your prayers answered, make sure you've got lots of bait.

probably why the middle east is at war all the time, too.
the only sea is the dead sea, and god's not going to be hanging around there, is he?
it's much more fun out at the great barrier reef, or fiji.

jesus said he's going to rise again.
i don't know who he said it to, but he said it.
if you don't believe me, just go ask anyone.

and there it is!
you can't 'rise' from heaven to here.
irrefutable proof that god lives underwater.

if you really love him, on judgement day, bring a towel and a hot mug of coffee. Get in with him before all the mess starts.

he'd like that.

Nouveaux Riche.

roland used to carry this dictaphone around with him everywhere
and record snippets of people's conversations with it.

sometimes just a word or two.

the plan was to listen back when the tape had finished,
and hear this highly artistic concept recording.

and one day, the tape finshed, and the time had come.

roland organised an opening at the gallery,
brought in bubbles and things to nibble on,
and had posters printed and put up all over town.

of course it sounded like shit
but by that time we were all so drunk that nobody cared.

best night out we'd had in ages.

Missing person, please repost!

Vanessa was last seen clinging tenaciously to an orange, in an advertisement for a new web-based weight loss promotion.

Modern Lovers.

sindy leaned back across the bar, her microskirt suggesting her lack of underwear.
her heels reminded him of the world trade centre in new york.
stratospheric footwear.
she was looking good until she fell over, the ketamine she'd snorted kicking in nicely.
(she was in it for the money).

olivier chomped down on his cigar, thinking he was looking real tough and mean.
in reality he looked like a stupid hawaian shirt wearing white guy with a big black dick in his mouth,
smoke leaking out of his head.

the perfect couple.

Maybe I'm cruel.

Janelle never turned the radio off in her bedroom.
The tv stayed on in the lounge, as did every light in the house.
She would run to her car, and turn on the stereo, then drive to work, where she listened to the in-house dance compilations.
Janelle was constantly surrounded by noise.

Most of it came from her mouth.

She was impossible to talk to, instead, you could only listen.
Every time you tried to get a word in, or make an excuse to leave, it would trigger off
another avalanche of words.
There was always a very good chance you'd heard them all one hundred times before.
"You know, that reminds me of the time my sister went to hospital..." she would start.
"Yeah, I remember you telling me". you would say, followed by Janelle's automatic reply:
"Well, you know when she went in...blah blah blah."
You could probably die, right there on the sofa, and she would never know.
But she would think you were the best person in the world to talk to.

The silver lining.

She had convinced herself that the one night stand she'd had with a visiting rock star
was a relationship. That one day, he would come for her.
This 'god of rock' has a wife and children, and a string of mistresses all over the world.
But still she waited, because she was "the one".


And the tv stayed on, as did the radio, and her mouth.
Her life was a lie, and she made absoluteley sure her brain never got a moments silence in
which to figure that out.
I pray for a power cut.

Maybe I'm cruel.

Marcus the Liar.

marcus kept a diary.

in it, he would write all about his sometimes girlfriend the supermodel, calls he received
from famous hollywood friends every day, and life on the road as the guitar tech for the
biggest bands in the world.

he would write lies.

he kept this diary very neat, and included a list of email addresses for famous people,
(all of which were his, under fake or assumed names) in the back.

for example:

bono -,

Robert downey jr -, and

amber valletta -

sometimes he would write a cellular phone number too. this would connect directly to one of
several prepay mobiles he'd bought in america, permanently switched off, and routed to
he had a faithful and talented co-conspirator who would record the messages perfectly.

"hey, this is henry rollins. i got up at 4:30 this morning so i could work out and write books, so i'm not anywhere near my phone.
you can leave me a message, or hang up and get a life.
eat your vegetables, or i'll kick your ass...*beep*".

very slick.

the other thing he would do, is he would leave this 'diary' in coffee shops after he'd
finished his salad and chinotto.
he would leave it where he knew the cute waitress would find it, and not call in to
get it again until he was positive she had had time to read it too.

he would give his younger brother $50 and a phone, and tell him to go in to the shop,
watch him eat and leave, and to call him once the waitress had her head stuck firmly between
the pages.

then, he would go in the next day, and ask her if he'd been "stupid enough" to leave his
diary there the day before.

he'd be fucking her back at his apartment by dinner.
...every time.

when he got sick of said waitress, he would tell her he had to go on tour again, and that as much
fun as he was having, he really hadn't planned for it, and regrettably had to "call it a day".

"i can't be thinking about you when jon bon jovi needs his guitar fixed in the middle of a song",
he would say.
there would be tears, as the beautiful waitress saw all her dreams of being a celebrity go
flushing down the toilet (clockwise in the northern hemisphere).
and the next day he'd be eating salad somewhere new, with his brother watching from the other
side of the room, $50 in his hand, and a smile on his face.

family values.

Manolo Dreams Aloud.

...and so, after twelve years of playing, manolo won the lottery.
every lunchtime, he would leave the factory, buy two steak pies and a coke from the trailer on the street corner, and drive out of the industrial estate, to the edge of town.

He'd buy a ticket to the lottery, and hurry back to work.

Now he had twelve million dollars in his bank account.

The first thing he did, was buy a mansion, and a telephone that looked like a harley davidson motorcycle to put in it. He placed the 'phone on an imitation greek column style stand, that was designed for lottery winners and columbian cocaine barons.

Great. Now what?

High backed red chair, cigar, no more hair nets.

The Locker Room.

bobby was at football practice, when he paused for a moment,
and thought of something so beautiful that he started to cry.

the rest of the team kicked his ass for being a fag.

Achtung !

hermann was quite taken aback when he saw his grandfather on the hardcore fetish
spanking website.
hermann just logged on to see what it was all about, you know, a little bit curious.
and there was grandfather, with an array of utterly stunning young women over his knee,
red buns blazing.
he was dressed impeccably, as is his trademark.

that is, when he was dressed at all.

hermann thought about it for a while, and then he decided "good on him".
his wife passed away 20 years ago, and he'd damn well fought and lived like a dog in world war 2.
hermann figured if anyone was entitled to a bit of happiness, it was his grandfather.

besides, he was quite good at spanking, if memory serves.

Life after Coupland.

i think coupland has a very condescending method of storytelling - like he's already heard every story in the world,
so you may as well just accept his literary superiority.

but he's tame.
he's tame and formulaic.

he's written himself into a style, and that, i think, is dangerous.
the second your public can depend on your writing, then it's all out the window,
like a horror movie with "5 seconds til the scary bit" subtitles.

who'd go to a safe circus?

i bet you anything you like he never surprises himself any more.
he's just this guy with a pen, and one eye on the television.

Library Planet.

she sat in the chinese takeaway, head to one side,
reading a book.

she was beautiful, and personified the state of

she smiled faintly, as her eyes moved over the page,
and her body held them steady.

and it seemed like she was in a bubble, like she was
being transmitted live from some planet consisiting
solely of flowering spring pastures and libraries.

she seemed a thousand miles away from the sound of
woks frying, and that eggy smell that motivates you to
leave quickly after you've stuffed yourself with rice.

she radiated peacefulness.

i felt my troubles grow faint as i watched her, her
infectious peace, her happy privacy.

and then i had to go, because of that eggy smell.


david was playing with his cock again.
he did this often.
he was reclining on his $32,000 andreas storijko sofa from B & B italia, wearing nothing but an intent expression of deep

he rolled it between his fingers, weighed it in his palm. it was quite a big cock, definitely david's prize posession.
it was half erect, so he had all of the benefits of its magnificant size and weight, while maintaining its casual "no, it
can get a lot bigger..." vibe.
it was soft and smooth, and it made him think about sea monsters.

when you think about it, quite a lot of meat goes into making a person.
and there are a lot of people.

and then there are things like giant squid, deep-sea eels, and octopi.
huge, ugly corporations of meat, floating around in the water; just hunting and vibing everything else
out all day.

there sure is a lot of meat in the world.

giant squid can reach lengths of 120 feet long, and can weigh 40 tonnes.
they are predatory, carnivorous, extremely aggressive cephalopods.
they have eyes a foot wide, the biggest in the animal kingdom.

big, angry molluscs, that wrestle with sperm whales when they get bored, and usually win!
they grow them big, down on the sea floor.

suddenly, david's cock didn't seem so big any more.
he slipped on some underwear, and folded it away with a shiver.
his fragile male ego, crushed like a ship.

yet another victim of...THE KRAKEN !!!

Let's make Rifles.

she had a very aggressive look about her.
her freckles looked angry,
her black vinyl jacket glared blackly,
even her ponytail bounced with malice.
while my hair perched on top of my head, like some frightened animal.

we ordered japanese foods that had names like dinosaurs.

she spent $5o,000 on her lovely new necklace from Vulgari.
i dream of supermarkets, mainly.
some things just naturally go together, like violin crescendo's and chloroform.

her vagina tasted like peaches and passionfruit yoghurt.
the sequins on her bra flashed under the lights, like her breasts were communicating via morse code.
"let us out".
the way she placed pieces of fruit in her mouth was possibly the most beautiful thing i had ever seen.

people keep telling me i look tired, but it's just my face.
while she's sitting there grimacing like farrah fawcett at a photo shoot.
"you smell like airplane food."
the decline of the masculine empire.

her mother used to make her go down on her when she was seven.
kind of like 'getting foedipus', if you will.
polarised to the prevailing stimuli.
her interests: gardening, porn, complaining.

we were in a room full of young graphic designers, all hungry and eager to get out and start raping the world.
still, if it wasn't for chaos, there'd be no such thing as a good cook, would there?
she loved to cook, and did it for us every night.
mainly so she had an excuse to walk around inside with a big knife.

it reminds me that plato was very upset his first love of cooking was often overlooked by historians.

"i loved her, but she broke my art".