Monday, November 29, 2004

Holy Crap! Let's Eat!!!

Welcome to the latest in my series of cooking with all the cool people in the world, that you will probably never meet.

This week, it's THE PRETTY FLOWERS!

Now before you say "who?", you need to shut your sweet mouth, because the only reason you haven't heard of them yet, is because you are uncool.

The sweetest degenerates on the planet, and the darlings of the New York underground, Pretty Flowers are a Brooklyn-based three-piece who sing about sluts, sloppy seconds and Scheisse movies. They play driving, infectious indie and punk rock that they call Tardcore.

They are: Russ Josephs (bass/vocals) from New York, Yelena Milskaya (guitar/vocals) from Moscow, and Danny Cashen (drums) from Detroit.


Their site is: www.prettyflowers.org


Oh my God, Yelena OWNS.

Today, we will be cooking:

Pretty Flowers Pad Thai.

Ingredients:
8 tablespoons vegetable oil
4 cloves garlic (peeled and finely chopped)
4 tablespoons dried tiny shrimps (soak in water for 5 minutes)
80g tofu (cut into small cubes)
200g narrow rice noodles (soak in water for 2-3 minutes)
12 tablespoons water
4 eggs
2 teaspoons white sugar
4 tablespoons soy sauce
20g Chinese chives (cut into 3cm lengths)
100g bean sprouts
40g ground peanuts
4 teaspoons lime juice

Garnish (optional):
8 quartered limes
240g bean sprouts
80g Chinese chives (cut into 3cm lengths)
120g ground peanuts

Directions:
1. Put oil in wok or large pan and on low heat fry garlic, dried shrimps and tofu together for 1 minute.
2. Drain noodles and place in wok. Add the water.
3. Beat the eggs and stir them into the noodles.
4. Stir in the sugar and soy sauce.
5. Stir in the Chinese chives and bean sprouts.

6. Add ground peanuts, fry for 30 seconds and then turn off heat.
7. Stir in the lime juice.
8. Serve on large plates and garnish.

Serves 4 normal people, or snack for one knifey.

Go check their site and act like you knew all along punk-ass...

"Mommy- what's a scheisse movie?"


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

What? Me, jealous?

I bit my lip today.

Not in the "I'm not going to say anything for a change" way, not even in the coquette-ish "are you ready for Spring Racing?" way.

But in the literal, "oh my fucking god that kills" way, that leaves your downstairs lip bruised and bleeding.

But that's not the bad part.

The bad part is- I keep doing it.

What's up with my brain?

I can do advanced calculus, but i can't stop myself from chomping down hard every few bites of dinner, making me bend over double, and absolutely hate myself!

In other breaking news, I made a koto today.

Unless you're Japanese, you probably won't care, and even then...







Turns out I was right at the end of my 'Saturday night' post...Greg did go back to town for some more beers.

He also went home with a girl who's been trying to get me to do the same for a month or so, and made the hot sexxx.

I find this whole scene rather distasteful, because that was a horrifically skanky thing of her to do. Am I meant to be jealous or something?

Why not just go after him in the first place? I know why, but I don't like the answer. Skanky, skanky, skanky.

"Hey, I know I've been chasing your friend all this time, but suddenly I've noticed you. Let's have sex!"

Not dodgy at all, is it?

Gross whore.

What's for dinner I wonder? Oh yeah, that's right.

My fucking lip.




This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

Saturday Night's All Right For...

...well, anything really.

Tonight was one of those hot nights where you do not want to go to bed at all, in case you miss something. You know what I mean, right?

Hotness.

As usual, my wingman Greg and I headed down to the Napier in Fitzroy, for our regular Saturday evening dinner and warmup.

As usual we ate way too much, and as usual, we flirted mercilessly with the bar staff.

As usual, Andrea (Queen of all Hotness) behind the bar growled at me for not saying goodbye last time we were there. I like to play it cool, you know.

Not as usual, I took a photo of myself on the toilet, and here it is:


"plop!"

I think this sign above the bar sums it up best, really:


That's 4 eva, peepz!

The Napier rules...a lot.

After Greg had 6 pints of beer there, we decided to go the Labour in Vain on Brunswick Street, for 6 more.

While Greg was ordering I wandered up onto the roof and saw this lovely lady:


Odette!

Odette and I always have strange conversations, and that's the way we like it.
What we say doesn't have to make sense, especially because as far as I'm concerned, words are just little time-wasting devices that allow me to look at her for longer.

She asked me what I was doing there, and I told her I was looking for my calculator.

Odette said "You're such a nerd, with your tatts".

Classique.

By the time we left, the sun had gone down.
Greg's beer count = 12 pints.

We headed straight for The Espy, which was like one of those weird things you find in childrens playgrounds indoors, like a swimming pool full of balls.
Only the balls were pheremones, and everyone at The Espy was in the pool together, drowning in them.

Nice.


Omigod, graff gets me so wet.


So very, very wet.

We had headed down to see Lorenzo's band, who have been in rehearsal for years, and played their first show last week.
I can't remember what they were called, but it was something like The Desperado's, or, The Renegades, or something.

The first five rows were all girls, and they were screaming and wanting very much to make the sex with the band.

Excellence.

Greg had some beers, believe it or not.
Beer count = 15 pints.

At this point I should mention Greg has the fastest metabolism known to man, his whole family does.

This is illustrated by the fact that if you stand close enough to him, you can actually hear him whirring like an iPod when it's loading up.

Plus, he farts like a racehorse.

By about 2am, we headed into town to a place we'd never gone before...Phoenix, on Flinders Street.

The cool thing about going somewhere new is, I pretty much always have a great time, and this was no exception, helped in no small part by the following parties:


He loves salami, and she's the bad influence of the family.


He was super-cool, she is in big trouble.


He has ingested 20 pints of the brown stuff, and Simon looks like a superhero.


He is like a Maelstrom of marketable chic, she's still a bad influence.

...who were all on a tequila-fuelled rampage.

Greg avoided Tequila, opting instead for a few beers.

Greg's beer count = a gazillion-thousand.

Ben and I had a shoe-off, maybe you guys can help?
My original !995 Adidas Gazelle's-


Old Skool, fool.

Versus whatever the fuck these are supposed to be-


May as well write "I am a homo" in texta on them, and finger yourself.

Don't get me wrong, I like Ben's style...ok, so I don't.

Greg had some beers, and I received a text from an insanely hot Spanish girl I haven't seen in ages, inviting me back to my place for no sleep, and lots of exercise.

Unfortunately, I can't post those photos here, but, seeing as I know you all in real life anyway, I'll just mail you a copy of the DVD we made.

I think Greg went on to Cherry, for some beers.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Friday, November 26, 2004

Knifey knows how to PARTY...

...he just elects not to.

Allow me to tell you about my day so far...

It was hot, apparently.
I say apparently, because I woke up at 4pm, and didn't leave the house til 6.

I went grocery shopping, and saw this girl who had the worst fashion sense you have EVER SEEN, caked-on makeup, and ridiculously high heels.

In the supermarket, fer chrissakes!!!

Clearly, I fell hideously in love with her, and am even now feeling sad and sorry I didn't at least say hello when she smiled at me by the toilet paper.

I came home and made my patented 'on-tour meal', which I call:

knifey's orange dairy bean pudding.

Ingredients:

1 can of baked beans.
2 cups of frozen vege mix.
1 cup of grated tasty cheese.
4 heaped tablespoons of sour cream.

Method:

Throw in a wok and melt it all together 'til it's orange, then serve on buttered multigrain bread.

Everybody says "Urgh! What is that shit you're eating?" when I make it, but curiosity invariably gets the better of them, and they try it.

Once you taste it, you will never waste it.

After creating and eating this orange masterpiece, I watched 'Ice Age'.
And I cried my ass off at the end when the Mammoth gives the human his baby back. Gets me every time, I swear.

Then I farted, and I felt a lot better.

Here's another confession: I'm watching 'Notting Hill' right now, and ohmigod I love it, almost as much as the Monster Showcase on Larry Emdur's Wheel of Fortune.

And I do love me a Monster Showcase.

I have to go to work right now, then I'm off to see DJ Dereliqtue at Ding Dong, so I will no doubt update when I get home.


DJ Derelicte...all 3 of 'em.

Wish me luck...I'm probably going to meet BLOGGERS!!!

Well!

Meet Bloggers I did!

After I finished work, I made out with the bosses hot Assyrian sister.
That was hotter than Hades, and just my little way of fostering better relations with Iraq.


That pin didn't stay on for long.

Then I made my way to Ding Dong, looking messier than your first sharehouse, and saw the following peeps:

  • George from Lucky magazine, AKA: 'Derelicte 33 1/3'. Nice!
  • The Sheriff- now I see what all the fuss is about...he really is better looking than me! Talk about moving violations!
  • Clem Bastow, who I knew already. She was practically naked, and everyone was glad.
  • Some stupid fuck from Mono.net who wanted to fight me, until I stood up and said "sure!" Thanks for the let-down, cock-sheath.
  • Cam, who I also met on mono.net. Me likey Cam. Cam = good value.
  • My man-crush Toby, who I have totally blogged about before. No link for you, ha-ha.
  • Mark Wilson from Jet's hot sister, who is one of my favourite ladies eva. I want her to be my Mommy.
  • Sugar and Spice, fresh from her work office party! Alas, no photocopy from her to me.
Apparently Buck Fudd was in tha hizzle, but no-one introduced us...maybe at the BBCC XXXMas Pizarty!?

I ran away to Pony after that to see the awesome and incredible Jed Whitey play the 3am upstairs slot, and was very, very impressed. So impressed I stole the singer for my new band, Disgraceland!

I also saw Peta, who manages The Cyclones (among others), and who is so heart-rendingly beautiful I don't think I can stand it.
We chatted for all of 5 minutes, and I'm not sure I heard a word she said, coz I was just standing there in total awe.

Happens sometimes...

Then I had to dash home because some e-d up 19 year old was trying to touch my ass, and you don't get to do that without my permission.

You know those incredible, hot nights, where you don't want to go to sleep, and you just want to party for eva?

Well, tonight isn't like that.

Not one bit.

G'nite!



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Ms Fits on THIS !!!

I was hella bored today, so I listened to the New Tom Waits album, and cut up an old bike frame I had lying around my workshop.

And I made this:


I got my Scout badge for lowrider construction.

I think it's pretty cool, but you and I both know I'm going to end up putting 6 foot long chopper forks on it like every other bike I've ever owned, and selling it to some chump for like, a thousand dollars.

Oh, and a steering wheel.

The truth is Ms Fits has nothing to do with my day today, other than my usual fantasies...

I was just making an in-joke.

Forgive me.

This is my favourite bike, it's called (of course) 'The Demon'.



Grrrrrrrrrrrr!!!! Etc...

I'm gonna put a motor on it and drive it over a cliff and die 4 eva over some girl I haven't met yet, while listening to Rammstein (Sonne), and drinking lemon cordial straight up, like George Smilovic.

Unless I end up buying this:


You so totally wanna sit behind me and touch on my cock. Va-voom!

Then I'll do everything I just mentioned, plus a cool fireball at the end.

But tonight, I'll see you all at this:


Be there, or be an ASSHOLE.

PS- Cherry Ripes are so hot, I had no idea I could be sexually attracted to food before.

PPS- If I was a girl, I would so totally go Jason Bateman. Laconic is the new black.

PPPS- I know my floor is dirty in the pic, it's the maids day off.

PPPPS-
Sperm whales will dump about 200 gallons of semen into the ocean when they mate, but only 2% gets to the the female. SPERM WHALES!!!

PPPPPS-
Giant squid have been known to ejaculate for up to three miles. GIANT !!!

PPPPPPS- Who were the poor scientists who had to measure those facts in action? WET-SUITS!!!

PPPPPPPS- To the reader who keeps emailing me and tells me I am "perfection", keep up the good work. Believe it or not I really dig getting compliments from hot women. Sick, I know...

Mad Respect and Ghetto Love to Book Book Cheap Cheap for the title of this blog.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Reasons I'm Way Cooler on Here than in Reality...



...Because on here, I have:

  • 'Control Z' (The ability to go back in time!)
  • Delete (4 eva).
  • Photoshop (nothing is real).
and most importantly:

  • Time (To think out what I want to say (Not that I ever use it!))
Whereas, in real life, I'm more likely to:

  • Sit in the corner and not say anything.
  • Put my foot in my mouth.
  • Freak you out by staring at you intently, like James Spader (but not as cute).
  • Ignore you entirely.
  • Go to an internet cafe and furiously Google myself in public.

Unless AC/DC, The Darkness, or music of that ilk is playing. Then I'll probably:

  • Sing at the top of my lungs.
  • Tear all my clothes off.
  • Tear all your clothes off.
  • Let the lovemaking start.
Probably best to avoid meeting me in real life I guess...unless you like hot sexxx. Then I'm the guy to know.

Believe me- I've been practicing!



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Gay Homos Who Fuck Men's Assholes with their Cocks.

I must be one, because this blog is all about the boy who broke my heart.

His name was Eddie Van Halen, and he was a guitar player.


Seriously- total radness.

Actually, there was a time when he was the greatest and most innovative guitar player on planet Earth. He was famous for his pyrotechnic guitar abilities, his killer smile, his marriage to Valerie Bertinelli from that TV show no-one remembers any more, and the fact he wore matching stripey guitars and dungarees.

Oh, and he was Dutch, like all cool people.

But I've just heard a track (entitled: It's about time) off the forthcoming album, and it SUXXX INCREDIBLY.


Suxxxors.

Of course Sammy "I was abducted by Aliens" Hagar is in there, which just jinxes it right off.

When the song starts, you would totally swear it's a new *Limpbizkit song!!!

But it's like, Eddie is just going through the (same old) motions, only now he's tired and old, and dare I say it, irrelevant.

99% of 15 year old kids who play guitar in emo bands are better guitar players than Eddie now, I just don't get it.

And Sum 41 write better songs.

Think about what I just said.

Eddie, I know you read my blog, man...

Get back on track with Diamond Dave, kill Hagar and Cherone, get some guitar lessons from the kids in Coheed and Cambria, and get Dave Stewart to write you some songs, like he did for Anastacia (and everybody else on planet Earth).

Because you're a loser now, and you broke my heart, and that's so uncool to do that to someone who has loved you for 20 freakin' years.

I had the Van Halen logo on my bag at High School, and all the other kids would laugh and point because they thought you were a Rennaisance Painter or something, and coz Wham! and Michael Jackson were all they cared about.

We're over Eddie.

I'll mail you your undies back.


*Don't try and correct me, Limp Bizkit officially changed their name to Limpbizkit.
I read the Velvet Rope, I know all.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Rockstar diets, Parte Deux.

As usual, I have taken it upon myself to bring you the latest and greatest in popular culture, before everyone else knows about it (and to feed you as well).

You have never heard of The Nots, because, frankly, you're not cool enough yet.

Until now!

The Nots are to rock and roll, what trucks are to transportation- the real deal, and about as sensitive as a kick to the hoo-ha's. This 4-piece from Costa Mesa, California, have the kind of honest, in-your-face rock energy that pretty much every other band on the planet totally lacks nowadays.

Jenn plays bass, and looks devastatingly cute and hot.


cute.


hot.


When I asked her about her idea of a diet, it went something along the lines of "drink/drink/drink/smoke/drink/maybe throw up/drink...etc..."

So it won't come as a surprise to anyobody to learn that in 'Cooking with the Stars' today, Jenn's shared recipe is an alcoholic beverage.

The Attitude Adjuster.

"Damn... the only recipe I can think of that I really like is one part vodka, two parts Sunny Delight, chilled, stirred (not shaken) and you have my very favorite drink EVER. I like to call it an attitude adjuster (it's fitting). The better the vodka, the less likely your hangover will be as violent as mine".

Yeah, right.

Isn't it ironic that Band Aid and Live Aid enlisted the help of all these malnourished individuals to "feed the world"?

It's like getting the mafia to become the cops.
No wait, there ain't much difference, is there?

Anyways, don't say I don't look out for you...



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Rockstar diets, Parte Une.

As promised here, I told you I'd bring you all the best ideas on food from all the people you will never meet, and I wasn't lying (for once).

This is Mark Wilson.


2'nd from the right, with The Kings of Leon.

He is a rock star.

He plays in a band called Jet. You may have heard of them, because they're FREAKIN' HUGE.

When he's not touring the planet and receiving accolades from Keith Richards with his band Jet, Mark likes to kick it at The Moser Room, with me.

And, as usual, I like to talk about food.

If you read this, you will know all about Mark's radical obesity plan.
But how to facillitate such a transformation???


Ladies and germs, may I present...

The Mark Wilson From Jet all-salami diet!!!

Step 1.

Go to:

Hagen’s Organics (03-9827 1899), at Stall 509, Prahran Market, Commercial Road South Yarra (Melway 2L H9).
Opening hours: Tues and Thurs 6 am–5 pm; Fri 6 am–6 pm; Sat 6 am–5 pm.


or:

John Cester (Check the name Jet fans!) Poultry & Game (03-9827 6111), at Stall 506, Prahran Market, Commercial Road South Yarra (Melway 2L H9).
Opening hours: Tues and Thurs 6 am–5 pm; Fri 6 am–6 pm; Sat 6 am–5 pm.

Step 2.

Buy yourself a "hot and hard" salami (the actual brand is irrelevant).

Step 3.

Take it home.

Step 4.

Eat it...all of it.

Step 5.

Repeat, 7 days a week.

Step 6.

Get yourself a brand new wardrobe, saddle-bags.

BIZZAM! HOW U LIKE ME NOW?!

Coming up next in my cooking series...Jenn from The Nots!




This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Oh, you want HOTNESS, huh?

As you all know, I've let many famous and glamorous people hang out with me, because as well as being incredibly proficient in the art of word-play, I'm also quite generous in the spirit department.

At the end of the day, they're people too.

Even if they sell millions of records, or have perfect bodies, or had their cock chopped off by their angry and abused ex wife Lorena, they still deserve the goodness that is my company.

And so it was with this in mind that I let Annalise Braakensiek into my life.

You all know her from the TV, from the live tour of Fat Pizza, or from your grubby little fantasies.

But I know her because we met at a Channel 10 post-Logie Awards party (to which none of you were invited), and spent all night until the late morning talking each others respective ears off about all kinds of things you normal people will never, ever know.

Ooh! The mystery!

Here are my 2 favourite pics of her:



and:



I like these ones best because they are the only two pictures in the whole world where you can't either see her boobs, the outline of her boobs, or the cleavage between her boobs.

By all reports they are great and amazing, but I have this thing where, if I'm friends with someone, seeing their rudie-bits is at least off-putting, but more often just plain unsettling.

Like watching Mum and Dad have sexxx.

I will, out of the goodness of my heart, divulge one thing Annalise shared with me that night, because I know you're all thinking "What do hot models and rock guitar players talk about when they're all alone, after Television's "Night of nights"?

It's called 'Israeli Salad'.

That's right knifey fans! They swap recipes, like a couple of old grandmothers at a church fair!!!

Here's what you need:

ISRAELI SALAD.

(all ingredients to taste)

shredded lettuce
shredded rocket
european parsley (finely chopped)
coriander (finely chopped)
1 can of chick peas
1/4 spanish onion
cherry tomatos
cubed lebanese cucumber
skim milk feta
olives

dressing- lemon juice, olive oil, salt, pepper, zahtar.

Throw it all together to taste, and Ariel Sharon's your uncle!

In future, I will bring you superstar recipes by:

  • Australian Idol, Guy Sebastian.
  • The voice himself, John Farnham.
  • Channel V's host with the most, Andrew G.
  • Jesse Hooper (of Killing Heidi).
  • A bunch of American porn stars you've never heard of, unless you're dirty.

Next time, on cooking with Knifey though, I will bring you the 'Mark Wilson from Jet all-salami diet'.

If you think I'm kidding, just you wait and see...

And no, I honestly have never looked at Annalise's boobies, not even once.




This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Sexxx Sells, plus a handy recipe!

How intensely rad are Puma???!

We all knew sexxx sells...but cum?
That's almost as hot as those cute little mini-fishnets the model is wearing...

I guess we all should have expected this kind of carry-on from the label that furnished Korn with blinged out shell-suits (post A.D.I.D.A.S.), but I'm still both surprised and impressed.





Because I live to shatter fantasies wherever possible, I'm going to show you how they made the fake cum in the pictures.

I know it was fake, coz I was there.

So here you go- Fake Cum 101, with your Chef Du Jour, KNIFEY !!!

Ingredients-

1 cup water

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 raw egg white

1 tablespoon plain yogurt

pinch of salt

Make that cum yo!

  • Dissolve cornstarch in ¼ cup of water and set aside.
  • Bring the remaining water and a pinch of salt to a simmer in a small saucepan, then stir the cornstarch to redissolve it and stir it in.
  • Simmer and stir the mixture for about two minutes, it will be very thick.
  • Cool the mixture thoroughly. If you don't let it cool the egg will get cooked.
  • If you are impatient, set the pan in a bowl of ice and stir to speed the cooling. When cool, stir in the egg white and yogurt.
  • Mix thoroughly with a wire whisk until smooth.
  • If you want a little more flavour you can add ¼ teaspoon of vanilla extract and some Equal for sweetness when you add the egg.
Kaplow! In your face!

There you go.

Next recipe- Israeli Salad, with Annalise Braakensiek.
(P.S. I'm serious).

'Til then- happy gargling...




This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Who woulda thunk it?





You Are a Snarky Blogger!



You've got a razor sharp wit that bloggers are secretly scared of.
And that's why they read your posts as often as they can!


What kind of blogger are you?


Please have a crack at this and post your result as a reply, ok?
I wanna know what you guys score.

I never do these things usually, so if we all do it, I won't feel so retarded.

Fanks Team.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

David T. Fifer said:

Dude,

On your profile, under interests, when it says, "I like stuff that doesn't
suck and i like to abbreve whenev poss.", I liked it and decided to steal
it. But when people ask me if I thought of it, I tell them I stole it from
some Australian dude. So don't freak out.

Wow!

Rob me, then tell me not to freak out! Go ahead!
Would you like to fingerbang my asshole at the same time?

Ideas are like pieces of shit, David.

It takes me forever to squeeze on out, and when I do, i find it most distasteful if someone comes along and picks it up.

Even more distasteful if they take it away and show it to other people that they know.

Please don't steal my thoughts, I'm only marginally awesome as it is.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Enough With The Sensitive Shit.

As I've mentioned previously, the biggest growth market in porn, is fetish.
And some of the best known fetish sites are going into some pretty odd territory.

Check out fart hammer for an example.

The fart Hammer is an industrious young lad who pretends to find girls off the street (who are seasoned veterans of porn), takes them home, has secksual relations with them, and then, after shooting a load in their eye, he farts on their faces.

Fart Hammer!!!

This is pretty good.
He's obviously thought about it, and went "What do I love to do after secks"? "I know! Fart!!!" "I see big money in this!"

Well...I've thought long and hard too, and I've come up with a concept that will leave all those other fetish sites for dead. Are you ready?

The Cum Laser!!!

I will go out and find girls off the street (who are actually seasoned veterans of porn), dressed in a Space Invader suit. I'll take them home, have secksual relations with them (in the suit), and then, I will shoot a load wherever the hell I feel like it, only it isn't a load of cum- IT'S A MOTHERFUCKING LASER BEAM, THAT TOTALLY RIPS THEM APART!

The Cum Laser!!!

I need:

  • Someone who will host this filth.
  • Access to veteran porn stars.
  • George Lucas' Industrial Light and Magic Digital FX Team.
  • One Space Invader suit.

Any takers?

SHAZAM!!!

It will look just like this-


Do you love it?





This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Sunday, November 21, 2004

Mer-May.

It's easy to get screwed up over love.

And it's really easy to have your soul crushed by big cities.

It feels like the further through my life I get, the less truly magical things happen.
I get suffocated by the fake, peoples "ism's", and the current wave of knee-jerk comedown emotional downhill slalom (if that makes any sense to you).

I go out, and I talk to the same bunch of people I will never truly know, in the same rooms, in the same parts of town, about the same bands, who we think is a dick this week, and not much else.

So I guess it's my fault.

I could die tomorrow, and no-one would even notice.
I know this because I have literally died three times already, and been brought back without too much residual brain damage.

And no-one knew (except my psychic Mother, but she's a whole other post).

It wasn't always like this though, because I remember.

I remember people I used to know, who have all faded with time, and have taken on a whole new vibe- like old polaroids left out in the sun.

I remember meeting people and feeling like "this is it".

And it was.

And I remember conversations I've had, or even better, times when I'd just listen.
And be so utterly and completely blown away, I will never fully recover, and I'm glad.

Yeah, you know it's story time!

I was doing my lunchtime radio show back in New Zealand, and it must have been forever ago, because I was playing 'everyday sunshine' by Fishbone, 'we cry out' by Warrior Soul',and 'there's no other way' by Blur, and they were shiny and new.

I feel kinda in my element on the radio. I don't get nervous.

I'm such a wanker, I feel more excited, like, "Ohmigod! You people are so lucky, when you hear what I have picked out for you, you'll shit your pants".

I'm awesome.

Scene: sun is shining through the huge studio window, and I'm looking out across the city of Wellington, and out to the harbour, and the snow covered mountains in the distance.

Cue protagonist: And in she walked.

She was looking for the office, so she could pick up the prize she won by ringing up some other DJ and answering the requisite question.

And this is what I'm talking about...the second we saw each other, we both knew we were in so much trouble. Good, good trouble.

I asked her for her number, and she gave it to me.
There was no need to ask, we didn't leave each other for 3 months after.
Not for one minute.

Not even for wee wees.

Background check:

Her name was May, and she had moved to New Zealand from Tahiti when she was 15.
She was French, and that helps a lot.
She had intensely brown skin, and green eyes, which is just the most orgasm-shudderingly excellent combination you could ever dial up and order.
She spent all of her spare time out on the ocean, surfing, swimming, and eventually drowning.

And the thing I remember most about her was her lazy smile.

It would start in the right corner of her mouth, like an idea, and spread almost all the way across to the other side.

But never all the way.

Oh.

And even when she slept, her eyes never stopped smiling.

She was scared of ghosts, like, really, really, seriously, oh-god-please-keep-them-away-from-me scared.

There are no ghosts out on the ocean.

I got really wet hanging out with her, and I have to say, I haven't really been back since. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe her ghost is out there.

That would be so great.

She had only ever had one boyfriend before me, and it didn't surprise me, because she was never in a hurry to do anything. I said anything.

If it was worth doing, it was worth doing slowly, enjoying every second and even millisecond, squeezing every bit of juice you could out of it, so that your life was like a dried up orange skin behind you.

Onward, onward.

She woke up one morning and he was kneeling at the end of the bed with a shotgun in his mouth. She wiped her eyes, and he wiped himself clean out of existence.

There are a lot of stories on this world.

Smells that remind me of her:
Jasmine in the summer, Sarsparilla, and surf wax.

There really is no exciting tale of how it happened.

We were out on the water, it was 6pm, and dusk.
Were out past the breakers, like, way out, almost halfway to Kapiti Island.
The water was flat for miles, and very very deep.
We were treading water, and taking in the view, all the way up the coast from Waikanae, and back down to the Point of Titahi Bay.
There was no sound.

I felt the water swell around me, and I swear to Christ a whale swam right under me, maybe 20 feet down. I slipped under to try and get a better look, but it was too dark- all I could see was its massive shadow, and feel the current it left behind.

I came up and was about to say "Did you see that?", but I was all alone.

First reaction: total disbelief.

Next: panic.

I found her maybe 30 metres back to shore, and 10 feet down.
Pure luck, it was totally black by now.
She wasn't warm at all, and she wasn't breathing.

No pulse.

I pulled her back to the rocks, and ran to the car to get my (first ever) mobile phone.
It was a Nokia, the size of a daschund.

She was the heaviest weight I have ever known.

We had drifted about a kilometre to the right of where we set off from, I swear I made it in a minute.

I called the ambulance, not really knowing what else to do, and then I called my Mum.
Mum already knew, and was sitting next to the phone with a cup of coffee waiting for me to call, but like I said, she's a whole other post.

I guess May just figured she'd tell me she was drowning later.

Or maybe she thought she'd try to swim back to Tahiti, and forgot to breathe.
She was pretty forgetful you know.

I miss her every day, every single day.
And I'm resigned to the fact I will never know what made this person who was better in water than on land (and she was devastating on land), go under, and stay there.

And even though it will never feel better, and I feel so sad, sorry, and guilty, I'd do it all again in a second if it meant getting away from life lately for a while.

When they put May in the ambulance, I brushed her long hair out of her face, and kissed her forehead, slowly, slowly.

And her eyes were smiling.









This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Days of our Knives...

Tonight started so well.

Greg (my platonic life partner) and I went to The Napier in Fitzroy for 2 huge meals no one can eat in one sitting, and to chat and flirt with the sassy bar staff.

One of them likes to call me "spilly", after my first visit, where I (you guessed it), spilled my drink everywhere. She still calls me spilly, even though I have fully redeemed myself and have eaten there plenty of times since without incident.

She hassled me about it again tonight, to which I casually replied "I was just trying to make an impression. Clearly it worked perfectly. I think you're in love with me".

Thankfully, she laughed, and didn't slap me.

I drew my name on a coaster and left it there. for her to frame and hang above the bar, and so she can remember my name isn't spilly, it's knifey.


Actually, I bet it's in the trash.

They already have plenty of cool Lichtenstein-esque art lying around there, like this:




and this:




My favourite though, is the 'S' shape on the doorframe to the kitchen, made entirely of little cat stickers. Why an 'S'? I guess we'll never know.

[insert: 05/12/04]...
I have since found out the answer to this mystery!
One of the kitchen-hombres partners names starts with an 'S', and her internet alias is
fluffyasacat.

Mystery solved!
[end insert].


It's a work of art yo!

After this, we went to Cherry Bar.

I was on a mission to get my pash on, after talking to Clem Bastow about it over cake at Laurent a few days earlier. I've been really good, and have succesfully avoided falling over and slipping inside of anyone for ages. (Ages in knifeyland = weeks).

So we went, I met a girl called Bo (as in 'Derek'), and I let her pash me for a while. All in all, a hollow and most unsatisfying experience, and Bo, if you're reading this, I'm sorry but you need to avoid pasta with garlic when you're on the make yo.

After this we went to the Moser Room, which is not going to shock anyone who knows me, as I practically live there.

And I had a shit time.

Let me tell you about it...

I met a friend of Ms Fits', let's call her 'friend of Ms Fits'.
I had seen her around for a while, and had developed a bit of a crush on her. She looks very nice.

Lovely, even.

But she came over to me, and decided she wanted to pick a fight with me, because in her eyes I was a 26 year old scenester trying to fit in by having tattoos.

The reality is I'm 33, and have looked like this for the past 16 years. A scenester I ain't, and most definitely not a bandwagon jumper-onerer.

That didn't bother me though.
What bothered me was that she said:

1. "I'm not trying to pick you up".

Why would you say that?
If you're not trying to pick me up, that's cool, but there's no need to shatter my ego!
Maybe in my world I was enjoying the fantasy that you might be trying to pick me up, and then you just did a big steaming crap on that fantasy.

2. "There are no attractive guys in Melbourne".

Wow. Thanks!
So not only am I not worth picking up, but I'm not even attractive?
This just got better and better.

'Friend of Ms Fits' went on for a minute after that, talking about how every band out there at the moment is a rip-off garage rock rehash, and that it's all shit.

But she loves Wolfmother (???)

I don't get it, but I just figured she was a bit too cool for the rest of us, and left her to radiate and bask in her superiority.

Can someone female please explain why people say things like that?
I've heard "I'm not trying to pick you up" before, and it makes me utterly paranoid that I look desperate or something. Especially because I'm not.
I'm Mr Fussy when it comes to girls (generally), desperate I ain't.

Someone knows what it's all about, please share with the rest of the class.

By the way, here's a pic of Greg I took through the window of the newly refurbished Chapel Street KFC tonight. I love the way he stands...



...he's the cool looking one in black, not the E-d up wanker drinking 7 up with his sunglasses on at 5 am, and gelled up hair stizyle.

I need to sleep for 6 years.






This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Saturday, November 20, 2004

Twist.

Twist (AKA Barry McGee) has an exhibition in the City of Melbourne right now, and because I know you're all too busy going to the Von Bondies and shopping at Supre, I've gone to the effort of bringing the exhibition to you.

For those of you that aren't familiar with Twist, I've included an Age article at the very bottom of this post to bring you up to speed. Or, if you're a subscriber, the link is here.

I'll also throw in a couple of shots from the water wall at the National Gallery of Victoria, and some pen drawings from his Dad.

Basically he's a post-industrial, post-apocalyptic fine artist with a background in graff writing, who paints his instantly recognisable characters on the surfaces of video and DVD machines, but also uses whole trucks and vans to tag on and stack on top of one another.

Scroll down to see his paintings on bottles, they're truly mind-blowing, especially to see right up close.

Hope y'all like it...as with all my pics, they open bigger in a new window if you want to get up close and smell the paint.

Here is a link to another one of my blog posts involving Melbourne street artists up in Sydney, and here is an article in The Age which talks about them and me.
Here is a link to my blog post about the City Lights Project here in Melbourne.











































































































































































































































































































________________________________________

How's this for a Twist?
By Jo Roberts
October 27, 2004

American graffiti comes to Melbourne courtesy of the shy but subversive Barry McGee.

The artist chosen to launch the next phase of the Meat Market has never exhibited in Australia before. But even before his show officially opens tonight, you may have inadvertantly noticed a couple of his works already adorning Melbourne's walls. Or sewer system.

Barry McGee began doing graffiti when he was about 18 years old. Although he went on to graduate from the San Francisco Art Institute in 1991, and now also works in sculpture, video, installations and drawings, the art McGee, now 38, remains most passionate about is graffiti, or "tagging" - which he still does on his own San Franciscan streets.

"It's the best thing, it's better than any art," says the quietly spoken artist, also known by his street name, Twist. "It's exhilarating, it's illegal. People get upset about it, you know? It's the one thing that people can get really upset about, that they really hate."

The irony is, McGee's art is far from hated. Internationally recognised, he has taken part in such prestigious events as the 2001 Venice Biennale and the 2002 Liverpool Biennale, and exhibited in major galleries around the world, while maintaining a firm toehold in subculture. Being invited to biennales is hardly being hated? "Yeah, it's weird that way," he says. "It's weird how people can hate tagging, but they have nothing to say about corporate advertising, or the trams here that are covered with advertising, you know what I mean?"
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McGee, a thin man of Chinese-Irish-American descent, is as painfully shy as he is prolific. In the yawning main hall of the Meat Market, he busily installs his myriad works - how many? "I lost track" - with the help of his two assistants, Kevin and Josh. At home in San Francisco, the three avid surfers have their work meetings on the beach.

Watching the construction site from her stroller nearby is McGee's daughter Asha who lets out a delighted squeal. McGee's wife - fellow artist and surfer Margaret Kilgallen - died of breast cancer in 2001, just weeks after Asha's birth.

In one room off the Meat Market's main hall, McGee is "plastering" the walls with his colourful, geometric paintings. A rainbow of them already adorn most of one wall of the main hall. But the centrepiece is Truck Pyramid, a tower of 11 derelict trucks, with wheels still moving, indicators still flashing. And underneath the twisted, tagged mountain of steel? A bathroom, complete with cubicles, skanky basins and a robotic figure, spray-painting a tag onto the long bathroom mirror.

That looks incredible. Can we get a photo of you with that, Barry? McGee winces like he's just been shot. But he obliges, squirming, looking backwards at a laughing Kevin, who poses at a basin. "Can you look at the camera, Barry" asks the photographer gently. "I can't look straight at you," pleads McGee, looking as if he'd rather chew off his own arm.

John Kaldor of Kaldor Art Projects has brought McGee to Australia. As his charge grimaces through another photo, Kaldor tells of the artist's first visit here in February to view the Meat Market. Arriving in the morning, by the time they'd had dinner that night McGee had already networked some local taggers to take him down into Melbourne's sprawling sewer system, to look at the local graffiti - and to perhaps leave a tag himself.

He has also spray painted the water wall at the National Gallery of Victoria.

"He's an incredible contrast of shy and almost diffident - and really quite subversive," says Kaldor.

And yes, he has done some graffiti in Melbourne in the three weeks he's been here this time. "Just a couple. Not too much. Just mainly looking," whispers McGee. "You won't have to look too far to run into something."

In the United States, tagging is a jailable offence. Just two months ago while in New York, McGee was arrested and spent three days in jail. Although he admits, it wasn't quite tagging. "I was writing some anti-Bush stuff and it was a week before the Republican Convention. I think they were a little uptight," he smiles.




This is knifey, from 'the internet'.