Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Electric Animals

I met Alain in Montparnasse in 1998, when I spilled a carafe of red down his trouser leg outside the Cafe de Flore on Rue St Germain. Normally when you do this (not that I do this often), the recipient of the aforementioned cabernet suavignon would look up or comment, but Alain was deep in thought, tapping his pencil on a pad of green paper in an abstract fashion.

Besides, his pants were filthy and he knew it.

Alain was like most men, in that clothes washing was considered to be a chore best tackled at speed, and with as much disregard as possible. With this in mind, he would often wash his pyjamas and bedding together in the same cycle with his day clothes. As Alain had a definite proclivity for nocturnal emissions, his semen encrusted nightwear would distribute its microscopic load across all items present in the cycle, making his clothing appear as urban camouflage under ultraviolet lighting. Citric acid, free amino acids, fructose, enzymes, phosphorylcholine, prostaglandin, potassium, and zinc betraying his thought processes in the small hours, like a recipe that hates you, and seeks to embarass, just like cakes and beer do, in their own way.

If we had UVA-reactice phosphors for eyes, Alain would appear to all of us as an angel, glowing blue. Radiant, as his semen decomposes around him.

I apologised, and slipped ₣290 Francs under his bread plate, to replace the wine, but Alain failed to notice. I hurried away, to reach the Musee du Montparnasse before it closed. I had an urgent delivery of New Zealand clover honey for an expatriate Kiwi, currently aiding in the latest exhibition of Picasso and Modigliani works, created in that very quarter, many years before. Having previously struggled for money, I worked during that period as a smuggler of human beings into Europe, but occasionally dabbled also in less conscious foreign produce, such as honey and Indonesian Durian wine (which smells like rotting flesh, and is quite a hard item to get past the dogs, and a harder item to get past your lips).

Human trafficking sounds like quite a hard line of work to advance within, people being quite bulky things, and hard to succesfully stuff into sealed containers, but is in fact not so bad, when you consider you get a maximum of one year in jail if you're caught in the Netherlands (which is right next to the ocean, and where I am a citizen), and even then you have to be caught with 'the goods', which isn't as easy as authorities might hope. My game plan- move them in plain sight through highly populated areas, as a tour party, with the occasional musical instrument peppered in their posessions as a wordless explanation. Should authorities descend, blend into the citizenry and deny all and any knowledge.

I dealt predominantly in medical professionals from Africa, who commanded roughly $250,000 American dollars each. The bottle of New Zealand honey however, was a free delivery for an acquaintance. It would be rude any other way.

I made it home before it started raining, and even though I had 1.25 million American dollars in the hotel safe, I didn't particularly feel like missing 'CHIC' on the Arte channel by going out for dinner. I did have a lonely can of baked beans, some cheese, and a microwave, so to the horror of every French ghost in the hotel, I combined them. When they were ready, I put the plastic container between my seated knees, and got to eating. The warmth of the container made me realise how cold I hadn't known I was, and I ate hungrily with both eyes on the screen, and Josie Maran.

Everybody knows Thursday is the only night worth going out in Paris. Well, it was back then. Now it's Tuesday, in case you're planning a trip. The rain had stopped, and so had CHIC, and my phone rang, and it was Bertrand, who is one of those annoyingly attractive French Algerians who started out with all the other poor Immigrants in Chateau Rouge, but who now had the suite next to mine in Le Murano Urban Resort, or as we call it "L'hotel Expensif". He's a land-on-your-feet kind of guy, which is great if you have his luck, but is utterly and excrutiatingly frustrating when you don't. He worked as a croupier at an underground casino for visiting Arabs, and was heavily into 'swenking'. If you don't know what that means, Google it. I can only educate you so far. I can tell you that he died the following year from a brain embolism, as it doesn't happen within the confines of this story, and as such doesn't spoil the ending, so to speak. In a grotesque, but fitting twist, he was getting out of bed as he died, and as fate would have it, landed on his feet. The paramedics commented that he looked as if he was casually waiting for them, feet to the floor, head on a pillow, one hand on his hip. "Style, bitch."

But tonight he was still with us, and on the phone, and demanding I come rock with him at Black Cavalados. I protested I had other plans, but he got his way as he always does, and so I ventured out, meeting him in the hallway. Bertrand was smuggling also that night, carrying a bladder of Vodka at the small of his back, with a plastic hose and valve at his wrist, in a champion attempt at beating B.C. bar prices (barrels of crude oil are cheaper, and take far less time to acquire). If you knew him, and shared a drink with him at any point, I find it only fair to inform you that the bladder in question was the receptacle for a urethral catheter Bertrand received when in hospital, after overdosing on GHB. He washed it, apparently, but I really don't care. I'm Dutch, not German, therefore, I don't like piss. Or being P.C.

So we're at B.C, and they're blasting AC/DC, and all in all it's a good vibe with bus loads of impossibly perfect West Parisienne's hotting the place up. Now, call me racist, but being black, Bert (pronounced 'bear' (sort of) like 'camembert') could dance. But whenever we went to B.C, he loved to get up on something (like the bar), and do a black person who can dance's rendition of headbanging. To be fair, all of the elements were there (apart from hair), but it didn't work, and there's no point trying to pretend it did. Everyone in there was drunk to the point of falling over (a tactic to overcome the shock of aforementioned drink prices), so apart from me, no one cared. In fact, they generally liked it. He had met his (sometimes) girlfriend this way, and she was here tonight. Aline was (and is) an absolute freak who cannot be without a sex partner for more than two hours, which suits Bert, as he was pretty much the same. Thng was, Aline can't climax unless whoever she is screwing makes what can only be described as silly faces. You know, tongue waggling, squinty-eyed, "hey, it's your birthday, and you're three, and I'm here to make you laugh" kind of faces. Again, this suited Bert fine, as he made just these kinds of faces when doing the crossword, lifting heavy objects, or fucking Aline. I shudder to think what experience in her early childhood caused her to turn out this way, but if you have ever read a book on childhood psychology, or even walked past one in a shop window at some stage, I hazard you could guess quite accurately.

Having said all that, if this condition isn't as rare as I imagine it to be, and you get off on the same thing, I apologise. I guess I'm just kinda vanilla when it comes to sex, I only like things like...actually, I'm not telling.

It was 11.15, which meant it was time for Aline and Bert to go fuck in the toilets or an alley, or the dancefloor, or your car. I had been talking to a 56 year old gent with unkempt hair and a nasty smell, about how all language can be broken down into mathematics, and therefore regulated by the logic of calculus. I suspected he had come to the opening night and had been here ever since, witing for a drink, which was half true, as he was in fact the owner. With authority comes power, and Per liked to demonstrate this by, instead of verbally disagreeing with a person, or shaking his head, kicking you in the shin/knee area. Not hard, but with just enough force to be annoying.

I made my excuses ("I have to go, I don't like you"), and left. Per made one last desperate kick for my knee, but it was already halfway out the door and on Ave Pierre Ire de Serbie. "Bastard!" I heard him say, in that cute way the French do so well. He's not so bad.

I was into the idea of spending a little time at Kong on top of the Kenzo Boutique, so I headed toward Rue du Pont Neuf. About 5 minutes before I got there, while short cutting through a narrow alley, I gasped with the shock of a good 2 litres of cold red wine dousing me from the head down. Looking up, I saw Alain, waving cheerfully from what I gather is his apartment. He popped his head back inside, and I made my way home before I froze to death. I guess he noticed after all.

I gave up on going out.

So I'm on the bus, and before you ask why someone with a crapload of money would catch a bus, you obviously don't know Paris. So- the bus. And someone gets on, and sits facing me about three rows forward, and they're psychic. You're thinking, "How could you know they were psychic?", so, before you think I am also, allow me to educate you about psychics.

Everyone hates psychics.

They are, I'm sorry to report, the smarmiest cunts ever. They think we don't know, but we do. So they're not so clever after all. It's always easy to tell a psychic. When they sit near you, and watch your face while you stare out the window, imagine reaching into your pocket and pulling out a knife, then walking up to them, and thrusting it repeatedly in their eye. The trick is to do this really quickly, and if you're extra good, you think of green fields and other relaxing scenes, then go straight for the eye stabs. WITHOUT FAIL, THEY WILL JOLT UPRIGHT IN THEIR SEAT, AND LOOK SCARED OUT OF THEIR MINDS. It is your move then to look at them and smile sweetly. They will get off the bus, and that's how you know they're psychic. Because they are smarmy cunts, 9 times out of 10 they will call the police and tell them they saw you with a knife, then when the gendarmerie search you, all they find is your ordination card from the Uniting Church, that says you're a fully ordained Minister of God, and they apologise and glare at the psychic, who starts to think that they're losing it, until you smile at them and point at your eye, and make a motion like it's dribbling down your cheek.

So I'm on the bus, and a smarmy psychic is checking me out, as is their wont. This one is an elderly female, and you can tell that 50 years ago, she was the absolute shit. In 1967, every playa on her arrondisement feverishly sweated themselves to sleep at night, dreaming of slipping their wrinkly Gallic cocks inside her Mons Venus, while she dragged home U.S. servicemen for a culturally correct indoctrination into 'soixante-neuf', and other pastimes Francaise. But not now, and not for a long time.

The secret to fooling psychics regarding what you're actually thinking is: Always think as if you're simply remembering song lyrics. If they're older, dropping rhymes will confuse the hell out of them, especially if you abbreve evz and drop stoops slizang. If you don't know what I just said, and you're under 40 years of age, I want you to go stand in the corner facing the wall until this story is over. You'll know when it's over because I will slap you. In your face. Like the olden days.

So I'm thinking about this old fox, rapping in my mind, taking her from be...you know, and she has no idea what's going on, and starts to tune out. Psychics regard everyone else's mind to be their own personal newspaper. So I decide to up the ante, and start to full blown pretend like I'm fantasizing about giving it to her. In my mind, my cock is 14 inches long, and I'm feeding it into her, hands on her tits, and generally going all-out porn, and you see her eyebrows arch in surprise, from her reflection in the bus window. And I guess the jokes on me, because SHE LIKES IT. So I imagine I'm turning her over, and pushing her face into the bus window, and violating her ass, and all kinds of other things that enterprising people do when presented with a delicious rump, or on holidays in Greece.

And she likes that too.

So then I take out the knife in my mind, and start stabbing her in the face with it, and from the look of her face, that's like, the ultimate aphrodisiac, and sickened, I hastily beat a retreat at the next stop. As the bus pulled away, the 70 year old psychic sex vampire made a motion, like an eye dribbling down her cheek, and to be beaten like that by my own technique just made me hate them all more, so I thought "I'm gonna buy a knife and actually start using it on these bastards", which visibly shocked her, so I guess I won after all.

So I got back to the Hotel, and began to combine 1 teaspoon of laundry soap, and 1 cup of hydrogen peroxide in a small bowl, so I could blot the red wine out of my clothing, when I remembered I was rich, and threw them all in the trash.

That was Tuesday.

On Wednesday, armed with new clothing, and a good idea of where not to wear it, I plotted my route to what can only be called a secret sex soiree, at the Slow Club. Every city has at least one of these. Not the suburban key swapping do's you hear about in the lunch room. These are high class, members only, reassuringly expensive, hot beds of anonymous, hassle free, fantasy level sex. Sometimes they offer other services, like live people hunts, or cannibal cuisine, but tonights destination was just a plain old 'sex with models and porn stars' affair. You have to be invited, and you have to be okay with getting your blood and urine taken on arrival, for what has to be the fastest turnaround on a sexual health check ever. They have their own lab. And if you're cleared, you can just wade in and bang anything that catches your eye (unless it happens to be another member, whereby it is always polite to ask first).

Now the reason I'm telling you ths is not for the sake of showing off or being puerile, but to set the scene for the whole point of this recollection.

While waiting for my test results, I was relaxing in the bar, or 'outer sanctum'. If you've been to the Slow Club, you know it is a series of vaulted caves, and the bar is no different. I order a Cuba Libre with no rum, and realise the member sitting next to me at the bar is an old friend/ex lover. We smile and excitedly proceed to reminisce, as we never really parted so to speak, just drifted as international people often do. Kate worked for a major oil company, and to cut a long story short, was just plain bored. We met for the first time while we were both still open to the idea of clubbing (as opposed to our new policies of upscale wine bars and events only). We knew we would fuck after the very first look, so it was extra nice to prolong the agony for as long as possible by making small talk and flirting the living crap out of each other. Total deliciousness.

So that was then. We started to catch up on recent events, and where everyone from the past had gotten to. Lots of dead friends. And from out of the blue, Kate declares that we should indulge in a FFM ménage à trois.

I agree.

Once cleared, we enter. I won't describe the scene, because it's much more fun if you just imagine it your way. Suffice it to say, it was quite visually arresting. Kate and I held hands, which sets off all manner of internal alarms for sexual predators, and tends to start a feeding frenzy. This means you have everyones attention, and can thusly choose your 'fuck du jour' while ensuring you will be remembered the next time. Handy. Plus, of course, it feels nice.

After walking a circuit of the soiree, we both decided on a girl who looked to me to be Sri Lankan. There's no telling of course, but to my mind Sri Lankans generally look better than anyone else from the surrounding environs. Like I said, I'm racist as hell. She was a gorgeous shade of black, with perfect white teeth, and a body that again, I will let you imagine your way. The effect she had on the both of us was breathtaking, I can honestly say I have never seen a sexier human being. Clearly, she was a glamour model. Her name is Amanthi.

Kate and I took her by one hand each, lay down with her, and that's all your getting because this blog has been pretty filthy already, and I never intended it to be.

But after an hour or so, there came a time when Amanthi was above me, and I was inside her, while Kate licked my balls. And being in such a position should haver rated as one of my finer moments of sexual conquest, but it wasn't. Amanthi made way more eye contact, and kissed me more than is usual in such situations, and considering the aforementioned fact regarding her general state of physical perfection, I should have wanted to explore her endlessly. But I didn't want to.

For some reason completely alien to me, I just wanted to be alone with Kate.

I heard my mouth say "Amanthi, thank you for tonight, but I would like to be alone with Kate now." I heard her say "You want me to leave?...Are you serious?", to which I replied "Yes I am."

I felt terrible, but I had to be honest. I guess I just don't care about threesomes. I'm not sure I ever did. And I guess no matter how physically perfect a person can look, another person who doesn't look that way can steal all of your attention and desire, with some inexplicable x-factor, pheremone, or irresistable personality type. So Amanthi gathered her clothes and moved to the next situation, looking puzzled and not unlike a scorned cat, while Kate slipped into my arms, and I slipped into her. "You could have just called me if you wanted this", she smiled (her smile is devastating, but I'm sorry I don't know how to describe it.) "I didn't know what I wanted" I smiled back, tracing her dimples with my fingers. "I'm so glad you do now" she whispered.

That's all you get.

I had to go to Turkey on important business, and because I am still involved in this business, I won't divulge further detail. But what I can tell you, was that when I arrived at Reina under the Bosphorus Bridge, of course Alain was there. He was puzzling over his omnipresent green jotter pad, and by peeking over his shoulder, I could make out:

"...= Eo2eio-io + EoErei(o-r) + ErEoe-(o-r) + Er2eir-ir..."

If you know what all of this means, then you are exceedingly clever, cleverer than I am by a long shot. Which means, by process of association, that Alain was very clever indeed. Every now and then, he would change a quantifier here or there, making the whole thing look even more impenetrable and unknowable, like cats and female humans.

I had settled down with a drink by this stage, and decided because Alain was so much cleverer than I am, that I would spare him the embarassment of dousing him in wine again, or even better, throwing him in the river, as payback for the last time we had seen each other. Also, Turkish jails are Hell, and the cops love throwing people who waste good wine in there. So, comfortably forearmed with two good reasons, I left him to it, and got to work on my first cucumber ayran of the evening.

Chuneyt, who works the bar at Reina is an ex soldier (like most Turks), who's brother Chengiz he insisted many times was psychic. Both were present tonight, leaning on opposing sides of the bar, talking conspiratorially. It's a talent Turkish men have, where they can make a conversation about Lego sound like the terrorist plot of the century, the way they lean in close like that. It also has a lot to do with their eyebrows. I was quite comfortable sitting where I was, so i decided to test this 'psychic abilities' claim out, by thinking "If you're psychic, Chengiz, do me a favour and come see me when you've finished your conversation over there".

Five minutes later, he strolled over and said "What is it, my friend?"

Now, we're not friends, and we have never been introduced before, but Turks are a very welcoming and warm people, so it isn't unusual. He casually ate my eggplant, his moustache was magnificent. "I have a job for you..." I announced "...if you're interested?" "Yes." said Chengiz, so I guessed we were good. I asked him "Do you see that man over there?" Chengiz glanced over and said "Who? Alain the Frenchman?" Not yet knowing his name, I asked Chengiz if he knew him. "No, I have never seen him before."

Psychic.

"Chengiz, I want to know what he is thinking". Chengiz' face was curled in a rather unsavoury fashion, and I asked "What is it?" Chengiz related to me the story I have already related to you regarding Alain's method of washing, and the ethereal blue results. "He's thinking about his laundry?" I asked, but Chengiz said "No, he is thinking about electric animals."

Upon further enquiry, it became clear that Alain wrote the mathematical blueprints for holograms, and that contained within the pages of his green pad, lived the codes for several hundred species of extant animals, and quite a few extinct or yet to be invented ones also. He could see them in three dimensions, and would extrapolate his equations accordingly, lengthening a spine here, an extra horn there, that sort of thing.

Chengiz' eyes were wide with amazement, and he related how beautiful these creatures were, roaming and flying through the vast and vaulted ceilings of Alain's mind.

When I was very young, I used to see the world as it was, only overlayed with the objects of my imagination (or, in Hieronymous Bosch's case- faith). If the televsion was on, my parents often worried why I preferred to stare at the coffee table. The answer was quite simple. Being obsessed with Africa as a child, I imagined herds of tiny elephants, as tall as a toothpaste cap, roaming between the coffee mugs and the tv guide. Lions, watching and stalking zebras from behind the fruit bowl. Hyenas and giraffes. All as real to me as the table itself.

So I could definitely relate.

Chengiz' day job was as an illustrator for an advertising agency, and much to my delight, he said "Here, let me show you". He produced a pad of his own from his bag, and laid it on the table. His hand began to flow across the page, with such precision it looked more like the cutting tool of a C&C machine, and within a moment, he passed the pad across the table top, to show me a horse made of lightning.

Every muscle of its body, every hair of its mane, radiated with inner light, and I couldn't imagine how beautiful such a creature would be in actual motion. But Alain knew, and now I could see how he could tune out so completely, lost in his own inner world. But according to Chengiz, these image calculations also contained sounds, and could move. And furthermore, were part of a much larger equation, that being, the world they lived on, and how everything interacted with everything else. Alain was building a planet made of light and sound waves, in his mind, and on a green pad of paper.

Chengiz had me thinking maybe psychics were people after all. "Thank you, my friend!" he announced, clapping me on the back, and returning to discuss the imminent destruction of all Lego pieces in the known Universe with his brother.

I didn't see Alain again for many months, and thoughts of his fantastic creation slowly faded. I ran into quite a bit of trouble in Egypt, involving the mysterious appearance of a number of high quality laser measuring devices used in the construction of nuclear warheads, in my Hotel Room, at the Anglo-Suisse near El Tahrir Square. Luckily, Cairo is run by two crime families, just like the Montagues and Capulets, except they're Egyptian, and one is much more powerful than the other. Being down with the right side has its priveledges, and my assumed identity made it's way out into the Sahara again without any nasty incidences of imprisonment.

I did run into my Australian hairdresser in the middle of the desert, which surprised the hell out of me, but didn't seem to phase him at all. At first I thought the approaching camel train was Bedouin, and I was looking forward to trading some US dollars for meat, but there at the head was Jac, who casually waved and interrogated me as to when I had last conditioned simultaneously. Being vegetarian, his party had no meat, but I did receive cheese and nuts, which is almost as good. Also an amazing massage from an Edinburgh Scot named Julie, whose voice soothed and excited all of the parts of my body her fingers hadn't yet reached. I felt terrible when I awoke 3 hours later, and she was still working my feet with both hands, her knee holding open the pages of the book she was reading. She didn't mind at all.

Back in Paris, I made a few runs of people and produce over the next six months, before deciding to get out. Bertrand and I started a club, our focus being to bring over the hottest DJ's from New York every weekend, with a live ISDN hookup (which cost an unbelievable amount back then) with a sister club in New York, who imported their French DJ's in the same manner. The three walls of the dancefloor were screens displaying live video of the sister club. The 6 hour time difference didn't really affect things at all. Bert was right in his element, and spent most of his time on the floor, or in his office with Aline, and often others. Through this new scene, we met a number of people, one of whom was a contract killer. Normally you don't know when a contract killer is a contract killer, because the brief for the job involves and indeed relies upon, not talking about it. But Marcus (obviously not his real name) was about as arrogant as they come, and considering he was ex Russian Spetnatz Special Forces, that was pretty arrogant. So he talked. A lot. He claimed to have a number of friends in high places, which we eventually found out was true. Local residents objected to their windows rattling from an over application of bass frquencies, which was fair, but threatened our club. One word to Marcus about it, and the whole mess disappeared overnight, along with a couple of the more vocal opponents of our business.

One evening I was enjoying a Pad Thai at the bar while Bertrand supervised the staff, when a very glum Marcus entered, and sat down for a drink. "Kill anyone today?" I asked casually. "No- not til tonight." "Who's the mark?" asked Bert, his face far too happy for such a morbid question.

"You guys".

Bert wasn't smiling now. I was curious. "Who'd want us offed?" I asked, not all that hungry. "It's the neighbours, isn't it?" moaned Bert. "It would seem that Alain the Frenchman is being watched, and that all those who watch Alain the Frenchman are becoming dead..." Marcus said. "...Your Turkish friends being the first."

"So...um...what do we do?" I asked. (I've never been killed before.)

"What?!" Exclaimed Marcus. "I'm not going to do it!" he broke into laughter. I broke into relief, and Bert broke into a run for the mens room. "Listen", Marcus started. "We need to work out a course of action, that will eliminate those who put the price on your heads, before they realise the job hasn't been done, and they hire someone else, not only for the two of you, but for me also." "Look Marcus, you do this all the time, so I'm guessing you have a play that can work here?" "Yes I do- we will hit them with a PFK."

For those of you outside France, PFK is what they call KFC, and a PFK gameplay (for those of you outside the murder biz) is a situation where a person or persons come to you requiring something of importance (like food, for example), and all you do is serve them up a big, greasy bird. For those of you outside the USA who may not know what 'the bird' is, it is a euphemism for 'the finger', the finger being an Australian euphemism for "fuck you", which... look, basically, you just humiliate the crap out of them before you kill them, so they know who it is that is fucking them over.

"Is anyone else on this hitlist of theirs?" I asked Marcus. "There is one other" he replied. "Alain himself".

Once we managed to extricate Bert from the toilet, we formulated a plan, the first part being finishing my Pad Thai, then moving on to deciding which of the myriad sick and twisted methods of revenge available we felt were most justified under the circumstances. Having trained in the New Zealand army for a spell and on a Playstation for even longer, I felt utilising my skills as a sniper would be most satisfying. Bert wanted them to literally eat his shit, and Marcus wanted their money, and some socks, as he always neglected to buy his own due to what he called "time constraints", which we knew meant "always drunk".

Marcus left at 7.28 pm, and returned at 8 with a lovely paint ball gun, with a scope big enough to mount on a submarine. The paintballs were an horrific lilac colour, which doesn't go with anything. Marcus pumped more gas into this gun than is either safe or legal, the end result being the thing would deliver a third eye to a hindu from two kilometres away. My weapon was ready.

Marcus sent an email to his employers, asking them for a meet, so he could deliver proof of death, and arrange transfer of funds to his account. Three seconds later his reply came, with a time and a place.

When the time came, Marcus was at the place. Well, near it anyway...watching. A car arrived, and from it emerged employees of the employers. And that's all. Having counted on this eventuality, Marcus approached the car, casually slipping a magnetised GPS locator under it with his foot, and informed the employees that there had been a hitch, and that the job will be completed in three days time. The employees nodded, and took the GPS beacon back to their bosses for us, so we could do business with them in a more direct fashion.

Tracking the beacon, we were all quite surprised to realise the trail led back to the Slow Club, and Per, Marcus most of all. "This is fantastic!" he exclaimed. "Per and I wear the same shoe size! And his socks..." he trailed off. It's just odd when you think back about it really. Marcus checked the registration of the vehicle, and saw that it indeed was registered to Per.

"Let's paint the town lilac".

Per was on his way home early that morning, walking from the open car door to the apartment entrance, when he felt a whump, and an intense stinging in his ear. He lost his balance, and hit the pavement, crying in shock. Two of his employees ran to his aid, only to have their noses broken in the same fashion. One and a half kilometres away, on a flower warehouse roof, Marcus and I watched through scoped and binoculars. "Hit him again" Marcus breathed. I gently squeezed the trigger, breathing out as I did so, and spat a paintball halfway across Paris onto the bridge of Per's nose. He screamed, but we couldn't hear it. Marcus clapped me on the shoulder "I had no idea you were so skilled! I could have used you in Melbourne!" Pause. "That was you?" I asked in utter disbelief. "Indeed."

Per went into hiding, not leaving his house for fear of being painted that horrible colour again. The employees who had not gone to hospital with massive facial trauma stood guard and looked very nervous. After the second day, (where I nailed another six in the same way), they took to wearing riot helmets, which looked hilarious, and just made me shoot them in the balls instead.

Per knew he was being hunted, but obviously had no clue who was hunting him, and why they were using paintballs. We rectified that on the tird night, when Marcus shot the remaining employees with real bullets from a silenced rifle, and we paid Per a visit. We walked into his lounge room, and I shot his nose out again. The impact was so strong his head bounced off the wall four feet behind him, which I found quite satisfying. Bert kicked him in the knees while he was down, while Marcus went into his bedroom to raid the sock drawer. While in the bedroom, Marcus found Amanthi, tied to the bed, and far from happy about it. He left her there.

"PER!" (We had to yell, his ears were ringing). "WHY DID YOU TRY TO KILL US?!" Per, with tears streaming down his bloodied face, couldn't hear. He shook his head, desperately pointing to his ears, one of which, was decidedly purple. "We need to write questions to him I think" mentioned Bert, who turned to look for some paper, bumping straight into Alain. "Here you go" Alain smiled, handing him a green and familiar pad, and a pen.

After much wiping of eyes, and shaking of hands, Per revealed that he had retained Alain's services as a holographic engineer three years before, to program and create 3-dimensional holograms of naked children, for Per to indulge his love for paedophilia with. Alain, had taken the money, done none of the work, and had instead indulged his love of nature, hoping to create a holographic, photo-realistic zoo, so that real animals could be spared from a life behind bars. Per, being Per, decided everyone involved (directly or indirectly) had to die, and that brings us to today.

"It's a shame he can't smell right now" said Bert, force feeding Per some good old fashioned African shit. I couldn't really watch, I have my limits. Marcus was mesmerised, and Amanthi yelled from the back room. I went to see what the fuss was about, and seeing her there, freed her. She wasn't pleased to see me, and did't say thank you. She did grab the paintball gun from the kitchen counter and beat Per around the head with it until he stopped breathing, then strode out the door, on those incredible legs that I'm still not going to describe, but that you're imagining anyway.

"Alain, what are you doing here?" I asked, with more than a little annoyance. "Well, I have to say, I'm sorry about your friends in Turkey" he started, Marcus cutting him off. "How do you know about all of this?" Marcus demanded.

"The truth is, I am a psychic. I know many things not said directly to me."

"A psychic?" I asked, in utter disbelief. "Yes." he replied.

"You smarmy..." I raised my finger to his face.

"Cunt. Yes, I know" he shrugged.

Ladies and gentlemen, The French.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

To hold her in my hands once more...

Right now, there are a bunch of people breathlessly opening this blog because they think it just might be about them.

It's not.

This one's for my guitar.

20 years ago, in a time before mobile phones (but somewhat after the dinosaurs), I lived in a trailer near the beach, in a country that isn't the one i'm in right now, but might be the one you're in, if you reside in New Zealand. And I was obsessed with music. Namely, Van Halen music. But also, Led Zeppelin, Queen, The Stones, Def Leppard, Judas Priest. Also Hip Hop, and Roxy Music, and Duran Duran, and The Human League, and even Bauhaus music. This was before house music, before Britpop. Back when R&B meant Rhythm and Blues, and was played by fat black guys with coke habits, instead of warbled by skinny divas with...well...coke habits. It was a time when if you wanted to listen to music, you put a cassette into the ghetto blaster, a record on the turntable, went to a show, or damn well played it yourself. THERE WAS NO SUCH THING AS AN IPOD, and Apple computers were BLACK AND WHITE. One meg of Ram was like Star Wars or something.


This is a Mac Classic. It sucked.

But you know, I digress.

My trailer was covered up the walls and on the ceiling with pictures of Eddie Van Halen, and the guitars he made and played. I used to look at those axes and think "Holy fuck! How exactly do you make something like that?" He was this amazing guitarist who made his own guitars. Fast forward, and hey, whaddya know? I'm that guy.



Eddie Van Halen

For a long time, my guitars glared silently at me from behind the sofa, or in the corner. I got side tracked again. And for a while there, I thought I was over ever picking one up again...for good. But recently I did, and it feels pretty cool to have done so.

Now I'm not saying it would have been a tragedy for the world if I hadn't started playing again. In the scheme of things, it rates absolutely no importance whatsoever. No one really gives a crap. It's just me.

But this one is about the relationship I forgotten I had, with a piece of wood, with some metal on it.

I have had hundreds of guitars in my life. All kinds. I loved them all. Some I loved so much I bought them in every available colour because I couldn't decide. I've lost some, had some stolen, sold a few, destroyed a lot, and even given a few away. I've recycled some, and built some from scratch, three of which I own to this day (and are quite valuable).

My first was a nylon string acoustic my amazing Mother used to play, back when she still believed in herself as a creative human being. It was a Suzuki, and it played well for what it was. I'm stoops heavy into flamenco, so I loved the way it sounded. My Mum had to save up to buy it, and she had it for a long time before giving it to me. I learned how to play basic guitar on it, and then rode down a hill on it, killing it forever. I wonder where the fuck it is now? Underground in some landfill or something? I almost feel sorry for it. I am a bad person.

Then it was time to go electric. We had NO MONEY EVER, so when Mum bought me a $100 pawnshop semi-acoustic jazz piece of shit with a bigsby style tremolo on it, it was a huge deal, and I had to pay it back. I broke 56,000 strings on it trying to do Floyd Rose style whammy licks on it, it was awesome. And I blew a lot of old stereo speakers cranking them up and overdriving them to certain death, because an actual amp was out of the question. I know kids now who have MESA stacks worth $12,000 sitting in their bedrooms that they never play through, and some rad Gibson guitar or something, and they don't give a rats, because they're rich. And I guess I'm old, but I think that's sad.

Good times, anyway.

And the hot neighbourhood girls would come over and listen to me play, and I never got any ass out of it because I wanted to stay a virgin til I got married. So my friends fucked them instead. Looking back I think I missed out on some serious goodtimes, but you know, that's hindsight, right? Music was all that mattered. It was the best. And I joined a bazillion bands that never played one gig, but knew such-and-such who was gonna tee up some intense and amazing deal that would never eventuate, and none of it ever mattered, because WE WERE IN A BAND. I remember this band that were all seniors in High School when we were juniors, they were so amazingly cool. They were huge on Creem and Zeppelin. They eventually went off and recorded in a real recording studio in capital city, and the rest of us were all like "Oooh!" and "Aah!" and shit, because studios cost $100 an hour even then, and it was in capital city where all the hot girls lived. Wow. Before I moved to Australia I was in a band who's manager ran the same studio, and we could not only record in there for free anytime, but it was basically our lounge room. And not one of us gave one-billionth of a crap, because music is a hard mistress, and she had worn us all down so hard over the years, like the drugs and the heartbreaks did. Life 101.

I've listened to a lot of music since those days, and I have to confess, I just about never care about bands any more. I'm over it. I've been all over the world, I have toured with every big name act you have ever heard of (pretty much), I have lived the VIP life behind laminates, and velvet ropes, and hefty security, and it's all just shit. I have worked so many tours, and stood at the side of the stage and thought "I can do that. why aren't I up there?", especially when I could do it way better. I just got over it, especially the 'business' part of the music business. Knifey doesn't do "schmooze". Just ask my band mates. Luckily, they think it's endearing somehow. Talk about landing on your feet.

The only bands I have been excited about in the last few years are Underoath, Killswitch Engage, and Owls.

So here I am, old, and jaded/cynical, and I'm back on the road with an absolute monster of a band. This last week has been a blur of rehearsals, studio sessions, more rehearsal, and a show. And my guitar is back in my hands again.

This guitar is my baby. It's an Epiphone Firebird, with a Seymour Duncan 'Invader' pickup in the bridge position. Apart from that, no mods. Normally I rip my neck pickups out, but this one has survived. I have played the two biggest shows of my life with them (broadcast to 18 million, and 3.5 million people respectively), and even though I love Explorers more than Firebirds (and I own 3 explorers), the 'bird always seems to get the gig.


An Epiphone Firebird...not my one though

I bought her on impulse on the road with (insert band name here), when I was making thousands of dollars a week, and couldn't spend it fast enough. I bought it, took it to the accomodation, decided I hated it, and didn't touch it again for 3 years.

Like I sad, this last week has been intense musically, and it's about to get way more intense, because if you've been paying attention, you'll know I'm taking her to Canada and America with me in a little over a week.

When I got to the studio the other night, it was to do guitars for a Konqistador song that has already been otherwise completed, so it was just Jim the (awesome and lovely) sound engineer, and I. I had to wait by myself for quite a while as he tracked down archived sounds, so I was all alone in a strange studio. But my guitar was there. I hadn't played in a studio for 2 or 3 years, and I'll admit I was actually really nervous. For you non-musicians, when you play in a studio, every minute movement you make is amplified as if it's under a microscope, and it can be very off putting, to hear yourself that clearly for the first time (in some cases). So I played her, and bent her strings, and threw down some licks, and got a little braver, and went for some more intesnse technical stuff (which the song to be recorded is full of), and then just let it all go and shredded the shit out of it for half an hour.

She was there for me...just like she had been on the big gigs in the past, and on the road, and a thousand other places, back when I was a guitar player.

This probably comes off as weird, I'm sure it does. But (some musicians) just really love their instruments, and now I've spent some time with her again, and she hasn't let me down, I actually miss her, and am looking forward to pulling her out of her roadcase (in the bowels of Revolver in Prahran), and getting re-acquainted. No matter where Konqistador may take me, I know that when I've strapped her on, and I can feel that timber under my fingers again, I'll be home. I've been in so many strange and new places, but when your main axe is in your lap, it wouldn't matter if you were in a coal mine or on top of a mountain- it's familiar.

That isn't to say I won't probably end up smashing her over the drum kit at a show sometime, but that's just me. I'm only sentimental to a point.

But for now, it's nice to be back on 6 strings again.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Charging The Depths...

Normally I try to maintain at least some semblance of verbosity/pleonasm to my posts, but for the last few days I've been rehearsing day and night with my band, for our show on Thursday the 24th in Turkmenistan...I mean, Revolver. So...no verbosity.

We're headling at around 11pm if you want to come along, turn up at 7pm for free beer etc, just say you're on Knifey's list and it's all free. It doesn't matter if I know you or not, maybe you'd like to come lurk in my real life, just like you do on my blog? I'm easy! You're welcome!

So in the meantime, until I drop another awe inspiring post about sex and depression, here's a genuine photo of a real vehicle I saw on my street, that made me laugh out loud:


*note pussy eating compartment in rear of cab.

Seriously, how rad is THAT???!!

The ladies must go buck wild and crazy when he hits town, right? I mean, who doesn't like getting their pussy eaten? Totally my new hero.

Anyways, now I make my excuses and sign off...I'll hit North America in two weeks! I promise to drop a postfrom Detroit if I get a chance. I'ma hang on 8 Mile, meet up with my man 'Future', and drop some lyrical bombs on 'the Shelter'.

"Fuck tha Free World!"


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

The Biological Imperative.

Fucking.

There you go- for once I start with it, instead of talking about other things til I inevitably get around to it.

The desire to fuck (when unrepressed), is one of the strongest forces in human nature. Trumped only by jealousy and greed, although inextricably linked to both, it is more than anything else, the driving force behind being a human person.

Actually, allow me to amend that. Not the desire to 'fuck'. The desire to get off, with someone you desire.

And you know that feeling...the start of the fine weather. Clothes come off or are minimal, people start hungrily giving each other eye contact after a long winter of 'not much', 'nothing at all', or worse still, 'someone you're bored with'.

It's tangible.

Barriers fall over, as you open yourself up to new people and experiences. Nights get later, boss gets mad at you. You spend a lot more money on drinking. Fad diets. The gym.

And your body is right there in the cycle...heart beating faster, blood thins, racing through veins and arteries, breath comes quicker. Staying home is not an option all of a sudden. So everyone hits town with high hopes and expectations of hot sex with exotic people, and are brought crashing back down to earth when they remember (like they do every year) that they are still the same person. They're the person they wouldn't fuck if they were someone else, given the choice.

Clearly I'm not talking about 'the beautiful people' here. They can get laid satisfactorily on an ice sheet in the middle of the day if they feel like it. Perks of the job.

One of the things I think about a lot is how sex and self esteem get so tangled up? If left unmanaged, depression takes over, and there they are, depressed and unhappy in their life because people don't want to sleep with them. Or worse still, people do, but they can't see it, because they don't see anything how it really is. Like anorexia.

If it wasn't for the desire to attract the opposite sex, do you really think anyone would buy a Lamborghini? Would we all voraciously keep up with each other materially? Seriously, if people didn't really care about attracting each other, imagine how different this world would look! Mobile phones. Why? I don't care if I miss your call. If we're friends we can catch up later. No big deal. We'd all be a lot heftier. Books would be back in vogue. Fashion models would be redundant. They'd be fat too. No need for alcohol. Peer pressure gone. People thinking for themselves! Crazy.

Aesthetics would be a dying path.

Is that a bad thing? I don't think so. I'm the biggest aesthete in the known Universe, trust me on this. But without the desire to attract or be attracted, I know I'd change. Like hobos who just give up, and grow massive beards with dreadlocks, and not talk to anyone. Hopefully personal hygiene would remain intact, but somehow I doubt it.

The world is the way it is now because of social interaction. If humans were able to succesfully fertilise themselves with no risk of the problems associated with inbreeding etc, we'd all be quite militant and aggressive toward each other, not cooperative.

I'm not saying it's all easy out there. Women and men have very different attitudes to sex. And even when women are like men in their thinking about sex, even then they're still different. It's crazy. I will only sleep with certain types of women, I don't care how lonely or horny I get, I have standards. Most guys don't. Women have standards, but they're crazy, unknowable standards. And for different women, it's a different standard. For some, if you like a different sports team, you're on your own. For others, they can be so hot for you, and totally naked, but if you use the word "cock" instead of "Rod", or "dick" instead of "schlong", then it's over. They're getting dressed, they're walking out the door. Men scratch their heads like monkeys when this happens, and wonder how one word could be such a turn-off. No man would ever say no to sex with a woman just because she called her pussy a "cunt". Some like it even more! I was propositioned once by a flight attendant who wanted my "big nasty cock" in her "little pussy meow". Aside from thinking she had some type of developmental impediment, and as odd as it was, I didn't get dressed. And it makes me laugh to remember it...the mental image of an angry chicken getting stuffed into a cat.

I have a really hard time with sex. Once in a while I'll let someone in, and we'll go there. And every time, there emerges something in their personality that wasn't apparent before...something that makes me not want to go there again. Clingly, weird, demanding, selfish behaviours. So I don't allow myself to have sex very often.

Besides, I'm super picky.

Like I said, I'm an aesthete, and so only girls that rip my head off physically get a look in. I absolutely refuse to settle for anything less than what I really want. It might bear no resemblance whatsoever to what you might like, but I don't do it for you, I do it for me. That's why there aren't many blondes on my track listing. Lots of latinas though.

But there are limits to that too.

For a month or so now I've been getting calls from a girl who looks like this:






...and for all intents and purposes, is a lovely, cool person.

The back story is, I fucked a friend of hers late last year. This friend and I are firm friends, and would have done it again from time to time if she hadn't fallen in love with someone awesome and good for her. Where I was at then, I had no hope of holding down any kind of relationship, and we both knew it. So we just had fun instead. Obviously, girls talk, and I guess I got a good report card, because Kelly told Asha to get in touch, and find out for herself. And so she did.

She knows she looks good though, so a few things she does reflect that. It doesn't matter if your Oliver Martinez, Vin Diesel, or whoever, she believes you're lucky to get her attention. So she'll call me, and EVERY TIME, she'll answer her other phone, or say "I'll call you back", so she can go pick up her photos, or anything at all really. Anything non essential, anything you'd normally get out of the way first, before calling someone you're intrerested in dating.

I give good phone. I know this. When I talk to other girls I'm interested in, it's not uncommon for the conversation to go on for 4 plus hours at a time, with both of us ignoring all interruptions in favour of enjoying our moment.

So with this girl, after a few times of this happening, I told her I wasn't interested in meeting up for date numero uno, because I'm worth more than endless "I'll call you back"s, and if she doesn't see that, I think the best thing is for her to go date someone else. No animosity, just "I don't dig being treated that way, so good luck". Of course, being used to getting what she wants with everyone else, this only made things worse, and she called me even more.

It's weird how if a guy keeps calling after you've asked them not to, it's stalking, but when a girl does it, it's called "caring about you". And so she asks if we can start again, to which I repeatedly say "I really don't want to. I've seen enough already, the fact you'd do that in the first place is very significant to me. I don't want to meet you".

Like a red rag to a bull.

So the phone calls keep coming, and eventually against my better judgement, I relent, and say "ok". But I'm angry at myself, because I know if I do meet her, I'll just be doing it for her, and that no matter how amazing she is, I'll just be looking bored out of my mind and wishing I was pretty much anywhere else.

She said she'll text me her number, as I deleted it when I told her I wasn't interested the first time.

Three days pass, no text. I'm not even close to being surprised. I know what this is. It's a power game. As long as I say "no", I'm the biggest catch in the known Universe. When I say "yes", I'm still interesting and dare I say desirable, but there's no hurry, because her ego is basking in a quiet victory over there. Like when you break up with a girl, and they give you nothing but hate and vile smelling shit, but theystillwant to know if you love them, or if you're seeing anybody. Power.

So today she calls me, to make plans for our date this Sunday. Obviously, I couldn't give less of a crap if I tried, but I played along, why I don't really know. and then she says "Oh! There's something in this shop I want to look at, I'll call you back" -click-.

And I'm looking at my phone in utter disbelief, while not really being all that surprised in actuality. It's a funny expression, you'd like it.

If you're planning to call someone you want to impress, and you see something you like, you go look at it when you're finished, or even at the same time. Right? Is that asking too much? Not treating me like a convenience store or a call centre?

So she calls back and says "So how about Sunday?"

My reply-"Not ever. Delete my number, please don't call me again. Good luck". -click-

The power balance has been reasserted, not that I ever wanted to look at it that way in the first place. And the worst thing is, she's obsessed with this idea now. I'm the thing she wants and can never have, so it's just gonna freak the fuck out and warp all over the place in her mind. And if she had've just listened and been a teeny bit respectful, she could have met me and seen what could happen.

What a waste of time.

So as much as from time to time I'm chomping at the bit with unbridled lust (horses, much?), and wishing I could find someone delicious to fill up with me, I'm not going to give up on my standards or self esteem to do it.

I think my friend Tim called it: "Looks open the door. but personality is what matters". Damn straight. And if someone has a personality that doesn't work for you, it doesn't matter what they look like. It's like a supermodel with vomit on their face (although I definitely know people who would go there anyway!)

I'm not one of those people.

I love beautiful things, and even desire some of them. But not because I'm weak and can't say no. I can say no anytime.

"No."

I still hope someone comes along that makes me say "yes". Still, the waiting is all part of the fun too. Foreplay of a sort.

Hurry up girl, or I'll start without you!



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Agnostic Creation Stories...

Many things have been written, and more has been said, about the life of Jesus, the death of Jesus, the people surrounding Jesus, Moses, Adam, Eve, and the other O.G's of the bible. But what most people don't know is that God was a kid once, and that he had a life before the bush started burning, or the fruit got masticated, or the dark Angel Satan got his ass kicked out of the apartment upstairs.

This is about that life.

Now, I'm not religious, I am an agnostic. But for the sake of storytime, let's all suspend our sense of disbelief for a little while, and just roll with it, k?

There was a time (but don't get too caught up in notions of time here, as it's far too complex to simply blog about), when God was a child.

He had no parents, because God is the alpha and omega, meaning basically, everything starts and ends with him. So 'time' had begun (just not as we (think) we know it), and God was there, and there was no Universe. Just God, and the vast emptiness.

Emptiness isn't problematic when you are a deity, vast or not. It's just a quality that exists because you let it. It doesn't surround you, because when you're the god, nothing surrounds you unless you say so. So there's God, and more nothing than we could ever comprehend, so much that even smug looking Kray supercomputers couldn't process it without exploding into shards, thus adding to the emptiness and thereby rendering accurate computation impossible.

If you know anything about particle physics, you will know that even solid objects are basically full of nothingness. So when the bible says 'the void', or anything like that, it's basically trying to dramatically illustrate the emptiness, which, can be said to also represent solid objects. Just big, basically empty ones. Still with me?

So God's there, with all that nothingness or somethingness, depending on a bunch of stuff physicists cream themselves over, and he's a kid. A superintelligent, all knowing, all seeing, all powerful kid who's in charge of everything that exits, and everything that doesn't exist yet, but will exist when he decides he's into it.

All that stuff about man being created in his image was just artistic licence by the author of the book of Genesis. Let's say, by Phil Collins (because Moses sure as hell didn't write the Pentateuch). There's also a bit about it in 1 Corinthians 11:7, but we'll just focus on Genesis, shall we?

Genesis 1:27- "And God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them." OK, we get it. So most of us would think that when visualising God, he's going to look humanoid, right?

Wrongtown!

What Phil Collins meant was that in just the same way as God is a trinity, and that trinity forms the whole, so too are we split...into a body, mind, and spirit. That's what Phil wants you to think anyways. So no, God doesn't look like us, he's just like us, and we like him, in the way just described.

So what does he look like then? Who cares?!

I like to think of him as a big yellow smily face, but not so big I can't relate to him. Maybe, ten feet tall. Just floating around, smiling, and being logical all the time. Logical, like a COMPUTER. Like a massive, theological G5 that hairy little primates like us can't get our heads around, because we're not logical enough yet..

So you're wondering when I'm going to get to the point, and so here it comes...when I say "God was a kid", what I mean to say is that this bright yellow smiley face that floats around and can see all, and knows all, and all that stuff was once upon a time full of innocence and wonder. Like kids are. Kids don't start getting mean bones in their bodies until they start to competing with one another, and seeing as there is no competition for God, he just stayed sweet and cool like a popsicle.

So he'd sit around, and think about things, and wonder about things, and these thoughts and wonders eventually came to become the world we're living on, and the bodies we work so hard to wear out too fast.

There, in the vast emptiness, he thought about Miami Vice. He thought about the fact that more copies of the IKEA catalogue would be distributed than the bible. He thought "I'm going to make someone invent bread. Then someone else can slightly burn it, and voila! Toast!" He thought about inventing the French language, so "Voila!" would finally make sense. He thought about giving different animals different abilities, like a dogs amazing sense of smell, a sheeps ability to recognise its friends from photographs, and a drunkards ability to make wee wee on himself in public with no sense of embarrassment.

He thought about how big to make our brains, so we could know a thing or two, but so he could still keep us guessing. He made cars hate dogs, dogs hate cats, and cats hate EVERYTHING. He thought "Shall I give fishes a sense of humour?" (He did). He thought about where to put the earth. He thought about where to put pretty much everything (except the architecture of Peter Davidson, which is clearly geometric vomit, and can arrange itself accordingly).

He'd lay back with metaphorical arms behind his metaphorical head, and calculate to within 56 bazillion decimal places exactly how sexy (99.999999999999999999...%) to make Tina Turner at age 20, and to make Ike Turner drunk or out of his mind on cocaine the same percentage of time. He calculated the smoothness factor of Luther Vandross, and how bad Keith Richards would smell.

He calculated the amount of heartbreak Walther Gropius would feel as he left Alma Mahler to fight in the Great War. How many lollies in a dollar bag in 1987. What colour a diplodocus will be. Jasmine flowers.

He thought about what a bastard Nietsche was going to be, to him, to women, and to opposing philosophers. He thought "I'm gonna make that fucker pay", and pay he did. He thought about the fact he was going to give one of my ex girlfriends a vestigial tail at birth, and another something that looked exactly like a miniature extra anus. He thought about the fact you weren't going to believe me, even though it's the absolute truth. He laughed.

He thought about fresh cut grass, and mountain climbing, and erectile dysfunction, and the fact that some people still insist on spelling "gaol" that old fashioned way.

He thought about chronologies:

Receeding Ice Age>Germany>Evolution>High Culture>Disco>Scheisse movies.

Dinosaur Extiction Event>Rotting animal and vegetable matter on Sea floors>Shell Oil Drilling Platforms>Cadillac DeVille>Rodney Dangerfield.

Evolution of Mammals>Sexual reproduction>Industrial Revolution>JVC Corporation>High Cost of Living>Porn.

Mt Everest sized meteor crash in Canada, 2 billion BC>One particle of meteor dust ingested by a Saber Tooth Tiger in the late Pleistocene Period>Lands in Lowell, Massacheussetts, July 8, 1865, on the barrel of the first machine gun>Instantly blows away again>Caught in the wing feathers of an albatross, Western seaboard of Australia 30 years from now>Albatross dies 2 months later, particle settles on the surface of the Pacific Ocean>Leaves a dying planet Earth in a tank of water, on the last colonising spacecraft to launch 2752 AD>Arrives back on its planet of origin 500 years later in a stream of urine from a newly bioengineered Saber Tooth/Albatross hybrid...the Saber Tooth Albatross>Having attained consciousness 287 years before, said particle vows revenge>Human Extinction Event.

There are so many things we humans don't know.

Did you know God created another Earth. before this one? He created it 5 times smaller, and it was mainly pink. He didn't like it, and unless you're a prepubescent girl, you probably wouldn't either.

Originally, insects were bigger than people, and they had brains. He didn't think that was fair after he thought it through, not because he wanted people to have the bigger brains, but because insects had a hard time operating machines like jet aircraft and candy floss machines. They also are notorious for road rage, even more so than Europeans.

There was one other setup, where the Universe was 2 dimensional. Everything, including us was extremely, immeasurably thin. We could move up, down, or side to side, but that was it. Clearly this had limited fun potential, and was scrapped in favour of this 3-dimensional playground we all know and (some of us) love.

What none of us know yet, is that this whole Universe is just a speck of dust, on a speck of dust, on a speck of dust, in an asteroid field, adjacent to a planetoid, in orbit around a planet, in a solar system, in another, bigger Universe, that is itself, a speck of dust, and so on, and so on, forever and ever, because infinity has no limits. And rather than that entailing that our existence is pitiful and futile, it actually means we're all the more special.

And that is the real reason many people want a God in the first place...to be adrift in all that nothingness without anything bigger to love us and remember us when we've blipped off the radar must be a heavy load to contend with. Without some deity saving this rock from smashing into that rock must seem of critical importance. I personally hope there is a God. I don't really believe there is, but I wish. Mainly because I'd really like to see the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse, even though like everything else in the Bible, they're just metaphors.

The 4 Metaphors of the Apocalypse just doesn't resonate quite the same way.

Keep on truckin' kids!


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

Love Poem for the People.

So, as everybody knows, I'm more of a Dylan Thomas than a Dylan Moran kinda guy. Or Bob Dylan (even though he's actually Robert Zimmerman). Maybe that's why.


Thomas

Moran

I'm also a massive fan of good poetry. Call me a fag, I dare you.

Anyway, as luck would have it, Dylan Thomas happens to be my favourite poet. EVER. And the reason for this is, while he is able to explore all the usual elemental staples of dramatic poetry, the guy just reeks of hope. That's not a bad smell. Not bad at all.

The biggest industry in the world is 'the hope industry'. If you have a metalcore band and you're looking for a name for it, there it is. Or, if you want to rip off Dylan Thomas, 'Adventures in the skin trade'. Trust me, finding band names is hard, I'm providing a valuable public service here.

Churches, gymnasiums, adult video stores, stores in general, and dating services all offer hope in varying forms, and that's why they do so well. We're hopeless junkies for hope, constantly searching for that one thing that will fill in the hole left by the other thing, or in exceedingly desperate cases, the thing that never was in the first place.

I have had a theory for a while that it isn't the case so much that we need to replace the thing we lost with another thing, but rather with EVERYTHING. Fill it up with life. Fill it up with all the other things on the planet that are out there to be enjoyed/discovered/created. Because as you know, when you look for a thing, that thing generally evades you. You have to pretend you don't care any more. Actually, you have to genuinely not care any more, because we live in a clever Universe, and it sees through silly human attempts to outsmart it. Trust me, it's good. I have tested it.

A lot.

So, back to Thomas. Sure, his hope was fuelled by a ravenous love of God (and the alcohol that God created), but the way he arranged his thoughts into prose is nothing short of inspirational. And from him, comes my favourite line of poetry ever:

"Though lovers be lost love shall not..." (from 'And Death Shall Have No Dominion').

I'm not going to post the whole piece here, as relatively short as it is, because I want you to Google it and read it, and maybe find something else, and spend some time today reading poetry for a change.

But how rad is it? And how true?

No matter what I'm doing, I like to take pause, every day, and think about what other people are doing. No-one in particular, just people. Like the people in the row of shops next to mine. And the people in other cities of Australia, or out in the country, or in other countries. What's the weather like? What are their emotions like? Are they eating? Dreaming? I like it that the world is quite big, and there are so many different people and places upon it.

And I think about all the love out there. All the people who are so lost in each other they are kissing and holding each other on a street corner, while the city rushes past them. People alone together, looking into each others faces, enraptured and overjoyed each by the other. The feeling of a hand in another hand. The warm air on a lip before a kiss. The moment your heart stops because they have stopped it with a smile. And the moment it starts again.



I think of these things, and I think of them when I'm sad or cold or a little lonely. And I smile, and my warmth returns, and I celebrate love, because dammnit, Thomas was right. I might not be in love, and I might not have someone, but lots of people do, and LOVE IS NOT LOST.

It is everywhere, all around us (Love, actually!), and the best way to create more of it is for us to love things as often as possible. It is an energy, just like a river or electrical power. You can add to it, or drain it.

Add to it.

Fall in love with a passing face on a tram. You may never meet or see them again, but love them anyway. With every fibre of your being, love them. Love your friend, love yourself. Love an animal (easy now). Just love.

Love as much and as often as you can.

And maybe one day it will be our turn to be loved in return.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.