Thursday, September 30, 2010

La Revolución

I look at things I have a lot, and ask myself "What is this for?"

The realistic replica lightsabers I had...what were they for? Fun and novelty every now and then, but not much else. So I sold them.

The crazy rams horn beach cruiser I had when I lived in Fremantle (Fuck- did that actually happen?!), What was that for? Dead weight- I own 13 bicycles! So I left it by the side of the road, and watched someone throw it in their car and race off.

I still own 11 guitars. What are they for? I really don't need that many for anything. So they should go. That will be harder to allow myself to do.

And this blog. It's here...I write in it. It's archived by the National Library in Canberra because it has some kind of artistic cultural value for Australia, apparently. Heaven help us! But what's it for, what does it do?

I have wanted to delete it (not that that would actually make it not exist any more (see archiving), and start again, anonymously, so I can post my thoughts and not have to deal with the repercussions of the opinions of people I know. So I could write without judgement or fear of reprisal (not that these things have stopped me from writing anything yet, but it's the thought that counts).

I definitely feel abandoned and sooky because I used to have a massive following, and now I don't know if anyone reads it any more. Like Tears for Fears, without the hit songs. Every now and then someone posts a comment, and it shocks me. It's like coming home to find a total stranger in your lounge room, explaining to you how you've wired up the quadrophonic stereo system incorrectly.

Unexpected.

So, I'm not sure why I'm in here again, typing my thoughts while I wait for my rice to cook. While my girlfriend is away in Sydney, competing in the top 10 of X Factor on TV. When I have a day off tomorrow, so I'm gonna do my thing all night...to have me time.

But I'm here, and you're here, so I guess let's get started.

A lot of people ask me about my blog, some of them I know, some have been strangers at parties who have read me. Once I had someone call out my nom de plume "knifey" from a passing car, which I thought was incredibly impressive (he should be a police officer or something!) Impressive because I had no idea who he was.

And the thing they ask most is "Are your stories real?"

So let me kick this off by saying:

THIS STORY IS A TRUE STORY. IT HAPPENED TO ME. IT'S LEGIT.

The scene:

I had moved to capital city, after being fired from my job making gourmet cheese, for having no initiative. I can't be mad- they were right, I had none. And the cheese was delicious, so I took my hat off to them (and my rubber boots, apron, and overalls), and moved to the city.

I worked in a Mexican Restaurant. Those that know me know that those 2 words placed together are like gastro porn. I love Mexican.

It was an ok job (I got one meal a shift out of it, but I could have eaten a lot more than that.) One of the waitresses was an intoxicating skinny and pale model called Sarah, who liked Nick Cave and Einturzende Neubauten, and wore patchouli. She used to flirt mercilessly with me, and that made the time pass a lot faster. I wonder where she is now? She smelled amazing. For a goth.

I had been working late, double shift, and I was walking the loooong walk home. I lived in the ghetto (which was actually really nice, but don't tell the media that), and was passing an alleyway when I saw the figure of a girl kneeling in the gutter sobbing.

I rushed to her side and asked her what was wrong, she turned to look at me and she whispered "They're all dead."

This isn't something you want to hear.

I asked her who, and by way of explanation, she pointed a long slender finger to a car 10 metres down the street.

So of course, you have to look, right?

I walked up to the car, put my face against the glass of the passenger side rear window- nothing in there. Repeat with the other windows- nothing in there.

There was nothing in there.

I walked back to her, still in the gutter, still sobbing, and informed her the car was empty. She looked at me again, then cried out in a wail "Oh no! They're gone!"

Heavy, right?

I was so concerned about this girl, and I didn't want to leave her in the street, so I asked her where she lived, and flagged a taxi. I put her in it, got in with her, and off we went to get her home safely.

We arrive at the house after 15 or so kilometres, and I have to pay this massive fare, so all my money is gone. I'm thinking being a white knight kinda sucks mad balls, and I'm heartily over it, and she tells me to come in with her.

We walk in the front door, through a lounge room with people asleep on the sofas, and on the floor- obviously there had been a party here earlier. She took me through the kitchen and down a hallway, and we're standing in the bedroom.

You're thinking this gets sexy, but I'll let you down now and assure you it doesn't.

There are two people in the bed- a man and a woman. The man was...let's be honest, an obvious steroid abuser. The woman was a model, and if she wasn't, she should have seriously looked into that. They were both naked and uncovered, and I could smell the sex in the room. He snored.

The girl says, out loud, and way too loud- "I don't know these people!"

"Why are these people in your bedroom?", I asked, just over everything at this point.

"My bedroom?", she snorted. Then, matter-of-factly- "This isn't my house!"

Oh great!

I'm standing in the Hulks bedroom, looking at his little brown balls and naked hot girlfriend, with a total psychopath that must have had an LSD slurpee at 7-11 half an hour before I found her, and I will confess and say I felt quite uncomfortable.

My first priority was to GTFO, ASAP.

So I crept out of the house, with one hand clamped over this odd bitches mouth, and luckily for me when I got us out into the yard, the police car that was driving by screeched to a halt and shone its spotlight on me.

Obviously, they wanted to know why I was dragging a girl kicking and attempting to scream (if it weren't for my hand on her mouth), out of a house at what was then 4am on a Saturday night.

I explained, and luckily the girl was so obviously bonkers they believed me. I asked them to please find out where she lived and take her there, so I could get back to my life, and hopefully sneak in 2 hours of sleep before I get up for my next shift.

They begrudgingly agreed, which for cops in New Zealand, is just amazing (because they're all fucked beyond belief over there, because they're not allowed to carry guns at work like real cops). Even I'm
licensed to carry guns at work, and I'm just a security guard. But I digress...

So they got the truth out of her, and went into this new house to make sure she lived there, and they were glad they did, because they had a meth lab in the kitchen. So I had to wait in the back of the cruiser while they called every cop in the lower North Island to come bust this house full of nefarious individuals.

I never saw that girl again, and was glad I didn't have to look any dead people in the eye that night.

And I learned drunk and/or wasted girls are to be avoided at all costs. Because the currency they trade in is drama, and that's no good if you like having a good nights sleep.

I don't know why I remembered that, but now you know it too.

Maybe it's because I had to pick up a drunk girl at work tonight, who had passed out. I revived her, in time for her to puke all over pretty much everything (including herself), then I let her become a taxi drivers problem.

And by "pick up", I mean physically lift, down 2 flights of stairs. And she was let's just say "a big girl". Easily 110 kilograms of dead weight, drunk-ass, sloppy ho.

See what I mean? -Drama!


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Sticker Panic.

I don't know if you're like me, but...wait. Yes I do, and no you're not.

Let's start again.

When I was a kid, if someone gave me sticker, a decal, anything sticky with a graphic on it, something would come over me. My heart would beat faster, my pupils would dilate, I'd breathe hard and fast. This sounds like sex, doesn't it? Yeah, it's not.

I'd panic. What older people would describe in pecuniary terms when they'd say "...that money is burning a hole in your pocket." Except that sticker was the money.

My eyes would dart around, and...hey, maybe I should write this in the third person? Too late now I guess.

Fuck it.

So my eyes are darting around, and I would sweat a little, and basically become obsessed with finding that sticker a home. Without realising the plastic backing was peeled off and discarded, and I'd be walking around like a zombie praying to the sweet Lord to just give me a sign, where to put this beautiful intoxicating picture of a banana with a smile on its face/tyre dealership logo/erect penis from Brazil.

Maybe Mother Theresa was like that? Except she was obsessed with feeding people and getting them medical attention. And don't tell me she didn't sweat, because I know for a fact she worked in India. Everybody knows it's stupid hot over there, and they don't get to have a winter. How many professional Indian snowboarders do you know? I tell you this- if we all got the fever for doing the right thing by each other, this world would be a better place. But unlike Mother Theresa, the rest of us get off on doing things that are bad/dangerous/fattening.

So anyway, I would get fully worked up over sticker placement, and the second I carefully placed it on the bedhead/back of the chair/tv screen, I would INSTANTLY REGRET IT.

Stickers aren't designed to peel away, any more than bullets are designed to bounce off, or Ford motor vehicles are designed to actually be safe. So I'm screwed, right there. I'd take a step back and think "What just happened?!" Why would a normal kid that likes riding BMX bikes off the first floor balcony, or raiding people's liquor cabinets when they weren't home, and be naked and drunk when they returned, why would a normal kid like that just lose their minds and put a sticker on the tv screen?

Sticker panic. That's why.

Medical fact.

Stickers are designed for one purpose- to stick like an absolute bastard (unless you get your stickers from Asia, in which case good luck to you). As previously noted (pay attention), they are not designed to come off. So once that backing is removed, you absolutely have to stick that sucker on to something, otherwise you mess with destiny, and the stickers whole raisón d'etre HAS BEEN DESTROYED.

You did that. You are the one who is responsible. Not me, baby. I would NEVER DO THAT.

Think about it...

What are guitars for? They're for rocking with, obviously.

So what about those dudes that buy guitars and keep them in their cases like they're made of angel farts, and only take them out with special cotton gloves so their fingers don't tarnish the nitro finish from 1958? They're fuckwits, that's what.

The purpose of a guitar, is to rock. Everybody knows that.

The purpose of a sticker, is to stick. Duh!

So when you get a sticker, it is imperative that you peel off the backing immediately, and run around the house looking for a place to lay it on down. Which reminds me of a story...

My girlfriend is normal in every way, except that she's hotter than anyone on the planet, and farts on me (which I find endearing (but only when SHE does it)).

She also has the ability to instantly teleport herself to any room in the house, because when I'm running around with a fresh sticker, she's there with her arms
crossed saying "Nuh-uh!" like a good Southern baptist woman. Then when I run to the other end of the house, she's already there, looking fine, shaking her head. Just another reason to not trust women. Their menstrual blood attracts bears too, apparently. Seriously, who needs that?

But you know what? I'm not here to talk about stickers or women. I'm here to talk about the backing of stickers.

I know you want to hear something revelatory, like if you rub the backing on your johnson, it will grow twice as large, and smell like a steam train in high summer.

But I would never lie to you.

The truth is, I know a guy called Aideed, who lives in the Middle East. For those of you in America, the Middle East is overseas.

Aideed's middle name is Mohammed, and when he's not praying to Allah and studying the Qu'ran, he is an absolute world class powerhouse maniac for sticker backings.

Yeah, I said it.

Aideed not only saved the backings from a whole lifetime of his stickers, but of all of his friends and families, and even complete strangers. He would go door knocking, and ask people to let him know if they ever got a sticker backing, and to let him have it when they were done with it. He was like a stamp collector on crack, for serious.

So when I met him, he had sixteen apple boxes full of sticker backings. 16 boxes of bad smelling plastic-y shapes with no pictures.

At first I thought he was bonkers, but then I realised it was all due to the fact that different cultures see things in different ways. Aideed was a very spiritual cat, and so for him, it wasn't about the thrill of sticking something on something else, but rather the quiet and meditative appreciation for the things that have come before. In many cases he had never seen the sticker that accompanied the backing sheet. He had no idea what colours and images had lain so close to that plastic for so long. And in the not knowing, lay the vast and limitless ionosphere of potential.

That's the stuff dreams are made of.

One by one, he would take them from a box, and gaze lovingly at them...imagining what banana with a smile on its face/tyre dealership logo/erect penis from Brazil may have at one time spread its banana-ey arms/rubbery tread/jizzy lightning bolt across that space.

Guess what he did for a living?

He was a sticker designer!

(No he wasn't, he was a structural engineer, but in my mind he will always be the other thing).

I'm the most cynical person on the planet, and I'm super quick to judge people. I judged you when I was in the shower this morning. So I like it when the world grabs me by the ear and drags me in front of something different, some facts from another perspective, or throws me into that rarified air of other people's way of doing stuff. I like being wrong, because it shows me there are still things out there I don't know, and that therefore, there may still be hope. Of some kind. Somewhere.

Maybe even just a molecule.

But to my mind, even if there was only one molecule of hope in the whole world, then it would be the most precious thing, and the most valuable thing, and all the better for its scarcity. Like the illusion the diamond cartels have perpetuated all these years.

Who would have thought we could find it on the back of a discarded sticker sheet?

Aideed, that's who.

Rock on... now all I need to do is discover someone who keeps Star Wars boxes but throws away the figurines. That would be some truly zen shit, right there.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.