7-oh.

I know it's hard to believe for many of you, but there was a time long before this time, but a ways after the dinosaurs, where people lived in cities that looked pretty samey as the ones we live in now, but where no one was packing an iPod or a mobile phone. Where if you wanted to get a call, you had better be at home on time, or at the phone booth across the street. It was weird, but no matter which side of the street you lived on, the phone booth was always on the other side. If you wanted to listen to your favourite songs, that was no problem, you just took your transistor radio, and tuned it into your favourite radio station. And you'd get down with Dr Hook, or Cat Stevens before he converted, or whoever was big back then. In many ways, life was the same...people had stress and shitty jobs, they had to pay the rent. You could eat fried chicken that tasted exactly the same as it does now, although the Coke was different. You could go on road trips in big powerful cars, and get sunburns, and have sex with strangers. And there was no AIDS. The guys hair was longer, the girls had some crazy Farrah Fawcett curls happening, trends, just like any other time. And guys still played guitar at the beach, and hoped the girls would dig it, while their dogs got wet and sprayed everyone when they shook themselves out, same dopey doggie grin yours has right now, panting in the sun. People got loose, got drunk, danced, took acid...had car accidents, and jerked off to movies that came on a reel, genuine film. Chuck Norris was every bit as cool as he is today, and he looked identical, save for the room in his pants back then. We still fought useless wars, for exactly the same 2 reasons we still do now. Still got married, went to church a bit more often. Bicycles had one gear. Eye shadow was blue. Books were big. Star Wars was the most mind bending thing ever, and Jaws kept thousands of people out of the surf every summer. We used to send letters. Long distance relationships meant walking out to the mailbox breathlessly anticipating every day. You got to know the smell of it. And it was an art form, writing letters. Guess what? No hip hop yet. When you called a company, a person answered the phone, and they lived in the same country you do. Taxis knew where they were going, and had an opinion on everything from politics to which horse to back that afternoon. Cars were made of steel. Microwave ovens hadn't hit, if you had a grill in the stove, you were just fine. People were generally a lot more racist than now, ethnics weren't so integrated. Kids could buy cigarettes, and so they did. So it wasn't all sunshine and sepia tone. And you're wondering what the point is here, and I'll be honest and tell you that there are 2. One is that it's kinda nice to reflect, it's a little like a holiday, and seeing as it costs us nothing, then that can only be a good thing. The other is that I genuinely hope that in another 30 years, all the quad xeon dual processors and jumbo lcd's and titanium/carbon fibre fighter planes and bionic hands we're running this week will look as quaint to us as black and white tv sets the size of a fish tank in a swank bar do to us now. And I hope that with all that juicy technology we're gonna get out filthy hands all over, that we might have evolved a little more than we have so far, and stopped thinking being "grey space" is ok. Stopped believing that because we dress right and listen to the right music and look right, that we ARE right. Because you're not...sorry. You're mindless robots walking around thinking you have a life, when you're programmed via DVD's and tv shows paid for by people who hate you. And you look down on the hippies now, when they shit all over you for originality and style, because they do what they do despite the fact it's not in any more. You spend every cent you don't have desperately getting that shirt with the bird shit print, or the ridiculous pointy shoes, or that music to play in your car that really only little girls should listen to. If that. You think you're so superior because you fit in, when fitting in is nothing short of a nightmare to my people. People who aren't limited by your ridiculous mindsets, or hold your biases, or inherent racism, or total absence of originality. If you have to be told what to do by a magazine, you're dead already. If you write the magazine, full points to you. Consumer is actually a dirty word, now, we're not in the 70's any more, and can't get away with not knowing. Consumers are rapists. And the supreme irony is they are raping themselves as well. It's weird you have to write this down, and that some people would never have thought about it had I not. How with all the information at our disposal we as a race think less than ever before. I guess it's easier to ponder the mysteries of the Universe while looking at a sunset, as opposed to a full email inbox or a credit card statement.

I'll be at the phone box across the street if any of you want to talk to me.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Reflecting on a dull Surface.

Well, more than a year has passed since the final leaves fell from our tree, revealing it for what it was. It was dead, if it ever lived at all.

And you always know a sentimental blog post, when it starts with a "well". You can be sentimental about painful things, if you learned to love them somehow. But time truly does heal all wounds, and so now I can sit in the park where I used to walk your dog every day, now with mine. And a long time must have passed, because Raga isn't a puppy any more, she's a slobbering, grunting beast of a dog, pulling branches off trees, and eating rocks. And I've had the time to forge a meaningful and beautiful friendship with her, she's a great friend, considering she eats her own shit. Maybe that's what keeps her modest.

And I can look at the city lights that used to hurt when I saw them, because I could see in my minds eye all the things you used to do under them. But now, they're just city lights. And even though I still feel a twinge at your memory, I have seen so many more city lights since you walked out. Twenty cities all across Europe and North America. More probably, but it's late, you know...

And I've stood in those cities, with the hookers, strippers, dealers, artists, politicians, criminals, power brokers, and regular peoples, and every now and then I remember you. And in that moment, when I picture you brushing your teeth at night, or when I would bathe you, I realise you don't feel far away at all. Like those times are MINE, and I can keep them forever. I can pull them out, dust them off, and smile once every now and then. So despite my harsh words, despite that door closing, I still hold my memories of you very close to my heart. I treasure those, even the hurtful ones. I still loved you then. And it's nice too, because maybe you've never been to Kiev, but now these eyes that reflected you, and this heart that loved you have, and this mind thought a you-shaped shape, so for all the ghosts and phantasms of those places, it would appear you were there, shimmering away in my memory, in your underwear, spitting out toothpaste in the frosty air, with a total absence of steam. I still feel you in my hands.

There is too much I want to do, too much I want to see, too many things I gave up on, when I settled down with you. I still don't regret that, but now I have them back, I won't pass them over so easily next time. I'm no good to anyone, and I'm pretty happy with it. I thought my life was over. But look at that! New rooms, and arrangements of colour, and sounds, and looks, and a brand new junk food tour of America to look forward to soon. I was shocked and impressed to find someone on Myspace I really don't like much has started doing music, and it sounded INCREDIBLE. I like that sort of thing. I guess you can be a creep and have talent. Who knew? It's all inspirational. And suddenly I'm international again, only now I'M playing the music. How did I ever give up on that?! We were a powerful force. We put each other through so much misery, it makes me feel perversely closer to you, like we shared the experience, even though we did it to each other. Like WW1 trench warfare, ceasefire for Christmas, both sides meet in no mans land for cricket. Exactly like that.

And if you're reading this (I don't think you will), I'm sure your thoughts will be harsh. That's okay, they're your thoughts. I remember it was very easy for you to be angry, or to be cold. For your thoughts to point downwards. But I want to set mine free, and we all know the way I do that is to post them up for complete strangers to read, in places I may never go. It may be a sickness, I'm not sure. But I'm glad in my heart at last, truly glad. And these feelings don't mean "come back", or "I can't let go". They mean "good luck!", and "I don't want to let go of everything", because as much as I never knew the real you, and don't know you now, we had us some moments, and they were way too precious to just let them sink in minutes and days and years.

So time has passed, our dogs have grown, we're older and wiser, and I can sit in the park without feeling upset. Wait, I do feel upset, because I don't have anything left to feel upset about. The emptiness is more painful than the pain I used to cling on to. I never thought of emptiness as having spines before.

I send you my love, through the vastness of the internet, the same way I first said hello, across thousands of miles of cables and points, and with that, I am finally free.

Fondest memories. x.

Memories of skating...

Once, when I was young and wayward, all the kids from juvenille hall were taken out for a special treat to an indoor skating rink in a bad part of town. That's ok, we were all from there anyway. We skated around and around, and listened to music on the p.a. system we had never heard before, and had a pretty good time of it. Then the dj came over the mic and announced it was time for a SPEED SKATE, and all manner of flashing lights started going off. Now I don't know about you, but us young and wayward children had already had way more than enough of flashing lights and loud noises, so everybody ripped off their skates, ran out the door, and hightailed it over the back fence. Some were never caught, I'm not even joking. I, however, having never skated before in my life, and being worse than horrible at it, tried to make a line for the exit, but got caught in the throng of adults making their way to the starting line. An air horn went off, and I did everything in my power to get away from all the adults, and toward the door, desperately trying not to leave my teeth all over the floor as I did so. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was shocked to find once I had reached (read: slammed into) the barrier, that the speed skate was over, and lo! I won. Ah yes, that meat pack was mine. Pfft.

Many years later, my friend Ross International and I worked in a skateboard shop. It was the only skateboard shop in the city of Wellington in NZ, and we were pretty much the cool guys to know. We had a big ass reputation to uphold, and all the kids looked up to us to never do anything uncool. But this was the early 90's, and rollerblading (and EXTREME rollerblading) had pervaded the national consciousness, and Ross and I, tired of constantly deriding everyone who did it, decided (in absolute secrecy) to find out what all the fuss was about. We selected a deserted patch of road out past the airport, where the only traffic was service vans and criminals, and took 2 sets of hire skates out there to unravel. I can tell you it was hilarious to behold, as 2 rough young guys who could sail through the air like a couple of gazelles on skateboards, watched one leg go behind the other, to resemble a 2 legged octopus on an oil covered floor with some ball bearings thrown onto it for good measure. We spent way more time falling over than skating. And just as we got it dialled, and made a straight line, a photographer for the local paper who was walking along the rocks took our picture for a "Moods of Wellington" spread, and everyone in NZ saw it the next morning. It wasn't so bad as we thought though. Our reputations saved us, and instead of being ostracised or run out of town, inline skatings street cred went up about 5 bazillion points, and now knows the legitimacy it enjoys today. Thank me later.

I had a crush on a girl a few years after. Her name was Melanie. Her father was a famous politician, and she was a few years older than me. So hot. She made me shy and nervous, which was rare. So when she asked me out on a date one evening, there was no way, shy or not, that I would say no. We went to dinner at a little Italian family restaurant, and I swear to you I have never tasted Italian so good since. Then she decided we were to try Ice skating. With ice. And sharp bits under your feet. The smell of disaster was deafening. Well, you know what I mean. So there we went, and she took my hand, and I felt like I was constructed entirely out of pink fluffy clouds. And we swooped and swooshed and all manner of other fast noises around the rink until Melanie was tired and I drove her home. As we got to the door, her eyes searched mine for a sign of a kiss to come, and as I held her hands, and slowly stepped one step closer to finally know the sweet agony of her kiss, her father came out with a "Good work! You got her home on time! Tell me J, have you considered joining young Labor?", and with only our horrified looks to mark that moment of potential sweetness forever, I bade them both farewell and made haste to my 1966 Plymouth Fury, which was confidently taking up at least four parking spaces kerbside, and the comforting sounds of Van Halen in the tape deck.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Wow! I think I've got it!

Music. It's like this mysterious mistress I have.

No, wait, I'm single.

It's more like the tax department...always doing things you'll never know about or understand, in places you will probably never go.

No, wait...I've never enjoyed the tax department.

It's like a carnival, that shows you the best time ever, but sometimes the lights go down and everyone goes home, and you're there, lonely as hell, wondering when the fun is going to start again. And sometimes the lights stay off for years. And even though you've been able to turn lights on before, and even wire them up from time to time, for some reason you just have no control of it right now. The carnival decides for itself.

Wait, I hate carnivals.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that music is beautiful, and inspirational, and even though at times I can't play it or write it for long periods of time, it's always there, sometimes comforting, sometimes taunting. I've had lovers like that, and they were hot.

And it can even make us jealous sometimes, at least, those of us with pretensions of writing music. Jealous we didn't write it 'Ape Dos Mil'- Glassjaw.. Or embarassed that we did! Some songs fire me up 'Still Beats Your Name'- Killswitch Engage, some chill me out again (Japanese Koto music). Some do my head in...The Dillinger Escape Plan, anyone?

I think my favourite feeling regarding music is that it's one of the only things that evolves with you through your life. I don't mean musical tastes, although I hope that yours have. No, what I mean is that, as humans, we're travelling through time, and we have a time limit. Our life, is kinda like a really long song. And music passes through time with us, beginning, existing, ending. It keeps us company, and leaves us sad by its passing, or hopeful for its return. Or even, in the case of Fleetwood Mac, scared of the possibility of its re emergence.

When I listen to "Chill' by Big Bud, that narrow window of time, that moment we call now, where everything starts and stops, that tiny sliver in which we live, I feel so in that moment when I'm hearing that song. I realised that back in 2000, when I lived with a bunch of Drum & Bass DJ's, that kind of sound was the soundtrack to my life. And I had never felt more in the moment and real as I did back then with them.

And when I hear that kind of music now, it drags me from wherever my head was stuck in, back to this moment, here, live, with you and the world.

And I realise that right now, with The Postal Service playing in my store, and my dog chewing on the chair leg, with a belly full of hot chocolate, and the prospect of catching up with a good friend later in the day, that life, and right now, and this moment is a pretty comfy place to be.

Wherever you are, and whatever you're doing, thank you for sharing in my moment. Tell me- what are you listening to?

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Just a quick one...

Having spent a significant portion of my misspent youth in New Zealand, and having since emerged back out into the world at large, I have come to see the differences between kiwis and the rest of the world.

They're really great people, on the whole, and kinda cute like little forest creatures. They have their own peculiarities of custom and language, and it is one of these I would like to share with you today.

I like to read the ABC news (that's Australian Broadcasting Corporation, not, 'News for retards') over breakfast, and on doing so this morning I found the following pearler under the headline "NZ activists planned 'war on white people'":

Green Party MP Keith Locke says the use of anti-terrorism laws to crackdown on an alleged paramilitary conspiracy seems spurious.

"There's a temptation for the security intelligence service, police and that to try and have their terrorists to keep up with what's happening in America, Britain or wherever and there's a bit of that in this," he said.

"and that"????!!! "wherever"???!! holy shit dude, how rad is he?

That is all.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

The kids nowadaze...

One of the many things my ex girlfriend said that I remember was regarding her outing of a night to a Melbourne Indie scene club. Yeah, I've been, I used to go a lot, but kinda outgrew it 5 years ago, just like any other clique.

Her take was that it was full of little kids trying desperately to act spastic, each more than the other, and she was basically less than impressed.

I'd have to say, I concur. Newfound freedom is a heady mix, especially when poured over a nicely chilled psyche totally devoid of responsibilty or the capacity for empathy, and you basically have a room full of kids going spastic, and looking it.

It's not all bad however, as Gen Y (God I hate those descriptors!) are accidentally responsible for some of, what I regard as, the greatest writing in the contemporary zeitgeist. They have stumbled across a way to describe things that have no value whatsoever, in such a disaffected yet curious way, as to make them interesting. At least for that moment, before they move on to whatever is next.

Example-

"I wasn't paying attention and just glued 2 of my fingers together. Now I have this sweet claw, but I know I'll have to cut it apart with a scalpel. Or just boil it."

Myspace should be required reading for literature majors, what's left of it anyway.

"Burce and I got locked out last night, tried to get in the bathroom window, but fuckhead landlord had put in security. So we watched the stars lying on the patio, and drank whatever was left in the bottles and cans in the recycling. I got pretty wasted and pashed him, and he cracked it and now he's not talking to me. What a fag".

Classic. Such tension, under the Universe.

"Oh my god, Taya the slut actually fucked the singer from that band, and now she's pregnant. She's such a whore, I can't believe he'd choose her over me!"

We've all been there.

"this one time I slit my wrists heaps and it was so good and the pain just all went away and then I got an infection and had to get my hands amputated and that was really sore, but its okay because I saved up and now I have prosthetic hands and they clink when I clap."

Indeed.

Seriously, it's better than the newspaper, if you can get past the glitter graphics and the 5 songs loading and 18 YouTubes loading at the same time and the 23,000 jpegs.

7.5 out of 10.

God Complexxx.

Everyone who knows me, knows I fulfill an insanely important role in the Universe. I am ridiculously important, and without me, life and especially culture as you know it would come to a grinding halt.

You see, while you sleep, I decide what's going to be cool next week (or next year if I have time), what songs you'll want to buy, real estate prices and stock market fluctuations, who lives and dies...those sorts of things.

You thought it was God, The Reserve Bank, the free market economy, and Rupert Murdoch, but no. It's me.

I decide who's cool, what's in, what's out and when it's time for whoever to go to rehab...all from the comfort of my cosy chair.

It's not a bad job as far as they go. I mean, I get paid nothing, but the satisfaction is pretty unbeatable when you go to the shop and one of your friends comes up to you and says "Have you heard? The new Metallica album is shit!", and I can smile to myself and remember I had decided that before they even went in to record it.

So there I am, and I'm thinking about all manner of important and crucial topics, and basically sorting out what you think about them, for you.

Pretty fucking nice, right?

So it was during one of these extended remix sessions of brainstorming that it dawned on me suddenly why I, and so many other well adjusted people around the world, just love sniper rifles, or as we in the biz call them, 'telescopic-sighted, high powered accurised rifles'.

30 x magnification.

A lot of people think that it's somehow about taking life, or being aggressive. But then a lot of people think the Pope wants the best for them, or that smoking makes you look cool too.

Incorrect.

4 x magnification.

Face it, we all want super powers, at least those of us who don't already have them. Darth Vader didn't want to be Oscar Wilde, but I bet you anything you like the keyboard player from Duran Duran would have paid good money to be King Kong for a day.

And that's what this is about. When you look down that sweet Bushnell Elite 4200 scope, through the Mil dot reticle, and blow the living fuck out of an object 3 miles away, you are, essentially God.

What's for dinner? Hot lead, that's what.

It's like you just teleported into that time and place, utterly affected whatever it is you were aiming at forever, then instantly disappeared again, to a safe vantage miles away. Like you were never there. And you know what? You probably weren't.

Long stick goes "boom".

And if it's a 50 calibre rifle, it needn't just be hapless organisms that you can "affect". It can be trucks, tankers, and even aeroplanes. M107.50 isn't a radio station, it's a tool for what is known in the field, as "tactical dominance". But to you and me is simply known as "unlimited cans of whupass". With a Muzzle Velocity of 2,800 fps, a maximum range of just under 7000 metres, and armor penetrating, incendiary, dual-purpose ammunition, there isn't much you couldn't hurt. In fact, if I had a direct line of sight to St Kilda, I could unleash a shot from North Melbourne, right down King Street, through the city, past the South Melbourne Markets, through Middle Park and Albert Park, straight down to Ackland Street, and blow a hole in your torso the size of...well...your torso; while you enjoy a macchiato and discuss rising interest rates with your wank friends.

But like I say, it's not about bloodlust. That's just a bonus.

There is a fascination, or has been for about 5 years now, regarding pirates Vs. ninjas. Pirates are great because they love to fight face to face, exchange witty reparteé, and wear funny boots with big buckles on them. But ninjas kinda own, because they kill you before they even get out of bed in the morning, just by thinking about it. You never see a ninja coming, and if you do, it's only because he wanted to give you a flash of black in the night, so you'll wee your pants that little bit more when he runs you through with a katana, or sticks you in the eye with a throwing star (if you pissed him off for some reason).

In this analogy, standard handheld weapons like Beretta nine millimetre handguns are pirates, all black (or silver, I guess), and ready to talk your ear off like Samuel L Jackson while stabbing you to death with little lumps of hot projectile.

And the ninjas are sniper rifles, blowing you into utter oblivion from the other side of town, while the shooter is having a cup of tea and maybe even solving a sudoku.

Oh hell yeah!

The best thing about them is that you don't have to listen to the person on the receiving end talking, or have to deal with begging, etc. They don't know it's coming, until they're already dead, which as well all know, presents logical problems only Socrates could approach. This is especially handy when talking to your art broker in London, and not wanting to be disturbed by inane chattering and pants wetting, especially if you have a supressor equipped unit like a VSS Vintorez or the like.

I know it sounds a bit harsh, but you really have to be in that situation a few times to realise how amazingly annoying it is.

"No, no...they will never find me. I am safe here."

The technology nowadays is getting so out of control and rad we now have weapons systems and scope-enabled tech like the
The ID-SNIPER scope, which contains an advanced computer image system, which is capable of capturing a digitally restored and sharpened
bitmap image, of the ID-SNIPER victim.

"Night Night!"

This image was captured during a 'test shot' using a
ID-SNIPER prototype on suspected terrorist in Beirut.

This guy is about to have a very not awesome time.

The best tech ever though, is of course from the USA, where they are developing facial recognition optics that target enemy combatants for you. So whoever the Pentagon decides they don't like that day, can be uploaded to your arms via satellite, so if you happen to come across one of these individuals with your gunsight, your gun will automatically blow their frickin heads off for you.

That's convenience!

God bless America. Ha ha!

The next level is to work these systems into satellites themselves, fitted with intensely powerful lasers, so when some 8 year old kid from Finland is checking out Syria with Google Earth, he will witness a very bright light and a curious red mist where a guy with a funny costume was standing only seconds before. All automated. Killer robots in space with facial recognition. And hackers in Korea know this, already developing virii to be dropped into the control software of said satellites, programming them to kill anyone with a gross income of over $50,000, or people with the letter 'L' in their name.

It's gonna be AWESOME!

Of course, what the Government didn't think of, was that wanted criminals will take to wearing mirrors on top of their heads, sending the laser beam straight back up, and destroying these military satellites worth billions of dollars. It's that simple!

I have decided to sell my greatest idea to the U.S. defense department. It goes like this- fit all ATM machines with facial recognition, and internally mounted riot guns, so when someone on the FBI or CIA watch list turns up to withdraw some cash, they get a face full of Government issue buckshot instead!

Hellbourne Choppers Weapons Division modified 3700 series.

Try telling me I'm not amazing. Go on...


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

En Garde!

Legalization of Dueling.

At last! A group worth joining (thanks Josh)!

...And the only group I belong to that I didn't, in fact, start.

The comments are in general, quite good, but as usual, mine was the best.

"I have to say, most days you'll find me on a street somewhere, bitch slapping some fool with my sweet backhand, and taunting "I demand satisfaction!" Of course if they have any huevos at all the lightsabres come out and we get to gettin'. I'm still here, so clearly I am a fan of the duel. And wearing tight pants. That's just how I roll."

Anyone can mention the Spanish word for eggs, and lighsabres in the same paragraph deserves a knighthood at least. And the right to bear arms anywhere they like (airports, hospitals, foreign Embassies...).

Of course it's your (pathetic) right to disagree, in which case feel free to meet me on the main street at dusk with your laser sword, and a flunky to pick up the two halves of your lifeless body and stuff it in a bag when I'm done with you.

Who knows? I might even carve him up too, just to mess with you.

Badass.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Cities...

Babylon The Great

Humanity has had a long running and passionate obsession with its cities for thousands of years now. And while they have mutated into enormous metropoli in the post-Industrial Revolutionary climate, their purposes remain basically unchanged. It takes many types of people to make a city work, just like in an ant colony, only more diverse, and with increasingly sophisticated technology. But for all our collective diversity, there remain very few people, statistically speaking, who are actually privy to the full extent of what goes on in any given city.

Ant city.

Behind the bright lights and towers of shining glass lie many secrets, some of which, are never revealed to the public at large. The kinds of things only emergency workers, coroners, criminals, or the elite get the opportunity to witness. So when you go out to 'bar whatevz', and you're getting drunk with the crew from your office, you tend to think about having a good time, and forgetting whatever stresses you may have in your life. But you would be shocked and amazed to discover what may be happening on the other side of the wall. It's not all retail and cuisine and nightlife.

Blissfully unaware.

Long after you've gone home to sleep, the city moves on without you. And rather than being glitz and money, the city is a cesspit where things fall in and die. Cities have many stories, most of which remain untold, and will stay that way forever. And the most frightening aspect is, that not only do those in positions of power and priveledge know of this dark side, they are always the ones who sanction and protect it.

Expenses tastes demand varied and unusual flavours.

'nuff said.

Of course some of these goings-on are relatively innocuous, depending on how it affects you, such as the movie theatre where original prints of every movie that has ever been shown there, from Star Wars to Ben Hur , remain behind the screen in a massive mountain, to this day. Normally, once a run is finished, the reels are sent back to the distributor, but in this case, literally millions of dollars of movies are 'archived' behind the screen. Of course the old celluloid movies have all decomposed into a fire risk of unbelievable proportions, but that's not really evil, per se. Just interesting.

I'm not sure what it is about me that gives me access to these people, but for some reason, whenever I visit a new city, I usually find myself neck deep in its guts within a few hours of arriving there. I love city streets, and like a tumbleweed, I get picked up along the way, and taken to places and situations within these cities that are both unusual and often quite dangerous. It is as if the people who create these pockets of difference seek to grab my attention, to get my stamp of approval on their wicked deeds. To share the fruits of their labour, their passions, with me who they believe will appreciate and understand them. I don't understand them, and their ravenous and destructive motivations. And it makes me wonder what is wrong with me that they would assume I would share their taste, or be like them. These situations and encounters show to me the very basest desires and behaviours of humanity, and the frightening thing is, we are all capable of these same desires. We just have to burn out the receptors for all other reasonable forms of pleasure and entertainment. Some think of it as evolution.

Tiktaalik roseae - the missing link between sea and land creatures. You are directly related to this 9 foot long fish.

We'll deal with it as fiction. I'll lay it out as a tall tale, so you can rest at night, and not fear that the next time you buy groceries, you'll be thrown into a van in the parking lot, and taken to another a place, where you will live out the remaining hours of your life in utter terror, because those with power seek to enjoy your disposable flesh. Because you are an ant, and the Queen and her soldiers require of you your death and suffering and misery, to simply pass the time. Because in cities, we individually amount to nothing.

Ant graveyard.

Actually, no I won't. I'm going to name names. I'll tell you exactly who did what, and you can finally get a sense of what happens around you every day, no matter what city in the world you live in. At the time of posting, there are 6,616,578,315 people alive in the world, with 211,090 new citizens born today. I'm sorry to say this, but in that seething biomass of humanity, you are not remotely unique or important. You are worthless. And the power elite know it. While you think you're safe in your democratized society, getting your colon cleansed and reading the newspaper on the train, you are one decision away from not existing, every minute of every day. Your survival is frail at best.

Once in a while, you read about 'the cliche'. The cliche is that situation that has been repeating itself endlessly in most large cities of the West, since the late 1800's. It is when a beautiful young girl, a model usually, but sometimes a singer, or an actress, simply disappears. She disappears, with no sign of a struggle, nothing unusual, except her notable and continuing absence. Family and friends are all mystified and shattered, knowing that she was a clean living person (at best) or just a harmless party girl at worst. She had no enemies, in fact she was generally adored by those around her. You have seen this girl in your life. You have passed her on the street with her oversized sunglasses on, or passing in a taxi.

Read on for her story...

You wonder who she is and where she's going, and fantasize that you know her. Or you see her at a party, and dream of being able to effortlessly penetrate the wall of sycophants that surround her, adoring her and warming her ego with their tongues and wide eyes, for you to win her friendship or more. To bask in her attention.

The girl in the picture above was a succesful model, named Altantuya Shaaribuu. She was born in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, and was fluent in Mongolian, Russian, French and English. She worked part time as a teacher and translator, and died in October 2006, at the age of 28. Her remains were found in the city of Shah Alam in Malaysia, a victim of murder. She is one of the few that have been found.

I met Altantuya in France when she was attending modelling school, where she called herself 'Anna'. She was extremely intelligent and knew exactly what she wanted out of life, with plan after plan of business ideas (fashion/textiles, tour operations), mainly based back in her homeland of Mongolia, and also in Hong Kong. She was driven, to say the least, and travelled in very high circles. She gravitated towards money, and powerful people.

And it was these high circles of power and influence that ultimately killed her.

Dead.

Altantuya ended up in a relationship with Abdul Razak Baginda, a Malaysian from Kuala Lumpur. Baginda is an internationally known academic, with a bachelors degree in politics and government, a masters degree in war studies, and a D.Phil in international relations. He started a think tank called the Malaysian Strategic Research Centre in 1993, and in 2002, brokered a deal between the French Government and the Royal Malaysian Navy of French Scorpene submarines, worth USD 800 million. The French rewarded him for this with the Légion d'honneur. He is an advisor to the Malaysian Deputy Prime Minister, Najib Razak, and is involved heavily in Malaysian Defence contracts worth millions of dollars.

Baginda.

Without trying to surround myself with too much drama, you are reading about one seriously heavy motherfucker here, who the French Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure will go to great lengths to protect. If I come up missing for telling you this, you know already who did it. And before you laugh, I should inform you that just for reading this post, you now have your own intelligence files in France, Malaysia, and therefore Interpol and C.I.A. You read this, they track you, and flag whatever you read or do that is even remotely related from this point on. Your whole life story is on file, unless you live in New Zealand, where Government co-operation with the French is limited, if that. Unfortunately, even this can't guarantee protection, as the N.Z. S.A.S. is the training ground for the paramilitary Unit Tindakan Khas, which I will get to in a minute.

Baginda had an affair with Altantuya in Hong Kong in 2005, where she had gone to open a new business. He was already marrried to ex Malaysian magistrate and lawyer Mazlinda, and it is this relationship, along with the French connection, that saved him when he had two officers from The Royal Malaysian Special Action Unit murder Altantuya by shooting her twice, and then destroying her body with military grade C-4 explosive. The officers names are Chief Inspector Azilah Hadri, and Corporal Sirul Azhar Umar. They are both members of the Unit Tindakan Khas, or U.T.K, and are ridiculously highly trained and specialised tactical specialists.

If you wake up to the UTK, you're dead. No question.

Altantuya was killed because Baginda wanted to keep their affair quiet, and in the end, only DNA analysis of her found bone fragments could be used to identify her, as Composition 4 explosive has the destructive power to destroy solid steel. Baginda's political influence internationally, due to his power to garner huge sums of money for the French, and domestically due to his Government connections, and his wifes power within the judicial system made him a valuable asset. Because of this, he has so far managed to avoid justice for abetting in the UTK murder of Altantuya Shaaribuu. "Abetting" is a legal term which obviously means offering USD $30,000 to the State Security Force for a contract killing to protect the reputation of a military advisor who is having an affair.

What I'll tell you next is something you definitely don't know about, and I have to warn you again... If you read this, and you're at all sensitive, it will give you nightmares for the rest of your life.

Every now and then the plight of sex slaves in places like Thailand and Laos comes to light, and it breaks your heart to read about little girls, sold into prostitution because their families are so poor, and used by men who have no interest in where they come from or what they are going through, because again, they are disposable. What a lot of people don't know is, that this practice also exists in supposedly civilised Europe, in countries like Germany, Italy, Greece, Bosnia, and Turkey.

Prostitute in Germany.

Girls from Russia, Ukraine, Moldova and Romania are bought from orphanages, duped, or kidnapped, and transported to centres like Belgrade, where they are broken, and forced to have sex with 80 plus men a week, until exhaustion or disease render them useless, and they are murdered and disposed of. These women and girls are like your sister or your girlfriend. Many are highly educated, their only crime is being poor, or an orphan. If you met them under different circumstances, you would see them as you see any other European woman. But because they are supposedly disposable and replaceable to the organised crime outfits that run these white slave trades, they are destroyed and forgotten. Right now there are half a million of these girls being used in Germany alone.

Half a million forgotten souls.

Imagine if we could get the United Nations involved? Surely they could change that? Actually, no. Here's the most horrific element of all- in Bosnia, the whole reason child prostitution sprang up in the first place, was to serve troops from the U.N. and foreign aid workers, hungry to fuck, away from home. 14 year old girls, kidnapped or bought from orphanages, are being made to have sex with soldiers and 60 year old United Nations officials, and it is the United Nations decision makers that have constiently blocked any moves to shut the industry down. They aren't even being paid off to do this, money is unnecessary. They just want to keep the cheap sex pipeline open, because they are men with base desires, and they know they are on to a good thing.

UN Peacekeepers.

In 2004 The New York Post reported that the UN was trying to block the publication of a book by three United Nations field workers that detailed sex, drugs and corruption inside multiple U.N. missions. "Emergency Sex and Other Desperate Measures: A True Story from Hell on Earth" chronicles the experiences of a doctor, a human-rights official and a secretary in U.N. operations in Cambodia, Somalia, Haiti, Rwanda, Liberia and Bosnia.

But it doesn't stop there. The U.N. doesn't merely utilise the services of child prostitution rings, in many cases, they actually set them up themselves.

Victim.

In 2003, U.N. officials were caught smuggling child prostitutes from Thailand to East Timor, in a ship chartered for 'peacekeepers', as well as setting up 'sex for food' schemes in Haiti, Liberia, Kosovo, and Sudan. This organisation is known to hire freed criminals as peacekeepers, yet the western perception seems to be the guys in the blue helmets are the good guys...even while they make video movies of themselves gang raping little girls in Africa.

"Freedom isn't free".

Decisions made from behind the glass of 760 United Nations Plaza, New York city, by rich, supposedly respectable delegates of the world, perpetuate and encourage the continued rape and sexual torture of little girls all over the world. So when you cruise under the conference centre next time you're driving down the FDR, you now have an idea of just what important international decision making is going on. Iraq is next, just you watch.

If only.

Dyncorp are the contractors of the international police force, and along with Halliburton subsidiary KBR lobbyists, are working in tandem with the Pentagon to stall legislation that would specifically ban trafficking in humans for forced labor and prostitution by U.S. contractors. You know Halliburton already from Fahrenheit 911...all part of the Bush family's quest for global domination, and their scheme to make you so scared of attacks from fundamentalists from the Middle East, you neglect to notice your freedom is being stripped from you in the name of 'National Security'. Oops, there goes another CIA red flag. Your file just got fatter.

Dyncorp employee, Kathryn Bolkovac, was sacked for detailing UN workers’ involvement in the sex trade in Bosnia. Bolkovac was sacked after disclosing that UN peacekeepers went to nightclubs where girls as young as 15 were forced to dance naked and have sex with customers. I have seen this happen. Dyncorp was ordered to pay Bolkovac £110,000 by an employment tribunal, yet both the British and the US governments as well as the UN continue to contract Dyncorp.

There are 1,730,000 entries for united nations child sex prostitution in Google right now. There shouldn't even be one.

As usual, religion plays its part also. In Israel, up to a million Orthodox jews use the services of Eastern European sex slaves every month. Can you imagine how many girls it would take to service that many men every month? These girls are smuggled into Israel through Egypt, which is controlled by two crime families, neither of which are subject to any kind of law.

Israeli anti-prostitution campaigner Nissan Ben-Ami: "You see a lot of . . . very, very religious men- because these men need sex but the women in their society cannot give it to them when they want it. They also cannot masturbate because they cannot waste their sperm. . . . These men also do not use condoms, therefore they must pay the pimps more." International plans to crack down on trafficking collapsed earlier this year when the United States backed out to avoid imposing economic sanctions on Israel, Russia, South Korea and Greece.

It's not the case that no-one cares, it's just that those who care have something to protect- they care about keeping the trafficking pipelines open. And in the face of public ambivalence, there really is nothing to stop them.

I have a lot more to say about this, guns, drugs, and the private groups you will never read about in the corporate media. I will append this post as soon as I have time. This post is a work in progress.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Avoid this- I actually talk about laundry.

I wonder what kind of person I would be, had I different expectations of life, and of myself, when I was younger?

Forgive me- it's winter, it always gets to me. The way you turn the heater off to try to save money, and the second you feel it's warm enough to do it, you feel the cold flow right back over you. Right through you tonight. Tracing the outlines of bones you never normally pay any heed to. I know exactly what shape they are at this moment.

And I don't want to share my bed right now. I don't want to be responsible for anyone else's thoughts or feelings. I'd love to be able to sleep, but clearly that's not allowed.

I learned I'd rather just stare at the wall than fnish watching the new Pedro Almodovar movie (sorry Bonnie!). I just can't deal with rapid-fire Spanish, or Penelope Cruz, which is so unlike me it's bordering on the insane.

I've realised I really do smell each choc mint biscuit before I eat it, and that the eating is nowhere near as good as the smelling. That's a great way to lose weight, right there! Forget bulimia- just smell your food, and that's it.

I think too much as it is, winter just kicks it into overdrive. I'm not good with the cold. Crisp, I can do. Full cold, I'm out. I can sense myself in wireframe, waiting for summer to come render me again. Check me out, I make it sound like I live in Alaska or something.

I've been losing things lately, my camera, letraset, my ability to care about things. The usual. The frustrating thing about living in the digital age is you get so used to things working one way, you think you can expect the same performance out of everything. When you misplace your phone, you ring it. I reach for my phone when I lose my socks, as if they've got a number, and will start beeping and flashing at me from under the chair. Or when you meet someone in real life, and you're so used to msn or email, that you absent mindedly tap an invisible enter button at the conclusion of every sentence, .

The last person I spoke to on msn was real big on animated emoticons, to the point where:
1. The conversation looked like downtown Tokyo at night, and
2. I had to question whether or not the person at the other end was 6 years old or not.

I'm 100% positive we won't be talking again, and that it's gonna take someone who looks like this:



...to get me back on there. Unfortunately for me, that's actually pretty likely. We're due a decent talk, and I'm not calling Canada. More problems.

The space bar on my keyboard is broken, so it takes me a billion times longer to type things than normal. There's no way I'm shelling out $50 for a new one. It's an Apple. I'm grumpy and frugal right now.

I wonder what it is that I want?

I have no idea. I think I want to be left alone, but I have too many people who want to see me. I don't know why they do that. Especially when I say "I'm in a shit mood, I'll just catch you later", and they say "No, it's fine- you just need a friend right now."

Incorrect.

What I need, is for them to listen to what I just said, and not tell me what I need. People just shit me to death. There, I said it.

I have a new friend, and we had a Sunday stroll together. That was nice. It shouldn't have been- we're so intensely different, she should be the last person I want to share thoughts with. But because we're so different, and because there's less than no likelihood of either of us confusing the issue with sex, it just might be crazy enough to work. I hope so. If I read about her in a magazine, I'd say to myself "She sounds really interesting". I like interesting things, they interest me.

Besides, I can't get enough of the way she says "yes".

I went on an international guitar buying spree today, buying up every sea foam green Fender Stratocaster I could find, as they are no longer made. I bought two from the USA, one from Romania, and one from the motherfucking Maldives. Why I need four of the same guitar, I'll never know, but the mood I'm in lately, even I can't tell me otherwise. I even bought a blackberry, just because it looked cool, and a tangerine iMac laptop for the same reason.

I wonder who reads this shit? And what you think? and how bored must you be to subject yourself to it. Don't get me wrong, I like my blogs normally, I think they're pretty good. But reading this must be like watching someone average doing laundry.

I don't even watch myself do laundry, I outsource it all, and the person who does it isn't even average. She's a knockout actually. and still I don't hang around to watch it happening.

My best intentions really do get waylaid by nothing more than my own mind, and its amazing proclivity toward thinking about too many things at once, and doing none of them.

I need to get my shit together.



THIS, is knifey, from'the internet'.

Let it be known...

I invented a word today.

It is "epologise"- to say "sorry" via email.

WORSHIP ME.




This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Street Justice!

There is this arrogant asshole of a guy who has two little cat sized dogs.

They always shit on my doorstep, and he watches them.

This has happened 5 times including today.

I've had enough, so while he was having a coffee 3 doors down the road, I scooped up the crap, and dumped it in his lap. I also said "The next time your dogs shit on my step, you're eating it".

Am I a bad person?




This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Bloodbath en route to...

Our story starts with a girl, like most good stories do.

She was an Irish girl, with green eyes, and long jet black hair. Let's call her Jess. Jess is a heartbreaker. She was created by the Universe to utterly do in the heads of all the worlds boys.

She wasn't unattainable, by any means. If the boys took their time, and treated her like a princess, she would eventually give up the goods. For a time. Before she changed her mind and walked away, with whatever explanation struck her fancy in the moment. She never meant to hurt anyone, but like all wild forces of nature, given a long enough time line, injury or death were inevitable. Besides, there were always more boys.

Of course, this is the part where the boy enters. Let's call him Horatio. Boys can't be heartbreakers, so let's call him a heartless bastard. He was far from unattaniable, just ask one of the hundreds of women he had wasted his time on, until he too changed his mind and walked away. He never meant to hurt anyone, but, well...you know. Besides, there were always more girls.

So one afternoon, Jess and Horatio meet. They tried to be friends, both knowing the power the other wields over members of their sex. They both hastily construct defenses and walls, to throw the other off the scent, that they both thought the other was the most desirable thing they had ever seen. Jess punched him in the arm several hundred times over the course of the afternoon and evening, and we all know what that means. Horatio, for his part, did his best to not be charming or good at conversation, peppering their time together with long impenetrable silences. But still neither of them would go.

Jess would ask "What are you thinking about?", and Horatio would reply "Some thoughts are best kept to oneself." to which Jess would retort "Well, do them on your own time!", and punch him in the arm.

They were doomed.

Jess would tell Horatio all about her thoughts, the ones she never talked about, and Horatio would say "I need a graph for that." Jess punched him in the arm.

And so, the two most impossible to keep people in the world, fell for each other.

They both knew it was doomed, that one would eventually leave the other, and because of their shared phobia of commitment, they both loved that situation.

And when their bodies came together at last, every other body before felt like it was made of cold wax in comparison, the warmth, and the softness, and the heat, and the strength, and the moisture, perfect. And the fact it wouldn't last, made every breathless moment precious, they celebrated each tick of the clock, each drained bottle, every trip to the laundrette. They rarely used the heater, if you know what I mean.

And instead of fearing the loss of personal space, the alone time, they adored it, knowing one day in the future they would have more alone time than they could work out what to do with. Knowing that one day, their space would be nothing but personal. And Jess clung to Horatio, not wanting to let go. And Horatio adored Jess, hoping he had changed, and that this time, he could keep a girl for himself.

And after a spell, they came to realise. All Horatio needed was the right girl, and Jess needed the right boy. And then, they knew there was no need to go anywhere. Because the reason they had always made their excuses and walked away from every other person, was for one simple fact.

They were made for each other.

Round two- 'ding ding!'

I don't like the word "random". I just decided this this morning. I don't really think there are many random things left in the world, it's just a word kids use to describe something that doesn't fit into their limited worldview. Everything is inspired by something, so when a person says "That's pretty random", what they're really saying is that they just don't see the connection like you do. There's a word for this, and it's "Duh".

I'm not being very generous, I know. That's not good of me. If there's one thing I have learned this year, human people just don't see particular things until..well, until they can see them. Like a girl who keeps going back to the guy who beats her, because once in a while he actually acts tender with her, while every friend she has is pulling their hair out in frustration, wishing they could make her see she's worth more than that, and that what she has isn't love at all. It's sickness. She can't see that, and she won't see it, until she sees it. I don't know what it is that regulates the 'seeing', or the time when it occurs. I'd guess that being ready for the consequences of seeing have something to do with it, like maybe we DO see everything, but the part of us that decides what we can handle or not filters out most of it until we're ready to deal. That would make sense. I know on some level, when I have finally seen things, a part of me has gone "Yeah, that makes sense, I was kinda thinking the same thing for a while actually".

I've had the biggest epiphany of my life in the last week, and because of it, everything has changed. I'm not sure how much of it I want to detail, as for the first time in my life, I'd really like to keep something to myself.

What I will say, is that I realise now how much unwarranted faith I have had for humanity up til this time. That sounds negative, I know. And I guess it is. But I don't mean it that way. I guess what I mean is that for reasons I still don't comprehend (maybe to simply not go crazy?), I have always given people a lot more credit than they actually deserve. As much as I knew people couldn't generally be relied upon to do the right thing (due to the gravity of greed, or fear, etc...), I never allowed myself to fully see how weak we all really are (unless we choose to act otherwise). This isn't an indictment from on high, I'm as bad or worse, I'll say that right now.

People aren't only weak, but narrow-minded.

Melbourne being as multicultural as it is, and with me being the little globe trotter I am, I have been lucky enough to see a lot of differing ways different ethnic/cultural/religious groups of people think and behave, firsthand. And what I will say before I say what i was about to say is- they all have very strong reasons for thinking and behaving the ways they do, and it's obviously right for them. But the sheer diversity of ideas on thought and related behaviour suggests the answer could lie with any one of them. Or none of them. Or a piece here and another piece there.

What I want to say about that, is- when you think along the lines of just 'your group', be it ethnic, religious, or otherwise, you're putting up a wall around yourselves. And when we put up walls, for sure we're safe from the outside, but what do we see? All's we see is a wall, that's what. That's putting a big, fat limit on how much of the world you can appreciate and understand, it's like wearing blinders. Trust me, I know- I just took mine off. And the view is...well, it's pretty shit actually. Because now I'm seeing the full extent of the damage in all this "I'm Greek, from the best nation on earth"/"I'm American, from the greatest nation on earth" thinking really is.

It's cool if you love your country, but why do you have to better, or the best? Because where the arbitrary borders of your particular country end, there is a whole world that continues, full of exotic and wondrous things and people. And if you're better than all that, then you're ignorant, and that sucks for you, because everyone who isn't like you, is going "Wow! Check out how fucking beautiful the bosphorous is!", and "Japan is a fucking trip!" I'm not even going to get into how retarded thinking you're a superior person because you're simply from a country is, or worse still, if your parents or grandparents were, and you've never left this one.

Or even thinking you're a superior person at all.

We're all the same shit in different bags. Some of these bags are aesthetically amazing to look at (refer to my last blog for more on this), some have intense cognitive abilities, some make sounds that can lift up a persons emotions, some can move really fast. All types of us. And none are the best, if anything, it is the diversity of us, that makes humanity so special.

I'm not naiive enough to think anything will change, especially not from this blog. As usual, I'm thinking out loud, and if someone comes along and reads it, and gets it, then we've connected, and I thank you for taking the time out to check me out.

So, the point is, I see all of this for what it is now. I couldn't before. I couldn't see it for what it was, i saw it as my fault somehow (and that somehow I'm keeping to myself). I saw the closed minds of others as something to do with me, when in reality, I'm just not that important! (Sigh of relief!) I have held onto so much insecurity trying to rate and to matter to people who are totally physically incapable of seeing me, unless I squeeze myself into the narrrow framework they have constructed around themselves (or had handed down to them).

I thought for years and years that it was me, and that I wasn't good enough. And now I think "Good enough for what?" Why waste precious moments of my one life on this earth, pursuing a blind ideal? An ideal that can't see me unless I am in a magazine or on the television? And when I am in a magazine or on television, why am I suddenly and only then worth knowing? and why would I want to know someone like that at all? Seeing as I'm the one in the spotlight at that time, by their way of thinking, shouldn't I not talk to them, because they aren't?

What a waste of time. So, the upshot is, with lower expectations (or none), so too will my level of disappointment be lowered. And without wasting my life on worthless pursuits, I can now focus like a laser beam, and realise all of the half finished projects i have lying around.

I'm really looking forward to the second half of this year.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Spread Legs, Conceit, and the Power of Aesthetic Form in Space.

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