Rape your idols.

I just saw Australia's video submission for the FIFA World Cup, designed to influence them into giving us the pleasure of hosting the World Cup (Read: Pay them millions in bribes, so whichever city that hosts it can become congested with sports fans from overseas to the extent that the people who actually live in the city no longer get to use it/get to work on time (See: Olympics/G20 Summits, etc...))

Did I mention our (failed) bid to host the Cup in 2020 cost us 45 million dollars?

Clearly, I'm not a fan...45 million dollars to prop up a tourism industry and a bunch of vendors who sell shit merchandise and public transport/taxi operators. Why not just hand them the 45 million directly?

But this isn't about that.

In the video, it shows an animated Kangaroo being chased all over Australia by a motorcyclist in black, who ends up being Paul Hogan (Who the A.T.O. recently gave up trying to prosecute because in Court you can bet his lawyers would have demanded A.T.O. show where in the constitution of Australia it is shown to be anything other than criminal to demand income tax from citizens, for use by the Central Bank that is privately owned, and exists to make a profit from the people, not for it). Paul Hogan (one of the faces of Australia) was threatened with imprisonment by this Government, but here he is appearing in a video with The Prime Minister! The same Prime Minister who's Government publicly tried to rape Hogan (responsible for more tourism than any sporting fixture in this country) for something like 95 million dollars? What gives?

But here I am sounding like a conspiracy theorist...

In one section of the video, there is a clearing near Uluru (or Ayers Rock if you hate black people), a clear space of red dirt, in which children from many ethnic backgrounds are playing soccer (there is even a Muslim girl- how excellently topical!)

And it reminded me of the "I call Australia home" commercials by Qantas, who would have you believe we're all one big happy family, and that they care about us, until you need a seat on an aeroplane with room to accomodate your feet or legs, or an airline that doesn't hate people with musical instruments.

Basically, it is the notion of Australia that they drag out for special occasions- for opening ceremonies, and video submissions to the IOC, or cheesy commercials that lie to you.

I have looked all over the real Australia for that fairytale Australia, and guess what? I have never found it.

Sure, when you're swimming in the Mossman Gorge in North Queensland, and little crabs are nibbling at your toes, you could swear you catch a flash of it. Until a family of Ed Hardy shirt wearing bogans roll up and destroy it in a heartbeat.

You see it on posters at airports and in Hotels, but it's 2D, you can't go stand in it.

Melbourne is multicultural and (apart from drunken white people), pretty safe. But it doesn't look like that fantasy of Australia that Ansett tried to sell you before they crashed and Air New Zealand/Virgin Blue cannibalised the remains.

Yes we have the reef (overdeveloped) and the beaches (increasingly polluted). Yes we have sports teams (big fucking woop), and even the occasional rock band here and there (Wolfmother...um...well, they're shit. Sorry).

But this notion of Australia that never was is just a pastiche of Jungian archetypes for people with money...a flashy way to kid you into thinking you're getting swindled for something.

It's like a rapist putting on some nice cologne first.

It's their way of saying "Hey stupid- look at the pretty pictures!" "Here's why you got a Southern Cross tattoo!" "Look, we're all one big happy community...except we own you, and you're our slaves!"

Great stuff.

Isn't that just propaganda?

Isn't that what we all feared about the Communist Bloc when we were in High School?

Are you sick of being lied to yet?

Or are you saying "Jeez, relax! It's just a video mate!"

I'm sure if you drink enough VB, and listen to enough John Butler Experience at a music festival, and your mates are all laughing, and the ute is full of slabs, and there's some slutty little minx from the Western Suburbs giving you the eye; then it all must feel pretty close.

But it's not.

Underneath the 55" colour High Def (possibly 3D) colours and shapes of your life, people are making sure that they end up with this country and everything in it. While you're distracted by the Top 40, they're writing laws that mean music is being crimininalised in the cities in favour of high rise apartments.
While you're reading the newspapers, the real stories that matter are being rushed by you as fast as possible, so that you don't get a chance to actually have a say in them.

While you're watching that video, and digging the colours and the personalities, and subconsciously believing everything is going to be good and right, and the sun is shining...bad people are taking any hope of that Australia ever coming in to being from you. We could have it, but we won't.

Because all the money that is put into flashy propaganda is put into it to make more money, and to give you something fun to watch while that money leaves your sphere of influence for ever.

And that's ok in a way, because money and the economy as it is don't matter and don't work for us. The real problem is, once the economy falls over, and the Government bails out all the banks, and everybody runs back to their own country, we won't have a country.

All our land will be owned by other people, often from other countries, to feed their own people, or simply "just for shits and giggles".

We won't be able to produce our own food any more.

We'll have lost our houses, because the voracious economy swallows everything. We've seen this.

Our police and even our armed forces will be tasked with keeping the peace, which means keeping all of us poor/hungry people away from the rich people. We'll be unwelcome in our own places of birth.

But hey, enjoy the video (I linked it in the first paragraph), ride the dream for a little while.

And when you're finished tripping out over how crazy I sound, look at some other countries right now, and how they're doing, and who's bailing them out, and who in turn owns those countries for all intents and purposes.

Follow the money, kids...



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Falling on your own sword.

Video here.

There is a lot of international debate lately about banning burqas/hijabs, mainly for the reason that those who wear them are essentially disguised, in a society that doesn't really go for people walking around in disguises (for security reasons).

Of course, some Muslims see this as discrimination (although you're not allowed to claim discrimination when banned from holding hands with your wife in public in Dubai), because it is convenient to shift the blame to the country you're in, as opposed to your own personal conduct within the culture of that country.

The funny thing is, in the news at the moment, there exists the story of a 46 year old Muslim woman from Sydney (Carnita Matthews), who has been jailed for making a false complaint.

"The mother of seven was stopped in June by a police officer at Woodbine for a random breath test. She later filed a police complaint alleging the officer who pulled her over had tried to pull off her hijab, which concealed her entire face except for her eyes.

The court was told that after being issued an infringement notice for not properly displaying her P-plates, the 46-year-old branded the officer "a racist" and claimed he only booked her because of what she was wearing.

"You look at me and see me wearing this and you couldn't handle it. All cops are racist.""

OK, great. After this, she went to a police station and made a (false) complaint. "However, the court was told that an officer who three days later accepted a statutory declaration from a burqa-clad woman he assumed to be Ms Matthews failed to check her identification.

Ms Matthews' lawyer, Stephen Hopper, said there was no way for police to prove that his client was the one who signed the statutory declaration at Campbelltown police station on June 10. Mr Hopper said that meant Ms Matthews should not have been charged with the offence of making a false complaint to police."

Do you know what else that means? It means one idiotic woman, has made a big news story about what a liar she is, and at the same time JUSTIFIED WHY BURQAS/HIJABS SHOULD BE BANNED IN WESTERN COUNTRIES!!!

If her own defence is going to turn around and claim it could have been anyone in a hijab that gave the statutory declaration that day, then it goes to reason that because of that fact, no-one should be allowed to wear one, or at the least, remove it for identification purposes.

And if that is such a massive problem for you, then move to a Muslim country, it's that simple.

Of course this will provoke the usual calls of racism. But there are things I can't do in Muslim countries. If I want to do those things, I have to move here. So why different rules for Islam?

Stephen Hopper, in the pursuit of an excuse for one Muslim client (and who failed, because she's in jail), has pulled the rug out from under the cause of all Muslims in the West, who wish to observe their religious style of dress. Carnita Matthews, has sold out the cause for all of her brothers and sisters in Islam, to get out of a ticket.

Just wow.

Addendum 21/06/2011:

Remember when I said "Carnita Matthews, has sold out the cause for all of her brothers and sisters in Islam, to get out of a ticket"?

The Police Minister has in the press today made clear he intends to tighten up identification procedures for those who wish to hide their faces for religious purposes- Carnita has sold out her brothers and sisters in Islam.

When I think of Islam, I think of people drawing from a rich and extensive history of the written word, of intellectual thought, of science.

Increasingly however, we are confronted by images like the ones above, of aggressive Muslims shouting and acting violently in public, instead of engaging in reasoned argument, whenever things don't go their way (interestingly enough, things did go their way in the above picture, but it turned violent anyway).

(Edit: A lot of the faces in those pictures are now dead because they left Australia to join ISIS, which at the time of this post didn't yet exist).

I hate to sound like a radio talkback DJ after ratings, but I'm sick of it. I'm sick of scenes like this one in Australia. I'm sick of shouting and threats, hiding behind religion. Don't get me wrong, I'm sick of white Australians acting badly too.

I don't care whether jails work or not. I don't care if they're just breeding grounds for future criminals. If someone acts violently, they should be removed from society, and thrown in a dark hole. And if they don't learn the first time, don't ever let them out the second time. I'm sick of civil libertarians holding society to ransom over the 'rights' of criminals.

I'm sick of all of it, because law, and particularly order have become a joke.

I would much rather a society where people are raised right, with a sense of family, community, balance. But we don't have that society, and we're never going to have it.

Lock them up, and let them rot. If they're not from here, send them back. And fuck their 'rights'. Because the people who were born here, and would like to grow old here, are under attack from violent offenders, and it has to stop.

In Muslim countries we have no rights, but of course we're not allowed to use their laws on them here.

Ms. Matthews is a joke- a stupid woman who makes Muslims look like unintelligent criminals, hiding behind the symbol of her own oppression for personal gain. She broke the law, but escaped jail, and the absolute idiots in the photographs who support her celebrate that fact today.

When all they have done, is brought increased police scrutiny and security measures against their religion, over what? A minor driving infringement.

Where is their leadership? Why have they allowed this to happen? Why didn't she just pay the fine instead of turning this into a three-ring media circus?

Because she is stupid. Her supporters are stupid. And now everyone who covers their head will have to remove their burqa/hijab when dealing with police- exactly the thing Carnita Matthews had a problem with in the first place.

"WOMEN wearing the burqa or other head covering may be ordered to remove it to identify themselves in the wake of the Carnita Matthews case.

Police Minister Mike Gallacher has revealed that police do not currently have the legal power to require women to show their face if the women refuse on religious or cultural grounds.

He said he wanted the law tightened up.

"Police powers in relation to face coverings are not clear," Mr Gallacher said.

"It’s time to address that."

He said he had spoken to rank and file police who wanted the situation clarified.

Any decision on whether to appeal the controversial judgment by Judge Clive Jeffreys would not be made until after the judge hands down the reason for his decision which is expected tomorrow.

The government is also considering passing new laws requiring people who make complaints against police, or in the case of witnesses giving evidence, to have to provide at least one fingerprint and their signature.

This follows the finding by the judge that he could not be certain that it was Ms Matthews who made the statutory declaration complaining about the officer who stopped her car because the person who handed the document in to the police station wore a burqa.

Mr Gallacher said he was waiting until Police Commissioner Andrew Scipione returned next week to discuss exactly what needed to be done.

He said he did not expect this to inflame community anger about women wearing full face coverings.

He said he had been told that there was nothing in Muslim culture or religion that stopped women from identifiying themselves in certain circumstances.

Yesterday, Ms Matthews avoided jail because her identity could not be proven.

Ms Matthews, 47, from Woodbine, in Sydney's southwest, had been sentenced to six months in jail for making a deliberately false statement that a policeman tried to forcibly remove her burqa because he was a racist.

But judge Clive Jeffreys said yesterday he was not satisfied beyond reasonable doubt that it was Mrs Matthews who made the racism accusation because the person who complained to police was wearing a burqa at the time.

The absurdity of the law is that, to reach the level of proof of identity to make the case, Mrs Matthews would have been required to identify herself by lifting her burqa at the police station - what started the uproar in the first place.

More than a dozen Muslim supporters linked arms and began chanting "Allah Akbar" as they stormed out of Downing Centre Court with Mrs Matthews concealed behind them.

Tempers rose and they began jostling with police after several members of the group attacked cameramen.

It marked a stark difference from their behaviour minutes earlier, when they had quietly assembled outside the lifts for prayer shortly after the judge's decision.

Mrs Matthew's lawyer Stephen Hopper defended their actions saying: "They are obviously happy with the result and are expressing it in a way that is culturally appropriate to them."

Judge Jeffreys said yesterday that even if Mrs Matthews had made the complaint, he could not be sure she knew it was a "false" statement.

"I am not satisfied beyond reasonable doubt that she made the complaint," he said.

"Even if I was satisfied that she made the complaint, I am not satisfied beyond reasonable doubt that it was knowingly false."

Mrs Matthews made the claim in her court appearance last year, saying police could not prove it was her behind the burqa when the complaint was handed in to police. The local magistrate rejected it.

The case had lit up the religious debate when a magistrate found Mrs Matthews had deliberately made false complaints that Sergeant Paul Kearney was racist and had attempted to tear her burqa off her face when she declined to remove it on request.

She was pulled over for a random breath test last June, and accused Sgt Kearney of racism only after he booked her for failing to properly display her P-plates.

The incident was captured on a patrol car video camera and helped clear Sgt Kearney, prompting calls for all police cars to carry in-built cameras to avoid false claims.

"I've got my P-plates on my car ... there was nothing wrong with how they were displayed," Mrs Matthews says on the video.

"You look at me and see me wearing this and you couldn't handle it. All cops are racist."

She then threatens, "100 per cent", that she will take the matter to court and fight the charge.

France was the first country in Europe to implement a full ban on covering up faces in public.

France's burqa ban descended into farce when the first women to be summoned before a European court for illegally wearing the garments were refused entry, because they would not remove their face coverings."

Addendum Two 04/07/2011:

As predicted, Carnita Matthews' false assertion that Police officer had attempted to rip her niqab (face veil) away from her face, and the media circus that followed, has blown up in her (covered) face.

The State Cabinet has given Police new powers to remove face coverings of anyone suspected of committing a crime. "Suspected".

So the thing Carnita said happened but didn't, will now be happening all the time, because of her, and her own selfish, short-sighted motivations.

Story here:

ANYONE with a head covering - including burqas - suspected of committing a crime will be forced to show their face with police given new powers by the State Government.

Premier Barry O’Farrell announced this afternoon his Cabinet has approved the powers which will come into affect in the next few months.

Police will be given new powers to require motorists and others suspected of committing crimes to remove any head coverings so they can be identified.

Mr O’Farrell said there should be no discrimination – in favour or against any race – when it comes to helping police identify people suspected of criminal breaches.

“I don’t care whether a person is wearing a motor cycle helmet, a burqa, niqab, face veil or anything else – the police should be allowed to require those people to make their identification clear,” he said.

“I have every respect for various religions and beliefs but when it comes to enforcing the law the police should be given adequate powers to make a clear identification.”

Meanwhile, Attorney General Greg Smith said the Director of Public Prosecutions had provided advice that an appeal against the decision in the Carnita Matthews case was unlikely to succeed.

The Government will not lodge an appeal.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Poop Machine.

My toilet is quite a joyous place.

The room, not the actual device...although it definitely plays its part.

A lot of men enjoy the solitude of the toilet, and appreciate a place in which to think, and I am no exception. I have become the cliche of the grumpy old man retreating off to the loo for half an hour with a newspaper under my arm. I'm lucky in that my girlfriend leaves an ever increasing stack of magazines in there, within which I can slip the odd motorcycling magazine, for my own pleasure. For some reason, I can't "commence", until I have found an article of interest, and am past at least the first paragraph. That, I believe is the definition of "anal retentive". So if you're a psychologist and you're reading this, please go read something else.

I like to think in there, and it strikes me how so very few people seem to like to think. Look around...there's a toilet roll holder. Which came first? The roll or the holder? And isn't it just crazy how if there is a holder in a toilet room, how most people ABSOLUTELY MUST put the roll on it, no matter how difficult the mechanism may be to navigate, or no matter where the genius who designed the room put the holder. I have mentioned before I once went to an architects house for dinner, and took him to task over the fact he put the roll holder next to the toilet- behind you! So you have to reach behind yourself just to get at the damned paper. That's not fair!

I have a similar setup at my place, so I just put rolls in front of me, and pretend the holder isn't there. Anarchic, I know.

But my housemate ABSOLUTELY MUST load up the roll holder anyway, because, well, she's obviously a contortionist.

I saw a pamphlet for Clinique skincare products on the stack of my girlfriends magazines in there today, and thought "I really should recycle that". So instead of doing that, I tore it in half, and realised I didn't care about recycling it at all. I just hated it. A very Merry Clinique Christmas to you, too.

Sometimes I am forced to look at my girlfriends magazines, and it makes me angry. Do the writers ever read themselves? Not sure they do.

Like the article in 'Madison' about a 14 year-old eccentrically-dressed fashion blogger, who doesn't like to give out interviews, because the kind of people who watch 'Good Morning America' and 'Oprah' are the last people she wants to communicate with. Madison had to quote a New York Times interview, because she wouldn't get back to them, either. So...they just admitted that the probable future editor of Vogue magazine thinks they're so shit, she won't even give them an interview?

Have a think, maybe.

And don't get me started on the picture of Ryan Reynolds in 'Famous' magazine that is actually Ryan Gosling. Even I know that, and I'm a hetero male. Although I have to be truthful and say the real reason I know is because my girlfriend made me watch 'The (stupid) Notebook'. And also the lyrics from the (awesome) 'Lonely Island' track "Lazy Sunday": "No doubt the bakery's got all the bomb frostings- I love those cupcakes like MacAdams loves Gosling!"

Maybe I should have just quoted that...

Some of my greatest ideas and inventions have occurred on the toilet, and you'd be well familiar with them, and maybe even have them in your own home, if it weren't for the fact you can't write on toilet paper. I'm thinking of buying an iPad just to record such outhouse inspirations. Also, because the toilet is the only room in the house worth installing one into.

I've kinda run out of things to say today, probably because I'm not on the toilet. I have a killer virus (it's an expression, not a fact), and I'm counting the minutes 'til I have to go do security for a big TV show, or do security for a big music venue, depending on which end of the building my boss sends me to.

Wish me luck.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Who Will Stand Up To The Superrich?

I've never done this before.

This has always been MY blog.

But I read this today, and as much as Lefsetz and I have gone to war with one another every now and then, when he's not drowning in arrogance, he nails it.

This post, he does just that, and if you enjoy music, you owe it to yourself to expose yourself to these words.

Lefsetz riffs on this original post...his reply is below. You can read more here and here.

We had an election in the music industry, the incumbents lost. The public gave the thumbs-down to the major labels, Live Nation and a ton of the acts. But just like in the real world, the only ones hurt were the little people, the acts themselves. Who got famous, but in most cases didn't get rich. Watch Kid Rock's testimony on this. Talking about the "American Idol" stars. The executives got rich off "American Idol", the producers. Even if you won, you gave up the lion's share of your income to the label. That's the way it's always been. But now that the label can't make as much money, you've got to give up revenue on your other, more profitable streams... Why, because the fat cats deserve it!

There's a fascinating column in today's "New York Times" about the superrich. Turns out they're not the people you know, not the celebrities or the singers, but those who work for the corporation and the bankers.

Do you see Jimmy Iovine going on record?

No, that's the job of the RIAA. The RIAA takes the heat for the labels just like Ticketmaster takes the heat for the acts. And if the public is too stupid to realize that the Ticketmaster fees are a result of exorbitant act prices/demands, do you really expect people to know that the real winners in the post-MTV music era were the executives? Mariah made much less than Mottola. And Mo Ostin made more than all of them. You just don't know this.

But you do know music is overpriced and shitty.

But as soon as you say this, there's someone in the industry decrying the inaccuracy and injustice. Music is just as good as ever, and what a value, you can listen to it forever! And you should pay MORE so the music can be of an even higher quality! So they can be richer and have more time to make it. Huh?

This is the same kind of double-speak we get in D.C. That we just don't understand. But we understand that the bank is taking our home and you can't get a good job. We understand we paid fifteen dollars to hear one track. You don't forget that. After all, the public doesn't get its music for free.

Until now.

Never underestimate the hatred of the public towards the music industry. Sure, free is nice, but most people believe they're entitled, after being ripped off for eons. And if there were no copyright, we'd have a whole different bunch of people running the music ship. You see the rights holders, the labels and the publishing companies, use their catalogs to continue to wreak havoc, to make war on their customers, to resist change, not in an effort to save music, but to get richer.

Tell me. Who is the young new record label star?

There isn't one. The rich fat cats don't want to let anybody in. Just like the Forbes 400. Only 16 of the latest list was newcomers. That's down from 40 or 50 in recent years.

And the funny thing is how wannabes are lining up to sign away their rights to participate for poor pay in this old edifice. Wanting their face in lights, thinking that fame is everything, they become tools of the corporation, chewed up and spit out in the process. Today's new major label artists are just like the poor people voting to decrease taxes on the rich, thinking they may be rich one day. But the statistics tell a different story, the odds of getting rich in America, working for the man, are ever lower. Because the man controls the game. And the man wants to keep all the money.

So what is the way out?

It's the acts. It's all new players. The old guard has proven that change is anathema to them, and rich interlopers just want this same power, like Meg Whitman running for governor with her eBay money. She didn't want change, she just wanted to buy her way in. The public didn't buy it.

The public doesn't believe the present music regime is on its side. And the reality is, it isn't.

The present regime says recorded music and concert tickets must be expensive. That you've got to tie in with corporations. Let me get this straight, these same Fortune 500 corporations that are ruining American are going to somehow save music? Music only triumphs when it's distanced from the game, when it personifies truth, when you can believe in it.

And when it's really good. Made by people who've been honing their craft for eons. Not the ten year olds who can't write, sing or play the industry is always trumpeting.

P2P trading and the Internet are the best things to ever happen to music. Because it brings it all to the people. It may not be good financially for the old, very rich guard, or even some old rich acts, but it's fantastic for the public. Isn't it funny that those who can afford to hear everything don't acknowledge this. When I was a kid you had to sit by the radio to hear a track. Now you just fire up your browser and it's right there on YouTube. You can download an entire album for free and find out it sucks, so you don't have to buy it.

But if you like an act, you can still give it all your money. Hell, there are more ways to support your favorite acts than ever. There are those studies saying the music industry in toto is on the way up.

I'm not saying music should be free. I'm just saying we now live in a better world for the consumer than ever.

In the future, how can we get everybody to pay a little for a lot. That's the way out of this mess. The cell phone industry figured this out. Handsets used to be a grand and calls were a buck a minute. Now kids have cell phones and parents like this, because they can be in touch with their progeny 24/7. Technology is not the enemy, it's the solution.

But this isn't about the Napster question. People are trying to solve that problem. With Spotify and other services. This is about the people holding the future back, those presently in power controlling the rights. They are the enemy. And if you don't think this is true, you're one of them or have been brainwashed. Or let me put it this way, if you believe cutting taxes for the rich is going to benefit the poor, how come there's been no trickle down effect in the music business? How come when the hidden fat cats got richer, music didn't get better and concert tickets didn't get cheaper?

The public has very little control over the Fortune 500. Sure, they can stop buying their products, but oftentimes they don't even know what those products are.

But they know what the music industry's products are. And they're not going to overpay for crappy music on the antiquated technology known as the CD and they see no reason to see that hair band at the amphitheatre one more time, paying to park if they didn't even drive and consuming ten dollar beers.

The music industry has been running a disinformation campaign worthy of the CIA. And just like the CIA, most people have no idea who's in the organization. And if you question the CIA's behavior, the blowback is YOU WANT TO BE SAFE!

But music is not your life, hasn't been for eons, even though that's the case when the industry is most healthy. People are not afraid of the rights holders. They've rejected them. And the rights holders have been crying about it for a decade now, to no avail.

Because the public threw the bums out. It's just that the bums don't know it yet.

"Who Will Stand Up to the Superrich?": http://nyti.ms/9GJBa5

Kid Rock video (use Firefox for best results): http://bit.ly/bC5C4X

Rock Star Status.

Those that know me, know that I have spent the majority of my adult life on the road with bands, touring, hanging out behind the velvet rope, and all of the excess and crazy bad behaviour that comes with it.

I've met a huge selection of the A-list, seen them at their worst, and in some cases, put foreign objects in their assholes. " It's boring, but it's a part of my life"- Ron Burgundy.

So when I meet someone new, and they have heard about me from a friend, the inevitable question is "Tell me a story from the road?"

They stand with baited breath, wanting to hear about the time after the awards show, when I walked a celebrity actress, a blonde perfect 10, known more for her epic chest than her acting ability, back to her Hotel, and what happened next.

Or the time on tour with the band *** *******, when we wrecked 6 rental cars in an hour.

Or the time I bent the newsreader over her desk and....

But you know what? I like this one-

One day in summer, we were in the tour vehicle, rolling along a coastline with the ocean on our right, and hills full of sheep on our left. It was one of those moments where everyone was getting along, good music on the stereo, full bellies, summer smells. Perfect.

But out in the water, I saw a white shape, and I realised it was a sheep. It was caught in a current, and was well on its way to being swept out to sea. It was kicking and trying to swim, but it kept going under, out past the breakers.

One of the guys in the band saw it too, and instructed the driver to pull over.

We all jumped out and ran to the waterline, and me being the least important, jumped right in and swam out to the sheep.

He wasn't a friendly sheep, and he wasn't small. He had horns (which makes him a ram), and he had way too much wool on him for that time of year. So when I grabbed him, he fought me out there in the water, neither of us having the luxury of being able to reach the bottom.

He weighed at least 100 kg's wet, and was almost as big as I am in the body. I kept going under, and caught a horn a few times in some excrutiating places. It took 15 minutes to get him to the shore, I was beyond exhausted.

But I wrestled that bastard back to the beach, and picked him up like a wrestler, dragging him bucking and bleating across the road to the fenceline. The band pulled down the top wire, and I dumped him safe and sound on the grass. Back in his world.

He glared at me, ran along the fenceline to the break we all just noticed at that moment, and ran straight across the road again and back into the water.

I was fucked if I was going to go get him again, so we all just sat on the beach and watched this crazy old ram headbutt his way through the waves and for all we know, swim to Indonesia.

Whenever I meet someone who works the land, I ask them "Do sheep like water?", and they always say "No". So whatever his motivation was, I'm sure it would have made an epic tale if he survived (which there is no way he did).

In comparison to moments like that, all the parties and celebrity wank, and 'here today gone tomorrow' personalities and endless stress and technical difficulties of life on the road just fail to compare, which is why I'm pretty happy being separated from it all nowadays.

The best thing about life is the living of it, not all the decorations and acoutrements we dangle off it.

Write that down.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

I remember...Part One in a series.

I remember :

When my last record came out, and a bunch of my readers bought a copy and played it in a bar somewhere in the USA, and posted pics of them and random bar patrons holding up encouraging home made signs, on their blog of the night. I loved every one of them.

I remember:

Walking into a random bar in Warsaw, Poland, in the middle of the night, and hearing myself on the sound system. I don't remember all the free drinks that followed, but started remembering again around the time I ate a zapiekanka.

Just 2 memories of a past life, and a massive-ass picture of an Eastern European sandwich.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Slow Erosion.

It's crazy how, when you have nothing, you dream about getting to a stage where you're just safe.

Safe.

Nothing's happening, you've worked your ass off for months to have a place to sleep at night, electricity, water. A job. But that's it.

There are super-positive people who will say "It's all up to you! the future is bursting with possibilities! You're only bored if you're boring!"

Fuck off. I'm tired.

Tired when I get up, tired when I go to sleep. Tired in between. It's like the older I get, my body changes, and its receptors for excitement get burned out. I'm bored by everything. I thought it would be a phase, that it would pass.

Not so lucky.

I'm sick of other people. The smell of other people. The noise of other people. It's not that I think I'm better, but I know how to smell good and be quiet. I identify with all the grumpy old characters. Or the widowers in British dramas that die alone. But I'm not that old. Some people struggle to believe I'm over 30. Is this what they mean by burning out too soon?

I took a lot of risks in my life, not because I demanded a lot from existence, but because I didn't think things through and threw myself into bad situations a lot, just to pass the time. I passed it a bit too well.

Everything is finite in my experience. It might be in a really big container, but everything runs out eventually. Or at least ceases to be available in your location. There might be diamond planets out there, but that doesn't help poor people here, does it?

You do run out of time. Out of passion. Out of working body parts. Hope. Health. All of it.

Use it up quick and it's gone.

So what do you do then?

Go to the park and feed the ducks?

Please.

I just do what dogs do when they run out of ideas- lie down.

My lack of motivation is at an all-time high.

I got nuthin'.

Bang bang.

No memories today, I need to talk about something dangerous...

Having a heart is a wonderful thing. Sympathy, empathy, generosity, compassion, these are all beautiful aspects of the human experience. And it is amazing when animals display any of these qualities also.

Put simply, they make life better!

And so I would never look at qualities such as these as ever being problematic.

However.

We all know people with big hearts, who care a great deal, who only have the best of intentions. Good people, but nonetheless misinformed. "Bleeding heart liberals".

I want to talk to/about them now.

It is my opinion, that the truth lies within facts. And facts are hard to discover, when you come from an immovable moral position. Morals are a framework which help us to maintain orderly societies, and relationships within those societies. But they don't exist naturally. Morals aren't like the need for food, the strongest of us can get by without them, depending on how many other people we need to interact with in order to survive.

Morals are helpful, but should never interfere with fact.

Example: Say for instance you are opposed to the death penalty. You believe all people have a right to life, that no other human person can take away.

This is a very positive sentiment, and I can see why many people believe this.

Now let's say someone has you and three friends locked in a room. And he says that he will kill all of you unless Jesus himself walks through the wall and commands him to release you. You have 10 minutes to live, and you can see a knife that your captor didn't.

So you have 2 choices:

1. Let yourself be killed. Or,
2. Kill your captor.

There does exist a natural instinct in people, to fight to survive...to resist death at all costs. And it is stronger than any moral framework (unless you have been brainwashed).

So...who in the world would blame you for killing your captor? No-one. Even bleeding heart liberals, when put in this position, would instinctively fight to live. It is legal- It is self defence.

It is this that I want to address today.

In Australia (where I live), there is a fair amount of violent street crime. There is a mentality here that in order to fit in, young men must drink as much as they can, in a very short amount of time. It is testosterone fuelled, and often results in glassings, brawls, stabbings, rapes, and sometimes shootings also. Add to this the drug problem in this country, and you have home invasions, burglaries, robberies, armed robbery, etc...

There are a lot of people who are typically idealistic young people, or middle to upper class residents of low crime areas, who criticise police and security officers in situations relating to their self defence in the face of these crimes.

I know why they do it. They feel they are correct in making judgements on these people, who are trying to protect public safety, if say, they shoot a man to death when he is armed with a knife.

From the comfort of their armchair, they do the math:

Gun is greater than knife, therefore, knife is less than gun.

So if a knife is less than a gun, there is no excuse to shoot a man, armed with a knife.

And that sounds perfectly reasonable. As we all know, guns shoot accurately from distances outside a knifes thrusting range. And most people don't throw knives, because unless they are specifically designed for that purpose, they don't work that way.

That's the danger of judgement from an armchair.

I have met a lot of arrogant, violent, unintelligent police, who simply should not have been in that line of work. But I'm not here to address that right now. I want to speak in their defence, and leave the emotion out of it. Because the facts aren't being represented.

I have already illustrated the sliding scale of moral judgment.

Sometimes, the rules we make for ourselves have to move aside, because reality just walked in.

I carry guns, extendable batons, fixed batons, ballistic vests, and all manner of tactical gear on my work assignments. I'd love to not, but for my safety, and the safety of the public, I need to.

And while a lot of people (young guys mainly), think that must be awesome, it is actually the opposite. For every weapon I carry, the amount of freedom I have goes down, proportional to the amount of responsibility I have taken on.

It is the same for police (although they get a lot more room to move than I do).

I train every day of the week, doing tactical drills, in order to keep my mind sharp and my reaction times fast. Also because there are thousands of ways any given situation can play out. And so I need to know which way will be most effective to my objective, but also taking into account what is legal according to the authority given to me by the law.

This is hard work.

And the amazing thing about tactical training with excellent instructors, is that it shows you how incredibly quickly a situation can change from all clear, to 'you're dead on the floor', in literally one second. Officers don't go to work in their armchairs! They go to work in a world where they could (and do) die in a heartbeat. They know this, they have seen this, and so when they are confronted with a situation (which can go a thousand different ways), they do their best to survive, and arrest the perpetrator for your safety (not run away and fight another day). They put their lives on the line for you every time they badge up. Try to see it from their point of view a little more.

Armchair critics don't have any idea how guns work. They see movies, and believe what they see. The reality is that Hollywood (even when they hire weapons experts to come in and consult for them) does not realistically portray the unglamorous world of gun safety/responsibilty. And definitely does not represent how hard it is to shoot a person with a 9mm when you're both running, even from 7 metres away. We are trained to believe you just point and shoot, and it works!

It doesn't.

Guns (semi automatics especially) are tricky things to operate, and require endless repetitive drills to become comfortable with operating them safely and efficiently. Accuracy is far from guaranteed, and an immense amount of time and energy has to be put in to shoot well, even at a basic level.

Add to this the stress of being in contact with a person who is attacking you, or convincingly threatening to attack you, and many more variables come into play.

This is how a knifeman is killed by a gunman.

Because an officer isn't going to put away his gun and fumble for a baton or capsicum spray, just to try and play fair with a knifeman. And neither should he.

ANY PERSON WHO POINTS A WEAPON OF ANY DESCRIPTION AT AN OFFICER OF THE LAW, SHOULD EXPECT TO BE SHOT DEAD AS A RESULT.

Oh, but why not wound him? Because officers are trained to aim for the centre of visible mass, which is where all the major organs are. They are trained to shoot here because in a stressful situation, there is a smaller margin for error, and so they are less likely to miss the target and shoot an innocent person, or to over-penetrate a limb, and shoot an innocent person.

Most people have no idea officers aim for the centre of the body for public safety.

What if the knifeman is mentally ill? So what? That's not the officers problem! Where is his carer? Who is responsible for looking after them? It is definitely a sad state of affairs, but in that moment, the person who is holding the weapon had better drop it, or all bets are off.

There is talk of taking tasers from the police, as a couple of people have died lately, after being tased. If they were co-operative and didn't fight the officers, they wouldn't have had to be tased. So it is their own fault. Would it be better if it was avoided? Of course. But spare a thought for how frightening it is to be attacked, your bodies natural release of adrenaline, the stress, and the incredible speed at which people can attack. The fact officers used tasers at all is testament to their training, and their desire to use a non lethal alternative to their sidearms.

If you think it's ok to get drunk and attack police, think again. If you think it's ok to try and fight security, think again. These people are all in place to protect human life and property, in short, to help you. And if you get badly injured, saying you were drunk is not an excuse.

I have to say though, if you're a bad cop- fuck you. Get out of the way and leave the work to people who are genuinely trying to make things better.

As an armed bodyguard, it is my responsibility to protect people who are under threat. If they weren't, I wouldn't be hired in the first place. I make an exceedingly expensive room decoration! The Greens in Australia want to take away the right of security officers to carry weapons at all. How are we meant to do our jobs, against organised, motivated, and armed criminals, without weapons?

Are we meant to simply ask them to leave us alone? Where is the logic? There is no logic.

Gun crime is very low in Australia, and none of it is perpetrated by security officers who have been checked and investigated by the police at every new level of certification, just to be security officers. Taking tasers from police limits their non lethal options.

Armchair critics (and politicians) will kill us with their well-meant but badly thought out opinions, and this has to change.

Talk about this matter with your friends. Or around the water cooler. Think about what you would do if someone burst in wherever you are right now and pointed a gun at you, or threatened you with a knife. Remember a time in your own life when you felt scared and helpless, and imagine you had an armed officer there at that moment to help you, and how you would then feel?

Good intentions are wonderful things, but they must be balanced by facts. Taking guns off the good guys isn't going to stop criminals, it will help them. Taking tasers from police won't stop deaths, they will increase them. By all means, introduce mandatory new training requirements, make available better courses and contact with training professionals, heighten the standard of training, only let the best through.

But if you take our tools, we can't work.

Who will protect you then?


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

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). 

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 (picked up her legs, causing the blood to rush to her head), 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.

See what I mean? -Drama!


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

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'.

We can breathe underwater.

I woke up in hospital, and I wish I had a glamorous story to tell you, but I just don't.

It was an everyday hospital, although I did have an amazing view from up there on the tenth floor. I had a room all to myself, or I would have, if Mum wasn't there.

She was seated on a chair by the window, and she had that 'Mum glow', you know, where it seems like they are powered by nothing more than love for you.

She didn't make a fuss- not her style, even though this was a suicide.

Her view? "If you really want to go, well, I'll miss you, and of course I'd rather you didn't. But some people just aren't for this life." I never could work out if that was supportive and pragmatic, or bleak and hopeless. I still can't.

You're probably wondering what embarrassing set of circumstances brought us all here, I'll relent.

I was being hounded by debt collectors, I'd made some bad decisions. Impulsive, expensive ones. Now, that just seems like life, but back then...I had a lower tolerance for the everyday. And I was heartbroken of course, or I thought I was. The advantage to living longer is the overview. You see what love really is if you're lucky. You definitely realise what love wasn't.

Some people really aren't worth opening a vein for. I'd counter no-one is, despite the romantic notions imprinted upon us by Shakespeare, and to a lesser extent, Jeffrey Eugenides.

Anyway, I was labouring under a dose of way too much Nine Inch Nails, teenage heartbreak, and what can only be described as a general lack of interest in "what comes next". I was bored. Every day I was bored. You could have told me that one day we'd have iPods and electric motorcycles, and I'd just meh my way past it. I didn't even have email back then. It sounds like 1958, but it was 1995.

And I guess I was tired too. Get out of bed tired. Go to bed and can't sleep because I'm too tired, tired. The big sleep beckoned.

So, without any fanfare or desperate behaviour, I paid money to everyone I owed it to, who wasn't a corporation. Boxed up my belongings, and wrote the names of my friends on the boxes. Star Wars toys went to Marty, power tools to Brandon, etc...

I slung a steel cable over a solid timber beam a foot thick, rigged it the usual way- noose end down. I put a bar stool underneath it, and put myself between. I was bored while I was doing it, but I was glad to have something to do. I took one final look around the old biscuit factory that was my house, jumped up in the air, and kicked the stool away.

It hit the back wall with a noise that sounded excessively final. If it was a voice, it would have said "There is no way you're going to be able to get out of this now- even if you wanted to". And as the cable bit into my throat I was inclined to agree.

I saw stars, as is normal, and as I waited to pass out, I did a slow circle of the room, spinning slowly. I thought two things:

1. This is the last time I'll see any of this. And,

2. I knew this would hurt, but this is just crazy.

As an aside, the sunbeams coming through the window took on an amazing, other-worldly golden radiance, and I thought for a heartbeat that I would miss that.

So I guess my civic duty is to say, should you be considering the same style of exit, probably try something else, unless you really, really hate yourself. This method is painful beyond words.

And as bored as I was, and definitely looking forward to the next part, where the pain stops, I'd be lying if I said panic didn't grip me then. My legs started to kick, like they had a mind of their own. My hands desperately tried to pull the noose free, and just before the blackness swept over me completely, I made the vainest of attempts to make a loud noise, as if that would set the pain loose.

Scene.

I still don't know who called the ambulance, but I was eventually informed that someone had. That the steel cable had somehow broken, and that I was discovered in a pool of my own excrement, no heartbeat, not breathing, not in any way vivus, alive.

So the medical people did the things medical people do, and I got to ride in an ambulance (although of course I don't remember this), and nurses who I wouldn't meet 'til later took my clothes off and washed my cock for me, which as much as I have done some things in my life, is still a weird thought for some reason.

And after however long, I opened my eyes, and here we are.

Mum eventually left me to my own devices, and I thought of how I felt about this new and unexpected state of affairs. The nurses came and talked to me, both guys and girls. I felt like a newborn to a certain extent, and I quite enjoyed talking with them. I can't explain the novelty, but you know they say "change is as good as a holiday", I guess that was 9/10'ths of this.

It took me a couple of weeks to physically heal, breathing hurt, talking hurt, moving hurt, eating hurt. So basically everything hurt. I didn't expect sympathy, we all knew it was self inflicted. Friends came to visit, Mum again, the occasional awkward phone call, where the caller had no idea what to say, and was scared to freestyle in case they inadvertently set me off on another suicidal downward spiral.

It was odd to see that people cared for me.

I'd have to say that genuinely surprised me.

And at night, I would be alone with my thoughts (apart from the camera wired to the nurses station, ensuring I didn't re-offend), and I'd try to piece together what to do now.

I had this weird feeling of responsibility to the friends I had back then, even though not one of them keeps in touch nowadays. I felt like them caring for me on whatever level meant I owed them my best shot at life.

And of course I felt ashamed, too weak to deal with the same shit everyone else goes through on a daily basis.

I thought about the people I knew, and the effect I'd had. And even though, as I say, they don't check in any more; at the time we were close- I believe that. Back then, I meant something to them... some meaning I've since lost, or time has rusted, or... whatever goes on in other peoples worlds that I don't comprehend.

I had a friend called Benedict, who made everyone laugh. Tears running down your face laughter- the rarest kind. This kind of action was a daily occurrence for him. Despite this his heart was quite remote and hard to reach, he was very serious underneath. While I was in hospital, but before anyone told him what had happened to me, he hung himself too. Difference was, no ambulance turned up for him. I didn't see it coming, although I knew his world was in conflict. And I cried as I thought and felt the emotional and physical anguish he went through, to achieve lasting silence. I felt so hurt to imagine how much he must have hated himself, to go out in that manner. Pills are easier. But he wanted to punish himself for something, what it was will forever remain between him and whoever he did it to.

I was casually seeing a girl called Kristin in the weeks before my... whatever it was. And upon reflection, it was cruel of me, to leave her with no answers, while throwing out a big question like that. Death is a question, for those who are left. She was very relaxed, unlike the hurricane of intensity that was "she who shall not be named". She was relaxed, and very pretty, and I was lucky to have won the attention and affection of such a good person, of such a beautiful heart. She came to see me in hospital, and I was beside myself with guilt, for being so heartless. She walked into my room, and her energy was the same as it ever was (although she looked like an angel to me- I hear this is normal under such circumstances). And she put me at ease without saying a word. All she wanted to do was smile into my eyes, and stroke my hand. I was so drugged up I fell asleep, and when I awoke the next morning, she had come back again, and was waiting next to my bed. I said "I'm sorry for that", and she just blinked her smiling eyes at me, as if ocular morse code was standard in situations such as these. She told me she'd be waiting when I got out, whenever that would be.

My housemate Sean came in too. I didn't have much to say with him there, nothing personal or mean-spirited... we just had a quiet kind of situation happening, that we were both equally at home in. It was almost like "Well- if you get a hospital room, I want to hang out in there too", like whatever was mine was his by default. I didn't mind. The opposite, totally.

A couple of guys I used to skate with brought food and magazines. I was really happy to have been so considered, but humiliated that everyone in the city must have known how weak I'd been. I don't like to show my weaknesses, typically insecure.

And when I was physically operational, it was time for therapy. Although the actual damage was limited to my throat/windpipe/arteries, my whole body was wrecked from it. So I needed physical therapy, as well as someone to talk to (and convince it was safe to let me go out into the world again).

My psychiatrist was Doctor Lawrence. He was a no-nonsense, obviously hideously rich person who, while his bedside manner was intact, it was obvious to me would be extremely unpleasant and opinionated with a couple of wines in him.

I felt constantly rushed with him, like I had to answer him within two seconds of each question or he'd just walk out without a word. Of course he wouldn't, but that was the feeling.

We talked about motivations, if I'd learned anything, and I said "Not really". So he asked me what was my raison d'etre, and I said "I don't know- everything just feels different this time". That seemed to satisfy him, and three weeks after being rolled in on a gurney with tubes and wires and concerned faces; I had the all-clear to just walk out like a regular person.

I went back to my bed to wait for my clothes etc, and fell asleep again.

When I woke up, everything felt worse.

The nurses were different people. More concerned, strangers, suspiciously checking on me every five minutes. The pain was back, more intense than before. I had tubes in me again. A different psychiatrist came to see me, a Doctor Ellison, and she had no idea who Doctor Lawrence was. I asked myself if I had died, and this is the confusion I earned myself by punching my own ticket. But there's no pain when you're dead, and I was in pain.

Mum walked in, and her face didn't glow. She looked angry and hurt. I felt like an inconvenience... I always feel like an inconvenience.

"What did I do?" I asked her, desperate to know why she was so angry.

"You didn't do anything love, it's just the situation... how do you feel?"

I told her I was confused, and she said she knew. I figured this was just her psychic maternal wireless broadband doing its thing, but it was more than that.

Everything was wrong.

I asked her where my friends were, if they were coming to visit? She shot a look at Dr Ellison, who pulled up another chair.

And together, they ripped my world apart.

It had been three months, not three weeks, since I was rolled in. I had alternated between states of conscious depression and violent seizures. I would frighten the staff with offers of violence, if only the drugs made it possible for me to get out of bed unassisted. In my waking moments I had talked to my friends, to my visitors, but those visitors had never actually been there.

And those visitors, those friends I had known for years, had never existed.

Through session after session with the Doctor, I was informed that half of what I thought was my life, was a lie. A covertly constructed, expertly crafted lie, created by my subconscious. A lie that integrated seamlessly with reality, a privately held set of beliefs and experiences that never were.

And this lie, had been going on for years.

One by one, I watched my friends die, in a sense. As their existence was revealed to be fallacious. Relationships, secrets, jokes, life, all came undone and fell in strands on the floor.

Places I'd been, houses I had lived in, jobs, relationships, belongings, all fell away, to reveal who I really am. Who I'd been all this time. A person that was a stranger to me.

Many years before, when I was very young, something happened. Something I'm not ready to talk about. Something I can't make any sense of.

And this thing, marked me in a way. As much as I remember it, and even feel like the horror of it has abated, like I'm at low tide now, I can deal with it. I can't deal with it, and any progress or acceptance I thought I had is just another falsely held belief. It broke me, I never healed.

And I developed complex scenarios to escape from this reality. Movies I had seen and songs I'd heard had never been recorded. Bands I liked had never formed. Books I read were never written. I invented friends and lovers, traveled to places I had never seen, and did things I have never done, all the while believing it was my life. All the while feeling so real, impossible to be anything else. But I wasn't there- I was locked away inside myself, trying to be safe.

I worked jobs like everyone else, without the slightest suspicion from my employers that I wasn't fully there. No-one knew, and no one got close enough to guess.

And through this process I discovered I had very few friends. Very few experiences. And I could no longer say with certainty that I had done anything until I checked with my Mother.

The suicide was real though... I had proof of that.

I hanged myself (that never sounds right, does it?) to escape from my life as it was. I took a chance that was 99% weighed in favour of nonexistence, in the hope I could stand where I stand now- in front of a life I can build for myself, with real materials, among real people. And ever since that hospital stay, I have done and achieved every thing I once claimed as real.

It can be confusing, walking down a street in Osaka for the first time, when you were sure you had been there before (only everything was different!) But it's exciting too, and I feel like the things I make (as much as they will rust and fall apart when I am gone) are really worth something.

I don't know what that means, but I feel it. I really feel it. With my bones.

And now I see so many people, living inside their own heads, scared to come out, hiding from the truth of something... I'm like the ghost whisperer for people like that. I see through the bullshit, and I think that's a great superpower to have. because if they want to come out and be real, then they have a friend, and that's me.

People hurt us, disappoint us, underwhelm us, and even disgust us, but they really are beautiful and rare, with the capacity to do such incredibly Universe-changing things.

I have faith in us.

And at last I have found some faith in me too.

I'll keep you posted.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.