Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
(picture of Chris)
(my phone number).”
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Friday, May 4, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
He’s wearing vice-like headphones that could crush his skull. What does he do?
Scenario 1: Musician. He looks the part. Patched jacket, scattered hair, vague hint of eye make-up. It’s all very well put together. I imagine he's listening to some dub-garage band from the Middle East that I couldn’t find on iTunes or the latest Chillout Sessions compilation. I bet he sees the music in layers. Pulling songs apart on a screen in the front of his mind, like in the Minority Report. Separating the drums from the bass; then the kick from snare; analysing the inconsistency in the snare sound; then moving to a bird's eye view of the skin being hit; freezing frame, ignoring all other sounds. Just looping the sound of the snare being hit. The skin is an old one he deduces. Why would they use an old skin for recording? His mind runs wild: couldn't afford a new one? No, that’s not it. The drummer had an affinity with this skin, his 'recording skin'? Probably not that, either. The sound engineer was an idiot? Possibly. Or, and by far the most pleasing thought, was that, given the entire band including the singer were recorded live to tape in a bunker in 1983, they'd never imagined anyone would hear this take. Our Musician-man pictures them setting up for band practice, the bass player insisting they mic everything up and record a few demos, only to discover the demos were good enough to be a low-fi release.
Scenario 2: He was a guy that used “Fuck My Life” in conversation. Ends sentences with “that is all”. Drinks cleanskin Merlot. Sneaks a flask into gigs. Pays out on local bands. Never dances. Never makes music. Complains about not having money, but despises the idea of working in retail, hospitality, or worse, a desk job. Believes he’s a ‘free-spirit’, but lives at home. The worst type of person you can be seated next to a house party.
He picks a booger from his nose and eats it. Pulls off his headphones and I can hear ‘Yellow’ by Coldplay. Answers his phone and smiles for 30 seconds. And I realise I’m the idiot. I’m the one headed to work in an office from 9am-7pm, wearing overalls, clutching Creativity by its nub. Eating a cos lettuce salad for lunch. Photos I’ve taken on my iPhone printed out and blu-tacked to my office wall. Still at my desk at 5:30pm, writing this blog, and listening to Snow Patrol through vice-like headphones that could crush my skull.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
“Dildos with Ryan Gosling’s face on them.”
“On the end? I mean, I don’t have a vagina… but do chicks really want someone’s face inside them?”
“Why don’t they make Ryan Gosling tampons instead? Less intrusive. Or maybe even Ryan Gosling pillows? For the lonely.”
“Tampons!? You don’t want to bleed on him. Besides, there wouldn’t be enough room for the detail of his face. And I reckon pillows is a shit idea. No one would be that obsessed with him.”
“Really? Dude, we’ve been going out three years and you’ve never been more rowdy in the sack than after you saw that Tumblr with him on it.”
“Huh? Which one…? No….”
“The one where he’s looking at things, or riding dogs or something.”
“You mean, Ryan Gosling With Cats?”
“Yeh. Maybe when the dildo range takes off you could start one titled Ryan Gosling With Pussy.”
“You’re not funny. And you’ve got a booger hanging from your nose. Here, let me get it.”
She got it.
“You know another thing… I’m getting sick of people saying Hey, Girl. That’s his sort of catch phrase, isn’t it?”
“You’re a genius, Coleman. Hey, Girl could be the name for the dildo range.”
“The weird looking bald dude who plays for Carlton could have his own range too. Chicks think he’s hot, right?”
“You know less about women than you do football.”
“But because he’s bald, it would… you know, be better on a dildo and that…”
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
“You're going to die, Pop. Most likely tomorrow. I’ve already taken the liberty of cleaning out your wine rack.”
I could feel death coming on quickly. Sitting upright, my shoulder pinned to vinyl, blood stewing.
I waited for the clarity. The one they say comes just before you die. I waited for the clarity so I could dictate that final haiku, to add to the collection of haikus I'd never written and didn’t regret not writing.
While I casually waited to die, I asked for my window to be pushed open, to sample the sweet smell of the outdoors one last time. But the smells were no more pungent than they had ever been before.
I was waiting, with my youngest, Geoffrey.
“I can, Geoffrey. I can feel it. But, who knows, it could be days…”
He had left his own chair and was leaning across me now; his armpit smothering the crusted mess where my oxygen mask used to be.
“Pop, where's the coin?” He asked, foraging through my pockets.
“What coin, Geoffrey?”
“Your lucky coin, Pop. From the war.”
“Have I ever told you the story of that coin?”
“Yes, yes. Her basket. A baby, other romantic crap. Heard the story. Now, do you remember where you put that coin?!”
I did remember. It was in my coin pocket, as it had been since the day Carienne had entrusted it to me. The beautiful Carienne, with her…
“Pop, snap out of it - the coin?”
“Help me a second, Son, I'll check in my pocket.”
As if I were a car he were helping start, Geoffrey pushed on my middle back. Forward now, I peeled an arm from the vinyl and began the charade of a search, like I had done decades earlier when performing magic tricks involving his infant ears. As I had done back then, I kept the coin in my hand the whole time.
“Can you feel it?”
With that, I put my hand behind my back and shoved the coin inside me.
“Yes, Son, I can feel it. I can feel it coming on quite quickly, now.”
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Jim had been a truckie for almost 27 years, holding the road through bushfires, floods, locust plagues, hail, even ice. He’d seen sunsets over dunes, dusk over mountains, thunderstorms havoc over deserts. He’d watched wombats fly 70 metres off his bulbar and pile into trees, foxes decapitate rabbits, bulls have their way with dozens of cattle, birds flying South, birds flying North and sheep giving birth. He’d gazed at all kinds of clouds that reminded him of famous footballers, tufts of fairy floss and his own penis. But by far the most beautiful thing Jim had witnessed in his 27 years on the road, was Sal winning her call centre’s ‘Nugget-Off’ at the Wagga Wagga McDonald’s in 1987. To this day he can vividly recall the horror on the faces of her much larger male colleagues as she devoured her 37th, then her 38th and finally, her 42nd Chicken McNugget under the artificial light of her red and yellow booth. During their entire romance, the only thing he masturbated to on the road was a picture of her in a bikini on their first holiday interstate. Seeing a sharp decline in the sales of “40 Years Or Older” porn magazines at the BP in Seymour.
In the winter of 1992, five years after Sal was crowned ‘Dick Thomas Call Centre’s September Nugget Champion’, she started out with Greg, the only chef Jim has ever seen who wore spectacles.
On a six-day long haul from Melbourne to Alice, Jim decided to pull over, take a shit, and use the phonebox to check in at The Townie, his local, and second home. When Big Tony described what he had seen take place by the pool table the night before, Jim experienced a pain like never felt before in his life. It was as if someone had served him a shot of kerosene, and then lit his stomach on fire with a giant match through his asshole. It was around closing time, Big Tony said, that he had seen Sal bent over the pool table, clawing at the felt, “gettin’ done hard from behind” by Greg, the spectacled chef.
Two days later, on his way through Peakman’s Bend, about 7 hours from home, Jim pulled into a bottle-o and bought three bottles of Jack. He then walked across the road to the servo and bought “Whores Corner”, “Cumsluts 4” and “40 Years Or Older”. And, finally, he turned left at the servo and rang the doorbell of the local gunstore. In a very calculated and calm act, Jim handed over his gun license and ordered himself a .303 rifle and 100 rounds.
“Hunting, I’m going. Nothing like good venison… What, this stuff!? You can’t go bush without some Jack and porno now, can you?” The gunstore owner agreed, made a comment about no queers being able to shoot more than an HIV positive rabbit, and handed him over his rifle and rounds. 30 minutes, three vigorous masturbating bouts and one bottle of Jack Daniels later, Jim hit the road, en route for The Townie, the scene of the crime. He felt as virile as bull, as dangerous as a thunderstorm, and as vicious as fox, readied to decapitate a disease-ridden rabbit.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Peter’s laugh is strained, high-pitched, wheezy. Someone not in the room may have confused the noise with the screams of live crabs in a pot. But Peter didn’t have a kitchen, or the money for crab, or the opportunity to visit the seaside to catch his own. No, Peter lived at 435 Swinson Avenue. Also home to Rachel, Sam and Dave, with whom he was sharing his piercing joy in the TV room. His face red from happiness and the scars of a near lifetime of drink.
For now Peter has company, but when the ward shuts down, and they are to return to their beds, he’ll wheel the small television and its stand into his room. Once he’s done his nighttime business and kissed the photo of Beer, his old dog, Peter will scour the TV Guide. Like a seagull after a school of fish, Peter has honed a special sense. He will scan each movie for (n) and (s) classifications, the country of origin, then the language, and finally, the actresses. With all this information, Peter will select the most likely to contain sex or masturbation or a voyeuristic shower scene, switch out the light and make his final wheezing noise for the night.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
“Honey, what’s a mezzanine?”
“Well, in architecture a mezzanine’s like an intermediate floor between main floors of a building.”
“Right. So you’d call it a, I don’t know, place to hang out?”
“Kinda. Think of it like this: your shins are a sidewalk.”
“Here we go… fuck, Robbie, can’t you just…”
“Woah Cowgirl, let me finish. Yeah?”
“Right. Your shins are a sidewalk…” I waited for her sigh, and it came, “and your thighs are a boulevard. Then you have the lobby between your thighs. This is where travelling salesman can check-in, and check out, if you get me?”
“In this instance, the mezzanine would be the navel. Your navel. Your breasts are a main floor, and your mouth is the penthouse apartment. One can’t sleep in the lobby, you see, but one can spend a lot of time in the penthouse. Drinking wine, eating cake. Talking shit.”
“And right about now you’re talking about sex, is that right?”
“Sex and mezzanines and cake. Yep.”
“You’re an idiot. I’m going back to drawing pictures of possums.”
And so she did. She drew pictures of possums and drank whiskey straight like I never could. The smoke I blew into the wind didn’t bother her, even as a non-smoker. It was as if thick velour drapes were blocking the smoke, splitting it in two, washing past her head, like a great wave against a million-year-old rock. Not that she looked like a rock.
Well, not a rock without features, anyhow.