The Death of All and Everything

It's unfortunate that the asininely named 'Generation Y', of which I believe I'm a part of, has come at a time where most of the great creative juices of any given medium have been spent. Literature seems to have peaked, in most informed people's opinion, around the 19th Century, perhaps, and popular music had its day in the '60s, while unpopular music peaked alternatively in the 18th and 19th Century – though, as with everything, it depends who you ask. Film, a newer medium, peaked anytime before the '80s and gallery art killed itself completely midway through the 20th Century. So what does that leave? Video games. Hurrah. We actually got to see those peak around the early '90s.

It is a simple matter of logistics that any given medium hits its peak at a certain point. You can’t keep having fresh and innovative ideas forever. Usually, this peak is nearer to the start of the creation of a medium then anything else, because, put simply, there isn’t an enormous back catalogue of ideas to take into consideration when you’re starting out. You are free to innovate and do what has not been done. There isn’t an enormous pressure on your shoulders, or fierce nostalgia from the critics suggesting that the medium has seen better days.

If I was, for instance, to write a novel, I would have to take into account centuries of literature and wonder if I’m saying anything that no one has thought of, or if I’m writing in a way that no one has done before me. I would also be expected to push the medium further. It's gets harder and harder with each passing year to create a great work of, dare I say it, fiction. We can still make films and write books and record music – and we should – but we'll always be in the shadows of the glory days. But what we can't do under any circumstances is attempt gallery art.

Suspend your disbelief a moment and imagine that I wrote a book in a 19th century style that was, all things considered, a masterpiece. Published today, people would accuse me of being derivative and not progressing the medium; but was I to publish it in the 19th century, I would be lavishly praised for my work. The same would happen if I sent back Bucket Men's magnificent album Blind Men [sic] into the early 1950s (though the '60s could work too). We would be heralded as geniuses who created Rock 'n' Roll. Now, of course, we wouldn't get so much as grimace of appreciation. It's funny how context works. The album itself would never change, and yet you'd get such different reactions – even from the same people who dismissed it early in 2005 – depending on when it was released.

Maybe Anh Tu's right; maybe I should give up on making any more music or films or books and begin working on a time machine.

Lively Writings on All Things Lovely

O but listen for a moment lads and I'll deliver an essay most profound upon you souls.
It's littered with anachronism and it borders on profane ideas riddled as they are with holes.

Actually, no I won't.

Harry's Take on the War O'er There

"I's not to keen on it, see. All dem people holed up in the desert. All dem people in trunches. All dem peoples in hide clothes in the jungles. Why ain't they all just get along? Sometimes things just get me down, ya know? Sometimes I just feel like packing a bag of me stuff and hitting the ol' highway. Taking a stoom train and setting on hay for a while. To clear my head, ya know? Not think about all dem things. All dem bad things. Like how theys cooked dem jubes in a big oven in whirl wall two. It gets you down. Like hows they invited Poland. Like hows they burd Dresmond down and hirry shower and maggot car key and Earl harbour. And all dem things that happened before, ya know? It gets you in a really mean mood."

From Harry's press conference after the release of his new book "The Amazing Mr. Brimage" in response to the question: "What's your book about?".

A Small Wrote Upon the Wall

The bleak grasses across the fog and the morning waved with each blade with each breeze and shook last night's heavy rain. Pushing a foamy wooden box through the wet and dulled green, a bearded, weathered male individual in black hoodlum dinner suit guise made his merry way up to the summit of a hill. A crackle and perhaps a burst indicated the onslaught of rain which fell in attractive pummels that were occasionally spotlighted by shards of lightning. 'Neath his grisly and grimly white beard, the man gritted his remaining teeth to the elements and continued his pained path up the high horrid slope.

As the pre-midday slump of 8.00 AM whistled and resonated from a distant, empty chapel, the determined shaking mass of weary world flesh found himself with sudden ease atop the hill. And from this very vantage point he was shown a deliberately snaking landscape of rivers and trees that wallowed in the important wake of a city. He raised two arms high in the air, as if expecting the fellow beard to strike his wailing form with an empowering bolt, and let out a side street cry. When his lungs finally pulled the vocal chords from their twisted sockets under the strain, he relaxed himself and closed his lids. Envisaging a host of society's all, he began to speak.

"People of Earth," he began promisingly, "I am here to help. Over the years I have observed your poverty, your wars, your murders, your prisons and your especially wretched architecture. I have seen the coming and going of the young and the old; I have seen what there is to see. And only now can I offer salvation: Submit to me and your troubles will be no more."
He opened his eyes hopefully and looked.
"Well," he said quietly, "it was worth a shot."
He sighed and began to dig himself a grave.

The Amazing Mr. Brimage – A Review

I didn't know what to expect when my agent plopped this curiously titled book on my desk. A biography written by someone who hasn't actually done anything? It seemed absurd. Nevertheless, I tore myself away from Tuesdays With Morrie and tucked in to Harry's prose.

It takes about one short chapter before you're completely overwhelmed with self-indulgence. Henceforth, it's a feat of endurance to get through the remaining 852 pages. It seems his only goal in writing this book is to try to convince the public of how great he is, and, ironically, it has just the opposite effect. Maybe if the public had actually heard of him, or had evidence of his claimed achievements – creating Rock 'n' Roll, ghost writing The Feminine Mystique – they would be less cautious in taking to him; but, as it stands, we're left to wonder how such a monstrously awful pile of ill-constructed sentences slipped through the rarely open gates of that ruthlessly infamous publisher.

But don't take my word for it, let the 'Amazing Mr. Brimage' speak for himself:
"As much as I hate the term, I am a genius. [sic] I do have above ordinary intelligence. And what's more, I know it. To some of those 'cultured' cretins, this comes across as arrogance, but I beg to differ. Show me one humble genius and I'll eat my words. Anyway, as I was saying, I'm a genius. And not just any genius, the genius. I could have saved Galileo a lot of trouble had I been around to show him the only true star. But you get the picture: I'm a genius."
Yup, I got the picture, all right.

And this sort of guff which can extend anywhere from 2 to 50 pages:
"I know how to love a woman. The problem is, they rarely know how to love me. It seems they're 'intimidated' by my superior intellect. It's unfortunate that there aren't many smart women around these days. Luckily, I'm more then enough company for myself – but there are those times – usually in winter – when nothing will warm me quite like another beating heart. This feeling usual wears off after I've finished, but it's enough to make me yearn for better days."

But all in all, it's a masterpiece. A telling and moving self portrait that succeeds in illuminating the flaws in modern day society. Harry is a major talent and I look forward to his next book with juicy school boy anticipation.

The Drums of My Inner Shelf

Being a thoughtful account of the human condition as told from the perspective of one suffering from it.

What, if anything at all – though it's not perfect by any means, which in a way proves there's something wrong with it – though you have to take into account my credibility, which, under the best circumstances, doesn't exist – and, if it does, it would be certainly struggling for life on a rocky shore somewhere, and I'd be forced to march along with my gun (which I had to buy specially for the occasion – in any other circumstances I would avoid such harmful devices – no matter how well-polished) and tastefully blast it away, thus ridding me of, oddly enough, the only feature that one could possibly compliment me on (I do hate compliments, you see; you can never tell if they're really being sincere or not); so, in essence, I'm left as a free citizen, with no encroachments on my personal space (everyone usually crosses to the other side of the road when they see me) and, even on the off-chance that I do find my way into a conversation of sorts, the person in question – enacting the other half of the exchange – would be entirely lost for words and would eventually be forced to bid adieu and run amuck with the rest of the folks – you know how it is; I'd then retire to my empty carriage and puff a few notes out of the old trumpet (C, D and E, to be precise) and lapse into beautiful obscurity, is wrong with life?

The Onward Roll of Sport, Booze and Karaoke

Here lies Stephan:

The months, the years of Queen and Bowie mouthings in sweaty, after-work clubs frequented by suits 'tween birth and death; the countless nights in the company of pale white Russians – sometimes black – and yellow and green Chartreuse soldiers staring out to sea; the chrome plating of show-reel wheelers that held his eyes and the low resolution snapping of a flick-top mobile; the lust for the South; the pounds of impeccable pastries crafted with an artist's eye in two cross-town kitchens: these were his downfall; the pace couldn't be kept, and eventually, one day, he just let slip and lay dead – out on the tiles of a favourite – and was dragged by countrymen to the cemetery where now he lies under the epitaph:

"It's true that honesty seems to always fail – http://spaces.msn.com/members/themushy/"

Hugh's Out of Home Adventures

"I have come to the conclusion," said he, "that you need to cultivate more outside experiences; leave the house once in while. As a direct result, you shall become a better person – like me, perhaps."
I nodded dumbly.
"How can you possibly know anything when you're holed up like this?" he continued.
"Mmm," I admitted.
"Well, I've got things to do. Bye."
He picked himself carefully from the chair and bade farewell.

So off I went on my journey to self-improvement. By train, I found myself at the station we had discussed and decided upon. I was uncharacteristically late by about three minutes, but was happy to discover I wasn't the only one. No one was there as yet. I spent my time observing:

A sub-womanly dumpling nestled into a corner; Groups of black-lipped, black-dyed, black-clothed; Groups of giggles, groups of peers; A woman, who seemed more attractive then she really was, dressed in shades of brown from thirty years ago; Police with tempting holsters; No one I knew.

After the half hour was hit, I was among the remainders. No longer was it a place to meet. I left. The train which would serve me best was scheduled to arrive in half an hour, so I decided to continue my waiting until then. And I did, making my entire patience reach an hour in length.

I wish I could get out more often.

For Once, at Least, I'm Almost Proud to be Australian

[Deleted.]

A Joke Which I'm Sure Has Surfaced Before

Convinced am I that the following has already been said, written, or, at least, thought. I haven't heard it said, or seen it written, or sensed it thought, so I'll throw my frail dollops of pure, 100%, golden caution to the hounds, who, oddly enough, are being thrown about by the wind, and deliver this undoubtedly stale joke:

A way to a girl's heart is through her ribs.

Heard it before? Yes? Bugger. In my defense, I'll suggest that I thought of it independently of everyone else and thus deserve the praise bestowed on its creator. Unless of course I merely forgot I'd heard it and it slowly burrowed its way back into my conscious, furtively enough to avoid plagiaristic suspicion and think, for one small, precious moment, that it might have been mine.

Invasion of The Ex-Pat Snatchers

[Deleted.]

The Tale Of Dr William Livingsworth Revisited

It's not often that a book like The Tale Of Dr William Livingsworth comes along. A book so indescribably brilliant that you'd almost forgive every post 1980 novel. I can't even begin to convey how fantastic this book is. But I'll at least try.

The plot concerns a detective who, inevitably, has to solve a case of some description. Sound familiar? Of course it does; you've read it a million times before – and that's exactly what Thomas Formosa-Doyle wants you to feel. The plot is hilariously convoluted; each twist intentionally contradicting that which has come before. Yes, Thomas Formosa-Doyle knows the inner working of narrative, and he plays with them throughout the novel. But there's so much more that makes this book the masterpiece that it is. The purposely one-dimensional characters are one of the most daring, not to mention dangerous, elements in the story. He even clearly gives lines of dialogue to the wrong characters; the hysterical chapter where a hapless police officer confronts the villain is the best and most memorable example of this. But even more shocking and daring then this is the humour. He actually satirises comedy. I couldn't believe my eyes. No one has attempted such a feat before.

A great example of this is in the way he steers the narrative around in absurd ways to deliver purposely bad knock-knock jokes that spectacularly succeed in sending up the whole principle of comedy. An example.
"Dr Livingsworth loomed over the corpse. "Knock knock," he breathed menacingly; to which the corpse failed to respond. Undeterred, William continued. "Who's there?" he said in mock falsetto. Another pause. "Me!" he shouted. "Me who?" "Me-thane!" The corpse laughed – for he was only human (if not anymore)."

The language, too, is playfully brilliant; yet another satire in the book; this time dealing with writing itself.
"The day was hot, the sky was bright. William the doctor was bright, but only because he wasn't stupid. And he wasn't stupid only because he was bright – or so I'm told. The trees were green, the doctor, oddly enough, wasn't – don't ask me why, please. Remember the doctor? You should; I've just spent three sentences explaining his mental ability – and, in the last, his colour. That, or is, what some might call (on the phone!) a story (not the building kind!) of mine (not a gold mine!) that I have written (writeleven!)."

But unquestionably the best part of the whole book is the sub-plot involving a junior surgeon. The story is ironic in the extreme sense. Tongue firmly in cheek, Thomas delivers numerous offensive homophobic jokes and unsubtle right-wing rants in a hilarious indictment on conservative views. Not since Swift have we seen such biting and relevant satire. Overall, this book is the boost the literary world needs at the moment, and unquestioningly one the greatest achievements in fiction over the last 25 years.

The Tale Of Dr William Livingsworth – A Review

It's not often that a book like The Tale Of Dr William Livingsworth comes along. A book so indescribably bad that you'd think the publishers were suffering from a mental illness – what were they thinking? I can't even begin to convey how terrible this novel is. But I'll at least try.

The plot, if you can call it that, concerns a detective who, inevitably, has to solve a case of some description. Sound familiar? But even as a stock-standard airport crime fiction novel, it fails. The plot is convoluted to the point where you feel even the author doesn't know what's going on. Yes, Thomas Formosa-Doyle fails to grasp even the simplest of narrative conventions. So what's left? The characters? Oh God no. The only way I could tell one from another was by their name and even then I was confused. They really are sub-one-dimensional. So the whole thing rests on the shoulders of humor. Which, unfortunately, is the worst element in the entire novel.

His idea of comedy is to interrupt the narrative with crudely worded knock-knock jokes and pale "why did the chicken cross the road?" variations. An example.
"Dr Livingsworth loomed over the corpse. "Knock knock," he breathed menacingly; to which the corpse failed to respond. Undeterred, William continued. "Who's there?" he said in mock falsetto. Another pause. "Me!" he shouted. "Me who?" "Me-thane!" The corpse laughed – for he was only human (if not anymore)."
And so on.

The language is chillingly incompetent too:
"The day was hot, the sky was bright. William the doctor was bright, but only because he wasn't stupid. And he wasn't stupid only because he was bright – or so I'm told. The trees were green, the doctor, oddly enough, wasn't – don't ask me why, please. Remember the doctor? You should; I've just spent three sentences explaining his mental ability – and, in the last, his colour. That, or is, what some might call (on the phone!) a story (not the building kind!) of mine (not a gold mine!) that I have written (writeleven!)."

But unquestionably the worst part of the whole book is the sub-plot involving a junior surgeon. The story only exists to give Thomas free reign to deliver horrendously offensive homophobic jokes and unsubtle right-wing rants. Overall, I'd rather die then read it again. If that means killing myself instead of reading it again, then so be it.

Everybody's Got Something to Write Except for Me and My Monkey

I don't like the thought of millions of other people doing what I'm doing now. That is to say: writing these wretched blogs. I don't like the thought of them thinking that they're writing important things and hoping important people will read them. I don't like anyone that has a blog. Because he may be the only person who will read this, I'll exclude Ben – whose latest post, incidentally, deals with a similar issue: Yodo Stories. But is it merely the competition that I hate? Perhaps, but it goes somewhat deeper then that.

It seems everyone really does want their fifteen minutes of fame – bar none. Everyone wants recognition; otherwise there would be no point in having your blog online. Or maybe everyone just wants immortality – with their works living posthumously and, in the process, allowing their memory to survive. The deep, primal fear is of death, and, although it makes no difference what you've achieved in the end, we still want to make an impact on our surroundings; mainly to satisfy our egos, but also to make us feel worthwhile, like we haven't wasted our time here.

People also entertain the hope of a book publisher stumbling across their site and offering them a deal on the spot, which, when you think about it, is absolutely ridiculous. For one, I can't think of a single case in which this happened; and for two I don't believe for an instant that book publishers would look through blogs for potential authors. The likely hood of them happening upon yours is impossibly remote, so I wouldn't even write this off as a possibility. Also, and most importantly, book publishers are scum and even on the off-chance that you're some sort of literary genius, they would still happily ignore you.

Art is no longer accepted on its merits alone (actually I'm not sure if it ever was). It's all a business and there's no use complaining about it. Don't, for instance, rant about the fallings of Hollywood – of which there are many – because in their minds, if it makes money, it's a success – regardless of the cumulative star ratings from the critics. For your work to be accepted, in any medium – with perhaps gallery art as an exception, it has to appear sellable. What it boils down to is this: if you've got something wholly original, the likes of which the world has never seen, then no one will want it, and you'll be forced to finance it yourself. If, after you've succeeding in getting your work out there, it becomes an enormous success, then all the companies that turned you down will beg for you services and employ all manner of copy-cats to ride your wave. Such is life.

Even though I've often yearned for more readers, I'm warming to the idea of being without them. I like the thought of writing as though the whole world is listening when, in reality, only Ben (the famed author of Betweenways) is – if anyone. It's an odd way of having a conversation, really. And there's something marvelously stubborn about it all.

A Review of Betweenways

Betweenways by newcomer Ben Hansen, tells the story of a group of people who undertake a journey into the mind of a chronic geek to cure him of his mental fallings. Or at least make him slightly less fucked up. Anymore explanation of the plot would surely ruin it, since it is definitely one of the book's greatest strengths.

For a debut novel, it is surprisingly assured and the deft mix of sci-fi, fantasy, comedy, philosophy and psycho-analysis is inspired. The cast of characters are excellently realised as well; some of the best moments in the book come from their often tumultuous relationships. But it is for the comedy that this book deserves its place among the classics of contemporary fiction. Hansen's wit is on full display throughout the novel and it ruthlessly attacks society and politics with a ferocious glory reminiscent of Voltaire. The more dramatic moments are also expertly crafted and fit perfectly into the eccentric mix of styles.

Hansen plays with a lot of sci-fi and fantasy clichés during the course of the book and it soon becomes obvious that he has put some of himself into the nerd character. Luckily he avoids the traps of self-deprecation with some genuine humanity and an incredibly poignant, albeit unsentimental, ending. Overall, it's a terrific book that highlights a great new talent with a flair for inventive language and absurdist humour. My pick for book of the year.

Portrait of the Artist as a Deceased Dubliner

Yes, I've decided to tackle James Joyce's Ulysses. 700 pages of impenetrable, often un-punctuated, prose. That's my idea of a great winter afternoon. To be honest, I'd have less reservations about Tarantula – if only for its friendlier size. But anyway, let's see what all the fuss is about. And, more importantly, let's see if I can finish it.

Since its release, readers the world over have struggled to make it through the whole thing – even stopping after the first chapter. But now, I think, it would be an easier task for those of us accustomed to mobile phones (which doesn't include me). The language, particularly the sections told from Mary's perspective, strongly resembles a typical SMS message – if that message exceeded 700 pages and plumbed the depths of human psyche (an assumption, since I haven't read it yet).

Of all the classics, Ulysses is the most inaccessible. Indeed I was briefly tempted to chronicle my attempt by way of a diary parody ("day 1. It took me three hours to comprehend the first sentence") but, in the interests of good taste, decided against it. Some say Joyce is asking too much of his reader and I tend to agree. I'm certainly not going to bother reading up on Homer for added insight. And the whole thing does beg the question: is there any point upsetting the grammarians?

Deja Vu Dans Non Sequitur

When Wiley Miller tires of New Yorker style one-panel political cartoons, he somewhat awkwardly jumps over to Calvin & Hobbes territory in, what some might consider, a plagiaristic manner. The only discernible difference being the main character's gender.

Calvin & Hobbes is about a boy and a tiger who would regularly go out into the forest on a small wagon and discuss socio-political issues. Now take that sentence and substitute Calvin & Hobbes for Non Sequitur, "boy" for "girl" and "tiger" for "horse" and you've got a perfect description of Wiley's second-hand creation. The personalities of the characters are absolutely identical.

I was willing to let slip the comic strip Zits because it, at least, focused on a different age group, but now that Non Sequitur, which had hitherto never attempted narrative, has muscled in on Bill Watterson's territory, I can no longer fake blindness.

Calvin & Hobbes easily ranks as one of the greatest comic strips of all time. Up there with Krazy Kat, Pogo and, to a lesser extent, Peanuts. If you attempt to emulate the successes of these masterworks, you'll be locked up in a flash.

Petitions don't work, do they? Oh well.

Sandwichs à la viande Pour Le Thé

As an experiment, I dropped a visit to Dictionary.com and made my way to the translation service. I set it to "English To French" and pasted in the following text from my blog:

"Eating a grisly, over-done steak wrapped in toasted pseudo-healthy commercial grained bread garnished with those most prolific of condiments: mustard (in this case German) and tomato sauce, I watched a half-naked Raquel Welch clad in glittering rags and sporting a dated frizzled hair cut perform a near-catchy tune with wild erotic high kicks on The Muppet Show."

I then copied the French translation into the translator and translated it back into English. And I must say, it's better then the original.

"Eating of an appalling and exaggerated beefsteak wrapped out of roasted pseudo-healthy commercial bread granulous furnished with those most prolific with the condiments: mustard (in this German case) and the tomato sauce, I observed a half-naked Welsh plate of Raquel the rags of flutter and by fôlatrant a grésillée cut gone back to hair to carry out an air close relation-involving with wild erotic high eruptions on the exposure of Muppet."

I really enjoyed my Welsh plate of Raquel. I have no idea what " fôlatrant a grésillée" is supposed to mean, though.

Suffice to say I wouldn't rely on them to do any multi-word translations.

My Love She's Bold as Buttons

A someone in a top-hat – I'll assume it's a man – is walking down that street dressed smartly in what looks like a nice clean white shirt and rich black pants. He's holding a suitcase or something, I can't quite make it out. Now he's stopped outside a café. He's looking in the window at something. Now he's going in. He's in. I can't see him anymore. There is a small cat outside near a bin. It's fairly sunny. Now he's out of the store holding a cup or something. Yes, it's a cup; he's drinking out of it. He's still walking down the busy street. He just disappeared behind a building. I may have lost him. No, wait, there he is – I think. He's got the same clothes. I'll just assume it's him. If not, it's a big coincidence that after he disappeared behind a building, another man dressed in the same clothes, holding the same objects comes out the other side of the building. Whoops, I've lost him again. I should have been watching.

I guess now I should talk about the man himself. I really don't know much about him, so I'll have to invent some stuff. Um... All right, well I'll say he owns a chain of antique stores across the city, and right now he's on his way to an antique convention to buy some things. He's depressed because his wife's just passed away from Polio – wait, they got rid of that, didn't they? Um, make it Pneumonia. Anyway, he feels he needs to keep buying antiques to get his mind off things. Wait, is that him? Yes, I think so. Now he's in a park by the river. He's still got a cup and a suitcase. Now he's talking to a woman and getting into a row boat. They're kissing. That kind of contradicts what I said before – though it's not necessarily his wife. They're too far out to see now. Hey, I could have also said: "they're too far out to sea now" and it wouldn't have made much difference.

All right, scrap what I said before about him. Let's say he's a disillusioned employee of a business firm and he's just quit his job to spend more time with his wife. He hasn't told her yet, though, so he's taking her on a romantic trip on the river to break the news. He's got it all figured it out. If they spend money wisely and invest in the right places, they may be able to retire. But he's not sure how his wife will like it. Hang on, I think I see them again. They're coming around from the other side. Wait, no, that's not them. Never mind. Actually, let's say he's taking his wife out to a special place on the river where a vortex tunnel thing swirls on a little island at twilight. An outdoor, tent-less circus is around there too, and so is a strange band comprised of people wearing green, pink, blue and red uniforms. He wants to lead his wife into the vortex so they can live together in some sort of nowhere.

There they are. I guess they didn't go into the vortex after all. And they're still kissing. Even as they're climbing out of the boat, they're kissing. But they've stopped now and they're walking towards a boathouse/café type thing. They go up the stairs and onto the top level. Now they're searching for a table. Still searching. They find one near the end and sit down. Now a waiter comes along and takes their order. I didn't hear what it was, just in case you were wondering. The waiter goes away and they start talking. I can't hear that, either. But they certainly look like they they're enjoying themselves. Still talking. Now he picks up his suitcase and opens it on the table. He takes out a photo or a painting and shows it to her. She looks very happy and she hugs and kisses him. He then puts the painting/photo back into the suitcase and puts the suitcase back underneath the table. They keep talking. Now the waiter is there with their order and he puts it on the table. They thank the waiter and start eating.

Now they're back by the river. I skipped the bit where they paid for the meal and left the café. They're getting back into the boat and they're kissing again. Still kissing. Now they're rowing off down the river – again. Perhaps this time he'll take her to the vortex thing on that island with the circus and the band. It is actually twilight now, so it'd make sense. Well, that's all I wanted to say. Goodbye. Sorry again for this being sort of like that book and a little too uninteresting. Bye.

Rivers of Slime

Near the post office, the following occurred:
"How's the wife?" asked Mr Rows with a friendly grin.
"She's abroad," replied Jelly.
"I know. That's why I said 'wife'."

Untangling himself from that encounter, and brimming with verve, Jelly made his way through the next ten years of his life and onto a bridge over an ice frosted lake. Coffee in hand and thoughts in mind, he spent a jolly half hour in the winter cold with a look of abstract happiness on his face.

Upon returning home, he was startled to discover – by way of an answering machine – that his friend had decided to commit suicide out on the mainline. He was then saddened to discover – by way of a second message – that his friend had succeeded in committing suicide out on the mainline.

He lost his wife abroad, too. She wasn't actually dead, as far as he knew, but she was certainly missing – or, at the very least, she had left him for good. So he boiled an egg. Once he deduced it to be ready, he removed it, cracked it open and carefully placed it on his recently purchased egg cup. With the help of long, thin, remotely soldier-shaped pieces of toast, Jelly polished off his meal in no time. Well, that's an exaggeration – he actually took around ten minutes.

Some time later, he found himself huddling 'neath shelter in the rain. It wasn't exactly freezing, so he enjoyed himself and continued shopping. A nice lunch was had soon after.

The next day, Mr Rows stopped him.
"Did you ring that couple?" he asked.
"They were engaged," answered jelly.
"But they've only known each other for a few weeks! Drat, now I'll have to order that blasted Russian."
"No, I meant I couldn't get through. I'll ring tonight."

He lay down that night with the lights off and listened to Bucket Men on vinyl. After that he read a few chapters of Betweenways by Benjamin Hansen and went to bed.

You can guess the rest.

An Uninformed History of Cartoons

For simplicity's sake, let's just say it all began with Wilson McCay and his most famous of creations: Gertie The Dinosaur. As always the truth is far more complex, but, as you would have no doubt gathered by now, research is beyond me. At the very least, his was the first 'interactive' cartoon. After that Felix came along and played with the medium a bit; picking up horizon lines, holding exclamation marks etcetera. And roughly around this time Disney unleashed his lovable mouse for all the world to enjoy. In the beginning, he was quite a naughty little creature who was always up to mischief. But soon Walt discovered it was immoral to reveal his greatest achievement in such an unflattering light, so the next time he let the public feast their eyes on his little Mickey he was a very different organism indeed. Gone were the days of yore in which that lovable mouse would poke unsuspecting victims and whistle innocently when they sought revenge, to be replaced with a rather bland moralistic beast that would most likely try to prevent accidents instead of causing them. The final straw was removed with the ill-advised redesign that saw Mickey acquire more conventional eyes and clothing. But by then his popularity was assured, and no amount of flimsy characterisation could stop his reign.

In stark contrast to the strict moralistic principles upheld by Walt's team, Warner Brothers, Fleischer and MGM went in a totally different direction with their violent, sometimes racist, but ultimately more interesting cartoons. Due to budget constraints, a lot of their output consisted of 'chase' cartoons, as they were the cheapest to make. But all of them succeeded in creating some of the greatest American cartoons around. Warner Brothers had a plethora of famous creations: Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, that singing frog - to name but a few. Fleischer had the terrific Popeye adaptation and Betty Boop, not to mention countless other classics. And MGM had Tex Avery; the greatest person ever to work on cartoons.

After this prolific Golden Age, cartoons became stale and nearly died out. Hanna-Barbera succeeded in reviving the medium through television – albeit at the sake of quality – with a wealth of identical cartoons from The Flintstones to the one with the cats. As time went on, these cartoons got even worse and eventually collapsed with the folding of the company. At this point animation became defiantly crap; controlled as they were by persons who had never put pencil to paper. And that lasts to this day.

The only blip on the cartoon radar came in the early '90s thanks to Canadian artist John Kricfalusi. In an attempt to bring cartoonists back into the creative fore of animation, he created what must surely rank as the best cartoon since the '60s: The Ren & Stimpy Show. Their rule was that if you couldn't draw, you couldn't work on the show and this spawned brilliance in the medium that had been lost for the best part of thirty years. Inevitably it all went pear shaped and when Nickelodeon took over the creative side of things, hope was all but lost.

Another boost came in the shape of the enormously successful show The Simpsons. At the start of its run, it was almost like an animation and they played with the medium a bit; but as it hit its stride, the writing seemed to be the only important aspect of the show and the animation became secondary. The fact that it was a cartoon at all was because it gave them licence to write jokes that wouldn't work in any other medium. Nowadays even the scripts are awful, so there's really no reason to watch it at all. Over the years the animation seems to have shifted over to the computer – or so it looks – and everything about it has become painful to watch. Then Family Guy came along, which was very much in the same vein (but with worse animation), and it sat uncomfortably between the extremes of South Park (which contained the worst animation to date; cheap and nasty in every way) and the comparatively milder Simpsons.

Of course internet animation didn't help either thanks to Flash (ironically pioneered by John Kricfalusi) and similar web-based programs, and here we are now with no good cartoons left. What's that you say? Japanese animation? Well I purposely avoided mentioning them because I was only ambitious enough to cover American cartoons. And besides, anime is God awfull as well. Sure, the animation itself is actually important over there, but it's all brought down by cookie-cutter design and weak formulaic scripts. The exceptions being Miyazaki (the Eastern Walt Disney, as he's known. Yes, that's right: I like my anime to be as Western as possible!) and Osamu Tezuka (heavily influenced by Walt Disney as well; that's where the big eyes came from).

I guess I'd better hit the drawing board.

Ben's Biggest Asset

Art nowadays – gallery stuff – is all, yes all, horrible. In the process of exploring the form and, shudder, society in general, artists have succeeded in stuffing their heads so far up their arses that they could do it again. Thanks to them, we now have to ask questions such as "when is art art?" and "when is it just a blank piece of paper?".

As a whitey growing up in the suburbs, I was much persecuted by the niggers, the wogs, the jews, the abos, the chinks and the curries (Stephen was particularly volatile). In such dire circumstances the only thing I could turn to was art. Picasso etc. But when they died off I was left with Warhole and his cronies – and none too happy about it. Yes, everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame, but why did he have to get it? Anyway, he signalled the beginning of the end for gallery art – or at least someone did. And here we are.

Apparently the guy who so deftly hit upon the idea of canning his shit (calling it names etc.) did it as an experiment to see if anyone would buy it – not to mention using it to 'expose' the art world. All right, fine. But surely there are ways of doing that that don't involve squatting over cans. If you ask me (and honestly I don't know why you would) that's just an excuse.

And now we get to the infamous blank canvas. When first premiered in that gullible gallery, I couldn't help thinking that it was nothing new. Art shops for one have been doing it for years; it's just that none of them thought of putting it in a gallery. I wouldn't be surprised if Mr Blank Canvas bought his masterpiece from one of them and merely slapped a sticker on it. And yet they don't see any of the profits. Before I go, I'd like to point out that I ingeniously and unintentionally managed to start every paragraph with A.

Still Life, Love and Rubbishy Prose

Photography – taking photos and all that – is a troubled medium. As a creative form, I like it; but it's too often destroyed by idiots. What grates me particularly is the set-ups. Those photographers who hire people and place them in brooding positions 'neath some towering bridge are the ones who are slowly but surely tearing apart this medium. There's something so fake, so contrived about those photos. In my opinion (worth little) you should never need to fake anything in a photo. Either you do a simple portrait, free of influence, or you snap real things in the street. The real photographic geniuses are the ones who never needed to fake their shots. The fact that these people actually need to set up their photos is a real problem. Photography doesn't hold up to contrivances.

On the off chance that a locally renowned photographer is reading this, I suggest you (the photographer) scrap your perverse, voyeuristic interpretations of teenage angst (presumedly rendered in sharp monochrome) and become a hermit or, at least, a rock.

What's Up With Boy Wonder?

Nothing, as it turns out.

A Pointless Exchange Starring Regan Burns

By Hugh Hamilton And Harry Brimage.

It was a cold day in June when two friends met up on a path.
"Hello," said Ted.
"Yes this thing is the biggest pain to set up," said Albert cryptically.
"Haven't they met yet?" asked Ted, for he knew what he was talking about. "I thought you got them on a date last week. At least that's what George told me."
"You know he's a notorious liar," said Albert.
"Yes, but I thought he was happy about all this."
"He's hard to work out."
"Looks like I'll have to wait until morning to play this blasted thing," complained Albert, revealing his well-polished instrument.
"Yes, your violin teacher told me about that."
"She's such a bitch."
"Language."
They stood in silence for a moment and admired the river.
"What did you tell Sally about George?" said Ted finally.
"I told her that he's got a great imagination," replied Albert. "Which is actually code for 'he's a terrible liar'."
"Ha ha. Does this mean George stood her up?"
"That or she stood him up".
"That'll teach you to play match-maker."
"Well it didn't affect me. So I don't see why."
"You're a hard nut to crack, Albert."
"You make more sense during the day."
"Well I never said I was a night person."
"Actually I think you did once. But in a different context."
"When I was mad, you mean?" Ted shot Albert a serious look.
"May have been," Albert answered.
"Don't scoot around the issue, Albert. If it was when I was mad, just tell me."
"Ok. It was."
"Thank you. I don't want any special treatment."
"That’s not what you told me during work."
"No, that's not what I told you during work. What's your point?"
"Well I guess work is different."
"Yes, work is different. You're really a man of observations today, aren't you Albert?"
"I am."
"Still, with that wife of yours I can't blame you." added Ted.
"Yes well she is reading this over my shoulder y'know. She says hi," Albert indicated the wife-shaped figure beside him.
"You are hard to follow sometimes, Albert. What exactly is she reading over your shoulder? She looks to me like she's just staring blankly at the river."
"She thinks she can read the river. If I knew she was daft I wouldn't have married her."
"We've all made that mistake."
"For once you are right."
"I can be quite prophetic sometimes – when I'm not being mad, that is." mused Ted.
"When is your next mad session scheduled?"
"Right after the Cracked one."
"Ah good."
After a pause, Albert said:
"I think I'll be away then."
"Oh goodbye. Say hello to the missus." said Ted jovially.
"I will try. I doubt she'll acknowledge it though."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
They didn't see each other again until the following year when they both flew planes into the World Trade Centre in New York. This was after it had already been hit though, so they only succeeded in killing themselves.

The Graham Kennedy Experiment

All right Channel Nine, I have an idea. Instead of merely showing a mawkish hour-long summery and a funeral book-ended by, shudder, Mike Monroe, how about actually delving into the archives and repeating one of his shows from time to time – even if you do so after midnight on a Sunday or something. I am, unfortunately, one of the people who was a couple of generations late, and so missed Graham Kennedy completely. From what I have seen, and from having to endure "Rove Live", I will say that his reputation seems justified – but I still want to see his shows.

While we're on the topic of local comedy, I feel the need to say that "Let Loose Live" was absolutely terrible. Even as a non-American substitute for "Saturday Night Live" it failed. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it was worse then "Skithouse", though I'm still undecided about whether it passed "Comedy Inc" on the way down (on second thoughts, no; nothing could sink that low). The best sketch show we've produced in a decade is probably "The Micallef P(r)ogram(me)", though his sitcom follow up, "Welcher And Welcher" was admittedly rather bad. Yes, as comedy goes, we're certainly in dire straits. But we're used to it by now. After all film and television in general are definitely the worse for wear.

And, as usual, all eyes are on me to save the day. I'm still waiting to here back from Channel Ten and ABC regarding my sketch show, and the AFC still refuses to fund my genre-defying masterpiece. On the writing side of things, no publisher wants to touch my 500 page stream-of-consciousness study of pretentiousness and narcissism as told through the eyes of a struggling artist, which will no doubt change the way we approach literature (and life in general). And the as of now nonexistent band, The Onions (a folk-art-rock-jazz-blues-classical-punk-post-punk-prog-vaudeville fusion band), haven't been signed.