Oh How I Love the Above

Oh dear. The pad will have to go soon. The curtains will be opened, and the outside will be endured rather than wondered at. I will pack a luncheon and began a slow trudge that will grow more and more familiar until it's unnoticed, except as an omen to drudge. I will get lost initially, but soon discover a third hand, of which I will know the back of quite well. In the mornings — the real mornings — I will rub both my eyes with all of my hands and wait for my heart to rise to function-level. Let's see how compulsory I get now.

Bottles

In a room, a young man with a paintbrush and paint, and a canvas for it all to be put, thinks about where the next splash of paint should be splashed, and, while he's doing this, hums a quiet tune. Remember that tune: you'll need it later. Anyway, this young man, whom I've just described as a painter of sorts in the process of painting, now, at last (for me, at least; for the rest of you have only just joined us), puts brush to surface and creates an abstract face of blue. The use of blue here, I believe, indicates to the looker (that's us) the mood of this figure. A good-looker will spot this instantly, but for you, who've only been with me a few short weeks, it'll take a while longer. You'll get better with practice.

In this room, this young man spends a while longer on his masterpiece, finishing it about now with a delicate stroke of yellow. Good, huh? Pay extra attention to the use of lighting and form. You'll thank me later. Some more effectively than others. And now the young man, the painter, marvels at his work, at his masterwork. Look at his face. Look at his genius. And, like all good geniuses should, he knows it.

A few hours pass and, as of now, have passed. His hands pass over the canvas. He feels every pulse of life within with every pulse of hand without. Then he reels back. I told you he would. Now he's taking a closer look. The room's lights — a couple of candles — dim obediently as the painter enters the other world. Yes, his body stays here, but his spirit is soaring somewhere we can only compromise with our academic imaginations. I have, nevertheless, written an approximation of what he may be experiencing:

Clouds. Clouds everywhere. I am free and floating. Below me are rolling green hills and beautiful forests. Everything is swimming. I am too. We are merging now into one. I am everything. I am the hills, the trees, the lakes, the butterflies. The clouds. I am as ethereal as ethereality itself. Every form of matter presents itself to me within me and without me. I am, I am.

Of course, one can never know, but, in lieu of his work, this must surely be close. Thank you. See how he's not moving? Not even his eyes. He's no longer of this world. He's somewhere much more spiritual. And we're stuck here. Still, you've got to play with your hand. The hand you've been dealt, I mean. But it makes you think. Makes you question the ol' 9 to 5, you know? Anyway, I'll see you all tomorrow.

Which is now. The young painter, in his workshop, is still very much there physically, but, as you can see, he hasn't moved, and thus we must deduce that he is still out-of-body. And you can't blame him. His hand and brush have opened the doors of perception the hard way, and I'm sure he doesn't want to throw it all away quite yet. Remember to mention this at the year's end. See you in a few weeks.

Even at the sake of his safety, he remains locked in the other world. His skin is pale and his bones are showing, but in the upper deck, peace reigns. He's reached the contentment we all strive for, and it's reflected in the painting. The blue figure has the same look as he does now. The 'not quite here' look. And, like him, the blue figure isn't aware of his surroundings. Remember to rephrase that when you come to write it.

Though dead, he still gives the impression of a free spirit, as if he is beyond mortal perceptions of life and death. I firmly believe that he is as he once was all those weeks ago. I'm sure this will be amusing to some of you, but to me it's as real as day. And on that note, have a good one.

A Tall Tale About a Boy and a Whale

Character Introduction:

This is about a person named Floral.

Floral lived in what someone called a house. I was that someone. I called it a house. It was a house.

Floral was amoral.

Plot Development:

Floral wanted an orange.

Conflict:

Floral went down the street to buy an orange, but, because it was at a time when the orange shop was usually closed, the orange shop was closed.

Floral didn't like this one bit. Incidentally, neither did I.

Climax And Resolution:

Floral smashed the orange shop window with a brick and grabbed an orange.

Floral didn't do much after this, as I've grown tired of her.

The Arrival of The Black-Face Wonder Years

A logical progression, to be sure. It's full of 'em. Where once there was seven, now there is eleven — and a cover to match. Reviews have been unanimously ecstatic, as expected, and sales have already soared passed the stratosphere and into unread record books. And what of the content? Well, it ranges seamlessly from stripped-bare to overwrought and suffocating, with a few stops at Lanoir station along the way. As rumour has it, the dynamic duo might begin a tour before the year is out — let's hope they come here this time. Contrary to the critics' response, Bucket Men are reported to be less than satisfied by this effort. "It's not our best work," said the enigmatic rhythm section in an interview last night, whilst the good-natured lead dismissed it as "O.K" to the same. Personally, I find it a most remarkable recording that displays their diversity in eleven perfectly crafted tracks. A particular favourite of mine was the amazing title track that closes the album, one of the few songwriting collaborations on the record.

NME have typically jumped the gun and labeled it their 'best record to date', placing it hastily at the business end of their current top 100. And in a surprising turn of events, no singles were released for this album, with the assurance that they'd be releasing a few A-sides in December.

Though some have labeled Bucket Men — particularly the younger sibling — self-indulgent egomaniacs, I still think they are the best thing to happen to popular music in a long time. I don't find them egotistical at all. Not humble Bucket Men...

Goodbye Baby Black

Our pride and half-joy: Cokacino isn't as unique as we may have thought. It turns out that at least one other person has created the same drink with exactly the same name (pronunciation-wise) — and who knows how many more are lurking out there. It really makes you think. Firstly, about why on Earth anyone else would come up with such a disgusting drink; and secondly about the horrendous fallings of the web.

Because of its wretched accessibility, everyone who wants a few minutes of fame (everyone, in other words) now has the opportunity to do so. And with so many people attempting to find an original voice, original thoughts (remember those?) are being swallowed up by the thousands. Now, before premiering a joke, one must first pay a visit to the folks at Google to see if someone else hasn't already thought of it, and the chances are, they have. Thus it inspires the cunning among us to seek pointed refuge in the wastelands of obscurity — though now the numbers there are so great, that it, too, has turned many a never-will-be into an unintentional plagiarist.

And what can you do to contend with all these original thoughts floating around? Well, you could add self-deprecating disclaimers at the start of your posts, stating that you are fully aware that the following may rip-off something. Of course that's been done too, so then where do you turn? Post-Modernism (or Post-Somthingism). You expand upon your previous attempt by continually making your audience aware of every possible flaw that could be seen in your post, thus covering your back. A reader could, for instance, say: "This is self-indulgent rubbish." but then, after reading a postscript which states that the author also considers it self-indulgent rubbish, the reader would add "Oh, but he admits it. How clever." and such. Soon you would get sections like: "I know this isn't very original, and I know it isn't very original to say this isn't very original..." until, as an internetter would have it, the world explodes.

I've done this a lot in the past: covering my back so comprehensively, that no one could think of any criticism that I haven't already admitted to. It's a good strategy for people who can't take criticism, ironically in the shape of self-criticism. But this sort of thing opens itself to potential hostility as to its very nature, and wouldn't, in all likelihood, ever be beyond scrutiny. It's fun while it lasts.

If there's an original thought out there, I could use it right now.

Tea for Three

There we were — us — sitting in that very English tea room in Paris. Two of us were in a mood of resentment, as the third had an ulterior motive for the meeting. They mouthed "Get on with it" and I did.
"How much are the tickets for a Three Tenors concert?" I asked.
They shrugged.
"$30"
They cringed.
"And how much for a Ten Tenors concert?"
They feigned deafness.
"$100!"
Though I thought the deftly executed exclamation would make it funnier, they looked far from amused, and eventually they concentrated their annoyed glares until I stopped searching for approval.

By this time I had run out of tenor groups with numbers in their names, so I knuckled down and finished my Camomile. As I reached the dregs, I noticed, with an absent turn of my head, my muse running off down the street with a plate of truffles and a yeast bun.

The Barrel

And on went the barrel.

My Brilliant Career

The sweat from my elbows was drying under my tongue. I was in a bar. A woman (you know, one of those things with tits) was trying to think in the corner with a man who was trying to let her. High-rise filth sat lonely on a stool. I hoped he'd stay lonely for the rest of his life and I retched in my wallet so I wouldn't have to pay.

I mixed bourbon with scotch, and vice versa, and drank it from a beer mug. Most of it spilt down my neck and settled onto my crotch, but the effect was still shattering and comforting. I laughed and reached for my flask of whiskey which had dollops of freeze-dried whipped cream floating in it like snow. I blacked out.

I came to in a public toilet with vomit in my ears. Someone with a brain was screaming something at me but I couldn't hear him. I felt like groping him until I realised he wasn't a woman. I pushed him aside and made my way back into the bar. Someone was sitting on my stool. He rose from his stolen seat as I approached and began mumbling something about art. Art. What a crock. I took another long sip of bile and blacked out.

When I regained myself, I was in bed with the fat barmaid and dripping maple syrup on her thighs. She was unconscious. I tried to recall something, but couldn't and made tracks. Her fat dog buried its head in my groin as I navigated passed the junk in her garden and left an embarrassing stain that looked as if I had just returned from a liberated bookshop. I smashed my empty bottle of piss on its head and made faster tracks.

I threw up continually as I walked, so I bought another bottle and tried to dilute it somewhat — though I still had to let it go every few minutes. When at last it stopped, I made my way back to the bottle shop and bought a casket of whiskey for the journey home. At my front door, I decided I needed to make up for the latest drunk slip in my record, so I went to another bar in search of better looking stands.

She offered me some crap and I took it. She looked better this way. She thought I was an angel I thought she was a native wearing tribal gear and speaking in tongues. We got along famously. She offered me some different crap and I took it. Now she looked like an angel. We spent the night this way.

I spent the next day with bricks in my skull and sawdust in my eyes, and I spent it, despite my condition, looking for the worst bars that I could hang out in when it was darker. I found one and started early. The barmaid wasn't too fat this time, but she was disgustingly flat, so I left. I found a better one in the next street with a better looking barmaid and cheaper liquor. I went into the toilets after a while and really felt like pissing straight onto the walls. I did. I left the toilets and really felt like pissing on the barmaid.

This time it was a man behind the bar and he looked foul. He looker fouler when he handed me the glass, and fouler still when he refilled it. I hated his guts. I hated the stuff around his guts more. He looked and sounded like an advertising executive who'd lost his job but was certain he would soon get back on his feet. I wished him well; I didn't want to see him again. I went to the toilet and pissed on the walls, the floor and, accidentally, the bowl. I replenished my liver with my flask and did a runner. After that ordeal, I needed some cunt.

And then back to work on Monday.

Miss Awol and the Rubbish She Inspired

In a dreamy place of whatsoever, she sends off pride to whosoever, and removes the vowels from her typewriter. In the dreamy space of three short hours, she writes a novel of consonants, and eats the paper. At the stroke of midday, and in firm prime, she wanders like a wonderful catfish and spies a pre. So goes her prowling and her cain; so goes her gutter-call and her lack of second-thoughts (counteracting my sensual abundance). So goes the sorry woes of those who chose to read my prose.

Genesis

It was on a pale Tuesday in May that the deadly ball first found itself head over heals. A simple two-word comment landed on a thing about people, much to my surprise, and, out of obligation, I decided I would repay the favour. But alas! This was no mere compliment I had received: this was the work of two attention-seeking technophiles, for on their site I found many a person who shared my circumstances, having also received that infamous two-word salute. Yes, I uncovered their ingenious scheme and I, being me, could not sit by idly while this went on. So I sharpened my fingers and unloaded a paragraph of bile upon my captors that dared them to make their presence considerably less vague. And they did:

Buttercup and JOHN-43 said...

You are right Hugh.... you ARE irritating. Firstly, let me say, uh... well no.. can't say thanks really. Was gonna say thanks for posting a nice little comment on my blog. But since you found it apparently amusing to assume that we had some kind of dastardly machine leaving "nice blog ;)))" on people's blogs, I will tell you this. We are simply two people who met online, we are from different countries and to pass the time away while waiting for immigration to get its act together, my husband looks at other people's blogs from time to time. Since we find it nice to receive any comments, we try to do the same. Sometimes all one can say is 'nice blog' so that is all we leave. Malicious? I think you are way off. Rubbing our happiness in other people's faces? You have GOT to be kidding! ...sheesh. Good luck with your blog.

Though previously their acts had been relatively innocent, now, spurned on by my anger, they began to think up a much more damaging plan to inflict upon their whistle-blower. The machine they built to fulfill their orders was so powerful and complex that its construction took over ever aspect of their lives, leaving them no time to fondle and mouth sweet nothings. Injected into this machine was every aspect of that which defined them; in short, they were the machine. And eventually their former existence whittled away to dust, and all that was left of the two was harnessed in a grand web of machinery that convulsed away in the trans-Atlantic residence that once housed unknown lovers.

After flinging misleading advertisements into the virtual hemisphere for a time, the machine decided that expansion would lead to greater damage and thus began work on an army of robots to do its bidding. And so the plague was born in the shape of five million burnt umber servants, whose only goal was to plant seeds of anonymity in the guise of compliments.

Yes, I had a hand in creating the swarm, and for that I apologise, but it would have happened sooner or later, whether by my hand or another's. They were spawned from two infatuated persons who were just looking for an opportunity such as the one I unknowingly supplied.

Tom the Omitted

So insignificant is he, that the plague of automations/robots/machines have completely overlooked him and his three genuine posts — well, two and a half genuine posts, as the second part of his bard tale (for some reason appearing before the first and in italics) includes much of part one in its length. Thus Tom-o-Fingers remains blissfully uninfected.

And how is he spending his freedom? Well, he's writing detective-ridden screenplays and perpetually unfinished short stories in between chatting-up wallflowers at fringe-dweller parties and writing sentence-long letters to age-old pen-pals abroad.

I Thwart the Robotically Imminent

I've been overrun, the Parisian's been overrun, but Ben, being Ben (and, by rights, Yodo), is still holding them off gallantly with his marble-substitute trophy and his girly wits. A harrowing wind collapses me and I feel like a meek slice of butter and grease — and then you realise that you have wasted your opportunity to say anything — and I, me, him (to you), wonder about things and other things.

And now we've been viciously ex-patted from our homes and are both forced to seek refuge at Ben's hill, where we help out as best we can by making dinner and doing housework while our saviour fends off our foes (and his). Mother Stephan, meanwhile, looming like a God over the hillside, gazes down upon us — me in particular: his runaway son — and tempts fate and the mechanical onslaught with a dangling line of vulnerability.

Cries of cartoon creatures and dieting success stories rise from the unoiled cogs like kettle-drum-o-parking-lots and are picked up by the clever ears of our three overexposed but underdeveloped protagonists (me included), who were hitherto busying themselves with needlework; now, after I realise I just spent two and a half grand on that joke, we make a stand outside our adopted home (in the two's case) and almost succeed in failing.

While all this rubbishy stuff is steadily going on, The Tu, locked up in an unnamed state, bemoans the state of his previous full-colour starring-role rendering, and heaves a sigh into his belly as he makes his way here. Wondering where my long hair went, and where is the me he used to know, he diverts himself innocently and taps metal keys in the dark. When at last the lights return, he discovers that the inked paper result reveals undesirable dark shades in personkind, which he previously thought nonexistent, having been raised on a diet of life-affirmation.

The dreadful chunder still remains in the form of a deeply unsettling and awful smelling stain across the face, which obscures all but the letters S, T, O and X. And it was his favourite T-shaped shirt.

In a small bedroom sits Harry. His eyes are fixed with intense concentration upon his human-sized canine, who in turn has her eyes fixed upon an enticing little bin hiding in the shadows and expelling a delightful odour.

Mr. Bee breathes easy by a safe man with head in hands.

And the three have finished their (our) stand, and now they (we) stood and watched our wrinkles become more and more prominent. It was fun to say the least, but I, being the race I am, prefer to say the most: it was an enlightening, bold, brash, humbling, beautiful and long experience.

And now we chew through the heavenly stairs and gates and clouds and angels until we may stumble upon our better halves and produce better thirds or quarters — if our seeds haven't dried up, that is; and if they really are the sunshines of our lust; and if Ben really hasn't paired-off with the bloodsucking machine of yesterday.

Mother Stephan

Out of his convulsing thighs I came; a bloodied mess of mucus and flesh; and into the world I was born; borne of Mother Stephan. Unfortunately for him, this meant that his conception tool — now resembling the aftermath of a bazooka and a peeled banana combined — was now permanently out of commission, meaning that I was the last in the long line of Stephan-scented soldiers. As he clutched my infantile form to his tender breast, I began to contemplate his worthiness on Life's Ladder.

How could I rank someone so integral to my construction, without whom I wouldn't be here to write this? Actually, come to think of it, the person responsible for this here jumble of junk should be punished, not rewarded. So Ben, you can keep your title and platter and marble-substitute trophy, and, because you aimed in that direction (and for no other reason), I have decided to award you the Pulitzer Prize for your latest* post.

*Information correct at the time of writing.

Hugh the Manager

Off I go to climb the ranks after night. Wearing a most fetching blue smart-casual shirt and polished but well-worn shoes (and pants, don't forget pants), I will saunter with hewn sophistication up to the relevant personal, raise my brow and unload my most responsible and trustworthy smile upon them. Instantly impressed and possibly flattered and charmed beyond belief, they will reach for the special form in a trance-like state and say in a quavering voice: "Sign here please." They will of course offer me a pen, but me, being the embodiment of the scout motto, will already have one in my left breast pocket. A few semi-legible scribbles later, I will find my preferred hand locked firmly (at my end) in a limp priest-like shake that is much favoured by the white-collar world and often called upon in times of trouble.

And then, my dear friends, I will spend half a day with boxes in my hand and the bottom of my recently purchased shirt in my pants, after which I will be rocketed to a less hands-on position behind a desk and void of responsibility. My newfound wealth will be invested wisely into technology up until the point where I can use it to manipulate time and hire my formally unemployed and unqualified and inexperienced self. After a day's delusion, I will, for no reason given, fire myself and inform me nastily that I will never work in this town again.

The Summit of His Long Career

Ben has now reclaimed his throne — for keeps this time. So sturdy are the foundations 'neath his glistening blue circle that it will take at least 100 begging Stephans to even rattle the wind around it. Yes, Stephan, you're back on the soiled second rung. But how? I pretend I hear you cry. Well, Ben simply ignored the obvious course of action — beg for his place back — and instead launched a searing character assassination upon his rival that left no doubt of who the real winner should be. Plus, it was as funny as a non-descript pork sandwich and almost twice as enlightening. So the trophy and the marinated meat platter will be returned to Ben's eager and greasy paws, which have been entertaining themselves innocently in their absence.

And with the formalities over, Ben mounts his stage and raises the two dripping symbols of Hugh's democracy to the heavens.

Over the Hill and Far Far Far

Here sits four decades wrapped in a bitter, wrinkling shell. The room is gloomy and filled with unsuccessfully hidden magazines. The centrepiece is a second-hand over-varnished Elizabethan desk with a stylish computer on it. The decades are tapping their furious and frail fingers on a transparent keyboard and causing letter-shaped pixels to appear on the screen. No relating years or friendly years are ever seen to be in the room. On the bright side, the decades have upped their quotient to two posts a day. Today's post reads as follows:

Desolation squats above me like a ludicrous mosquito and lowers a tendril of despair into my vein. Outside, the collective world meets friends at a coffee shop and buys gifts for their adorable spouses. The day starts at morning, reaches the centre at midday and peaks at night time, yet to me this is only apparent through the light-levels in my room. I hate every wretched lung of personkind — mainly because I am part of it. There's no way to succeed in life. Not in this life. Not in this endless bowl of false fish and employment. I gaze upon my beautifully awful walls and picture myself sliding into 10 to 6 aprons. Loneliness is the only true emotion. I don't trust anyone who isn't lonely. Lonely. Yes, I'm quite lonely. I think I'll look at porn.

The decades are very proud of this addition. In celebration, they read through all the previous additions to remind themselves of how clever they are. As each giggle and exhale of awe is wrung from the text, the decades wonder how no one else appreciates it the way they do. Except maybe those loyal fans from decades ago. They've stopped posting comments, but the decades are certain they are still there. Somewhere.

Here stumbles the decades upon a 21 year old post from August. No one will notice, they think. No one will mind. So they lift the second paragraph and paste it in a much younger post.

Tarnished, But Still Lime-Green

I've been bribed by Stephan into making him No.1 again and returning his meat platter and marble-substitute trophy. How did he do this? Well, he transparently ranked me No.1 on his site and begged me to return his trophy. Naturally I obliged. So it seems Ben's stay was brief indeed; he entirely failed to notice Stephan creeping up behind him with a flask of oil, and the next thing he knew, he was airborne and heading for the rickety second rung. Unfortunately, he dropped eight whopping great hamburgers in the process and was without lunch for a week.

And now Stephan stands proud on my podium (that homo-eroticism was unintentional, I assure you) and flies paper planes at the ordinaries far below. All of them hit a bearded Information Technology teacher as he dries himself with a mobile fan.

Meanwhile I await my inevitable death at the hands of Arthur Lee and his shotgun.

Royal Women's Early Early

It was there in those two mid-eighties years — '85 and '86 — that Ben and I were first shown the artificial lights. It took us about ten minutes to fully adjust and set up our brothel in a seldom used janitor's closet, after which we went about acquiring willing flesh — whether they be staff or patients — until we had a sizable line-up at our disposal. Our star pupil was a buxom young nurse named Sally, who had immigrated from New Zealand with considerably high-hopes but ended up as a disillusioned nurse after failing to sell her beat-poetry cassettes. She was much in demand from the middle-aged male doctors, and was soon dubbed "Substitute Sally" by her co-workers.

There are many advantages of setting up a brothel in a hospital. Firstly, there are a slew of on-hand treatments if one the employees contracts anything; and secondly, this situation can be avoided by sifting through the clients' files beforehand. All in all, it's probably the most ideal place for this sort of business. Our shrewdness in those early days can't be undervalued.

As is the norm, we soon had to expand our humble closet to include a couple of medical labs and a storage room, which we transformed into a sensual love nest by way of candles and fluffy heart-shaped pillows. Our staff, too, grew substantially thanks to an influx of influenza, and by August '86, we had a total of 65 workers working beneath us and our clients. In short, life was good.

The money that consistently rolled past our noses saw us indulging in grand material excess — we were quite young, after all. Ben, for instance, purchased a 1940's Buick and an island in the Caribbean, while I poured my earnings into elaborate dinner wear and impractically-designed architectural nightmares strewn haphazardly along the Great Ocean Road. But for all this luxury and high-society living, I'm glad to say that we never fell into the trappings of drug-addiction and male nymphomania (the latter could be attributed to our pre-pubescent state). We were just clean-cut kids who dreamed of 9 to 5 existences in suburban picket-fence houses with homemaking wives and sporting children.

Inevitably, our business was brought to a close by our mothers' strange desire to have us living in their houses, but our hearts were no longer in it anyway, so we obliged. Taking our small fortunes with us and stuffing them 'neath our respective mattresses, we spent the next 12 odd years apart living the quiet domestic offspring lifestyle, until fate threw us together once again at high school.

Now, as I near my first double-decade, an old feeling has awaken inside me. We were fools for ever giving up that life. I only hope you feel the same way and have not been corrupted by the sciences. So how about it, Ben?

In Your Lime-Green Face, Stephan

Before I forget, I shall now posthumously place Ben above Stephan, as he has suddenly created a barrage of posts on his site. Sure, I should probably wait a week or so to see if he keeps it up, but screw it; this fresh burst of ben-scented inspiration is all the proof I need. That's right Stephan, I'm taking away the meat platter and marble-substitute trophy and mailing them to the rightful owner — or Ben, depending on how guilty I'm feeling.

As for the punctual Parisian, well it's early days yet. But who knows? Maybe in a few short measures of time, you'll be ascending my hand-crafted podium with the intention of wrenching bawdy Ben off the blue circle. Then, perhaps, you'll hold the plate of carefully chosen deli meats aloft and thrust your pelvis joyously to the cosmos.

On the opposite end of the scale, Tom must still endure the humiliation of being on the poorly-made bottom rung, where his days are spent wailing up at Anh Tu's behind, which, thanks to his knowledge of Chaucer, constantly haunts him — though his handy red-hot poker grants him some relief there. Harry, meanwhile, invests his thoughtfully indifferent time by composing moving sonnets which, in all likelihood, no one will hear. I doubt anyone will read them, either.

And where do I fit in all this? Well, I play the part of myself. I watch from the highest seat — the stars, if you will — and massage my tender muscles in front of a mirror, whilst left over short people, who lost their home after Ben discredited them, run around my throne and quote my writings. It's not exactly ideal, but I get by.

Mindless

"How does it feel?"
"Pretty harming good," I replied as he wrenched the crowbar south.
"All right, that part's done. Are you ready for the next bit?"
"As ready as I'm steady," I said. I had stopped shaking four minutes ago.
"Here we go."
I felt an internal pluck and then there was silence.
"All done," he beamed.
"Is that it?" I asked, for I had expected considerably more pain.
"Yup. That's it."
"Incredible!"
"Indeed. How do you feel?"
I considered this a moment before replying.
"Better," I said.
"Then it's a job well done. Do you want to see it?"
"I suppose so," I answered indifferently.
He held up the large glass bowl in front of me.
"I'm glad I'm finally rid of it," I said.
"I'm glad I helped you finally rid it," he added politely.

After that, I lived forever, never contracted any diseases or acquired any detrimental conditions, became quite happy and married someone who wouldn't come around to my outrageous solution and thus died a disappointing average-length life. I became permanently emotionless from then on, but I still laughed at my best jokes.

Ben the Miracle Worker

A look of calm friendliness and grave responsibility sat on his face whenever I saw him. Sometimes, when I was bored, I tried to picture him screaming under a blanket, but somehow it never seems right. Anger was beneath him. Ben The Miracle Worker was a good man.

That same unchanging look was on his face today, too, as he made his way up my garden path (if you'll excuse the homo-erotic euphemism) in the sensual midday rain. I of course offered him a cup of hot stuff as he considerately hung up his soaked coat so as it would leave the least mess on my floor, and he of course refused, being unable to allow people to go to any trouble at his expense. By now, however, I knew what to do in this situation.
"You can make it yourself, if you'd prefer," I told him smugly.
"No," he replied. "It's all right."
I smiled carefully.
"I'd be offended if you didn't have one."

He looked down at his steaming brown uncertainly, as if he didn't quite know what to do with it, and asked me why it was that I had called him to my house.
"Firstly," I began, "I would like a yacht."
"A yacht?"
"Yes. I feel in dire need of one. I may even kill myself if I don't get one."
"Oh," said Ben. "And secondly?"
"Secondly, I'd like you to get rid of my neighbour."
"Your neighbour? But why?"
"He's making my life hell. I don't think I can live another day with him beside my property."
"But I can't just..."
"I'll let you deal with it as you see fit," I interrupted forcefully.
"But..." he protested pathetically.
"Or maybe I'll just go for a swim in my heavy shoes."

After a few moments, my neighbour answered his door.
"Hello," he said upon seeing us.
"Hello," said Ben. I remained silent. "Um," began Ben after a nervous pause, "how would you like to live in an enormous mansion?" This offer was so pathetic that I couldn't imagine anyone believing him.
"I'm sorry?" said my neighbour incredulously.
"I have the power to grant your wildest dreams," continued Ben.
"You what?"
Ben sighed and made a bouquet of flowers appear in mid air.
"Jesus!" exclaimed my neighbour.
"You can live anywhere in the world," said Ben.
"I don't want live anywhere in the world, I want to live here. Now piss off!" the door slammed in our faces — particularly Ben's.
"Oh well," I said. "I guess I'll have to go for that cliff-side walk." I picked up the flowers and smelt them gaily for extra effect, but he was already crying and too wrapped up in his own world to notice me.

More Things About Buildings and God

I don't even think there's much point in mentioning Gods. We may as well just knuckle down and find a spouse — because really, that's all there is to it. It makes no difference whether there's something out there or not — unless, of course, one of them has a personal vendetta against you. In my lowly opinion, too many people have wasted their lives entertaining the promise of Heaven, and considering life as just a means to an end that has to be endured.

The defining factor in all this is the simple fact that atheism (and, I guess, agnosticism) doesn't actually affect your life. With, for instance, Christianity, you have to turn up to Church every Sunday, follow some narrow-minded rules, and, in the more devout areas, sacrifice your happiness so you can serve the man upstairs. I know what I'd rather believe. Another advantage of atheism is that its fundamentals can't be misconstrued and used as a pretext for war — or something equally bad. There's no danger of someone using it for political advantage or social upheaval. And I can't really picture an atheist suicide bomber.

Gods are irrelevant to how we live our lives. Anyway, this is just me repeating the same points over and over again, so I'll make tracks.

Who Says Music's Dead?

All the best band names are taken. Evidence? Bravado. All the best songs have been written. Evidence? Bravado. All the best non-interactive band websites have been made. Evidence? Bravado. The word on every serious music lover's lips. The three syllables of revolution and fierce invention. All the best derivative punk bands have been and gone. Thank the Gods for Bravado.

100th Anniversary Special

Yes, that's right: today is my hundredth year on this site. Since 1905, I have been writing one post a year, and now, five years into the 21st Century, I have reached triple figures. "One post a year?" I hear you cry cynically; well, let me put you at ease. I'm not one of those people who bangs out a two-word post in a matter of seconds once every few days, no; I spend an entire year planning my posts so that, come December time, they are as perfect as I can make them. Roughly speaking, I try to write about one word a day, and that can take anywhere up to eight hours to do. Not many people in this industry would be that considerate. Certainly not a box-haired contemporary of mine (named Tom).

He started his blog in 1906, and since then he's only done four posts — one of which was mine. For some of you — particularly Ben, Anh Tu and Harry — this may be a blessing, but there are people out there who enjoy his right-wing no-nonsense prose, and would appreciate someone who could articulate their abortion concerns. Anh Tu's site also has only four posts, but his posts are slightly longer overall, and they're all in order — plus he regularly mentions fisting. Next up is Harry, whose posts, while riddled with juvenile profanity and sacrilegious defecations of ice-cream, have the added benefit of artwork, which are a welcome, albeit derivative (Picasso, Van Gogh — you name it), addition. Then there's Ben. His site has the advantage of starting the earliest — 1903 — and thus has already built up a solid amount of posts. Even though the updates aren't very frequent, I've placed Ben above the other three because of his enormous penis. And so we come to Stephan. Out of the four, he is only only one who posts semi-regular updates, and, along with standard entries, there are accompanying pictures that add to the experience. His posts consist of exhilaratingly unpunctuated pseudo-stream-of-consciousness accounts of his weekends — with particular reference to drinking and Karaoke — and are often sharply observed. He's less successful when he tries to tackle the political climate of Medieval England, but this doesn't detract from the site as a whole.

Speaking of which, the titles of my two worst posts have the following initials: I.O.T.E.S and F.O.A.L.I.P.T.B.A. But aside from that, I would like to thank you for the days; those sacred days, those endless days you gave me.

Yellow Matter Industry Songs

The following observation is directed mainly at the pop/rock world. Music today is influenced, rather then influential. Actually, who cares? Let's just wait and wait and wait for things to come along that are, will be, relatively nice and/or good. This is a philosophy which lends itself warmly to sloths, as all good philosophies should. It, inevitably, is directly referring to the will-be greats: YMIS, who will no doubt reinvigorate everything that was previously unreinvigorated and change the way you commoners think.

Cats Vomit on My Groin

Life. Kitchen sinks falling through the sky. The clouds are humming like cocktails. Jealousy in admirers of my faith. Floating in pools of me. Love, love, directed only to me. Circumcise an apple for experience. God exists in the sense that people think of me as him. Floating flowers. Breezes lifting me and my beauty and my hotness. Oh baby, I'm the one. I'm as hot as the sun. Open your eyes, start a moving picture theatre. Only show films starring me, or else you're wasting your rolls. Take obscure close-up pictures of body parts in black and white. Love, lust, love, lust. Both are directed at me by all. On the rag again, can't wait to get back on the rag again. Ben's still jealous of my asset. Silhouettes and arses bathe in pools of hot sink seductresses (who, of course, secretly love me). The sky, with. I can't always be your golden statue, personkind. Lies rotting in baby's nappies. Sun smiling at me and only me because I'm hotter then it and it knows it so it smiles at me. Amnesty International employees seize up in my toilet. Cats vomit on my groin.

The Coming of The Black-Face Wonder Years

Here comes the event of the season. It's rolling along on a tight wheel of success and it promises to outshine the expectation thrown upon it by you. As it crawls from the horizon, it is plainly evident that it is more then half-way completed — in fact it seems to have a jolly seven already. One of them waves to me from the float. "I am afraid," it says. Another stands up beside it and says:
"But who knows? There must be so much going on here." The crowd beside me are amazed; so am I. Suddenly all seven jolly members rise to the front of the float.
"Prepare yourselves for the coming of The Black-Face Wonder Years," they chant. An eruption of enthusiasm rifles through the crowd and a good deal of women faint — for once not on my account. A music journalist in front of me rips out a sheet of foolscap paper and spills himself on it. After a few tender moments, an important looking man rides along in a bicycle and collects the paper with the intention of placing it firmly on page 23.

The event of the decade is almost upon us. A full shell of beauty and thought wrapped in a name and branded with a well-loved brand; that brand being, of course, Bucket Men: the pinnacle of personkind. And here they are again, ever-reliable. Is it any wonder that we love them so?

The Black-Face Wonder Years by Bucket Men is scheduled for release before the month is out and costs nothing (or a blank CD, depending on how much there is in stock).

Tuesday Sensual Sunday

I sensed, yesterday, that today, the day of writing, I would write about sensing. How right I was.

Hugh's Erotic Secret

Just for that little one who's on name-only terms with friends, I have decided, independently, to reach into my bag of sticks until I find the biggest in length. Holding it aloft and aiming it at the sun, I will then lay down my weary shoes in front of me and sit barefooted on the dirt, where I will recite everything that means anything. Soon the sun will drop from view and I will be crowded in darkness and strange. I will forget everything that meant anything and return to my little house to sleep. The next day will see me wake and wash and eat and leave and, eventually, return and eat and sleep. Which is why I've decided to rid myself of my brain and live thoughtless from now on.

Anh Tu in the Meadow

I was in a spot, all right. My last course of action was to pay a visit to Anh Tu The Stock-Broking Part-Time Advertising Executive at his four-storey high-rise premium lakefront mansion overlooking Caroline Springs™ to see if he could alleviate my rut.
"The arse on this bird!" he yelled enthusiastically. "I mean it was like someone had stuffed two pink beach balls into a wetsuit." He salivated uncontrollably and I began to wonder how the conversation reached this point.
"But she was so fucking dumb," he continued. "I had to make her go down on me so she couldn't talk anymore."
"About my problem—" I interrupted impatiently. He looked at me for a moment in utter confusion, then snapped his fingers as if he suddenly realised who I was.
"Yes!" he said. "Your problem." He repeated these words a few times to himself as he paced around the room. "Well," he said eventually, "I could give you Cindy — I'm started to get sick of her."
"No," I said forcefully. "I mean my money problem."
"Oh." He looked confused again and he began to scratch his scalp thoughtfully. "Look," he started, "I'd lend you some of my own, but I couldn't be sure you'd pay me back, so it'd just be like throwing money down the drain."
"That's not what I meant," I explained wearily. "I just came for some advice."
"Advice?"
"Yes."
He nodded contemplatively.
"Well, I don't know any Pro Bono lawyers. Most of 'em hate his guts, you see." He roared with a baritone laugh that expanded his grotesquely-exposed belly.
"If you're not going to take this seriously, then I'll be on my way," I said.
"No, no. I'm sorry." He patted me on the back with a thick right arm. "I'll give you some advice, sure." He led me over to a lavish couch and motioned for me to sit. When I obeyed, he turned to face the window.
"I have a friend who deals with these sorts of things," he said. "And I'm sure I could get him to lower his fees a bit."
"Is he any good?" I asked.
"He's very good — provided you're willing to plead insanity."
"That's what I keep telling myself, anyway," I said.
"Good, good." He turned to face me. "How much evidence have they got against you?"
"Well they've got my trench coat," I replied.
"It'll have to be insanity, then."
After fishing around in another room, he handed me a small business card and ushered me out the door.
"Thanks," I said as I made my way down the steps.
"No problem," he called after me. "Good luck."
"I haven't got a prayer, have I?" I asked.
"'A lost battle is a battle one thinks one has lost,'" he said.
"'Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from a defeat,'" I retorted.
He laughed and waved till I was firmly out of view and on my way to never seeing him again.

Pasted to Ignore

Robed, of course, lived, as such, in, not out, a, singular, lonely, house with a drought, not wet, I mean, and, as well as, a small, comparatively, case, container, of pride that he, that is to say, him, which is also to say Robed, kept, put, beside his bed and moved, by hand, everyday, around morning time. Knowing all too well that a house is not a motel, Robed never, ever, never let anyone else — aside from townsfolk and strangers — into his non-motel abode. I'm sure by now that you, with the eyes, who's either skimmed or endured this, is feeling a little awful, thanks in its entirety to this truly awful material blather. Thanks? Didn't think do.

What Art Thou?

Art having such a vague definition, and being fraught with contradictions and snobbish elitism, that it is unfortunate to note that a not particularly well-heard listener could claim Nickelback's latest album as a profound work of art and you could say nothing to refute that claim. Well, not exactly nothing; you could say that Nickelback are spineless no-talent god-ugly pricks who are 20,000 leagues below Bach, but it would amount to the same thanks to subjectivity.

John Carey, in his book What Good Are The Arts?, theorises that art is simply something that someone thinks is art. I guess that's an adequate description of a flawed term. One thing that messes everything up in this debate is whether the work in question was intended to be art. Say, for instance, that someone considers the late-great Shannon Noll's Now That's What I'm Talking About to be art. Is it still art when the creator's only goal in releasing the record is to make money? Does art have to be intended? As Andrew Ford pointed out, no. Hitchcock, for one, made his films to entertain an audience — not to be fawned over by critics. The whole term is wrapped in a minefield that can't be navigated as easily as I'm attempting here.

At this point, I'll dredge up that soggy old term Literature. As Ben and I have argued, all this term signifies is what the academics, as an ever-present body, think is any good. Literature has no specified meaning in itself, it is merely used to separate the supposed good from the supposed bad. I myself could open up a book store with a Literature section that includes only books that I like; which is the same thing sans the formidable weight of the erudite populous behind me. This definition could also be applied to art. Instead of branding things as art, we should instead slap a sticker on them that says: "Recommended by Academics and Critics alike".

In the end, all these terms are pointless. A work doesn't suddenly become better if someone calls it art — though it will attract more attention. We should stop categorising everything and start enjoying them.

In an attempt at putting an end to the matter, I paid a visit to my good friend Ben and posed the question: "What is art?" He considered this a moment before replying: "Art is nothing much."

Cups of Brown

A fresh cup of steaming brown was nestled in my hand. Aside from that, I positively decided, at that moment, that things, as they were, weren't as I necessarily wanted them to be. World politics swirled clockwise in my unsweetened cup; thanks in no small part to a silver spoon that may or may not have been in a newborn's mouth. Theories and ideals wobbled as I brought the cup towards my chapped lips and tilted my hand, which also, by rights, tilted the cup that was in it, eventually leading to a slope of brown that slid onto my tongue and was promptly swallowed. The history of personkind found refuge in my inner bits and infused me with contempt.

My next utterance resembled a gurgle, and would have, if deciphered, caused an open-minded soul to think about things, and perhaps even act upon things. Instead I was left with the remaining two-thirds of steaming brown which, in my hands, were destined for greatness; the greatness of my belly.

Instant Cola vs. The Powerman & the Money-Go-Round, Part One

The café had an abundance of well-varnished wood surfaces, and thus inspired more interesting people. Two of them were sitting towards the back, not far from the drinks. One was, surprisingly, a woman; the other was also a woman, so to speak, but she belonged to the monkey-person family. Put simply, she faced the day 'neath a badly made monkey/ape mask.

On the table before them lay two tall glasses of Coke-A-Chino™.

Before I go on, I would like to ask the assistance of my two readers as to how this drink should be spelt. Should it, for instance, retain the Italian spelling by using "Cino"? Should we change the spelling of "Coke" so as to avoid legal issues?

The Human Conditioner

SQUIRE: It's amazing.
ROBE: Stunning.
SQUIRE: And so spiritual.
ROBE: A perfect approximation of 'the human condition'.
SQUIRE: Profound.
ROBE: Beautiful.
SQUIRE: Incredible.
ROBE: Brilliant.

Enter GREENSKIN.

GREENSKIN: Like it?
SQUIRE: It's a masterpiece.
ROBE: Fabulous!
GREENSKIN: Thanks.
SQUIRE & ROBE: What? You mean...?
GREENSKIN: Yes. I'm Greenskin Bowman.
SQUIRE: We love your work.
GREENSKIN: Thanks.
ROBE: How did you ever come up with such a brilliant piece?
GREENSKIN: I used my imagination and a brush.
SQUIRE: Ha ha. But really, what form of spiritualism inspired this painting?
GREENSKIN: How do you mean?
ROBE: Well, we noticed a touch of Buddhism in the way you used the light, and also a clear undercurrent of Christianity in the way the people are arranged. We were just wondering what religion you are partial to.
GREENSKIN: None, actually.
SQUIRE: But there must be one — how do you explain all the symbolism?
GREENSKIN: What symbolism?"
SQUIRE: The sun, for one.
GREENSKIN: The sun?
SQUIRE: Yes. Surely you must have intended it as a symbol of ancient religion, bathing the populous in its life-giving essence.
GREENSKIN: No.
ROBE: Come now, Bowman, you don't need to be humble around us.
GREENSKIN: But I'm not being humble.
ROBE: These artist types are always trying to deconstruct analysis.
GREENSKIN: I'm not doing anything.
SQUIRE: Well, supposing for a moment that you didn't intend the symbolism to which we refer, what, in fact, was your goal in making this painting?
GREENSKIN: I just wanted to paint something simple and direct; something that celebrated people for who they are and nothing else. But really, the meaning is irrelevant.
ROBE: Irrelevant?
GREENSKIN: Yes. Everyone places too much meaning on things these days. All there is to it, really, is to try to be happy before you die. You know, find someone who loves you and all that.
SQUIRE: So you're agnostic?
GREENSKIN: No, I'm a devout atheist.
ROBE: You can't be serious.
GREENSKIN: Oh but I am.
SQUIRE: How can you be an artist, then?
GREENSKIN: What do you mean?
SQUIRE: How can you explore the depth and breadth of 'the human condition' if your philosophy states that we're all just monkeys with brains.
GREENSKIN: I don't see how that has anything to do with it.
ROBE: It has everything to do with it. The only thing that separates art from craft is spiritualism; the feeling that there's something more. And it's the artist's job to help us see the light, so to speak. Without this feeling, your art has no more worth then a chair.
SQUIRE: And it deserves to be sat on.
GREENSKIN: So you're saying you have to believe in God to make art?
ROBE: A suitably compromised assumption, but yes.
GREENSKIN: That's ridiculous.
SQUIRE: No, my good sir, that's ridiculous.
GREENSKIN: Suppose I'm right, though.
ROBE: Right about what?
GREENSKIN: About there being no God; no afterlife; nothing beyond our eyes.
ROBE: Yes...
GREENSKIN: Well, wouldn't that then, by rights, make all the spiritually motivated art meaningless and ignorant.
SQUIRE: That's absurd. We could say the same about atheist works.
GREENSKIN: Precisely. So it shouldn't make any difference what the artist believes.
ROBE: It makes all the difference. Atheist artists are pretentious.
GREENSKIN: Pretentious?
ROBE: Yes. If you paint a picture whilst thinking that nothing means anything, and then place it in a gallery where everything means something, you're being pretentious.
GREENSKIN: But surely it's more pretentious to convince yourself, with no proof whatsoever, that there is a God and then make artworks inspired by this belief.
SQUIRE: That's why you'll never understand art. Real artists don't need proof. They can tap into a world you'll never understand; a world that you deny the existence of only on the basis that you have never seen it.
GREENSKIN: Have you seen it?
SQUIRE: Yes. I have seen it through the eyes of the great artists.
GREENSKIN: So that's a no, then?
SQUIRE: Your Demeanour wearies me. Come, Robe, let us leave this impostor in our wake.
GREENSKIN: The work hasn't changed, you know.
ROBE: What?
GREENSKIN: Despite all that's been said and revealed, the work is as it was when I first put down my brush.
ROBE: So it would seem. Good day.

The Apple o' My Apple Pie

Today isn't Isaac Newton's birthday. Autographs are pointless. Unless you use them for monetary gain, you're an idiot; a start-struck shit. What can you do with barely-readable scribble? Nothing. It serves no purpose whatsoever. It doesn't link you any closer to the star either, because most of them resent autograph hunters and are more likely to share a connection with fans who are wise enough to avoid them. Admire their work and leave it there.