Archives for posts with tag: Non Fiction

Had to go to the city to see some wrestling. At home spending hours homing in on the requisite state of drunk & high to catch the damn train. Arrive hours later and rush to the hotel to check in. Nice place, steady elevator with no smell, tiny narrow hallways that can’t possibly be as silent as they are. Tiny room that has more than enough space and frivolous bullshit for these rural boys. I thought the previous guests had left some casual drinks in the mini fridge which was safely encased between 2 inches of fake marble. I went to grab a Peroni and feel its malty refreshment. God how naive I was. Then my much more well-travelled friend told me I was a jerk off and that we’d have to pay for whatever we consumed afterward. That nothing was free once you left the hermitage of your bedroom, that they were trying to intrude costs into there as well. It turned out there was a small drinks menu (un-professionally typeset [noted]) on the counter in a plastic upright that you might see at a kitsch-as-fuck eatery where previous dining experience was not assumed. Even though my friend explained to me the rules of engagement out here in real life Parker Bros world, I continued to be stitched-up. Like, we’re in a room with two beds and when I see two water bottles on the bedside tables I think, What a lovey concession. Nope. They have specially designed and printed labels around the top saying they can cure your thirst and realign your bodies pH balance for just $2. As with the fruitbowl- life for a price.

There are iPhone chargers (with extensions for every other imaginable phone brand) provided which are free so I go off on an intelligence-gaining jaunt around the 12-foot room. It turns out it’s only things you need that cost money; i.e, all the food and drinks. All the unnecessary amenities are free. This is great marketing because everything you need to consume the pay-only items are free, but also bad because obviously you have to purchase a pay-only thing in order to employ them. It good for Quest because then you have to purchase a $9.20 beer to use the free can opener, or order over-priced food to use the free cutlery on the fake granite bench. I do a shit and wonder what it will cost me but it turns out flushing the toilet is free, as is the tiled glass-doored shower, which is in the same small room and only separated by an opaque green wall of glass. After pacing a circuit into the perimeter of the room my dogs are barking so I sit down on this fluffy chair in the corner that has gone lumpy from the passage of non-coordinated buttocks. My ass sinks in deep when I sit and I wonder if their isn’t some spring-loaded mechanism that’s gonna click and send a surreptitious message to the front desk that one of the patrons have sat on the comfy chair and will have to be billed later. I don’t care, I look out the unclean window panes at the free view.

Catch a silent uber to a crazy NXT show. Joe vs Nakamura in a cage, Dillinger, Roode, Regal, more $9 Heinekens, $7 buckets of chips, overpriced merchandise, $50 Strong Style hats, promo girls in black jeans and heels that make your heart feel vertigo handing out WWE store discounts. It’s all good business but god does it feel alienating. Not because you can’t get what you want, but because when you’re there you feel like you want things that you know you don’t, so you begin to feel isolated from yourself. Like, I’m pretty cocked when we get there yet I stand in a lengthy line to buy 4 beers that cost nearly $40 just because there is a line and there’s nothing else to do and I am out in the city for once. There’s sound and light and garish merchandise and other people running to their seats with trays of beers and it all engenders some sort of sperm competition to buy things you know you don’t want but think you’ll feel better when you have. As a result I’m standing there with my paper thin wallet and tray of beers considering buying the last ‘Glorious’ shirt in large knowing damn well a piddly L will never fit me. I find my seat and try to sit there without incurring extra costs.

After the show we head to a bar that has $5 Captain Morgans and bouncers that all apparently share the same HGH dealer. I can’t remember the name of the place but they are playing the WORST commercial pop from like 4-5 years ago. My friend goes put to the smokers area with his beer in hand and is nearly F-5’d by a bouncer who is downright incredulous someone could have made such an oblivious decision. We drink rounds of Cpt Morgs and spend spare change playing games of skill, silently acknowledging that we could be saving our money for the uber home. And I mean to the hotel room, not home.


I have been drinking red wine lately because it makes me feel worse than smoking weed. The logic is that hopefully I’ll hit breaking point and drive myself to quit both soon. Aversion therapy. There’s nothing worse, for me, than the onrush of memory that assaults me everyday as I wake up. All the debauchery and impetuous decisions of the night before shown to me as if in a dream, a dream of a louche young thug destroying himself slowly and leaving nothing behind but a impecunious corpse. When I wake up still drunk from the wine this doesn’t mean anything to me. Good.

I haven’t been writing as many music reviews lately. There doesn’t seem to be much coming out that isn’t accorded either unanimous worship or revulsion, so what will my queer little voice add to the composition? Plus I’ve nearly finished a short story and, while it isn’t actually good, it made me feel better to write. I might post it on here soon if I can get fucked-up enough to re-read through it and do the necessary editing. If more reviews or reading this story interest you let me know.

Speaking of fucked up, at Earthcore this weekend someone (allegedly) got waterboarded. Like there’s footage of it happening so it’s not alleged, but I think they were just have a laugh with their mates so it’s alleged to me because part of torture is that it is intended to inflict pain on an unwilling participant. (Isn’t ‘unwilling participant’ an oxymoron? ‘Hostage’ seems to imply the same thing without the incongruity.) The good old Australian larrikin misrepresented by the paranoiacally afraid and out of touch media in this country. If anyone is glad they dropped out of journalism school it’s me. I’m just surprised they decided to bash the youth of this country with this piece and not angle for some headline-garnering anti-muslim fear mongering (very fashionable right now). How long ’til Andrew Bolt appears in the tabloids like the intermittent period stain he is and declares “Immigrants at music festivals torture fun-loving youth just trying to suck down nangs and GHB in peace.” People over forty seem to always need a (un)-common enemy. Anyone who’s just a little different from the 45 racist bumpkins they went to year 10 deb with back in ’63. The same people who think they’ve succeeded in life because they drive a new Senator (on payments of course) and get to hang a tribal-tattooed arm out of their driver’s window while they blast Pink or the Eagles in traffic and claim to be ‘free thinkers’ and anti-corporate. Bless ’em and their high speed drive-by vitriol and popular control of public ignorance.

Anyway this seems like it would have been one of the tamest highs a person could achieve Out There anyway. Out There in the middle of the Dread Bush, where all manner of illicit pleasures seem to pullulate in the arid soil. Couldn’t go unfortunately. What with being broke and trying to minimise my intake of mind altering molecules. Spent the weekend at home instead, yelling at the missus and watching nightly news, sharpening my pitchfork for fear that the neighbours would murder me. If you’ve never been to a Doof (Australian rave in the middle of the wilderness), it’s kind of like this doc from the 80’s called Threads, which is a docudrama about nuclear fallout. Besides being one of the most unflinching and un-glossy  portrayals of nuclear hysteria, it accurately sums up both the Id-satisfying immediacy of people going to doofs, and the jingoist attitude of people in small rural towns watching 1000’s of mesomorphs enter their gates with cars full of recherché chemicals. Everyone is so concerned with protecting their little patch (whether it be physical, metaphysical or metaphoric); everyone thinks that someone they don’t know is trying to take from them.  The only damage that occurs is to employability, and only because employers genuinely care about the reach of their influence and want their employees to bow down to not just what they say here and now, but years ago before they started working there too. The whole world is ran by imperialists wielding weapons of symbolic violence, so disempowered all their life they take to their platform like Mussolini. Welcome to modern Australia, where waterboarding is preferable to spending 20 minutes with anyone outside your limited demographic.



The world is just generally overhyped. Talk about advertisement being the only art alive today. The thought of the thing seems to always eclipse the thing itself. The promo campaign invariably seems to get people excited and hashtagging release dates, then the thing drops and everyone’s like, “what the fuck is this bro?” Hence I’ve never understood the logic of “It’s better to be, than not to be.” Like, how do you fucken know. This is how closely we are or have become tied to advertising: even being alive has campaigns aimed at different demographics. For the older, Think about what a wonderful life you’ve had; for the younger, Think about the wonderful life you will have. But no one is telling you to just think about how wonderful life IS right now. And maybe that’s coz it isn’t good. It’s corrupt, shallow, atavistic and ruled by liars with total might. We’ve been so conditioned by advertising to look at the world around us as a lousy program that has minimal entertainment values. So we change the channel, everyone gets cooked doing drugs or drinking those two glasses of wine after work; we have affairs and start arguments with people just to not be bored; play radical politics to feel like we belong to a community.

Since our consciousness co-creates reality this elegantly describes why even natural occurrences are being rolled into this cult of superficial value and subsequent let down. Or maybe we (as a species) have been watching TV for so long our perception of reality has unalterably changed. Total interpenetration of reality and fiction. Like, is anything important until we see it on the news? Will anything sell if it’s not preceded by a viral marketing campaign that confuses the fuck out of the elderly. “What is Uber, sounds like a war we fought against the Jerries, maybe after the Somme.” Where is the market square now? It’s not a physical place, it’s not entirely a cyber space, it’s only once a few months your neighbour’s garage space.

If anyone saw the much vaunted supermoon yesterday/today/tomorrow (depending on your relative place in space/time) I’m gonna spoil it for you: was shit. Not the moon itself which is always the same (the bitch doesn’t even show you it’s backside), but the sign of the moon. The supermoon is promoted to be this life changing mystical experience of how small we all are etc and the grandeur of creation, but when I looked at the sky last night I only saw clouds (I’m gonna head you off here if you’re thinking I’m dissing the supermoon itself just because it was cloudy and I couldn’t see it). The supermoon as a sign will never lead us to feel magic (which is just another sign). What we need, to feel magic, is the revitalisation of signs. Doesn’t anyone already feel magic looking at the regular moon? What’s not magical about the moon just up there doing its thing? For magic we need to re-enchant ourselves. If we don’t see the world as fantastic we are at fault not the world because it was once magic for all of us (hint: childhood). Same thing happens after meditation or an acid trip, you’re boiling with love for things you’re seeing as of anew.

More on signs, or maybe I should say icons, Goldberg Vs Lesnar is happening next week and I predict that this will shatter expectations. This should be a regular feel good comeback for Goldberg; don’t reckon the WWE will have him go down to Lesnar after he came back purely to get the little superstars’ vote and a quick pop from the old marks. I think he’s meant to beat Lesnar and show young kids that evil always gets its dues eventually + the other metanarrative that you’re never to old to accomplish your dreams if you have a pure heart. So I’m predicting Lesnar to STOMP GOLDBERG INTO A SHITTY TRIBAL TATTOO. I reckon WWE loves their “You can never guess what we’re really going to do” aspect more than it cares about little kids. It just wants their (parents’) money and if they pay to see the show and buy merch and watch Raw after a PPV they’re happy. Given that there is fuck all Goldberg merch for sale on and that he’s not sticking around to fight other matches, I gotta reckon that Lesnar is a bigger draw for them and they’ll just use this as another beat down to prove that Brock is unconquerable. I could be wrong though. Someone has got to eventually beat him, but I reckon they’ll highlight his heelishness more before that happens and go for the big payoff sold-out event with the plucky upstart outdoing him. Eventually.

Looking for universal truths in banality like gematria, I pick three unrelated things and make them the cosmic background radiation for some writing.

I only just found out the other day about the CIA’s duper secret now-declassified Heart Attack Gun©. I guess the whole public world was late with this one wit me though. Like, at least 50 years late. I wanna post this video I watched of CIA agents talking about it in a recently released video from 1975, but I don’t want to end up the youngest vegetarian in cardiac arrest. Apparently it shoots a wee dart out that causes massive myocardial infarction and leaves nothing but a little red dot on the skin. This explains why Carrot Top looks the way he does. You gotta be jacked living off a permanent heart attack like Chev Helios. I imagine if they had this technology in ’75 that they’ve got now. Maybe a ray that convinces people on social media that what you’ve said is in fact not damaging but that they are, in fact, soft. A good argument can make a lot of difference, but a convincing-ray would be invaluable.

Halloween was the other day and all I wanted, except for deliverance from my addictions, was to see the Boogeyman come back on Raw and break a clock on his face. I didn’t get either; laying in someone else’s bed at 9 at night high out my damn mind watching that Enzo vs Gallows pumpkin match wanting to cry. I wanna be a kid in 2016 because the entire world seems only interesting in targeting the 0-10 demographic, plus I could laugh and cry as much as I frequently do without anyone thinking I’m insane and still wear Osh-Kosh. Kids are insane, we just don’t bother telling them because by the time they can understand insanity 18 years of corrective education will have euthanised any non-mainstream desire. Anyone who walks around society thinking things aren’t there when they’re not looking at them must be insane, right? Antirealists aside maybe. I mean, your school teacher has to go out on the weekend and get fucked up a bit just to teach you arithmetic, don’t lock her in your weak epistemology bud because you can’t conserve number.

I wanna go on an Alex Jones rant, but my voice is cracked from nailing (and I do mean NAILING) old Joel Gertner promos. 2015 was like a PG era PPV compared to 2016’s ECW madness. It’s like, everyone in the media this year has managed to get themselves Dudley Boyz levels of heal heat. I missed the directive that stated “You must be this offensive to ride the wave of popular interest.” What’s the deal with Alex Jones anyway? Is he Trump in pale-face? Similar corpulence, passion and self-righteous reforming zeal. If they haven’t offed that dude yet with a targeted heart attack when his cholesterol is probably higher than his follicle count, maybe I’ll have to start doubting the veracity of non-mainstream media?? Maybe they just don’t like Infowars, or maybe they just refuse any further dealing with them after they never got their Survival Shield order. If you want to hide something, hide it with the people that are looking for things.





This is actually funny as. Slayer x Supreme collab for, I’m guessing, some pre-distressed South of Heaven shirts and denim chain wallets with box logos? Maybe snapbacks that smells like James Jebbia’s taint or some long-sleeves with Kerry King tattoo motifs down the side? This is the Ark of the Covenant for vapid 14 year old white girls who wanna be edgy and pregnant and smoking Horizons within the next year. This is one step up from that type of shame people who wear Thrasher hoodies and Janoskians but don’t skate and only call everyone ‘dude’ because they have a small cock invoke. This is the warmed-over shit Slayer fans are pretty used to about now though. A Slayer collab with Madonna would be less incredulously received at this point. The only thing more sacrilegious they could do would be to get an actual Slayer fan, put him in the middle of an A7X circlepit, get him to write down his feelings in a journal, and then, as he’s reading his sonnets above the din, laser-remove all his tattoos and body hair so he could be employable again.

I mean, didn’t this shit end when they started selling polyester Sabbath and Iron Maiden shirts at Sanity with no royalties going to the artist, and no fans who’ve ever listened to that music ever being back bone-less enough to buy one? Didn’t it end in the early 2000’s when Korn-emblazoned gildan shirts nearly got people bashed because they couldn’t even spit out a catch cry of “Twisted Transistor” when someone said “name one song fuckhead.” Never do for fashion what other people do for love. If you buy a $150 t-shirt of something very subcultural (that should be free or made by the artist) and that someone who really represents that subculture doesn’t have, they have the right to stick you up. I’m sorry, but if i walk down he street in a new pair of J’s and I don’t even play basketball (I don’t), some 6 foot Chinese kid in dying And1’s has the right to come staunch me. I won’t even complain to his boys.

Despite being the most satanic thrash band to ever sell out stadiums all over the world, Slayer have gotten commercial. These cunts have sold literally millions of albums, gone Gold, won 2 Grammies, got Tipper Gore’s panties in a jam, lived through the 80’s tour life, made controversial branding a staple of success, and now they want you to revere the fact they’re business-savvy enough to wear ‘rare black box logo tee(s)’. Nah, not this old head, I’d rather go listen to Diabolus in Musica for a laugh.




And who’s Supreme gonna steal from collab with next? Sadevillain? May as well, that shit is poppin at least, probably just needs to find its audience underground first before Supreme comes in and markets it to opulent tryhards and wannabe vine stars on the shelf in their parents’ fiduciaries, thereby bringing it to the mainstream. My tip is for the 2017 Supreme x smashed avocado pull overs in Zutano green with collectible silver spoon.