CAPTAIN M!

From all of the speed and the strength he gave...

2006-06-20T01:09:00.000-07:00

You are gone now. But not forgotten. Fuck no, when the big bell rings and everyone else is in bed, I will remember. I WILL REMEMBER! You were a pure champion and an honorable friend and you have left me heartbroken, but when I outrun steam trains on rural intersections at TOP SPEED I will think of you and smile and ring the BIG BELL again.

20th Century go to Sleep

2006-05-28T20:15:00.000-07:00

Prepare yourself, friend of mine! I have discovered a conspiracy so vast it could change the world, FOREVER! Indeed, I have feared for my safety ever since uncovering this weird and shameful secret. It is bad and wrong and weird to be so deeply paranoid on rainy nights in May with the future of the church of scientology in the palm of your hand! But LOOK HERE, is it just me, or does BECK HANSEN the scientology king, look so much like THURSTON MOORE it is hard to ignore and impossible to explain? Fuckdamn YES! I am right! And upon closer inspection of these two photographs, one notices they are BOTH holding guitars! FUCKDAMN I hear you say, what the fuck does that mean? The key to this twisted coincidence lies in the colour of Mr. Beck’s odd jersey: it is BLUE, like the sky from which L. Ron’s space ship will come and whisk Mr. Beck to the holey land of planet Kryzor.

At first, Mr. Thurston’s envolvement in all this may seem a little superficial. That is it say, Mr. Beck’s doppelganger and nothing more. That is until you look a little closer and see that Mr. Thurston’s guitar is pointing toward the SKY. The fuckin’ SKY! Spaceships come from the sky. FUCKDAMN! Based on elaborate and poorly explained theories that relate back to a story that was a fanciful textbook on human dumbness to begin with, I think it safe to assume that the scientologists are planning to get out before the BIRD FLU hits AND the rotten bastards are taking Thurston Moore with them. FUCKDAMN!
Anyway, I have set up an enormous TV in my lounge room to explain this to anyone who happens to stop by and inexplicably enquire as to my knowledge regarding, Beck, Thurston and scientology.

And a fine gift arrived in the mail today, from my sister in Melbourne town, and though it might not be to everyone's fancy (MACK!).....

Uh oh!

2006-05-24T23:35:00.000-07:00

Michael, I deleted my entire blog! I meant to just delete some posts but I deleted the whole thing. Haha, man I rule.

Transcendental Consequence

2006-05-14T17:13:00.000-07:00

Winter has arrived early! The trees are diseased and rotting and people are freezing to DEATH in Foveaux Straight. Watch out Mack, the news is in and it’s nothing but three months of relentless doom and misery for anybody dumb enough to LEAVE THE HOUSE or GET OUT OF BED or OPEN THEIR EYES! Fuck no! There is nothing worth seeing and it will be a special kind of miracle if we all make it OVER without contracting bird-flu and eating shit!

With all these dark predictions it is little wonder I have fallen into my winter funk early this year. It is a funk I won’t soon emerge from Mack! As we speak the ROCKET CAR is undergoing its six monthly check up and I fear THIS TIME it may not make it. Indeed, Bruce the mechanic has some weird ideas about motor cars; “Ahhhh, you really should be able to open the doors from the inside…..Ahhhhh the tires should really have some tread on them.”

Well FUCK RIGHT OFF shit-eyes, I don’t need your crappy advice! You’re a grubby little pervert cut from the same dull mould as my friend Mack, and he has no friends, and no heart and the morals of a rabid bat on P! And that is all I have to say today, friends and Mack. I must sleep now. There is a lot of BAD NEWS to take in here and I want to be strong and prepared on the first day of winter.

Hello private callers I.D. blocked

2006-04-29T18:22:00.000-07:00

Well Mack, it’s a little rough working out what to write here these days! You’re taking notes right now, aren’t you? Readying a special package of AMATUER INTELLIGENCE to hand on to the AUTHORITIES! Jesus man, I’ve always thought of myself as a fundamentally decent person with a keen sense of RIGHT and WRONG! Indeed Mack, not the kind of person who deserves to be sold up the river by a grubby little pervert with the soul of a rat and the heart of a virus! I wouldn’t have made it in the BIG HOUSE Mack, fuck no! 4 years would have been too long for ME! I bet YOU’RE the kind of person who’d enjoy prison Mack! You’d fit in nicely; it would be a GOOD TIME for you! Anyway Ace, I drew you a picture. It's Captain Sam and I;

Where Were you When the Music Stopped? A Brutal and Terrifying Saga in Three Parts

2006-04-18T23:59:00.000-07:00

Part 1: The end of the golden weather

We were half way to Kaikoura and moving at TOP SPEED when we happened upon the first fallen tree. Frank was driving at the time and Frank knows better than to slow down for ANYTHING on the open road.
“Fuck no,” he told us, “It’s a question of basics physics, any kung-fu kid will tell you it’s about going through. Focus beyond the wood and you will cut right through it!”

The second fallen tree worried Frank a little more, he become intensely paranoid and got hunkered down behind the wheel, scanning the roadside for the next tree, the one that would KILL US ALL!. Inexplicably, other drivers suffered the same kind of queer paranoia and across the board traffic all but stopped, with exception of Frank of course, who stomped the gas and poured it on. Captain Sam was in the back seat and he had been rattled badly. He implored Frank to slow, but Frank refused until he saw a weird looking hitchhiker lurching about on the roadside. “YES!” he screamed, “We will pick this sick freak up!”

“Get in,” Frank demanded, “What’s your name friend?”
“Mack S.,” the hitchhiker said.
“Of course,” Frank said, “Of course it is!”
“Yes,” said Mack S., “I’m too scared to drive with all these trees falling.”
“Don’t worry, we’re going to Kaikoura.” Frank explained.
“Kaikoura?” said Mack S., “I know a better place, you fellas should come with me”
“Ok,” said Frank, “Goddman right on! Where are we going then?”
“It’s a little place called Noffun Town,” Mack S. said.

Part 2: Living by your conscience

When we arrived in Noffun Town we went directly to a bar called The Stable where Mack S. had arranged to meet his lady. I bought a bottle of fine Jamaican rum and we drank all of it. Despite his intense conviction he did not drink alcohol, Mack S. had his fair share and when he stumbled outside just after midnight I figured he was going to purge himself of the “devil juice.” Indeed, he was mumbling about TROUBLE and SUFFERING and making amends with the Gods of Noffun for his BAD MANNERS and his terrible, terrible indulgence.

Mack S. had been gone for an hour when I went out to look for him. Christ, I thought, the stupid bastard has probably choked on his own vomit, some kind of weird cosmic coincidence. I was wrong of course. I found Mack S. in a barn, enjoying carnal knowledge of a large cow in the soft autumn moonlight. I pulled him off the beast, slapped him about the head and directed him back toward the bar. He crawled all the way on his knees with his tiny, flaccid peter, bobbing about in the cold, midnight wind. It made me sick and frightened. I was beginning to realise there was something deeply wrong with Mack S. He was singing Galway Bay and touching himself.

When we made it back to the bar there was still no sign of Mack S’s mysterious lady but my old friends Bert and Jenny HAD turned up. They were chatting with Captain Sam and Frank and picking fine Cuban cigars out of a large wooden box. Yes indeed, it was good to see them; they are fine people with strong hearts who could only find the way to Noffun Town BY ACCIDENT. We shared the cigars around, though Mack S. refused the generous gesture, “I don’t smoke ANYTHING!” he screamed. He was clearly shaken and dribbling out the corners of his mouth, mumbling to himself and he would NOT stop singing Galway Bay. When Bert pulled out a lighter, things got even worse.
“You’re not smoking those inside!” Mack S. screamed, “You can’t, it’s not LEGAL!”

Part 3: At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards

We all ignored Mack S’s wild cries and lit up our cigars inside the bar. They were fine cigars indeed, a hint of caramel on the tongue, a soft, gentle, long white cloud of smoke. I don’t think any of us noticed Mack S. leave the table or return with a golf club he suddenly claimed had once belonged to a pro. Indeed, the club was engraved with the initials T.H. and for all we knew, T.H was a pro.

“I’m going to cave your skulls in with this club you rotten criminals!” yelled Mack S. He ran towards us with the club above his head. “The trees are falling down because fuckers like you smoke inside!” yelled Mack S. He hit Burt and Jenny and I repeatedly over the head but the club did very little damage despite his desperation to teach us a lesson. Indeed, Mack S. zeroed in on me with the club but it did not really hurt me, it came close but the attack finished up as more of a warning thanks only to the flexible shaft and reasonable head of the club. He may have swung with all the strength a small man has but his only only true achievement was proving the depth of his sleazy, treacherous soul.

Disclaimer:

Where Were You When the Music Stopped? A Brutal and Terrifying Saga in Three Parts is a work of fiction and any similarity to actual persons and events should be considered entirely coincidental.

Horses & Dogs

2006-04-03T21:56:00.000-07:00

I have returned from Melbourne triumphant! Fuckdamn YES! I am refreshed and ready for ACTION! I cleansed my body of all dangerous Christchurch toxins by drinking my weight in beer every night and when THE SICKNESS hit I was the only one who remained UNAFFLICTED. Indeed, alcohol kills all harmful germs and my time in Melbourne is a monument to that kind of scientific truth. I am stronger now and fear not, friends of mine, for I have brought the MUSIC home with me!

Anyway, the Commonwealth Games turned out to be a hopeless joke and a queer mess, but they are done now and we are all better people for it. Otherwise, I rode to glory at Bells and stole rides across town on magic trains. Indeed, on hot days in Melbourne town the trams turn green and run backwards! GOODNIGHT!

Dry your eyes you poor devil

2006-03-15T18:48:00.001-08:00

Things have been awfully quiet around here since dear Buzzy’s light finally blinked out. Sam erected a queer memorial in the garden, down by the clothesline but it looked stupid and shitty and I told him to take it down because any memorial to BUZZY KERBOX was a brutal shock to my sense of decency. He did as I asked, of course, and in time Sam will understand, as I do, that we are all better off for Buzzy’s weird demise.

A few days after Buzzy blew I was struck down by a TERRIBLE SICKNESS that led to me to conclude Buzzy had poisoned my water from the OTHERSIDE. I followed Sam’s sage advice however and multiplied all recommended medicinal dosages by THREE to ensure a quick and complete recovery. It worked of course and now I am all but HEALTHY. Sam explained that the recommended dosage is set with the smallest adult in mind and still allows too much room for error thus you MUST multiply it by AT LEAST THREE or face many weeks of misery.

Indeed, that is wise advice for you my friend. READ IT and KEEP IT CLOSE.

Diet Coca-cola and unlit cigarettes

2006-03-09T18:38:00.000-08:00

Buzzy Kerbox is dead! He has cashed his cheque! He has GONE OVER and we WILL NOT see him around here again. He was a monster in his way as well as being a mean-spirited pervert and a rider for the rainbow flag and it’s these things that make Buzzy’s queer decision to explode himself a little bittersweet.

He is GONE and soon he will be FORGOTTEN. RIP Buzzy, motherfucker.

Season of the shark

2006-03-04T01:46:00.000-08:00

Death Bomb 4 was constructed in 20 minutes on a cool Wednesday night which followed a strange Monday afternoon, that had brought about a chance encounter with a man now considered a FRIEND after supplying five pounds of quality explosive at a rock-bottom price. It is hard to know in hindsight whether we had an unspoken understanding or I callously duped him, but these things are unimportant on weird nights in February or cold nights in March when long lost friends turn up with celebratory cigars and heads full of fun.

My initial intention had been to construct five experimental bombs with one pound each, a kind of test series that would provide blue prints for all future bombs, each bomb a progression toward the ultimate dream of THE PERFECT BOMB. Only the truest champions aim for perfection for it is the ultimate achievement, though unattainable, much like the CLOUDS or 300 in Fun Bowling. You WILL NOT make it but you must shoot for the mountaintop regardless!

All these plans were soon forgotten however, thanks to a midnight text from long lost Will who insisted on ACTION IMMEDIATELY. Ergo, I loaded all five pounds into a crude pipe bomb and taped it to the side of big plastic petrol container. We hunkered down on a forgotten beach south of Gore Bay and took a swig of Whiskey from the flask of death, to loosen ourselves up you see. We needed to be loose and lucid, for one of us had to make the shot to detonate the fuse less pipe bomb.

Naturally, being a fine and fearless shot, I took the shot and hit the bomb first time. It is hard to explain just how big the explosion was. It was so big as to be almost otherworldly. It left us deaf and weird. We clambered around the beach for a while, unsure where to go and what to say. We had RUN AMUCK and turned SICK and CRAZY but we were pretty close to the mountaintop! Goddamn yes!

This is for you!

2006-03-03T17:00:00.000-08:00

http://destinationdaniel.smugmug.com/gallery/1213678/1/56771253

Rules for fun with Baby Bombs

2006-02-20T19:53:00.000-08:00

No. 1 - Ginger cats are without even the most basic functions of feline intelligence, making them perfect targets for FUN. Lure them in with a dead bird or an old sock

No. 2 - This rule is true of all bombs and should be burned firmly into the brain: Whilst crafting a bomb, be it a Baby Bomb or a Death Bomb, is helps to a have a sidekick around or about you to point out DANGEROUS behavior you may be otherwise oblivious to. A fine example of this is the gentle wisdom my own sidekick imparted upon me just yesterday: “Perhaps you should not be smoking a cigar while handling explosives.” It is that kind of keen-eyed attention which has helped me maintain a perfect safety record.

No. 3 - Exploding birds really tickle the ribs and with bird flu moving closer by the week, we all win.

No. 4 - This is one of the more advanced techniques and should not by attempted by anybody LAZY or STUPID or WEAK. Anytime after midnight, half drunk and angry, sneak down the street and slip a Baby Bomb into the oversized exhaust of the neighborhood boy racer. It is very important here that after the explosion you DO NOT run. Boy racers are cheap thugs but they are weak. If you run they will conclude you are frightened and give chase, if you meander homeward smiling and waving they might call “faggot” behind you but they will understand right away that you are prepared to go all they way to the bottom and are not the kind of fellow to start a fight with.

No. 5 - Middle-aged women in 4WDs are a greedy, dishonest subculture. They should be put to sleep slowly. An open window on a hot day is a fine opportunity. An open petrol tank on any day brings to mind the ancient adage about evil prospering where good men do nothing.

The end of the line is in your mind

2006-02-13T01:11:00.000-08:00

DOOM and DEATH and FAILURE?! I know not these things! I am but a loyal servant to the Gods of Fun and Sam and I have menaced more timid souls in their name than we can remember! With the DEATH BOMB SQUAD unofficially disbanded and a last minute recruitment drive failing to find anyone comfortable with themes like EXTREME DANGER and IMMINENT INCARCERATION it was down to my keen sense of timing to decide when to detonate DEATH BOMB 3b: A NEW HOPE.

After a long, long wait, brought about as a kind of deserved punishment for my recent failure, the right gods began smiling again. With the necessary change in wind direction just after midnight and a huge full moon I knew the TIME WAS RIGHT. I crept through the bushes at 1:30am with a heart full of fun and when I finally found the right path there were two young lovers walking down it. They had been HUMPING on the full moon beach I am sure and suddenly, on their way home to a quiet nighty-night, they found themselves confronted with a weird looking man lurching out of the bushes toward them, sweating like an animal, laughing to himself and tightly clutching a giant bomb.
“Hello,” I said, “It’s a lovely night!”
Inexplicably, they ignored my personable greeting. The guy pulled his girlfriend close, sneered at me and then they walked quickly away. NEVERMIND, I told myself, some people don’t understand FUN the way I do.

Perhaps the young lovers heard DB3b’s incredible sonic boom and saw a huge burst of fire and smoke that filled the sky and lit up the forest. Perhaps they heard me scream “DIE YOU DIRTY BASTARDS!” right before the moment of joy and perhaps they even called the police and reported a strange pervert creeping around the sand dunes of North Shore with a bomb, clearly hopped up on something, probably even P, hungry for DEATH and PAIN and SUFFERING. They would have been wrong though; my only hunger is for FUN and ADVENTURE and I was gone much too quickly for anybody to find me.

The DB3b Death List:

George W. Bush
Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson
Fall Out Boy
Brian Tamaki
Winston Peters
Pope Benedict
Good Charlotte
The Profit Muhammad
Simple Plan

The cat'll sleep in the mailbox and we'll never go to town

2006-02-07T11:49:00.000-08:00

Today, whilst I was gently piecing together DEATH BOMB 3b: A NEW HOPE, I noticed a strange and terrifying apparition staring out at me from the powder. Ordinarily I’m not the kind of fellow to buy into such desperate interpretations, but this time, friends of mine, it was unmistakable. I was staring into the face of JESUS!
“FUCK!” I screamed, “I have been wrong all along!”
The rotten bastard was right there, looking out at me like some holy and explosive Shroud of Turin. I figured Jesus was REAL after all and not only that, he had joined forces with the gods of fun to spare me any more embarrassment at the detonation of DB3b. I felt GUILTY and lightheaded without really understanding why.

I showed the face of Jesus to Sam, carefully explaining how the delicate ridges of the powder formed the savior’s features. He squeaked like a Tomtit when he saw it.
“FUCK NO!” he shouted, “You dumb bastard, you dunce, that is not the face of Jesus that is face of the Unabomber!”
Indeed, he was right. The grubby beard, the unkempt hair and what had at first seemed to be deeply set eyes were in fact a pair of cheap Aviators. The Unabomber was a PUNK and a THUG and a PERVERT but there he was, watching me with a queasy grin. I have strong feelings now that DB3b will be a triumph in every way that matters and for your edification and information I have included photographic evidence of the harrowing “Face in the Powder”

Cold wind blowing in the middle of the night

2006-02-02T23:35:00.000-08:00

Amateur investigations and vigilante justice are generally frowned upon by the police. Indeed, the only thing the police truly accept is the dangerous notion of “conventional wisdom.” It is a harmful idea and contradictory to all reasonable human instincts. Most people are DUMB and most people are WRONG.

Not many people are aware that 90 percent of arsonists are also volunteer firemen. They are driven by the same kind of twisted perversion that drives priests to mess with innocent children and dentists to rape comatose patients. It is some kind of strange and primal compulsion that can’t be explained with science and makes no sense in hindsight.

A higher percentage of people are probably aware that the fire service and the police force are involved in a kind of secret brotherhood that absolves all crimes committed by its members. Ergo, when the Bottle Lake Forest burned down the police knew it was 90 percent more likely to be a member of their own secret brotherhood that had committed the hideous crime than ANYBODY not associated with the police force or fire service. Ergo, the police have no firm motivation to investigate the fire, lest they convict one of their own rotten bastard brothers.

So, it is down to me to investigate and I understand the need for a certain kind of justice in this case, a type of woodsman’s vengeance. I have been following up a substantial lead all week; the arsonist’s reading material. All I had to go on was a discarded page, burnt around the edges and without a title. BUT, after scouring the cities libraries and the internet for many hours I eventually discovered the title of the book was The Assassini.

The Assassini is a stupid, shitty book written by a man called Thomas who had a lot of time and even more information. It is a thriller that centers on the Catholic Church and the election of a new pope. You don’t need to read it to know it’s dull but there are signs hidden there, signs that point to the arsonist’s delicate sensibilities and queer motivations. With each ugly chapter I learn a little more. Fear not, friends of mine, for I am on the trail……

The great fountain spray of the great Milky Way

2006-01-28T03:22:00.000-08:00

Most people understand that life, just like theatre, is equal parts tragedy and comedy, and a big part of growing up is learning to accept tragedy with your back straight and your mind sharp, no matter how great the pain, no matter how firm and well placed the blow, because some nights the right Gods aren’t watching and things turn queer.

Death Bomb 3: Certain Death was something of comeback bomb. It had, after all, been a good few weeks since the previous Death Bomb and I had a hunger for a wonderful explosion, the kind of hunger that requires NO MERCY and a lot of GASOLINE. DB3 was more an experiment in the fundamental explosive equation of pressure over time than DB2. There was no doubt it would blow, but nobody really knew how big it would blow. It was an all-new construction with an all-new ingredient devised by Sam and I sometime after midnight in early January.

I think the problems first began down by the water’s edge as I tried to ignite a long trail of gasoline that led to the very short fuse. I realised the petrol container, still half full, was sitting on the trail I was trying to ignite. I felt like some weird cartoon character, oblivious to my own mortality, a caricature of the real me. And as i was pondering those things a small and gentle wave rolled up the beach and around the base of DB3, wetting the fuse and washing away the gasoline. Never mind that, I told myself, I’ll do it the old fashioned way. I poured gasoline all around the base of the bomb, dropped a match on it and ran like a bastard. By the time the gas had stopped burning and I had stopped running, the bomb had not exploded. I was sensing the first sharp pangs of pure shame.

I edged toward it and found that the fire had failed to penetrate the aluminum lower half of the bomb and the damp fuse had not burnt at all thanks to the salt water and the tide’s cruel timing. Subsequent attempts to light the fuse also failed and that was it and now that is what we are left with. It was a shameful disgrace. I should have my eyes gouged out and my hands cut off. I failed last night; there was no explosion and no fun.

His goal in life was to be an echo

2006-01-26T15:04:00.000-08:00

Indeed, the last toll has finally been paid, the last long hour hunkered down in the hideout has been spent productively and the last vestiges of LEGAL and SAFETY concerns have been swept aside. Last night under a cloudy Parkland’s sky in the car park of the Parkland’s Baptist Community Church, TEST BOMB 1: BABY DEATH was successfully detonated, forcing me to run like a bastard and scale the fence like a fine, European athlete, and paving for the way for what, by any reasonable means of measuring, will be the greatest in the death bomb series.

An all-new KEY INGREDIENT has been sourced since DB2, one with a higher explosive rating, which, in the most simple of terms, means MORE death, MORE bomb and MORE fun. Yes, DEATH BOMB 3: CERTAIN DEATH will be an explosion on a entirely higher level, the kind that stops the heart and does permanent psychological damage to everyone who bears witness to its fearsome detonation. There will be FUN tonight and overtones of weird and twisted DANGER because those are the things that clang in the brain on warm nights in January when you can’t sleep and don’t care.

The snipers are harder to see my friends

2006-01-23T04:49:00.000-08:00

A bird flew inside the house today, just after midday whilst I was eating breakfast and Sam was working on a poem he would later name “Daffodils and Death.” He sat there smiling while the stupid bastard creature tried to fly through the ceiling over and over again.
“Jesus,” he shrieked, “Look at the fucker, it’s probably got bird flu or something! Throw something at it, KILL IT!”
Neither of us did anything though, there is something WEIRD and RIGHT and EXHILIRATING about a wild sparrow beating itself to death inside your living room, like an unnatural union between water and gasoline, some kind of cosmic misalignment as rare as it is shocking. Its feathers rained down on the carpet and Sam started to breathe heavily, so engrossed in the bird’s strange suicide he had forgotten everything around him. Eventually though, the bird found the doorway and flew through it into the warm afternoon.

“Yes,” I said “a bird flying into the house is a good omen.”
Sam laughed like a loon when I said that.
“Jesus,” he shouted, “Everyone knows it means DEATH for someone in the house!”

A unified theory of everything

2006-01-18T02:51:00.000-08:00

Buy on the rumor; sell on the news

-Ancient Chinese proverb

There comes a dark and unwelcome morning in every young man’s life whereupon he realises he has been wrong all along. The very foundations upon which he has established his personal convictions and social etiquette are off-kilter and ready to implode. Where he was once sharp-eyed and steadfast he is now desperate and confused. He is FUCKED and the beliefs that once defined his character are nothing but cheap lies and even cheaper truths.

If that seems like a rough kind of wisdom that runs a little close to melodramatic, it is only because THE TRUTH IS THE FUNNIEST JOKE OF ALL. Mohammed Ali said that and it rings as true as anything he ever said as long as you don’t think about it too much. Indeed, he was a fine fighter and a spirited showman, but that is yesterday’s news, and right now I have a confession that I fear will rain ignominy down on my friends and family forever more.

For a long time now I have been quoting Bukowski’s tombstone: “WHY TRY?” It seemed like the perfect post-modern mantra. You can’t win. You are fucked and everything comes down to luck and a keen sense of timing. You will not get what you deserve. The ancient notion of “Survival of the fittest” has been rendered obsolete in the Year 2006.

However, in recent days it has become apparent that what is actually carved into Charles Bukowski’s tombstone is “Don’t Try”, as in DON’T TRY, DO. Be who you are and don’t try to be anything else. This is grim news indeed, unless of course the person you really are is a lazy dunce with no ambition and no redeeming features. But fuck, perhaps one could suggest that to follow Buk’s tombstone would be to contradict Buk’s tombstone. You shouldn’t need to THINK to be who you are and you shouldn’t need TRY to prosper over fucktards. But Buk definitely DID say “I am my own GOD.”

Spread the ashes of the colours over this heart of mine!

2006-01-13T23:59:00.000-08:00

It is NEVER a good idea to get caught alone in the forest on a mid-summer afternoon with 5 liters of gasoline and 6 boxes of matches and a chip on your shoulder from an ugly childhood that has led to your current social ineptitude and expressed itself as a penchant for fire-starting that won’t soon be quelled. Indeed, the only thing worse would be getting caught lighting the fire and that is the kind of doomed case that even the lazy old fuckers in the community watch car could make (“Yes officer, I seen him in there, the rotten bastard, lighting the fire! NO MERCY, he must be sick in the head!”).

Fuck. Sam and I understand the fun of fire in the same way we understand the fun of explosions, these things are forever connected in Fun Town and with Death Bomb Three (3) right around the corner, who are we to judge? But people who set forests on fire, Fats just…somefin’…we…. don’t…. under…stand. Fuck no, not today.

When Sam and I went down there the first few things we noted were the destruction of old Whiskey Road and all the woodland creatures that were desperately seeking out new lodgings. Sam wanted to beat some to death with sticks to “reduce the overall population of the forest” I told him it was a BAD IDEA and he was better off beating to death one of the infamous Bottle Lake hobos, people would care less and forget sooner. He disagreed of course, but fuck him, even on a good day he’s savage.

We investigated the fire as best we could and the only firm lead we had after a windy few hours scouring the forest was evidence of the arsonist’s keen sense of irony: Three “FLAME” bottles, right in the middle of the ashes. It was clear they had been used to make three “Molotov Cocktails of Irony” that had burned down 20 hectares and killed (as recent estimates suggest) 7 billion birds and animals.

For whom are you looking?

2006-01-08T15:09:00.000-08:00

The forest burned all afternoon and into the evening and by the time it had stopped everyone was turning dark with fear. Perhaps it is to do with mystic visions and cosmic vibrations and DEATH BY FIRE with no warning at all, but Jesus man, nobody with a bright heart dies on a Sunday.

There is a special kind of dumbness that clamps down when THE BIG HEAT hits. And when it’s a long way after midnight and you’re still sweating like an animal and all the cold beer is gone, you’re not in the mood for some kind of weird fuck-around. Anyway. By the time two carloads of cock-smoking boy racers pulled into the car park opposite Mr. Changs and began playing indecipherable music far too loud, my nerves were already raw and my pulse had slowed thanks to the heat. I was sitting outside and it was just after 1am. They were shouting and tomfooling and drinking Woodstock and my gentle peace was shattered.

I found a dead light bulb inside and lobbed it over the fence, nice and high, so for all those dog fuckers knew space aliens themselves were dropping light bulbs on them. I heard it hit the ground and shatter and I heard their bewildered commentary.

“Fuck man, what the fuck was that?”
“Someone fuckin’ dropped a bottle.”
“Fuck man, don’t waste piss”
“Nah, fuck cunt, some cunt threw something.”
“What? Fuck? Where?”
“Fuck man, I dunno, from that car that went past probably.”
“Fuck man, like some kind of fuckin’ drive by.”
“Let’s get those cunts!”
“Nah, fuck man, they’re gone”
“Fuck man.”
“Fuckin’ cunts.”

A little while later, still confused by the harrowing light bulb attack, they fled into the night and we will not see them around here anytime soon. As a boy in Invercargill some of my finest evenings were spent throwing old light bulbs at confused motorists outside Salford school. It was the kind of wisdom you keep close, for nights like this.

And still insists he sees the ghosts

2006-01-03T03:59:00.000-08:00

It takes a pure kind of courage to go door to door when you have the brain of a monkey and you’re heavy with GREED and DUMBNESS. Indeed, those things would slow most folks down a little, leave them with a weird stutter or some kind of inexplicable twitch, it’s a natural part of learning your limitations. You’re foul, human scum and you should be beaten to death and burned up in an oil tanker. You have no social value and a viscous Nazi heart. Sandy and Chas however, are not familiar with these New Years truths. They came around preaching death by bird flu for anyone who wasn’t prepared to fall to their knees and sign their broken soul over to Jehovah. Sandy stood on my doorstep like some hideous reincarnation of John Candy and gently explained that the Bible had “predicted” the bird flu in the simplest of terms and all across New Zealand merciful lights were about to blink out, such would be the gravity of God’s holy punishment. We were DOOMED and soon enough we would we all fall down.

“If you’re willing to read these books, I’m willing to leave them with you.” She said.
“Of course,” I said, “I would love to read them and I’m sure they make sense.”
“Oh, that’s great!” she said, “What was your name?”
“Ahhh, it's Buzzy,” I told her. It was a clever lie, and I was proud, she was dumb and Chas was begining to mumble, his hands were clasped tightly together and he was sweating like an animal.
“Perhaps,” she said, “Next time I’m in the area I could pop in and we could chat about these books.”
“Oh, I would love that.” I told her.

I read the books cover to cover and there it was, buried on page 10 of Awake!, the Bible quote that predicted the Bird flu:

“Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; and there will be great earthquakes, and in one place after another pestilences.” (Luke 21:7, 10, 11)

Read it and weep, friends of mine. If this doesn’t convince you that bird flu is on the way to New Zealand to kill us all, then nothing will.

You're a holocaust

2005-12-30T23:59:00.000-08:00

Today is Friday, December 30, year of our lord, 2005. Yes, indeed. The week between Christmas and New Year is always a dark and ugly time around here. New Years eve hangs over Sam and I like a thundercloud. Everything is a BAD IDEA when town is full of city shrouds and pimps and hustlers and the suburbs are full of drunken children and wild dogs and boy racers with rotten cocks and no meaningful intelligence. There is NOWHERE to go and NOTHING to say. Sam and I will likely be hunkered down beneath the outdoor furniture with cheap whiskey and even cheaper wine, heavily armed, awaiting the inevitable attack on Mr. Changs. We will play John Lee Hooker and Tom Waits and Big Star and when the first pane of glass breaks we will STRIKE like weird and addled cobras with no real enthusiasm but a keen sense of duty. Yes, the holiday season is like one long and terrible witching hour and we won’t be fucking around tomorrow night.

I almost stepped on a hedgehog last night. It was dark and I had been drinking. I was blind and angry and mildly confused but I still accepted the creature as a cruel and transparent sign from the gods of fun. “Watch out,” they were saying, “There is a bad moon rising!” And they are right of course, but if it hadn’t been for Sam I would have puncture wounds and a rabid foot. Sam has the brain of a jackrabbit and the agility of a field mouse, he is a violent drunk and a formidable adversary and tomorrow night he will be my sidekick once more. We will be READY and we will feel no pain.

You’re an old slut on junk

2005-12-27T20:02:00.000-08:00

During the great potato famine the Irish were so poor they had to use their socks as blankets. That is a rough piece of history for the holiday season and I mention it now only in the hope of explaining how the Irish gene pool become so far reduced that a man like Shane MacGowan not only survived but prospered. If Buzzy Kerbox is a pervert and a pickpocket then Shane MacGowan is a Leprechaun and a donkey. His only redeeming social value is his ability to drink more than Keith Richards and that is the reason Sam loves him and insists on playing A Fairytale of New York over and over on Christmas day.

Sam and Shane have never met but they are CONNECTED in every way that matters. They both understand the old fashioned wisdom that having the constitution of a mule is more important than being smart or good-looking. It provides a certain kind of back-street capital that is more useful during the holiday season than at any other time. And that is Christmas here; The Pogues and most of a bottle of cheap whiskey that Sam will not let go of.

Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?

2005-12-25T20:32:00.000-08:00

EDDIE
Frankie Feedler.

ROSE
What?

EDDIE
Frankie Feedler. You remember him from
high school?

ROSE
(long beat)
He was a year ahead of us?

EDDIE
He died, remember? On the way to the prom.
(beat)
He was doomed.

Rose lies there silently.

EDDIE (cont'd)
Jesus Christ. They could have said the
same thing about Donnie. Our Donnie.
(beat)
But he dodged it. He dodged his bullet,
Rose.

Rose rolls over to embrace him.

EDDIE (cont'd)
That's my boy.

Moments later, the door to the adjoining room opens. It is
Samantha.

SAMANTHA
Mom, Donnie said he's gonna fart in
my face.

I dreamed about killing you again last night

2005-12-22T23:47:00.000-08:00

By Sunday last week the fun fund had sunk so low that the last few lines of the Christmas budget had to be hastily rewritten and the first thing to be scratched off the bottom was the traditional Christmas Cohiba. It is gone now, along with all hopes for FUN on Christmas day. It was like some ugly, merciless lesson from the bible about sacrifice and by Monday morning there was a dead blackbird lying on the lawn. Sam cackled like a loon when he saw it. He was sure we were doomed but he had stopped caring around the time he found out that Santa was in fact a bizarre metaphor for Jesus Christ himself. 24 hours later the bird was gone like some dark and foreboding cloud. Nobody knew exactly where the bird had gone, but I had suspicions and they were left unsaid.

Not long after the dead bird vanished I began an auction for a firearm on Trade me. It was another BAD IDEA. No one buys guns at Christmastime. At my house guns and fun are inexorably connected but most folks seem to miss the point and as yet no one has bid and I doubt anyone will.

Today I bought a beer and dropped my LAST TWO DOLLARS into a pokie machine. Pokie machines are a gray area where the gods of fun are concerned. They are part of a violent debate about what constitutes real gambling. But regardless, I was there, hunkered down with the old people and the terminal dole bludgers and the infirm. I used all my credits on two spins and came up with nothing. Perhaps that is the final word on pokie machines from the gods of fun. They are on my side after all and I have no reason to doubt that sooner rather than later they will see me right. Most mornings now I wake up with the sweet, sweet smell of potassium nitrate and charcoal and sulphur in my nostrils. Somewhere around the next corner there is a death bomb that will break me out of this ugly, seasonal funk.

Sugar, we're going down swinging

2005-12-18T22:12:00.000-08:00

Okay, so there was this guy and he was going out with this girl. They were both really clean cut and cute and they both had the kind of happiness that you can only get from illicit substances. Anyway, they had been "going steady" for a year or two and our hero, we will call him "Chad" called his gal, (we will call her "Amber") over for a serious chat. This is how the conversation went:

Chad: Hey Amber, I've never courted anyone like you before. Its a great pleasure but also a great pain. I don't know if words can describe how I am feeling right now....

Amber: Just sing me your pain.

Chad: OK

Chad: I've been dying to tell you anything you want to hear cause that's just who I am this week

Amber: I'm so tired of being here suppressed by all my childish fears

Chad: I'm just a notch in your bedpost

Amber:This pain is just too real

Chad:We're going down, down in an earlier round and Sugar, we're going down swinging

Amber:You used to captivate me by your resonating light

Chad:A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it, Is this more than you bargained for yet...-

Amber:These wounds won't seem to heal this pain is just too real there's just too much that time cannot erase!

Chad:Drop a heart, break a name!

Amber:And if you have to leave I wish that you would just leave! 'Cause your presence still lingers here and it won't leave me alone!!!

Chad:We're always sleeping in, and sleeping for the wrong team

Amber: When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears!

Chad:Wishing to be the friction in your jeans!

Amber:Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me...

Chad:I'll be your number one with a bullet!......A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it!!

Amber:I've been alone all along

Chad and Amber: We're going down, down in an earlier round , This pain is just too real, And Sugar, we're going down swinging, But you still have all of me.....We're going down, down (down, down)down, down (down, down)......Am I more than you bargained for?

And they realised, through the powerful medium of song that the woods are lovely, dark and deep. but they have promises to keep,and miles to go before they sleep,and miles to go before they sleep.

Then End.

The Last Battle of Parklands: BUZZY KERBOX vs CAPTAIN M

2005-12-18T11:42:00.000-08:00

There are times, during my weaker moments, that I fear Buzzy Kerbox might just be BETTER than me, his heart a little bigger, his soul a little brighter, his spirit infused with a little more generosity. HE has 33 friends after all (including the incomparable Motosuwa Hideka and the terminally disenfranchised Derek (dancin’ for the man just ain’t where it’s at)). There is something else about Buzzy though, some unspoken truth that reveals itself in his smile. There is pain hidden there, the pain of Fall Out Boy and Kurt Cobain and Nelson Mandela and Me and You and Michael Jackson. The kind of pain that BREAKS HEARTS. It does not break Buzzy Kerbox though, because he is strength incarnate. Buzzy does not just overcome, he PROSPERS. He sits atop the crest of the wave and rides it out; such is the strength of his character. He is STRONG and FORMIDABLE, but where does that leave me? Where do I fit in?

Buzzy Kerbox came around here for dinner once. He was late and he parked in the driveway, he got messy and strange and made ambiguous comments about his girlfriend and red carpet and soundtracks and car crashes. He babbled like a drunk, all compliments and sound, thought-out advice, the kind that doesn’t go down very well around here. During dessert Sam told a wild anecdote about a horse and Buzzy went crazy with laughter.
“Oh Sam,” he shrieked, “You’re my number one with a bullet!”
Things turned weird then, Sam knew, as I did, that Buzzy Kerbox had jumped the shark in the worst kind of way. He had done irreparable damage to our burgeoning friendship and Sam was ready to burst with rage and paranoia.
“What did you say to me?” Sam whispered, “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!”
“What do you mean?” Buzzy asked, “It’s from a song I like, I was just being nice.”
“NICE?!” Sam screamed, “Fuck you! Get out of my house right now!”
Buzzy did as he was told, he scampered for the door like a rat and Sam called out after him, “You’re a cocksmoker Buzzy Kerbox. You fuck animals and you have the heart of a virus!” Those things are propbably true enough and Sam was right to point them out. On some days Sam is as fearless as a spitfire and as a truthful as Ghandi.

The darker days of him and me

2005-12-15T03:40:00.000-08:00

A friendship is like a marriage in every way that matters. A non-sexual marriage perhaps, but a marriage in it's purest personification. That is to say, a rigid and ever lasting bond between two parties who would otherwise be ghosts to one another. And as any strong believer in Social Darwinism will tell you, a friend in need is NOT a friend indeed, but a drain on your energy and sparse human resources, a sinking ship you should soon abandon like a dog fleeing a rubbish fire. That is a brutal kind of wisdom though and not always easily accepted. Indeed, as my man Jeff Tweedy once so eloquently put it: "What is a man without friends?" Which is probably a little ironic and hard to stomach from the mouth of a man who sacked every band mate and best friend he ever had with no warning and no notice and no mercy, and THEN tried to feel-up his best friend's wife while she was sleeping. But anyway, I am wandering off on a Wilco tangent and I will get back to the point. My best and oldest friend, MG, needed $800 just to keep himself going, just to hold on. I knew right away what to do. I had to get BACK IN THE TANK with the poor bastard and gamble up some money.

I put $10 on my man Scott Styris to be New Zealand's top scorer in the recent NZ vs. Australia ODI. Scott is ugly and every time he bowls the entire country is silently ashamed. He looks odd, he walks and talks funny, his eyes are queer in the weirdest way and he carries with him an aura of abject failure that is as inexplicable as it is frightening. BUT, he has a sound batting technique and he was due for a big one, Ian Smith assured us of this and I had NO reason to doubt him. And Scott DID NOT fail. He made a fantastic century to win the game and earn MG and me $80, and while 80 may be only 10 percent of 800, it is a welcome start and a much need gambling success. Because I admit it MG, when I'm around you, I want to be a champion.

God is Pooh Bear wearing Bob Dylan’s 49th beard

2005-12-11T03:14:00.000-08:00

Some folks lean on Gumpisms, or commandments, or even odd and ancient mantras to get by, however irrational that might seem. Because, it is clear that by any reasonable means of measuring, something like “live every day as if it’s your last” is completely useless on a day-to-day basis and makes no sense to anyone with half a brain and a hunger for fun. There is no honest way to explain how deeply stupid it is to walk around with a thought like that in your head. It is odd and ugly and without any reasonable foundation in reality. The gods of fun know this, and their ledger notes the names of anyone dumb enough to say a thing like that OUT LOUD. Indeed, the gods of fun subscribe to a much higher truth. The wisdom they dole out is brighter, wiser and all together more useful. So when I found myself storming through the still and muggy forest, just after midnight, a few days ago, I knew it was the gods of fun who had led me there with three bottles of beer and a small cigar. I had to celebrate the end of another “successful” university year and the gods of fun where guiding me headlong towards the path I needed to take.

That path, as it happened, was named Whiskey Road. I followed it through the forest for a few long, dark miles before I emerged in a clearing not far from the beach, my torch almost dead, my nerves fucked like a cat in a house fire. But when I finally made it onto the sand things couldn’t have been lovelier. I swam out into the water under a billion stars with a warm heart and nothing to say. It was just me and the gods of fun. I screamed like a banshee and NO ONE heard it.

Let's undress just like cross-eyed strangers

2005-12-07T01:22:00.000-08:00

There is a strange but fundamental connection between hookers and gasoline fires. Perhaps it is DANGER (STIs and 5 litres of flaming gasoline), or perhaps it is something deeper, something more human that is tricky to articulate and even harder to accept, or perhaps it is the combination of unusual odors after midnight and pimps with silly shoes and hearts full of hate for all women and most men.

Indeed, some nights I am certain that the only sound worth hearing is the whoosh that gasoline makes the moment a flame hits it. It is soulful and beautiful and dangerous, but that is probably wisdom best kept quiet, for reasons of personal danger and endless pain for those who choose to stomp on the terra with the gods of fun and don’t bring the right shoes or the right attitude.

And it was those things I was pondering as we roared up and down Manchester street, screaming like banshees and damp with gasoline, chasing hookers and their clients in and out of parking lots, hopping for a glimpse of magic, giddy with wonder at this new world we had become a part of. We left a lot of new friends on Manchester Street last night. They are forgotten now, but not gone.

Twin high maintenance machines

2005-12-03T14:55:00.000-08:00

Oh, the human heart. Such far-off wonder, such capacity for endless beauty, so close to thundering pain. Oh the heart, its very beat, an ancient, universal metaphor for all that holds this burning world together. A muscle as delicate as an autumn leaf floating to earth and as cold and as hard as the land itself under winter snow. Love, personified in a small, bloody package. Oh the heart. The expression of it’s inner secrets, sometimes revealing the owner to be a fuckin’ cunt, who must be PUT TO THE SWORD. Ergo, I have included some simple rules for stalking. Use them carefully and don’t come crying to me if things turn weird and ugly and extremely dangerous, you WILL NOT be welcome on my doorstep at ANY time.

No. 1 – Be sure you’re heavily armed at all times. You can never be sure about ANYBODY. Most folks would be surprised at how quickly things can turn down the short road to ugly town. NEVER fire first, but if you don’t fire last, things will get grim (It is best to ignore this rule if stalking at an airport, for obvious reasons).

No. 2 – NEVER lose sight of the target. Watch them, but don’t let them watch you. Some targets are quick, and sneaky like weasels.

No. 3 – Adopt a clever guise to avoid recognition. Something like “Buzzy Kerbox” works well. Growing a beard may aid in the development of your new persona but don’t go crazy, subtlety is the key; you’re not the CIA, after all.

No. 4 – NEVER directly converse with the target. This will blow your cover and force you to flee the scene like a dying animal. You will be remembered and all chances for future success will be off the cards at once.

No. 5 – Leave cryptic and mean-spirited messages for the target to discover, this will bring THE FEAR down on them and they will skip over the high side into total paranoia very soon.

No. 6 – No matter how desperate things get, remain dignified at all times. Hiding in a bush or up a tree looks odd and marks your card as a Peeping Tom pervert or a friend of Nandor or a stalker, and while it’s hard to know which of those things is worse, it’s clear that none of them are good.

Put on your spurs, swagger around

2005-11-30T03:12:00.000-08:00

The All Blacks have returned home from their “Grand Slam” tour and now they are champions, BUT I am left with a pain in my heart and a head full of shame. I behaved foolishly and now I am poorer for it. I bet my last fifteen dollars on Scotland to beat the All Blacks; they were paying nine dollars to win by less than thirteen points, which are fine odds if you know how to read the signs and indeed, some kind of weird momentum had been building during the week, but Scotland failed miserably. The Scottish captain played with the agility of a hippopotamus and the heart of a ten year old girl. They lost and now the game is forgotten history, but I am still poor until Friday and shamed until my next good bet, which won’t be anytime soon.

The gods of rugby have never been friends of mine and the gods of gambling have never been friends of any man. Professional gamblers are lesser, weaker animals, they sweat and mumble and stink of endless desperation. They are not my kind of people in the same way as rugby is not my kind of game and that is why I bet on it. It makes sense, but some days, every bet is a bad one.

2005-11-29T04:42:00.000-08:00

Natalie's been through a lot of rough patches ever since she moved to the Bay. Her face changed completely after the first year on the shores of Summer Bay now wonder that she shrunk and her face looked younger and fresher over night. Poor Ken after having it finally made into the opening credits died slightly afterwards under the slid-on-him car at his own garage...Nat had to deal with Gypsy not being attentive at school even being hit by a netball because of being drunk.

Nick thought that Alf was nought more than an old fat Nazi pig who was supposed to be taught a lesson for pushing people around and thus talked Duncan into nicking the Surf Club's keys in order to rip the Surf Club into piecesFurthermore Nick's mixture in the "housewife" - cup made Irene shudder big time!
Ken tried to reach her but too late since Irene's lounge wall had been greased and she'd already freaked big time. Irene tried to threat Nick's zany mother with this very fragile looking bat but the whole thing backfired as Irene turned off the shower's tap and this mummy got hold of this ridiculous weapon to bash up Irene big time but Nick turned up in the last tick to protect Irene from his own mother. He defended Irene big time by telling his mum that she needed professional help but Nick's mum only told him that Irene had achieved what she had been longing for namely a profound brainwash of him.

Alf Stewart is a good natured rogue with a finger in every pie.
Duncan's most outgoing part in 1997 was when having a picnic with Ailsa and Ailsa and discovering a dead Vietnamese body in the shrubs while looking for the non-caught boomerang! He immediately passed on the news to Duncan. Duncan had been into violent computer games at that timDuncan's most abominable and pathetic actions was making Aisla believe Joey wanted to threaten him with a massive kitchen knife andAfter being released, he turned into a tiny monster. made Aisla worry heaps. .

Then Duncan put a smelly sandwich into Sam's sports bag and provoke him that much that Sam nearly hit him. He messed around with Gypsy's and Will's bike and locked them into the traumatic dungeon thus Gypsy believed that Robert returned in order to get back at her!! One of Duncan latest traumatic ordeal was being abducted by Robert Perez and his nuts and dire girl friend in late 1999 because of having got hold of his hidden money belonging to the Nash family. This whole thing nearly ended in tragedy.

Slidin' away on a washed out delta sun

2005-11-27T21:09:00.000-08:00

I fell off the roof last night. The clothesline partially broke my fall, but my fall partially broke the clothesline. Yes indeed, that is the secret, midnight equilibrium of the universe. Even if the gods of fun are on your side, they WILL NOT let you away with plain dumbness, and that is why I suffered. I finished up lying on the ground, staring at the sky with a soft, warm pain in the back of my head and I when I shut my eyes the only things I could see were Jason Gunn and Thingy. They were in the bushes, whispering and smiling. “Fuck no!” I screamed, “Take your dirty hands off me you creepy, treacherous man-child!” and moments later they were gone, like some kind of cruel and harrowing mirage, they vanished and we will not see them around here anytime soon. Fuck no.

As it turned out, I was completely uninjured with the exception of a bruise on my right hipbone. I went inside and laughed, Sam laughed too; we both sat and laughed, laughed like loons until 3am, when we fell asleep, overjoyed. Two wires were broken on the clothesline but the gods of fun had graciously given me a free pass, and I was ok.

When the devil came he was not red

2005-11-22T16:31:00.000-08:00

It’s tough for most folks to believe in the physical reality of the devil. The notion that SATAN could be walking around AMONG US is never an easy thing for people to accept. But if Satan does exists and exists in any tangible form he was indeed haunting the hills around Waimari last night after midnight, preparing for the FUN that comes with the 3am witching hour.

Death Bomb 2: The Death Bomb of Fire was all but complete yesterday when a terrible storm blew in and dampened hopes of a magical fireball on the midnight beach. Sam just laughed when he heard the thunder and saw the look on my face.
“It is a stern warning from the gods of fun,” he said, “You are hedging your bets and they know it.” I listened intently; Sam has a direct line to the gods of fun, after all.
“You must put everything you have into this bomb,” he explained, “Up the ante. Add something extra, otherwise; all bets will be off in fun town tonight! They will close the tollgates by way of this terrible weather and you will face public humiliation!”

I did as he said, I would have been a fool not to. And as I was running down the beach, damp from gasoline that had burst out of condoms, as the fuse burnt down behind me, I knew everything would be just fine, we had nothing to worry about and nothing else to take care of. Indeed, Death Bomb 2: The Death Bomb of Fire released a beautiful fireball into the darkness that lit up all of our hearts and made us all stronger, as strong as 10 buffalo. There is something unspeakably beautiful about flaming destruction that is only understood by people who spend enough time dancing with the gods of fun. We are better people now and that is the supernatural power of fire and explosions. It can’t be explained, but it is accepted by every brave soldier who is prepared to have their ticket ripped and take the ride to fun town. Yes. Some nights I am sure that Satan and the gods of fun are paying the same band and dancing to the same song.

Where the Wild Things Are

2005-11-17T11:59:00.000-08:00

A special package arrived early this afternoon, buried within a carton that read “Hokey Pokey Ice Cream”. There was no ice cream. There was however, an ingredient key to the manufacture of DB2: Death Bomb of Fire. Indeed, for a few days it was very quiet around here. Sam and I were down in the bunker; sure our man in the North Island had fucked us over, stolen our money and fled like a rabid beast at dawn. But he came through in the end and I am grateful.

I have always keenly subscribed to the quality over quantity theory. Ergo, for Guy Fawkes, one big boom in the shape of the original Death Bomb was much more satisfying than a hundred little fizzers. Yes sir, quality over quantity is on the books as a fully recognised law down in Fun Town. They understand the way these things work and the Death Bomb of Fire is being put together with the same simple principles in mind. It shall be more fearsome, more beautiful and more FUN. If Death Bomb number 1 made us all immortal, the Death Bomb of Fire should give us each the strength of 10 buffalo.

The train to FUN TOWN is leaving soon...

The Crying of Lot G

2005-11-14T14:38:00.000-08:00

I went to visit my friend Joe (I have come up with this clever pseudonym to avoid any embarrassment with regards to the individual concerned) who has been living alone beside a river west of Timaru for the last three weeks. I found him several miles from his campsite, under a bridge and babbling like a drunk. He could not stop talking and his mind had become wild and unpredictable. We drove back to his campsite and he made coffee and baked bread, all the while mumbling about the noises the trees were making.
“I can’t hear anything,” I told him.
“Never mind that!” He yelled, “Have some bread. You’ll hear the noises soon enough.”
The bread was weird. Jesus, for all I knew, the crazy bastard had baked lead into it.
“It’s really good to see you!” he said, “Really good, really good, really good.”
“Are you alright?” I asked him.
“I’m fine.” He said, “It’s just that it’s good to see you and the bread’s really good, it’s really good, good.”
I knew right away was wrong. Cabin fever was setting in; the silence and isolation were doing strange and terrible things to his mind. He would not shut up. He sat there, nibbling on his bread and poking his fire with a stick, all the while staring over the flames at me.
“What’s with the fire?” I asked, “It’s hotter than hell as it is.”
“WHAT!?” he screamed.”
"Never mind,” I said, “This is just like the Shining.”
"WHAT!?” he screamed again.
“Nothing. I was talking to myself.”
He nodded his head and smiled.
“My axe is blunt.” He told me.
Jesus, what the fuck did that mean? I was getting edgy, I was sweating like an animal and my heart was lurching like a pig.
“Let’s go swimming in the river.” He said.
It seemed like a bad idea. He would probably have drowned me and tied my corpse to some driftwood to float out to sea and get eaten by sharks.
“No thanks,” I said, “But you go, it’ll be refreshing.”
“Yes,” He said, “Refreshing,”
I thought about fleeing the campsite while he was swimming, just vanishing, so he would think my entire visit had been some kind of strange fever dream he couldn’t quite explain. But I didn’t. I stayed until long after the sun had gone down and the birds had stopped chirping. There were dark shadows everywhere by then.

It had been a tense few hours by the time he finally wandered off with his axe looking for “fire wood”. I got into the car and drove home at top speed and when I finally made it through the front door and sat down in front of the TV sometime around midnight, the Shining was on! It was the kind of ugly coincidence that leads a man to end it all. But I didn’t, despite my nerve endings being ready to explode, I rode it out.

Maybe we will see Joe around here sometime soon, maybe we will not. Who knows what his mind will have been ultimately reduced to by the time he returns?

Trapped like a rat in Mr. Burt's neighbourhood

2005-11-12T16:12:00.000-08:00

On Thursday I had to drive to Invercargill to drop my granny’s new car off to her and on Friday morning I caught the bus back to Christchurch, and this, simple and terrifying adventure, entailed spending ONE NIGHT in old Invercargill town. It was a night fraught with all kinds of weirdness and NO SLEEP and strange and terrible memories.

Not far from Invercargill there is a big blue and white sign that reads: "THANK GOD JESUS IS ALIVE." It’s bizarre and quite ominous. I was led to believe, by reputable sources, that Jesus had been nailed to a cross and poked with sticks until he died, but who am I to understand the complex narrative of the Bible? It's always been beyond me, it makes me queasy and uncomfortable. But, a little closer to Invercargill there is another sign, it reads: "WELCOME TO INVERCARGILL. DREAMS ARE POSSIBLE." Underneath there is a big picture of Burt Munro gunning his Indian on the salt flats. That sign is altogether more comforting; in fact, it warms the cockles of the southern heart and makes you happy to be back. Any opportunity for positive PR is quickly seized in Invercargill town, and Burnt Munro is the best of them.

Anyways, I had plans for this night in Invercargill. Plan A was to contact the old JAMES HARGEST honor role and have some wild fun, like the old days, in the center plots on Dee street. Yes indeed, wild times in a wild town. Plan A was soon abandoned though. It turned out the honor role was entirely GONE, its members had fled town, or died, or disappeared at Sandy Point sometime after midnight with a car full of Speights and cheap bourbon or I was never friends with any of them to begin with. Never mind that, I told myself, you have Plan B, things will be fine.

Plan B was simpler still; I would buy a lot of beer and drink until I fell asleep. Plan B was also abandoned, after I could find nowhere open to sell me beer at 8:45 on a Thursday night. I only had two plans and they were both fucked. So, I spent the night talking to my granny and my aunt, answering the usual questions about university and travel and the future and girlfriends. It was a long night and I had nothing interesting to say. It was good to be back but even better to leave and I came home the next day on a slow bus, full of freaks and pickpockets, some of whom, I became friends with.

5..4..3...2...1

2005-11-10T05:11:00.000-08:00

Pin your eye to the line

2005-11-09T17:53:00.000-08:00

Gambling is fun. It’s healthy and sometimes wildly entertaining. That’s why Cup Day is always a BIG DEAL around here. The only bad things about Cup Day for Sam and I are going to the track, or going to the TAB, or leaving the house, so we don’t, ever. We get down in the bunker and bet when it’s time, that is to say, we bet on the BIG RACE. We are fearless gamblers with ugly records and no useful information about any horses.

Anyway, this year I bet all my money on a horse called Jackson Browne for strange and sentimental reasons that need not be explained here. Sam mocked me mercilessly for it: "You are a dunce!” He screamed, “It’s paying sixty dollars to win! You have thrown your money at a donkey and embarrassed your entire family!” Those things hurt me. I knew, but Sam did not, that the gods of gambling were sending me a secret sign and all I had to do to win was pay close attention and follow their subtle direction.
“Fuck you!” I told him, “What horse did you bet on?”
“Born Again Christian.” He said quietly.
“What the fuck for?” I asked him.
“You wait.” He said, “Just wait and see.”

In the end Jackson Browne ran less like a fearsome racehorse and more like a three-legged dog with rabies. It failed miserably; the gods of gambling had pissed down my throat again and I will not see them around here anytime soon! Born Again Christian failed on a whole different level though. It broke a leg on the last bend and had to be shot. The poor, doomed animal got one in the brain while Sam cowered in the corner with his eyes shut.

Midnight in the garden of good and evil

2005-11-07T13:30:00.000-08:00

The work of the devil is never fully revealed until after midnight

-Matthew 7:7-8

The Death Bomb bore a small inscription somewhere near the base outlining the reason for its existence and offering a simple prayer:

An offering to the gods of fun: Please love us tonight!

But for a short while at least, it seemed as though the Death Bomb would be an abject failure, the kind that brings with it public humiliation and misery. Indeed, it would have been ignominy of such a high order I would have been forced to flee the city sometime after midnight and never return and it was those things I was pondering as the fuses burned down into the belly of the beast, toward a heart that seemed all at once impossibly explosive and unlikely to succeed. I was hunkered down behind a rubbish bin and the other brave soldiers were somewhere in the sand dunes behind me, silent and as giddy with anticipation as I was. There seemed to be a long, long second of weird silence after the sparks vanished over the side and things went dark. I was already entering the early stages of hideous shame, but the Death Bomb didn’t let us down, it gave up all it had like some kind of twisted, dying rainbow that made everyone who saw it immortal.

The gods of fun were indeed watching over us last night and we all learnt a valuable lesson: It’s fun to play with Death Bombs. It’s part of becoming a real person and probably a part of dying. We are warriors now and we will live forever.

Who will wear the crown of drowning award?

2005-11-06T10:10:00.000-08:00

I once had a friend who blew a hole in his head while playing with gunpowder and a car battery in his bedroom. It was a brutal and defining moment, they glued a plate to his skull and replaced the bedroom windows, but things had been irreparably altered, for the worst and forever. We all learnt a powerful lesson that day: Our friend was dumb in the worst way.

Anyway, the Death Bomb was invented by Sam and I, on a warm spring evening in old Christchurch town in the year of our lord 2005, using the contents of 86 regular fireworks and a little homemade high explosive. Fireworks are everywhere but high explosive is not. It must be carefully manufactured in the middle of the night at low temperatures with just the right humidity using chemicals that are tricky to get. Explanations must be given, strange forms must be signed, questions must be answered, very intrusive questions:
“What’s your name?”
“Ahhh, it’s Andre, Andre Battrick, my friends call me Fox though.”
“Ok Andre, what’s your address?”
“Um, 62 Smith street, in Hornby.”
“Alright, and why do you need this stuff?”
“Ahh, I’m a student of chemistry you understand. Actually I’m quite brilliant, and I’m doing my masters thesis at the moment and I need this chemical for an experiment I’m undertaking.”
“Oh, ok. Sounds interesting, if you could just sign here.”
“Thank you, when I collect my Nobel Prize, I’ll remember this.”
“Yeah, alright.”

Indeed, that might just make an innocent party some kind of weird criminal but there are other things to consider, deeper things with more ominous connotations. But when you’re giddy with anticipation, these things are better considered after.

The Best of Jill Hives

2005-11-02T01:04:00.000-08:00

I was at home today, alone and hunkered down with the delicate task of constructing a death bomb for the upcoming Guy Fawke’s celebrations, and the doorbell rang. I’ve always understood the doorbell to be a sure sign of trouble; much like a ringing phone it brings only gloom and thundering, relentless misery. It is best not to answer the door or the phone for any reason at any time unless you are drunk or terminally unhappy or deeply weird and especially if you have a legitimate social phobia. I think it was the Dalai Lama who said, “Only a monkey comes when it is called” And that is as wise and as useful as anything the Dalai Lama has ever said. I’ve always found his wisdom worthless on a day-to-day basis; it’s like living your life according to The Code of the Samurai, it makes no sense to anyone. The only thing anyone can really learn from the Dalai Lama is people like you more when you smile and even that’s a lie if you’re ugly.

But anyway, the doorbell was ringing and I was worried so I hid behind a chair. Sam just sat still though, in the middle of the floor between the window and the coffee table.
“Jesus fuck!” I screamed at him, “Hide! They will see you and then we’ll both be fucked!”
He smiled at me and said “Fuck you, I don’t care if they see me, what can they do about anything? I’m inside and they’re out there.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I said, “They’ll look in the window! They’ll see you! Hide! NOW!”
He didn’t though, he just sat there and stared at the window, taunting the devils of chance and fucking with my keen sense of courage. I was getting queasy with nerves, then, the doorbell rang again and Sam starting laughing like a loon.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolls,” he cackled, “it tolls for thee.”
“You sick son of a bitch!” I screamed.
“Ha, I’m going to let them in!” he screamed back.
“If you touch that door handle I’ll chop your fuckin’ hands off!”
“Bullshit, you will not!”
“Fuck you I will.”
Before he had time to move though, there was a blonde girl standing at the window, staring in with her hands pressed against the glass and her eyes squeezed almost shut. I ducked and Sam stood still, perfectly still, holding his breath and shutting his eyes and eventually she left. Neither of us moved until we heard her car rattle off. We knew it had been a close run thing in the end and a rough dollar indeed. Sam’s foolhardy fucking around had almost forced us to talk to a stranger and we were both deeply shaken.

The Strange Circus Envy of Buzzy Kerbox

2005-10-30T13:45:00.000-08:00

As much as I try to avoid rash generalisations I think it would be true enough to say that most carnival folk are put together with some degenerate strain of monkey. They seem like regular folk on the surface but as soon as they’re tested they reveal themselves to lack that bedrock sense of decency that regular folk have. They’re scum with no morals and poor personal etiquette and it doesn’t bother them at all. They would sell you sex with their own brain-damaged children if it would make them another buck. These might seem like mean spirited words for a Sunday, but not once you read on, friends of mine. I was the victim of the carnie criminal spirit last night and I won’t soon forgive them, any of them. It was the shooting gallery where I was fucked over.

"Yes!" he yelled, "five shots for ten dollars! Knock down four and you get a prize."
Yes indeed, I thought to myself, this sounds just like my kind of deal! Now, perhaps I let my obsession with wild hyperbole get the better of me once again, perhaps I shouldn’t have told him I was an expert marksman and all his soft toys would be going home with me, perhaps I shouldn’t have mumbled about being in the army (which may have been a straight out lie, but I wanted him to think he was dealing with a professional.)
Anyways, the fucker only gave me four shots and he didn’t give me any change for a twenty. It was some kind of wily carnie slight of hand that I was entirely oblivious to. I took careful aim but I only managed to hit three out of four (probably because the fourth one was nailed on and wouldn’t shift for anything.) Failure always looms large in carnie town, it’s just around the next bend and down the next dip in the road, and the dark clouds in the sky last night were an ominous sign.
"Too bad!" he yelled, "I’ll give you another shot for five bucks."
"No." I said.
"Go on!" he screamed, "Win a toy for your girlfriend!"
"I don’t have a girlfriend!"
"Win a toy for one of your friends then!"
"I don’t have any friends either." I said. I figured it couldn’t be too hard to outwit a carnie, but the clever bastard was on to me right away!
"What about them?" he asked, gesturing towards Gabs and Jesse and Toby and Amanda and Dean and Nick.
"Jesus!" I said, "Talk to that guy" and I pointed at Toby and ran off.
I didn’t realize until later that the evil carnie had robbed me. I had gone down there as personable and as nicely mannered as always. Even with a vague hope of joining the carnival and never coming back! But things got ugly. If bolts come loose on the kamikaze tonight, well, who could blame me?

Ode to Marty

2005-10-30T01:57:00.000-08:00

Goddammit!!!!

This boy is just way too hot.

Couldn't you just throw him to the ground and lick him all over?

I love the way he moves, stands, wiggles his fingers, holds the mike, sneers, smiles

I looooved that performance. He was so powerful, so confident so F*CK YOU! (Okay honey, just give me a minute.)

I loved the way he roared into the mike at the end, the music

loved the way he roared into the mike at the end, the muscles in his arms all pumped, that glorious flat belly, the passion, the heat, the - oh my god I want to F*ck him till he bleeds!!

Ooh, sorry...small hormone moment...I'll be okay in a sec...

No one appreciates the tapu these days.....

2005-10-28T20:46:00.000-07:00

This, people, is what happens when people ignore tapu. Let it be a warning to the rest of you.

Cocktails in the Blue, Red and Grey

2005-10-26T00:43:00.000-07:00

Yes indeed! It was a lovely late-October evening and for a little while I danced with the giants.

Golf is a stupid, shitty sport and the only people who really enjoy it are wealthy white supremacists and Tiger Woods. All sports are metaphors for a certain kind of dumbness when you break them down to their bare bones, but golf is tainted with a kind of overwhelming dullness that makes the whole world seem gloomy and not worth waking up for. It’s weird to watch and painful to play. But that’s not why you called; you don’t need me to explain these simple facts. Because, friends of mine, it’s the driving range where the people who really do things that count hang out.

It’s best to head down at about 8 and have a few drinks at the bar. Some people argue alcohol reduces co-ordination but fuck them, they are wrong. Once you find just the right balance, alcohol relaxes the muscles and immeasurably improves hand-eye co-ordination. It’s probably 5 beers and 3 cups of coffee, but Jesus, these small details aren’t important now, fuck no, not with a rare triumph to report.

Down at the range at about 8:30 every night a small green tractor comes out from under the floodlights and scours the range for balls, it sucks them up and takes them home for tomorrow. And that green tractor, that noisy, rust-fucked John Deere is the only thing that matters once you sight it. People forget about senseless things like the perfect swing and trajectories and impact points; all they want to do when they see the John Deere is hit the fucker with a ball. If you can manage that, if you can clunk one off the roof, then you are a giant, you are a driving range pro and your face will be remembered and respected forever. It is rarer than a hole in one and more beautiful than a new born baby, it is history that can never be removed from your biography.

In 5 (five) years I have never hit the John Deere and that fact sticks on my brain like an ominous shadow. I was pondering these things while I stood on the top level with a club in my hand, halfway through my 100 balls, watching as the John Deere turned straight towards me at about 250 meters. It was a chance, a long and far off chance, but a change indeed. I set the ball on the tee and skipped forward a few songs to “Search and Destroy”. I knew it was my time, I knew it was my moment to be measured by the gods of golf. I took my stance and stared the tractor down. Some people will tell you size and strength make no difference when hitting a golf ball, they’ll have you believe it’s not how hard you hit the ball, it’s the technique you use, but they’re truth less whores because I hit that ball as hard as I could with all of my 185cms and 80000 grams and no technique at all and it left the bay like a tracer bullet, perfectly straight into the still night sky. It never looked like missing and it didn’t. It hit the roof and made a sound that will echo through my life for many years to come. Whatever happens from now on, I will stomp on the terra like a giant, because tonight I was and I liked the way it tasted.

The Two Coreys

2005-10-23T14:41:00.000-07:00

THE COREYS-
"The two Coreys is a joke reference to two popular child actors from the 1980s, Corey Feldman and Corey Haim, who appeared in many films together.

Feldman starred in Gremlins and The Goonies, while Haim starred in Silver Bullet and Lucas before being joined together in the movie The Lost Boys in 1987. They also hung out with each other off screen appearing together at many Hollywood events and parties.

The reference to the two Coreys became a joke because it played on the fact they had the same first name and people treated them like they were interchangeable. They had a couple of hits together before their later work ended up going straight to video."

Their collaborations include:

The Lost Boys (1987)
License to Drive (1988)
Dream a Little Dream (1989)
Blown Away (1992)
Dream a Little Dream 2 (1994)
Last Resort (1994)
Busted (1996)

COREY FELDMAN

Birth name
Corey Scott Feldman
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Nickname
Core
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Height
5' 3" (1.60 m)
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Mini biography
Corey Feldman started work in the film industry at the tender age of three, the start of one of the most turbulent careers ever in American cinema. He is most remembered for his part as one of the Frog brothers in the horror movie The Lost Boys (1987). However, the characters he has played in most of his movies have always been slightly way out. His major part alongside Meredith Salenger in Dream a Little Dream (1989) was the first time he had played a part like Bobby Keller, which he handled very well. Feldman has also teamed up with his friend and co-star in Dream a Little Dream (1989), Corey Haim, in several films.

In the early 1990s, sadly, he was arrested for possession of drugs, but has now bounced back and is again doing movies, and is better than ever. With his performances in Meatballs 4 (1992) and Edge of Honor (1991) with Meredith Salenger, things are now looking up for Feldman.

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IMDb mini-biography by
Richard Spowart
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Spouse
Susie Sprague (30 October 2002 - present) 1 child
Vanessa Marcil (6 August 1989 - 1993) (divorced)

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Trivia
Divorced his parents.

Parents: Bob and Sheila; sister, actress Mindy Feldman; brothers, Eden, Devin.

His first acting role was in a commercial for McDonalds Gift Certificates.

Is a vegetarian

Released the hip hop single "Honesty" in 1993. It met with poor reviews.

Frequently appears on Howard Stern's radio talk show.

His wife, Susie, gave birth to their first child, a boy named Zen Scott Feldman, on 7 August 2004 in Los Angeles.

He and Corey Haim were the two highest paid teen stars and were essentially the kings of the teen box office back in the mid late 80s

Has two younger brothers named Eden and Devin

Ranked #8 in VH1's list of the "100 Greatest Kid Stars"

Wears a "Purple Rain" t-shirt throughout the film The Goonies (1985).

Auditioned for the role of Dick Grayson/Robin in Batman Forever.

He defended Michael Jackson at his recent child abuse trial.

COREY HAIM

Birth name
Corey Ian Haim
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Nickname
Space Ace
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Height
5' 6" (1.68 m)
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Mini biography
Canadian-born Haim broke into the Film industry in 1984 as a young child caught up in a family war in the hit movie Firstborn (1984). The following year he starred in the TV movie _A Time To Live (1985) (TV)_ , for which he received an award, and Silver Bullet (1985). _Lucas_(1986) , in which he starred alongside Charlie Sheen showed his ability, but was not a big hit.

In 1987 he had a breakthrough when he played one of the major roles in 'Joel Schumachers' ’s _Lost Boys (1987)_ , but his output during the nineties was disappointing. He hopes to turn his career around with two newly finished movies _Without Malice (2000)_ and _Universal Groove (2001)_ and there is a chance of a role in the much-rumoured ‘Lost Boys’ sequel.

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IMDb mini-biography by
Kramer
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Trivia
Favorite food: Pizza, Favorite actress: Cybill Shepherd. Favorite Actor: James Dean.

Shared the screen with Corey Feldman in 7 movies to date. (2002)

Father is French-Canadian.

Got into acting because his mom put him into acting lessons to help him deal with his shyness and it later became a career because his older sister Carol was auditioning for roles.

His dad, Bernie, worked as a sales rep. His mom, Judy, worked as a computer operator.

Parents Bernie and Judy divorced when Corey was 11 years old. They were married for 18 years.

Filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection in July 1997 in Los Angeles, California, listing debts that included nearly $104,000 to the I.R.S., $100,000 in California taxes and a variety of medical expenses. The document stated that he had few assets, including a 1987 BMW, $100 in cash, $750 worth of clothing and $7,500 in residuals and royalty rights. He also listed a $31,000 pension plan.

Has a half brother named Daniel Lee from his father's second marriage

In 2004, he became the subject of a single by the Irish band, The Thrills entitled "Whatever Happened To Corey Haim?"

Was engaged to Holly Fields (not the boxer) in 1996, but are no longer together.

Brooke McCarter managed him up to the mid 90s until Corey's drug problem caused a fallout.

Mother Judy was born in Israel

Was asked by best friend and frequent co-star 'Corey Feldman' - while filming the first season of "VH-1's The Surreal Life" (2002) - to be his best man at his wedding to Susie Sprague-Feldman; but unfortunately, due to prior commitments he was not able to attend.

Was engaged to Nicole Eggert, whom he credits with helping save his life on a certain occasion: while they were filming one of several movies together, she noticed that Haim was suffering from a narcotic "rush." Nicole promptly drove him to the local hospital where he was detoxed. (The irony is that her "Baywatch" (1989) character, "Summer Quinn," was seldom allowed to do anything nearly as heroic.)

Sister by the name of Carol "Cari" Haim, who is 2 years older than Corey, accidentally got him interested in acting when he accompanied her when she auditioned for roles.

Bill Egert's character, "Sean Haim", in the movie Detour (2002) was named after him, as Egert's favorite actor.

Ranked #26 on VH1's 100 Greatest Kid Stars.

Auditioned for the role of Dick Grayson/Robin in Batman Forever.

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So there you go Michael. You are officially more successfull than both the Coreys! My favourite bit is FeldmanCoreys hip hop hit "Honesty" oh and HaimCoreys bankrupcy

It's a war on war, it's a war on war, it's a war on war, there's a war on.....

2005-10-23T03:02:00.000-07:00

It's a war on George's war on anybody in his own country and the rest of the free world who is not a hateful, right-wing Christian with a heart like a Nazi and an oil-thirsty soul. It's war on the pope's war on contraception and abortion, It's 2005, get out of the way you dopey old fucker. It's a war on Brian's war on homosexuals and all things fun, Jesus might love you, but I sure fuckin' don't. It's a war on the blood-thirsty, Parklands Baptist Community church (Who would burn me alive if they ever caught me) for waking me at 10am every Sunday morning with their weird cult-like chanting and the screams of terrified children. The War has begun friend's of mine, the targets identified and the weapons polished and ready. Make no mistake, we will be fighting this war when your children's children are being ground down by rampant dumbness. And indeed, it's the one dark cloud that ties these wars together: DUMBNESS. It will be the war on dumbness, no prisoners will be taken, no tactics will be ruled out, because, as my man Frank once told me: The only way to deal with dumbness is viscously. They've done enough damage already dancing around like idiots, we must move now. Good night and get ready, we will be down in the bunkers before you realise.

Nobody Knows the Weirdness I've Seen on the Trail of the Brown Buffalo

2005-10-20T01:17:00.000-07:00

Yes. The gene pool really fucks some folks over. You can tell right away no matter where they go or what they do or how hard they try that the future is long and dark and ugly for them. It is some bedrock sense of dumbness or even straight-out retardation, but it means failure on all levels for a long time to come. Say goodnight because things are grim, very grim and getting quickly worse. Witness this conversation between me and a long-hair:
“Is it your Birthday today?”
“Ahhh, No.”
“Really, are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
"You didn’t just turn sixteen today?”
“Ummm, no.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep,”
“Oh. Ok then. I must be thinking of that girl at the hospital, she just turned sixteen maybe.”
“Ok then.”
“YEAH! But then there was a pot plant by the door and it kind of just exploded. Dunno why, like a bomb or something. Just bang, just like that.”
“Ok, really?”
“Yeah. But shit you don’t want to hear about that do you? No you don’t”
“Oh. I do.”
“Nah.”

Or this, between me and a kid on the lawn in front of my house:
“Hey man, that’s a cool car.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Hey man, what kind of car’s that?”
“Ahh, it’s a Ferrari.”
"Really!? Shit man, a Ferrari!”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of Ferrari man?”
“Ahhh, a Ferrari Super 8.”
“A super 8?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it fast?”
“Oh yeah, real fast.”
“Really, how big’s the engine?”
“V12.”
“Really? Shit man, a V12, that is crazy.”
“Yeah. It’s crazy.”
“Why does it say MG on the front?”
“Ahhh, listen sonny, no one likes a smart arse eh.”
“I wasn’t being smart.”
“Whatever.”

Or this: Helen Clarke makes Winston Peters the New Zealand foreign minister. Democracy is yesterday's news in this country, we’ll have three years of something akin to dawn raids and death without trial for all immigrants. Sleep is for the weak in New Zealand now. Watch your back, stay down low, we are all in BIG trouble. Helen has pimped her party like a weasel on it’s back and now we are fucked. This is an ugly piece of treachery and Helen and her minions should be put to sleep for it. Winston was funny when he didn’t matter, but we have entered No Fun Town now. Board up your windows and stock up on ammo.

I assassin down the avenue

2005-10-17T00:33:00.000-07:00

When I was in third form and living in old Invercargill town I used to do a paper run at 530am every morning. Invercargill is a grubby little town as thick with perverts and thieves as it is with warriors and kings. And bearing these adverse working conditions in mind I always wore dark clothes and never used lights. No sir. I undertook these basic survival techniques with my own safety in mind, fuck the rest of them. I have always had a keen sense of my own immortality, but it never pays to take chances. The work of the devil is never revealed until after midnight and probably sometime before dawn. I read that somewhere and its sound advice if you're never sure what's going on.

Anywho, one morning I was roaring down the footpaths of Margaret Street at top speed, I had finished my run and I was headed home like some dark and ominous missile. Then BAM, suddenly I'd crashed into some old fucker putting his wheelie bin out for the morning collection.
I was in all kinds of pain until I realised the man who had knocked me off was The King of Invercargill himself, Tim Shadbolt. He smiled and started cackling.
"Whaaahey," he said, "Are you OK there?"
"Yes," I told him, "I'm fine." I was lying of course. My brain had failed to function correctly in the presence of such greatness. He put a hand on my shoulder and leaned in close, "I should watch where I'm going." He said. I agreed with him but we both knew it was all my fault. I gave him a free paper (I always had plenty of spares because I could never remember who subscribed and who didn't, so naturally, not wanting to fuck about with numbers that early in the morning, I took all the spares I could get and gave everyone who'd ever subscribed to the Southland Times a paper every morning. Eventually things came to an ugly and inevitable end, but that is another long, dull story better saved for later) because Tim did not subscribe to the Southland Times in those days, and who could've blamed him? Not me, fuck no, the Southland Times was nonsense, most of it was entirely fabricated by pimps and hustlers in a dirty old building somewhere in Gore. Tim was grateful anyway. He wandered back up his driveway in his pajamas and I went home.

I've never forgotten the look on Tim's face in the half second before I hit him, before he knew I was a metre away and closing fast. It was abject sadness and maybe that's the ugly truth about Tim, his smile isn't as permanent as it seems, his wheelie bin has loose wheels and his heart has been drained of feeling. Yes well, why am I letting these negative thoughts get me down? It seems I wandered off on some mindless tangent a long time ago. But I am not worried, not tonight!

My Kind of Soldier (Ode to Burt)

2005-10-14T02:00:00.000-07:00

Invercargill, New Zealand is a town that stands as a monument to courage and mould-breaking champions. Average men in Invercargill would be warriors by any other means of measuring. It is a town full of gladiators and monsters all of whom rage through the everyday darkness like wild, forgotten heroes. They are men who will live forever as though carved from granite and attached to the deepest foundations. I was born there and it is the one dark cloud that hangs over my biography, I was not man enough to stay.
- Norman Mailer, 1976

I saw you on Dee street Burt, when I was a baby,
You were a streak of painted light, with a pretty old lady.

Burt Munro was a warrior in every way that mattered. He measured himself with the yard stick reserved for pure champions and he came in somewhere near Mohammed Ali and Nelson Mandela. He was the real thing, a man who stormed across the earth with veins full of gasoline and a heart full of speed. Burt was a slave to Speedism, the notion that there is no such thing as too fast. It was the one guiding principle that pushed him headlong towards immortality and now his name has gone down on the long list of brave southern soldiers who have conquered like giants and given the rest of us something to shoot for. Men like Norman Mailer and Tim Shadbolt and Stan Simpson. Men who will live forever.

I lied about being the outdoor type

2005-10-12T01:47:00.000-07:00

Today was a wonderful day. The kind that glows like a light in the memory for a long, long time. Perhaps it’s to do with the alignment of the planets or they way the wind blows off the plains on some days, but sometimes you’re just there at the right time to witness something that completely renews your tender convictions and makes you grateful once more, the way you were before this ugly tumble into adulthood made you cynical and angry. At the same time though, there’s a certain kind of delicate burden involved in witnessing something so perfect. You have a duty as a human being to tell the story, to spread the news, to invigorate others with this rare, human beauty.

I was parked at the top of the parking building on Litchfield street and I had just begun a hasty decent when a woman pulled out in front of me in one of those ugly Porsche 4WDs. She was going incredibly slowly, struggling to manoeuvre her ridiculous machine around the corners. After the first couple she began to clip the concrete pylons on the inside of the corners with the back end of the car, scraping the paint off and shunting the back out every time. It was ugly and beautiful in the same moment, a kind of poetic destruction. She continued this all the way to the bottom, each hideous crunch and grind like another blow against her and her kind, she must have clipped ten pylons in total and when she finally squeezed that ugly fucker out past the booth and through the gate her machine had a huge dent in the back above the wheel and a lot of paint missing. She probably drove it home to Merivale straight down the centre line completely oblivious to the damage. But it didn’t matter to me, I felt as though I had been a part of some secret victory, the hairs on my neck where standing up and I was giddy with feelings of justice. The right gods had been watching today and they made me happy.

(I'm Only Bleeding)

2005-10-09T02:26:00.000-07:00

The other day at uni I went storming into C1 and tried to sit down. I failed of course. Most days I can’t even make it through the house without crashing into a table or a chair or a window. I ended up slumped on the ground holding onto the desk in front. It was one of those ugly moments that happen to decent people sometimes. The kind of moment when you realise you’re a dunce and a retard and nobody likes you. People don’t give you those strange looks because you’re cool, fuck no, they do it because you’re weird, you’re a loose cannon with a mean glint in your eye and a heart full of hate for everyone else like you. It’s a rough way to think but it’s smart and practical and on most days it balances the delicate equilibrium just fine. It’s an unspoken truth, they’re not your kind of people and you’re not theirs. We ride for different labels so fuck off and don’t say anything. No sir, I don’t need to hear it. So it was strange indeed when the girl behind me spoke. I’d been carefully planning to crawl out of that lecture theatre with my self esteem intact, holding my head up high and avoiding eye contact with everyone. I would crawl on my belly like a lizard but she fucked all that up. “Are you alright?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “I think I just broke my coccyx.”
“Really?” she sounded surprised.
“No.”
I sat down and stared straight ahead. I figured this strange anomaly in lecture theatre etiquette had ended there, as quickly as it had begun. You are ok now I thought, things are fine, there’s no need to panic, don't look at anybody. Then she said, “Don’t worry I do stupid things like that all the time myself.”
I turned around and looked at her, she was smiling, but I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t think of a single thing so I just smiled back.

And then nothing turned itself inside out

2005-10-06T01:20:00.000-07:00

I had a little to drink the other night and fell asleep on the couch. While asleep I had a long and beautiful dream about extraterrestrials and strange crafts from outer space. When I woke, some time before 3am, the TV was on but the sound was off. There were lights on-screen and jet fighters in the night sky somewhere over America.
And I tell you, friends of mine, for maybe half a second I truly believed aliens had landed. Never have I felt such exhilaration. I may have been beer-drunk and half asleep but I knew what was going on. Yes yes yes! It was a rough dollar indeed when I realised there were no aliens. I complained to Sam but all that did was knock him into a deep funk that he won’t soon emerge from.
“There are dark days ahead!” He told me, “We are fucked now, the aliens have gone along with all hopes for peace in our time!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked him, “It was a dream, there never were any aliens.”
“We could have learnt so much.” He told me, “They would’ve taught us how to live at peace with one another.”
“You treacherous whore!” I screamed, “Stay out of my beer fridge and away from my whiskey. You are babbling like a fool.”
He swallowed the last of the bottle and smiled at me.
“Besides,” I said, “aliens are carnivores, they would’ve eaten the flesh off our bones and you would’ve been the first you ignorant monkey.”
Nothing more was said after that, we went outside in the darkness and stared at the clouds and the roof of Mr Chang's takeaway shop. Whether the aliens would’ve been our kind of people or not, I was disappointed. It brought back memories of the time I thought I had been given a talking Alf toy but I woke up and I hadn’t been.

One more dance in dumb town

2005-10-03T00:25:00.000-07:00

I was in the car park just north of Waimari yesterday morning and parked alongside me was an old, pony-tailed fucker. He was trying to get two poodles into the back of his wagon. They were ignoring him of course, poodles are stupid, shitty dogs with tiny little brains and, as it turns out, very little sense of impending doom. I checked my mirrors and my blind spot and began reversing out and before I knew anymore this goddam longhair was charging toward my open window. "Watch where you're going!" he screamed, "You just hit my dog!"I could see them both running round, so I figured well fuck, I couldn't have hit it hard.
"It looks ok." I said.
"Well you just nudged it. Watch where you're going!"
"It's a car park. Maybe you should put it on a leash."
"You're the one who fuckin' hit it!" he said, which, as far as I could tell made no sense at all.
"Well I couldn't care less if I killed it, it's only a fuckin' poodle!" I said and then I stomped on the gas and made my escape at top speed. I could see him in my rearview mirror, full of rage and violence and with nothing to unleash it on other than his dumb dogs. I was the king of the car park yesterday, things were good, I was strong. Yes yes yes.

There is no such thing as paranoia

2005-09-30T00:38:00.000-07:00

The other night at work I was wearing my Trent name badge. “Trent” is just one of my many clever guises at work. On this particular “Trent” night however, I’d forgotten I was wearing the Trent badge, completely forgotten, and this small detail was of special significance later on when I began an ugly dance in dumb town and got a little uppity about it.

I was standing in front of my till and thinking of something hilarious, smiling into space. It was a few seconds later by the time I realised there were two dopey whore-beasts in front of me, staring at me, thinking I was smiling at them. Jesus fuck, I thought, you’ve made a terrible mistake, run! But it was too late, things had turned dark, lights had blinked out around the candy bar and I was left standing in an ugly shadow. I gave them their M&Ms and whore-beast number 1 said, “Trent’s a nice name.” Jesus, I wondered, what the fuck did that have to do with anything?
“Really?” I said, confused and afraid.
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Not really.” I said, fearing I was the being mocked in a way I didn’t quite understand.
“Well I like it.”
“Yeah,” the other whore-beast agreed, “I like it.”
“Are you having a baby or something?” I asked, thinking I would offend her in at least one way.
“No,” she looked a little confused, “why don’t you like Trent?”
“It’s a thug’s name.” I said, “Only thugs are called Trent.” Fuck them, I thought, it’s probably true enough, after all.
They both giggled, but they didn’t leave, they just kept standing there.
“Is Trent your boyfriend’s name?” I asked eventually, figuring I had a deep understanding of their simple thought patterns.
“What do you mean?” Whore-beast number one asked with a queasy grin on her face.
“What do you mean?” I cleverly countered.
“I was just saying, I like the name Trent.”
“OK,” I said, “that’s fine. I like the name Mary.”
“OK.” She paused for a second and walked away. I figured I had out-witted them, I was proud and happy and only mildly concerned that their strange joke had settled outside my bounds of understanding. Fuck it, I thought, they were probably hopped up on party pills, it’s very doubtful they even knew what they were saying. It was a little while later that I realised the hideous truth. I was ashamed and embarrassed, they might have been whore-beasts but on that night they were better than me. Jesus, some nights I am a weaker animal than just about everything and everyone.

Judy was a diver and she was always down

2005-09-27T02:25:00.000-07:00

Judy Jetson was my first girlfriend, I used to walk her home from school on sunny days and kiss her on the lips. Indeed, I was all chivalry in those days and that’s probably the reason Judy loved me like she did. My friends didn’t like her; they said she was a whore with funny hair. They said she was crazy and her beer-drunk brother was a pervert. And these things may have been the truth, but fuck, I didn’t care, I was in love. Sure, she kept cask wine under her bed but that was only to help her live with the warped temper of her father. He was a merciless thug with GINGER hair and where I come from he would have been lucky to make it out of the womb, I have statistics to prove it, but things were different in Judy’s town and her father not only lived a full and happy life, he all but prospered. He was scum.

It was the small things that meant the most, the way she would core and slice my apples, the way she would steal her father’s whiskey, the “I heart you” texts just before she went to sleep. Yes, she was a star, as bright and as beautiful in the firmament as our very own sun.

Some nights, when things go horribly wrong, when I set myself on fire or I drink till I shit myself or I fall off the roof, I think about Judy and I miss her. I miss her a lot. If I was inclined towards honesty I would probably confess to still loving her. Where ever she is though, I hope she’s happy, god knows she deserves to be.

SPRING

2005-09-24T19:55:00.000-07:00

"So gimme the half price. just do it you red shirted drone"

(punch)

all better

With some help from Johnnie Walker Red

2005-09-23T00:56:00.000-07:00

Over the last 24 hours I have been carefully considering the notion that each human arrives on earth with a SINGLE purpose as their guiding light. Indeed, it seems like a hopeless notion on most days and I mention it only because I genuinely fear that I am about to make my entire contribution to humanity ALREADY. You see, friends of mine, I have invented a beverage that leads me to believe I have a dash of Burt Munro’s sparkling southern courage. Some days I am sure that my veins are filled with the blood of a warrior and my heart is as bright and as a delicate as a Monet.

I was talking to a crazed hedgehog in the garden when the formula struck me right on midnight. “Fuck off,” I told it, “fuck off or I’ll shoot you.” The hedgehog ignored me. I saw it as another dark omen as sinister and as frightening as Monday’s snow and Tuesday’s dead penguin. It won’t work I thought, I’ll poison myself and die. Sit back, relax. Try it, this won’t hurt a bit.

My initial response, after trialling and testing was to keep the formula to myself. But then I thought no, slow down, you are behaving like a greedy fool, BAD things will happen SOON if you carry on like this. Share it with your internet friends I told myself, they are smart people, they understand what’s going on. You will be a KING when this catches on, it is inevitable. So here it is, read it and weep, enjoy it, make it for friends and enemies, your heart will GROW and your mind will RACE:

Ingredients: 1 heaped tablespoon instant coffee (I know there are people who will want to argue about “instant” but fuck them, I don’t have time for that kind of lame fuck around)

50mls Johnnie Walker Red

50mls Maple syrup

Boiling water

Directions: Mix everything together in a mug. Serve upon waking or anytime after midnight with cigars and walnuts and strong chocolate and Tom Waits playing gently in the background.

On an island in the sun

2005-09-20T01:34:00.000-07:00

It snowed all night like some weird scene out of the bible.
“I know what this means,” Sam told me at 8am, “We are fucked, utterly fucked. Soon there will be tsunamis and flash floods. We must flee the city or perish.” Sam had been drunk for two days and two nights, the election had left his mind permanently bent, he was in a terrible state. He was muttering about suicide and plagues and new viruses from Antarctica that are yet to be discovered.
“Pack the guns,” he said, “we will need them soon enough, you will see.”
I did as he said, why argue? Sam is an expert on all things, he would not set me on the wrong heading, fuck no, not on a day like this!
“Soon there will be looting and hideous violence wherever we look.” He told me, “take a bottle of whiskey, we will hunker down in the hills until this thing passes.”
We headed for the hills at top speed, sliding across the roads in a desperate frenzy to escape before “the death” began raining down.
“Fuck them all!” Sam said when we finally made it to Cashmere, “this is some kind of cosmic penance for not voting for Frank. They’re getting what they deserve.”
We had almost made it to the very top before the roadblock stopped us, there were dark, ominous clouds everywhere. I wound down my window and pulled up alongside the cop.
“Excuse me officer,” I said, “My friend and I must get through, it’s an emergency.”
“I’m not a cop, I work for Fulton Hogan.”
“Jesus! Why are you arguing? My wife’s about to have a baby.”
“Don’t be an idiot, the road’s closed. Go home!”
“FUCK!” Sam said to me, “you’ve failed us both! We may as well drive off the road into total oblivion!”
He was right, I lack Sam’s bedrock sense of courage. A braver man would have stomped on the gas and gone right through the roadblock, but not me, I had hesitated and now we were doomed.

We spent the rest of the day driving around the countryside. We made yellow snow in Oxford town and an igloo in Rangiora, we destroyed snowmen and threw white rocks in snowball fights. When we finally made it back to town just on dark, things were worse than when we had left. The power was out in Parklands and people were holed up in their homes awaiting looters and drinking cheap spirits to keep warm. They had seen the footage of hurricane Katrina and they knew they were next. I promised I would keep an eye on the petrol station next door, they had locked the doors and fled but the alarm wouldn’t go without power.
“You can count on me,” I told them, “go home, keep warm, have a drink. Everything will be fine here. We have guns and we never sleep.”
I fell asleep about ten minutes later and when I woke it was almost midnight. Sam was making chicken soup and dicing mushrooms. The power was back on and it was raining.
“Don’t worry,” Sam said, “everything is fine now. The snow is being washed away by the rain, soon it will be gone.”

It was a relief, I cannot stand snow and cold, my brain slows down and I turn weird. If it snows again tomorrow it will run red with innocent blood. The only people who like snow are perverts and thieves. It has been proven by science and science isn't wrong when it comes to matters of such great weight. It is all connected to darkness and strange metaphors, but I don't have time to explain these things here. It's just one of those fundamental truths that shouldn't be questioned.

cRazY MaN CrAZy

2005-09-18T18:52:00.000-07:00

I thought I would make a pretty line up of everyone in our blog team. So yeah, thats what I have done. WOw. We are an attractive bunch.

I’ve had enough of hearing things from neurotic psychotic pig-headed politicians all I want is the truth, just gimmie some truth….

2005-09-18T03:32:00.000-07:00

Yes! The election turned out to be wonderful entertainment! Even after I’d become too drunk to remember WHO I’d voted for and WHY, it was still wild fun. The numbers were tight, the gap was closing, a plane was stolen near Don’s house, the fish shop was robbed again and by the time I had my wits about me the plane had crashed into the ocean and gutter punks had made off with 10 kgs of fine blue cod! I ran out onto the street with a loaded gun but there was nothing there, just a warm Saturday night. Go back inside I told myself, you are not SAFE out here, things are getting crazy!

By midnight, Frank was gloomy and mumbling about pain and death. He had failed to register a single vote other than mine. I told him campaigning for the rock and roll vote in conservative Christchurch was a BAD idea, I also told him officially registering as a candidate for Christchurch East was a GOOD idea. He didn’t listen to my advice though and he failed miserably. Sometime after midnight he offered me a cabinet post but he was drunk then and crazy with fear and rage.
“We are doomed,” He told me soon after, “alert my friends and supporters, I shall make a concession speech.”
It was a brave move, Frank was close to tears and most of his supporters had deserted him many hours prior.
“Leanne Dalziel has lied like a war criminal,” he said, “She is a treacherous whore-beast with no sense of moral obligation and no discernable personality. You have nailed your own coffin shut and now you will suffocate. Don’t come crying to me, you have seen the last of Frank. Motherfuckers.”
It wasn’t what one would term a gracious speech, but I liked it, it had a touch of class.

In the end though, things got weird. Peter Dunne got uppity and offered to whore himself to anyone who would have him. Don Brash made an odd speech wearing a mask of his own face with a creepy, permanent smile that made everyone who saw it queasy. Helen Clarke rambled on like a dog with a half a brain, Rodney fiddled the numbers to get back in (he had called my house the night before the election with a bizarre recorded message, he sounded like a desperate dog that knows it’s about to be shot) Winston cried himself to sleep, the Greens looked confused and some dopey old prick stuck a flag in Pita Sharples happy face.

I am happy and proud that I voted for Frank, he would have made a difference. He is gone now and we are poorer for it. He was a warrior like Che Guevera or Martin Luther King or John Candy, he was as gentle as a spring daffidol and stronger than hurricane Katrina. He wasn’t left, right or even straight down the centre, he was Frank, baby, and that was good enough for me.

I wish I was the full moon shining off a Camaro's hood

2005-09-15T03:04:00.000-07:00

I went to Taylors last night after work, just for a little while to try and find the moon. Indeed, it's fun to hang out on a cold beach and pretend you're the last person left alive, a little like Sam Neil in the Quiet Earth, or was it Bruno Lawrence in the Silent Earth? Who cares about the details? Am I writing this or just thinking it? WHAT is the TIME? Anyways, the movie took a sharp turn towards ugly town when he found another person and that is the point. Other people brought the Bruno Neil character down. They were NO FUN, not after the nukes hit anyways.

I killed an opposum on the way home, it tried to jump into the car on the road over to Sumner. It failed. It rolled under the wheels and almost bounced me off the road. Jesus, it was just after midnight and the opposum was wild with rage and now he is dead. Don't worry though, he had been chewing native flora all night!

Are we talking about this or are we TALKING about this?

2005-09-12T00:44:00.000-07:00

I have had a visitor these past four days. He first turned up on Thursday, standing on the doorstep at lunch time with an old satchel under his arm and a weird look on his face. He didn’t stop knocking until I opened the door. That got him and me off to a bad start, because really, if there’s one thing I can’t abide its bad manners.
“Hello.” I said. He stared at me for about half a minute, tugging on the bottom of his coat and making odd faces. Jesus, I thought, is there anyone really there, have the last few floor boards finally given way, by any means of measuring am I crazy now.
Eventually though he spoke and asked me if I owned a red car.
“Yes, kind of.” I said. I was worried.
“Come with me.” He said.
I followed him out to the street and we stopped on the footpath next to my car.
“It’s got a flat tyre.” He explained.
“Has it?” I asked, “Which one?”
“That one.” He said, pointing to the left rear, which was, if anything, a little over-inflated (It is best to keep your tyres over-inflated) There was a long silence after that, we both stared at the tyre, I was trying to figure out what the fuck he was talking about and he was thinking about cutting my throat and killing my dog for all I knew. Shuffle away from him, I thought, get out of range of the knife.
“Ok.” I said, playing along, “I’ll go across the road and pump it up at the petrol station.” A little while later he walked off without saying anything more.

It was almost exactly the same scenario on Friday and Saturday, word for word. I was starting to worry for my sanity by Saturday night. Was this man real? Did he have amnesia? Was he crazy? Was I dreaming? Should I keep a loaded rifle by the door? Would that be succumbing to “the fear”?

I figured I would miss him today, I would be working at lunch time and my car with its “flat tyre” would not be there. Not long after I got home though, as I was enjoying a cold beer in silence, he came back knocking. "Hi.” I said. I was starting to think he was stalking me, or part of some elaborate hidden camera deal where I would end up looking a fool.
“Do you own a red car?” he asked me for the fourth time in four days.
“No,” I said, “I don’t.” He stood there in silence, thinking or dreaming or planning which part my body to stick his knife in. I knew I had him then though, he was fucked, what could he say to that? I had outfoxed him!
“Ok.” He said and walked away.

He is gone and forgotten now but he is my friend. Probably, I will not see him again, but we are connected like twins separated at birth. He was my kind of people. It was weird but not too weird.

You're a whole different person when you're scared

2005-09-08T02:23:00.000-07:00

It is spring now and this morning was warm. The sun was shinning and the sky was bright and somewhere, I figured, there would be good waves, so I went to look for them. I was about an hour north of Christchurch on some winding gravel road when the car started to fill with smoke or steam or an ugly combination of both. I’ve always fancied myself as something of an expert when it comes to motor cars, so I knew that smoke was nothing to worry about. Fuck no, not on such a lovely morning. I wound down the window and accelerated, blow that smoke out I told myself, you are a champion today, you will not be stopped. I made it round the next bend and down the next hill before the engine gave up completely, I rolled on until I lost all momentum and that was it. I popped the bonnet and the fan belt was broken, a bad deal on any day, let alone one when you’re stranded somewhere weird.

I figured if I climbed to the top of the hill I would be able to sea the ocean and I was right. It took me an hour with my board and wetsuit but the waves looked amazing. Yes sir I was still a champion then, my heart was still beating like a warrior. It took me another hour to make it to the beach through paddocks and gorse and realise I was horribly wrong and there weren’t really any waves at all, just ugly, choppy ripples. It took me about two and a half hours to walk back to the car, stopping at every farmhouse along the way to use the phone to call for help because my phone had no reception out there in weird land. No one was home of course; the farmers were out killing sheep and milking pigs. Things were turning ugly, I was doomed.

I waited in the car for a while, sweating like an animal with bleeding feet until I decided to walk back up the road and find another house, which I did, right around the corner. There was a dead rat in the driveway and gumboots on the door step. I knocked and a curly haired woman came to the door with a big smile. Yes, I thought, curly haired people are always friendly, you’ve hit the jackpot, lighten up, say something funny. “You have a dead rat in your driveway.” I said. She laughed a little. I explained my predicament and she invited me in. Inside the house were her husband and two sons. There was no TV but the radio was on and Delta Dawn was playing quite loud. I used the phone and called Dave. “I’ll be there soon,” he said, “fuck your car’s a piece of shit.” It was mean and untrue but I had no reason to worry anymore, my new friends had invited me to stay for lunch, Mushroom soup. I made small talk with the farmer and his wife and the kids gave me strange looks. The farmer had hurt his leg in some kind of four-wheeler accident, it was in a huge cast and he had it propped up on the coffee table. Just before lunch one of the kids stood up and knocked his leg off the table, “JESUS FUCK!” he screamed, “WHAT THE FUCK’S WRONG WITH YOU? YOU STUPID LITTLE CUNT!” Suddenly, he had some kind of miniature baseball bat in his hand and the kid was running towards the door crying. The house was totally silent then, I could hear the terrified kid’s footsteps going down the driveway and out onto the road. After a while the wife said, “I wish you wouldn’t use the c-word.” Fuck, I thought, you’ve got to get out of here quick smart, these aren’t your kind of people at all, they’re probably dangerous.
“Hmmmm,” I said, “I should wait with my car,” No one argued, in fact, no one said anything at all. I got up and left. The dead rat was no longer in the driveway and the kid was in a ditch opposite the house crying. Fuck, I thought, the poor little bastard’s probably sucking on that rat. I ran back to my car and locked the doors.

An hour and a half later Dave came with a fanbelt and put it on the car, I drove past the farmer’s house at top speed, hunkered down low. Fuck, they were weird.

George vs. Michael

2005-09-06T15:56:00.000-07:00

So I was thinking about that great show "Celebrity Death Match" and I was thinking as I thought this that if there was a Celebrity vs. Non Celebrity death match that Michael would be a good candidate to battle. So I have pitted him against the right honourable George W. Bush and I would like to know who would win. I have my own very strong suspicions but I would like to hear from the rest of you crazy cats. So, in the DeathBattle of George. Vs. Michael/Captain M. Who would win and how would they win?

ie: Michael beats George- death by inhalation of own socks, etc.

I am rather bored so just humour me would you?

2005-09-06T06:14:00.000-07:00

It's a hard hand to hold that is looking for control

2005-09-06T01:23:00.000-07:00

Yes. Well. Ahhh speaking of the Vatican, the pope lives there. It is his home. His servants might hang out in filthy little shacks around the world but he has a golden castle, well of course. It makes perfect sense. The pope was a member of the “Hitler Youth” when he was young, after all. Yes indeed, an ugly, Nazi spirit is exactly what the head of the church needs. It would be too great a stretch for any reasonable person to turn a blind eye to child molesters and say certain things out loud in the 21st century that plainly make no sense at all. Things like “outlaw contraception”. I mean Jesus, who can take that kind of dumbness seriously? The world's problems are endlessly complicated and asking an invisible man in the sky who is, apparently, watching and judging us, to sort them out really does more damage than anything else. I hate to harp on about this, but if the viscous fuckers want to stalk a gentleman on the beach and call him a murderer (to hate someone is to murder them with your heart which makes me a murderer many times over according to Pam, no different to shooting them with a gun she told me) then they can eat shit. There’s nothing wrong with basic principles of treating people decently but you don’t need any kind of religion to tell you that.

His Name is Frank

2005-09-02T00:50:00.000-07:00

I went to the beach this morning and I was attacked. The story that follows is EXTREMELY ugly and not for the weak, I have warned you but you will continue reading, I know, you are a human after all. So here it is baby, read it and weep.

I was headed north just above the water line at Waimari when it happened. The sun was shinning and I was ambling slowly, content, happy even. She approached from my left with such rapid pace I barely saw it coming. She was old and slow and softly spoken. She stuck out her hand, “My name is Pam.”
I took her hand and told her my name was Frank, I smelt trouble; I have a sixth sense when it comes to these kinds of bad deals.
“Frank,” she repeated, “what a great name!” She sounded genuinely excited and I became very anxious. “Yes,” I said, “it’s a gentleman’s name.”
I smiled and she put her hand on my elbow and laughed a little. It was an extremely weird moment that still makes me queasy when I think about it.
In one hand Pam had a laminated booklet with Jesus on the cover and in the other she had a whiteboard marker. She used the booklet to test me and I passed her test, but only just. I scraped into the “good” column, seven points short of “saintly” and a full 14 points short of “angelic”. It wasn’t bad but it wasn’t great and it inspired Pam to reel off all the reasons I should feel guilty for being alive and all the ways I could save myself.

She went through the booklet page by page filling in the blanks for me, it was hot and I was getting angry. It had been funny at the beginning, but Pam was dumb and that kind of fundamental dumbness is only funny for so long. Her book was nonsense after all.

There were two blank spaces on the middle pages and she filled them in, reading very slowly, “GOD will forgive FRANK, for being a murderer and a liar and a thief if FRANK goes to church and preys.” (That sentence in particular might seem like some kind of wild hyperbole for the sake of an interesting story but it is a verbatim quote! How Pam could say something like that to a gentleman like The Captain and keep a straight face is far beyond my ability to comprehend, because it sure made me laugh.) I stood there smiling as she made me confess I would be going to hell if I didn’t change my ways, it was the first day of spring today, I had no reason not to smile.

It would have been wrong to punch a frail old woman in the face, but Jesus, I was getting close. I slid my jandals off my feet and she glanced up from her book. “I just want to feel God’s sand between my toes.” I said with a smile, she carried on reading, angry at the interruption. I bent down and picked up my jandals because that was it, my heart felt like an alligator. She was halfway through a sentence and I sidestepped her and ran like a jackrabbit. The kids don’t call me flying Mike for nothing. I was about twenty meters down the beach when I heard Pam call out, “I’ll see you heaven.”
“Fuck,” I said, “what the fuck does that mean. Was that a threat? Is it even vaguely possible some vicious old woman just threatened my life?”
About a hundred meters down the beach I stopped and looked back. Pam was standing there, staring down the beach at me with a queer grin. I felt like running back and killing her, but I didn’t, I just kept running away

I have my own God after all, he is the God of thinking for ones self and he makes no crazy demands of me, we have no Gumpisms or commandments to lean on but we do ok. That is how I like it. His name really is Frank. He is wise and strong; there is a picture of him up top there, with a bottle of Johnny Walker and a fine Cohiba cigar.

I love David Bowie and his massive Bulge

2005-08-31T06:52:00.000-07:00

That's what Michael said to me today in the Candy Bar. Toby was there, he can vouch for it.

There is nothing I can do for you, you can't do for yourself

2005-08-31T00:25:00.000-07:00

One day, when I have amassed sufficient savings, I should like to purchase a log cabin much like the one pictured here. It will be in the woods in some forgotten corner of some nameless country. I will line a long shelf with books, whiskey and cigars and never talk to anyone again. If perverts or thieves stop by the cabin there will be big trouble for them very quickly! (Unless they’re friends of mine, in which case they’ll be welcome day or night.) I will shoot deer and ducks and catch fish for fun and food. At night I will read every book ever written and watch games shows like The Weakest Link. (Val almost fucked it up tonight, her eyes turned big and ugly like a desperate dog out the back of the vets, but she knew the key question: the name of Postman Pat’s cat (Jess). These are the things that are important in the year of our lord 2005, that is what our culture has been reduced to, billions of useless facts and all the meaningless information we can accumulate, we are DOOMED, but I have wandered off on some kind of strange tangent here)

It will be quiet out there, nice and quiet, just me and the trees.
(Jesus on a skateboard I wish James Blunt would fuck right off. Give me some Tom Russell baby. Fuck James Blunt in the ear.)

Hello! It's me! Here to be ANNOYING!!!!!!!!

2005-08-29T05:09:00.000-07:00

Isn't this a lovely picture!? I think so. It is my gift to the blog of Captain M.
I will be popping in every now and then to leave beautiful pictures and various pearls of wisdom. You will know it is me by the fact that I rant and rave and generally make little sense. (and also my name will be on it.....)

Okay! Sweet!

And if we drink ourselves to death, ain't that the cowboy way to go?

2005-08-28T03:00:00.000-07:00

I spent the other night in a spa at the back of a Fendalton mansion. It was raining and the water was HOT. A large brown dog was watching me from the trees and someone was crying nearby. I lit a cigarette, sunk low in the water and composed a short email in my head “I shall have to remember that later.” I said aloud.
“Remember what?” someone asked. I ignored them. It was time to leave. I had drunk my weight in cheap red wine and beer and I knew I had overstayed my welcome; these weren’t my kind of people after all. They had been giving me strange looks all night and now it was 1am.
“I’m just to going to make use of the facilities.” I said. No one said anything. They had their eyes shut and they were trying to catch the rain in their mouths.
“Watch out for the dog.” I told myself, “Kick him if he comes to close.”
I dressed and snuck around to the front of the house. There was a huge motorized gate and the brown dog was standing in front of it, staring at me. I walked slowly up to him and he did nothing. He smelled of gasoline and cigarettes and one of his eyes was shut. I climbed the gate with extreme difficulty and dropped down the other side. I had done it, I was free. I looked back at the house and laughed, then began the long run home.

I ran clear to Hagley Park and made my way in. A policewoman stopped me soon after and shone a torch in my eyes. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m going home.” I told her.
“Where do you live?”
“Parklands.”
“You’re planning on walking all the way to Parklands from here?”
“Yes indeed. I am taking a shortcut through the park.”
“I wouldn’t recommend walking that far alone.”
“Nonsense, I’m from the south. I am strong like a warrior.”
“Well stay off the paths, we’ve got the dogs out. We’re looking for a criminal.”
“O.k. Bye bye.” I pulled up my collar and ran through the trees.
“Soon you will be home,” I told myself, “then you can stop and sleep.”

It was 4am when I eventually did make it home, with shoes full of blood and a strange pain in my chest. I was sandy from falling into a bunker on a golf course and damp from falling off a walking track into a swamp. But I felt good, I had outrun a gang of perverts and left behind a party of dangerous thugs. I drank a little bourbon and went to bed.

Fun with Guns: 6 simple rules

2005-08-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

No 1- The neighbour’s cat can be stalked and shot as though it were a lion on the plains of the mighty Serengeti. The important thing to remember here is the need for a good clean headshot. DO NOT leave the feline to crawl home with an injured leg or a bleeding tail otherwise there will be big trouble soon! An added benefit to the headshot is that it leaves the rest of the animal intact, thus, enabling you to sell the corpse to a Chinese restaurant for use in the “chicken” foo yung.

No 2- Shooting from a moving vehicle is exponentially more fun than shooting from a stationary vehicle.

No 3- Rock ‘n’ Roll music is shooting music. Something fast, loud and a little bit dirty is your best bet. I suggest Raw Power by Iggy and the Stooges or Blonde on Blonde by Bob Dylan. These records will bring your heart rate up to the level it needs to be for precise shooting and lots of FUN.

No 4- Target practice is essential. My own target board includes a picture of George Bush alongside a picture of big Brian Tamaki. Above those two is a classic Bull’s Eye target with a small metal crucifix hanging on a nail and resting precisely on the center. There is something unspeakably satisfying about the tink of metal on metal when you’re striking a blow against the church and making a fine shot at the same time.

No 5- Chasing a friend with a loaded rifle is always funny. If they disagree let them have one in the thigh because they were probably never a true friend to begin with.

No 6- Sleeping seagulls cannot fly away.

You can beat your kids but you can't beat me

2005-08-23T01:26:00.000-07:00

And Jesus said unto Michael, his most treasured disciple, “Go forth into thy dirty city and stomp the fools and perverts until all movement ceases!” And thus Michael obeyed Jesus and one by one the sheep and false prophets were destroyed.
-Mathew 15:7

I was driving to Uni just after 8pm when a woman in a late-model BMW tried to overtake me at the lights where two lanes merge into one. “Fuck no!” I shouted, “Not tonight, not while Exile on Main Street’s playing so loud.” It would have been such a momentous blow to my self-esteem I would never have prospered afterward. No sir, not with a dark defeat like that burned into my memory.

Fortunately we both had cars in front of us, thus, I was able to use the principle of the overlap to defeat the evil bitch. I merely accelerated gently until alongside, slid slightly ahead and gave her my kindest smile. “It’s like a zip,” I said to myself, “just like a zip.” She knew she was fucked; she had to brake. I would have gladly run her into a power pole, even with two ugly kids in the car. I could see her in my rearview mirror as she pulled in behind me, waving her hands and jabbering like a dingbat, her frightened son in the passenger seat, probably writing down my license plate at her instruction. I gave her a friendly wave and she flipped me off. And that’s when it hit. A kind of soul-deep satisfaction that felt almost post-orgasmic, it was as though I’d just beaten to death a pedophile or run down a rapist. I lit up a small, cheap cigar and sped off into the night.

She fucked with the wrong hombre and I beat her like a gong. It’s the small victories that mean the most, after all. I’d like to think she went home to her Fendalton mansion, still furious, and confessed to her husband. But fuck, it doesn’t really matter. I was a king for those few moments. The night is mine now and if that speed camera got me, well hey, pile it up with rest, it’s a small price to pay and I’m in no hurry to give the government anymore of my money.

I am a sensitive poet

2005-08-21T02:24:00.000-07:00

I have been reading lots of fine poetry on random blogs, ergo I have decided to share some of my own poetry. It’s a simple Haiku entitled A Quiet Evening. They key to a good haiku is the conviction that each word must be perfect, each line must create a simple though eloquent picture in the mind and the whole thing must glow with a kind of subtle beauty. Now if I may be so bold, get out a tissue, because this haiku is the sensitive poet’s heart personified, enjoy.

Drank a case of beer
Then a bottle of bourbon
Went to bed, shit pants

Good night…

FUCK THE POPE!

2005-08-19T06:01:00.000-07:00

Hands up if you're a DUNCE and a BAD FELLOW!

I see a bad moon rising, I see trouble on the way

2005-08-19T02:45:00.000-07:00

My old friend Sam stopped by at noontime today, we had a cup of joe and a chat out in the garden. Sam is normally the king of fun, but not today. He was in a dark mood and mumbling about the apocalypse. He told me about an article he’d just read which claimed there is a specific gene representing spirituality that some humans have and some don’t. It was built-in slowly, he explained, over all these years of evolution. Humans, being the only creatures able to understand death, needed something to make the thought of dying bearable. Thus, the spirituality gene evolved and humans came to believe in all kinds of gods. It seemed like a sound theory on a mild winter afternoon, and besides, Sam KNOWS about those kinds of things.

I made blueberry muffins for lunch and afterward Sam tried to shoot a magpie out of a tree at the bottom of the garden. He missed; he has poor eyes and slow hands. The bird looked at him for a second or two, made a strange sound then flew away.
“You are a fool!” I told him, “Magpies are dark and vicious birds, you are doomed, you have made a terrible mistake. That bird will follow you for the rest of your life or at least until it gets a chance to peck out your eyes!”
“Nonsense,” Sam said, “you are thinking of the blackbird. The blackbird is a dark and vicious bird.”
“Only in movies," I said, "In reality it is the magpie you must watch out for. I am from the south and I have experience with magpies after all. You are fucked now, totally fucked.”

Sam drove home with wide eyes and his windows wound up. I expect he will be hunkered down now, fearfully awaiting the magpies that will soon come crashing through his windows with hearts full of hate. Jesus, it will be like some ugly scene out of The Birds. There is something to be learned here though, clearly. Shoot with precision, shoot to kill, don’t fuck with magpies.

Sympathy for the Strawberry

2005-08-17T05:35:00.000-07:00

Why can’t the Destiny Church fuck right off because really, enough is enough. Brian Tamaki is a fat, jabbering whore of a man and his entire congregation have tiny little brains and hearts like Nazis. They’re completely out of touch with the realities of the year 2005 and it's about time they were burned alive outside the cathedral or thrown into the Avon and drowned slowly. If they come down my street I’ll mow the fuckers down at top speed. YES! As a patriot and a gentleman I would be happy and proud to have their rabid blood dripping off the front end of my car. Fuck them all. If they want to help a hateful right wing Christian fill his pockets why don’t they fuck off to America where those kinds of people run the country. Fuckers.