Contraction all around me

The ominous forces gathering out there will defeat these efforts and everyday life will reorganize itself some other way consistent with the single greatest trend: the force of contraction.

JRK, Clusterfuck Nation

Happy post #200, Hammertime's Brog!!

On time

there are some who say time doesn't exist - that there is no flow of time. they say that the case for a flow of time has been convincingly demolished (for instance by Deutsch in Fabric of Reality). Yet they don't deny existence. They assert many states of the world; and that time is inferred from each state - states exist, movement between them is nonsensical; at least it doesn't occur. it stands to reason from this terrible introduction that two similar states, even if separated by a lot of 'time' in real life, can have a weird and strong connection. to wit, third time hanging out 10 or so identicalish white cloth nappies, and those little pink microfleece inserts, transports me back in time, or to the same place in time each time. odd feeling indeed.

Blowout

Most people don't know that the original title of Fellini's Blow Up was actually Blowout - he'd been watching a lot of daytime TV at the time and was inspired by these two simple words. It was only when he tried to register the trademark in English that he was sued for copyright infringement by the creators of Burners, Blowouts and Boobs. Poor Fellini.

***

I was walking along Stanmore Rd the other day when I heard a plastic metal tinkle. I looked around and - lo and behold - there was a two dollar coin, ending its roll and coming to a stop, but not before doing that immensely satisfying increasing frequency half roll on the spot thing. Man, I love that sound. Well I looked around and I'll be damned if there was no one else around. There were a few cars passing by but I didn't believe for a second that the coin had emerged from one of them. It was one of those curious things that might have gotten some people thinking, might have gotten them freaked out even. Well not me. I picked up the little sucker and walked home.

A week later, also coming home from goddamned work, I noticed a shiny golden metal shine on the footpath. I bent over, exposing my buttcrack, and picked it up. I remembered those cruel people who glue coins to the ground and watch as others pathetically try to pick them up. Now I knew something funny was afoot. I stayed perched down there for half a second and then did a big squirm and spin around. Someone had shoved something into my butt crack. There was a couple of guys walking in the other direction that must have done it, but why the hell I'd no idea. I felt in and pulled out another two dollar coin. That was three in a week, and two in a few seconds.

I think you know where this is going, but before you get ahead of yourself, let me fill you in on a little secret. I once stole a seal from the zoo - double bagged it and walked right out. Well I'm just itching to tell you more about what happened next, but that'll have to wait for another day.

If 30 mobile phones ring in a carriage, and no one hears them because there are 30 sets of narrowcasting headphones, do they make a noise?

or

Public transport headphone madness
I know what you’re thinking. Yes, people listen to music on public transport. Nothing new there. We’ve landed on the moon. That’s old news. I never gave it much thought either.

Until recently.

In recent times, unencumbered by work worries or indeed worries of any other kind, I have thought in some depth about the question, what is with all these headphone wearing fatherfuckers on public transport? What are the implications, the ramifications, the tribulations?

I suspect that your average Emma has considered the issue, in a flickering subconscious kind of way, and if pressed (on the solar plexus) would advise of certain issues.
What is with people who play their music so loud that you can hear it? Aren’t they hurting their ear drums? That’s so rude.
Mmm, it’s nice not having to feel the impingement of all these other consciousnesses on my consciousness as we sit in this crowded moving box.
My music’s not on but fuck it, I ain’t taking the ear plugs out. People are leaving me a lone.
Bugger, my battery’s dead.

So I gathered some data. 12 bus rides, 10 train rides, several parkpath walks. My results are not statistically significant but for my purposes today that doesn’t bother any one one whit. Here are the figures:
Bus: 39% of all passengers wear headphones
Train: 46% of all passengers wear headphones
Park walkers: 25% of all pederasts, I mean pedestrians, wear headphones.

I have no doubt, these numbers are conservative. I voted for the shooter’s party at the last three local elections. ipOd and mp3 penetration will continue unfettered. Old non-listening folks will die off. The bus drivers will start wearing them. The percentages will climb.

We’re all stars, or perhaps supporting cast, in our own movies. The soundtrack floods our ears while we stroll down the street.

Except when we're victims of the new ipOd-Invade, which can broadcast your music for 30m in all directions, parasitising existing headphones.

People are living very, very different commuter lives these days. No one talks – unless it’s on the phone to someone somewhere else. Do they think? In the way they might think in other situations? (as a card carrying over thinker, with scant little to show for it, I’m loathe to ascribe judgement to this). And I’m afraid that probably not many of them listen either. At least not the way good music deserves to be listened to. This is tv on to keep you company, headphones on to block out the others, your thoughts, your pain. Hey, these are valid purposes.

But like TV, we receive. As others have said, we live in a strange world nowaday. There is so much information, so much broadcast, so much noise with seeming meaning in it – but with very limited opportunities for a meaningful reply. We can but do naught in its face. There is no appropriate response, but to receive. The relationship between information and action has changed, has been disturbed.

Maybe if I thought about it some more I’d figure out what it all means. These public transport headphones. Or I might find out it means nothing. Nothing but fodder for me, silly me.

The First Ever Z Generation Concert

Now that a few weeks have passed and the dust motes are in their last throes of settlement, there are a few lessons I think can be drawn from the event.

For those who’ve been living on Jupiter this last month, here’s a précis of what happened at Pod People in the Park (also known as the Sugarloaf Shuffle). A truly cross-genre concert was held in a big park by the name of Sugarloaf in California on October 24. Rock, reggae, world music, any genre you might care to name. This was a big event, a long day, and a long night. Some big big names, but also a broad, broad smattering of lesser known musicians. A common theme: one hit wonders. As with many festivals these days, there was also a personal, or spiritual, or psychological, or self-help aspect. There were even language lessons.

It was an all-ages concert, and of course it was the younger ones who fully mastered the technology. Some genius figured out a way to create a distributed electronic transmitting device, handed out to concertgoers, whose thousands upon thousands of inputs would be summed, at intervals as regular as you please, into a single, simple output.

The first few acts were massive. They only played a couple of songs each, but that seems to be the trend at festivals these days. The crowd was right into it. I won’t go into the names, but these were your top ten, grammy award winning, rolling stone magazine covering kinds of acts. The next act was just as big, but they only played one song. Go figure. The crowd seemed to like this.

The next five songs were all played by different acts, and not one of them finished their song. Weirdly, some of them went straight into the chorus, then finished. Even weirder – some of them went straight into the catchiest part of their song, even if it wasn’t the chorus, and played that, and then stopped. A few poor bands were cut off after playing the first bar – a fate that was strangely spared for songs that had a slow build up. Some bands that had already played came back and played again. The stage was a whir of roadies, instruments changed, drum kits frantically assembled and reassembled. The roadies were friggin incredible, they must have all lost 35 pounds by the end of the day.

Embarrassingly, at one point in the day a really long, and rather boring song went on for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only 10 minutes – the crowd was temporarily distracted by an event on the other side of the field and didn’t seem to mind anyway.

Well, the concert went on, and followed this same strange trend. Very frequent band changes, songs often stopped in their middle, old bands reappearing. And by the end of the night, things hadn’t changed – if anything it had gotten a bit worse. Rather than saving up the best names for the end, it was just more of the same, except perhaps their fifth or sixth best songs.

To me, the whole thing was a shambles. Yes, there was an air of expectation associated with trying something new. But in the end there was no atmosphere, no musical build up and release of tension, no anticipation. This is not what concerts are about. If this is what happens with big, bold ideas, give me small and meek ones for chrissakes.

Thing is, the crowd didn’t really seem phased – they were happy to be there, happy for their celebrity musical idols to be there, happy to be taking drugs and chasing members of the opposite or same sex, as the case may have been. I heard the organisers claiming a success and promising a bigger and better P3 next year, but I won’t be there. I’ve spoken to a few people about this and the smart ones agree, the mindless application of technology to our cultural activities is, well, mindless. These people just don’t understand the human condition. Course, seeing as I and a few smart friends are the only ones disagreeing, it could be us that don’t understand. But I don’t think so.

The iPod, and especially the iPod shuffle, are no ways to organise a concert.

From the strangest of roots

Did you hear how Joan Ass Policewoman wrote To Be Lonely?

It’d been a good day at work – productive, but not overly. Lunch was good, but it hadn’t filled all corners of her stomach. Time to go home, but too much time before dinner. Will I do it, yes I will, I’ma heading for the vending machine downstairs in the lobby. So many choices. So many damned choices. Twisties, salt and vinegar chips. A cookie. Chocolate bar. What the – mint Aero?! Nod of the head. This is the one, that I will try. And of course the song flowed from there, and ended up being quite unrecognisable from its snack-based roots.

Artful Science dies on

Withdrawal symptoms. They're enough to make even the most professional of addicts quake in their doc martens. There seems to be a common theme at play in yonder withdrawing brain and it's all to do with what the drug normally does. All drugs are fun, and turn on fun buttons in the brain. (The brain can get used to this, turning down the natural fun machinery because it's rendered superfluous by the drug, and necessitating increased dosage with some drugs for the same fun effect.) In withdrawal, not only are there no drugs around to push the fun buttons, but the brain is so helplessly dependent on artifice for fun, that you feel the exact opposite of fun. My idea is a drug whose effects are so unpleasant and lame, that withdrawal would be an elation-soaked walk in the park. In fact, some addicts may do permanent damage to their brains, damage that would see them unable to experience lows ever gain.

On an unrelated note, every time excitement machine Billy Slater (or Bill Slater, as Rabs Warren calls him - have you noticed how Raymond does that occasionally with players' names?) gets the ball, the whole crowd experiences a collective relaxation of the pelvic floor.

On a related note, Slater's life partner recently had a baby which they named Tyla and amazingly, she has already been promised in marriage to Shannon Noll's firstborn.

Bibularity Dipson

John Birmingham has stolen my (Hofstadter’s?) idea for a novel. Question is – is that done now? After one creates something novel, can others follow and be great? Yes, undoubtedly yes I think.

So the idea, as cutted and paste from my previous incarnation (Clarke, 2008*), is follow as,

Wiping a country off a map (physically). Survivors determine how country lives on. Explore certain themes or do a plain what if scenario. US? Hundreds of thousands of troops, diplomats, cultural exports, expats, etc.

True – I haven’t written the book. But it resides in me like a colossus hidden by six walls of marble. Birmingham’s book was spied by me in the airport bookshop, harold be thy name. On the cover was the title Without Warning^ and beneath it the subtitle, or perhaps nonsubtitular explanatory remark America is gone. I picked not the book up, I perused not its contents. But it naturally recollected my original thought and thoughts about my book idea.

I tried to flesh out the idea some more, to put some more meat on it, to breathe life into it, to feed it nutrients so that its dna and proteins could do their tasks etc. But I was interrupted.

I figured you’d need a setup, explaining how the country is erased. The story would then take place afterwards (maybe straight after, maybe a year, maybe longer). as I’ve not yet written a long story, I’m not sure what the main event would be, but it does seem to me to be endearingly ripe with potential.

* Clarke H, 2008, From A5 notebook, Unpublished Manuscript.

^ I semiforgot the title when writing this, and came up with 'Suddenly'. As I was writing a footnote to explain that this is not the title, I remembered the title – I had the impression that my memory was true`.

` The impression of something being true; the feeling of something being significant, meaningful, profoundly deep – I don’t hear people talking about the importance (scientific, everyday...) of these brain reflexes. Imagine you could take a pill to engender that feeling!

Chicken and pie

Chiekn and pieeee

Chicekn and pie

Mushroom and fennel and

carrots and peas

chicken and pieeeee



On my way home from work this morning, a strange woman sat beside me on the bus. When the driver asked her to sit down, she threatened to withdraw my funding - although I have no funding from her. I asked her for her credentials, but she refused. Slighted, I got off the bus and haven't given it a further thought since. It's things like this that make me think - what am I doing in Sydney? It has so much to offer, yet at the end of the day you're just another number.

An unaimed bolas always hits its target

So Colin Powell has endorsed Barack Obama's semi-presidential campaign. His words were as follows: "Senator Obama is a transformational character. I once saw him change into an armadillo, right before my eyes. I couldn't believe it. That's the guy I want in the White House, pulling the shots."

Meanwhile John McCain's team is lurching from one crisis to the next. One suspects the only thing that could rescue him would be a victory on election day. Even that mightn't be enough to save his skin. Have you heard that he's proposed a $3 million investment in the National Institute for Biofouling? What the hell is that?

My life as an unaimed bolas
A friend of mine told me today that a wise person once said 'an unaimed arrow always hits its target.' I am an unaimed bolas, my balls they do swing and rock and tug the twine and do the bizness and that's aaaaaalllllright.

Black Swan Eggs with Anchovies

So I'm reading the Black Swan, by Nassim 'Poledancer' Taleb. It fits nicely into the category of 'idea books' I often go searching for. The idea is this: certain events are rare, completely unpredictable and highly consequential - so consequential that they dominate personal, social and political history. But we never take this knowledge into account. He also says that basically a lot more is random and non-narrative than we tell ourselves (in our narratives). I'm up to page 71 and am enjoying it. However, I recently read an 'essay' by Taleb called the Fourth Quadrant at edge.org, which purports to talk about the economic horror meltdown disaster crisis. It's really poorly written, unlike the book.

And today I finally made, at my life partner's urging, the egg salad from jamie oliver's cookbook. It's hard boiled eggs, lemony mayo, anchovies and alfalfa and it rocks. Simple and surprising, I'll definitely do it again.

Bob Dylan was such a genius, oh shit I don't know how he could take it.

Aber als die Praktikanten eintreten...

Joan As Policewoman. Gotta hand it to her for the out there band title, it's right up my alley. Though I would have preferred Joan Policewoman As. Would you believe she's highly reminiscent of Phoebe Snow. I won't google that, but I bet I'm not the first to think it. Does the JAP-->Phoebe Snow thought in my head look the same as in other people's heads? Reminds me of listening to Snow on my dad's old LP player, Either or Both, Poetry Man. Just real sweet, laid back, a little lovelorn. Those songs, that you know so well, that evoke those memories, even though you never come back to or buy them for yourself, form their own little class.

While their Qatar gently weeps

The Footballroos beat Qatar 4-0 in the wOrld cUp qualifier in Brisbane last night. Australia's looking good to finish top two in the group, but there's still a long way to go. I would be personally humbled and ecstatic if we were to qualify. But i'd like to draw your attention to another matter.

I saw this picture in the paper, Tim Cahill slotting home against Qatar stand-in goalkeeper Abdul Aziz (from SMH, Photo: Getty Images). The whole thing just makes me really sad. That look on Aziz' face. The knowledge of imminent failure. I must have some sort of minor empathy pathology - I don't empathise with the Aussie victorious striker, but the soon to be vanquished - and three more times - foreign goalie. This reminds me of two distinct occasions in my schooling, where witnessing the suffering of another student brought upon me a visceral sadness.

Semi-detached

it would be criminal if you were killing me
equally awful of you to be kidding me
one day they'll catch you and lock you away for it
sooner or later you'll definitely pay for it

this is the start of an impressive little song called straight talk by split enz, off the rootin tootin luton tapes. it's catchy, without relying on a guitar or piano/keyboard, and it really showcases tim finn at his singlical best - singing well and strangely. basically he sings the entire verse in one breath, and keeps this up for the whole song. i wonder if he ever did that live.

Sergio's a dancer
knows each dramatic pose
his future's in his toes

split enz wrote some great tunes. they had such zest, such vibrancy. they really were a creative band. oh geez, this is definitely not my split enz review post - that'll be much better. i just want to put it out there now that you could do worse than discover them. like me you probably know their biggest hits: 6 months in a leaky boat, i got you, one step ahead. but once you get into their back catalogue, there's a stack of gems to discover, and their first album is *so* different to their last.

It's as though someone hit a big pause button in my life

I long to see the other side of things.

I'm naturally an inquisitive, optimistic, active, funny and funny loving person. I have the odd downtrodden moment, but no more than other people I suspect. The thing is, lately I haven't been myself.

I'm on the cliff, in search of something big.

The other day I thought, if you're always searching for something, just maybe it's not there, and it's ok to call the search off for now. I thought I'd solved a problem, but then I forgot all this when I kind of lost myself.

I've been swept away in a routine I don't really care for. I'm only rolling down a 15 degree incline, but I'll be damned if I can't seem to stop regardless. I've toyed with the idea of alighting but opted against it for now. Main thing is, I've got plenty of room in my V-hickle, yet I haven't put a dang thing in there.

I can't look down. I can only retreat.

When I stop and speculate as to the causes, or the cures, half the time I'm on the money, the other half I have outlandish, scary, or muffled thoughts. I just wish I could tell which were which. Will I crack a code, will I dissolve back into past and future normalcy? I 'm going to have to do some things.

There's a theory that says more than we'd like to admit of our reasons are little more than post-hoc rationalisations. It's not 'I considered Y and did X because of Y.' It's 'I did X and invoked Y afterwards.'

Who knows? One day I'll dive into the sea.

Here we all are, sitting like fools. Stuck by the rules of fate. Is what we are what we've come to believe? Better the devil you know.

There's a sentence I remember from my beloved Spanische Grammatik book: !Id os y dejadme en paz, so cretinos! It really summarises the fact that when you're learning another language, vocabulary isn't enough.

Und so, einen Ziel zu erfinden. Wohin? Lass mich es uberlegen. It certainly won't be anything like Was ich schon immer erreichen wollte. But I'm optimistic that it'll steer me back towards my optimism. (Self indulgent fool!)

Dear Diary

Constipated again. Why is this happening to me? I don't deserve this! I am too good for this.

Remember that ad for Metamucil or Anusol, with the young woman lamenting to her diary about being constipated (from the latin anusfringium - disused rectum)? We need the diary form in adverts now more than ever. Dear Diary, I bought a ute today. My wife left me. Oh, woe is me. Or: Dear Diary, don't forget to watch Dancing With The Stars, my favourite celebrity is appearing.

You know what I realised today? I love thinking about what I'd like to with my life. I love looking and thinking and wondering and hoping. And reading. So much potential. So much promise. Some would say my own head's so far up my arse that in fact my arse is up my arse too. Fair point. My genius is Labouring Over Details.

I have come up with what I call the three-tined approach. Tine one: relieve crushing despair through visions of a happier, more satisfied future. Tine two: avail myself of various techniques to improve current enjoyment of job, such as worrying less and doing more, taking time to do the important but not urgent things, and making defamatory statements about my colleagues and superiors. Tine three: improve the out of work life, so that even if work is a huge pile of horseshit, there's so much other loveliness going on I can take it in my stride, like an Olympic walker being made love to in the middle of a long and arduous race. I did some lovely socialising this last days, and came to an important understanding about the future of homes, I ate Franks Pizza and Clem's Chicken, I went for a swim and did a personal bessed 11 laps!

Les Biles

Feel the stone face in your head
Feel the pain from building a shed
And I wait
For you
Slight of hand and twist of fate
On a sealy posturepedic you make me wait
And I wait
For you
With or without you
With or without you oh oh
Ike Cunliffe
With or without you
And you give Yusuf some hay
And you give Yusuf some clay
And you give
And you give
And you give Yusuf a dre-
del

How I learned to stop worrying eggs

I must, I must, I must increase my Busey for he's a jolly good Pharaoh
You are a worrier prince. I was in the school the other evening, and the sky was a deep blue and I was playing basketball. The moon was full and huge and I was happy.

I bless Ra the fierce sun burning bright
I bless Isis Luna in the night
I bless the air the Horus hawk
I bless the earth on which I walk
I bless the air through which I fly
guided by full moon's night sky
to the ring with globe in hand
and moments later back to land

I need to speak to the Earl. Can you give me his number?

The first one was like one of those sticker removing tools. Chipping away at the edge, but a bit of a mess left behind. The second one clean washed away the rest and I was happy. I'm back on level footing but must keep my wits about me. Am I conscious right now? Am I present?

The Joy of Full Time work

I'm trying to get used to being a full time worker bee. Essentially, at its core, it f*cking sucks. Part of the problem is my workload lately - it's been a bit high, meaning I don't have time for the good parts of work - reading up on policy developments, thinking properly about how I'd like to do things, the ability to execute in a top class fashion that comes with the poise that comes with not being rushed off one's feet. It's true, and a relief, that I appear to be learning how to deal with some of these stresses. A marker perhaps, of my gradual transition to a competent worker. But does it change anything fundamental? These days I have less time and even less energy or ability to do the things I'd like to, or I used to, outside of work. I feel less like myself. A few opportunities have recently shown their face, and the prospect is there that I might be more satisfied. Having a more stimulating job - something that actually really truly grabs my attention - is one way I can see to improve my life, workwise. Another way might be to have a job that leaves me so much mental space and physical energy that I can achieve anything I want to outside work. I've been in this situation before with part time jobs, but I believe once embedded in a non-demanding but non-interesting full time job, that too would suck. So is that really all the hope there is of making something out of the majority of my waking life that work constitutes? Finding something a bit more intellectually and spiritually energising? It's a bloody good start but I put it to you, dear reader, that any human being that ends up pouring their heart and soul into a job for forty years or more does themselves, their souls and their society a disservice. (A fortunate few escape this because of a truly rare match between job, person and world. A great many more, I hazard to guess, tell themselves that it's not so bad, plus anyway this is as good as it gets. I disagree.) The reason is in order to be a proper human, a proper living thing, a proper member of society, you need to do much more than deposit yourself into a workbox from 9 to 5 for your adult life. I don't deny the many benefits us humans can gain during our working life. I only say that this is far, far below what could be and what should be, dammit! 'Course, I could be wrong. These could be the death leg wriggles of a cocky about to reincarnate into a fully fledged faithful worker bee. Well if they are, I might as well enjoy them.

F*ck work coz it's really, really f*cked.

newsradio

Maribus Bender: Brendan Nelson, you've been quoted as saying 'no comment', is there anything else you'd like to add?
Brendan Nelson: Simply this - tomato sauce. Supersize me!
MB: Yes, but surely you'd have to concede, your approval rating is pitiful to the max.
BN: Look, I don't comment on the numbers. Suffice it to say, the set of all natural numbers includes both irrational and rational numbers.
MB: Very well. Can I just ask you about your treasurer, Malcolm Turnbull?
BN: Very much so.
MB: Yes, is that right?
BN: Yen. I have a deep hole in my yard. It's a well.
MB: Brendan Nelson, thankyou very much.

Purpoise

Koogy: It's an open and shut case Bob McAdoo.
Wiluggbai: Tell me something I don't know.
K: Water falls, stars shoot, options call, bread makes me poop.
W: Enough. Let's go and get a coffee.
K: Smooth, real smooth. I oughtta smack in you face.
W: Hey, hey! Hey.... calm down. Now's not the time for games.
K: How's your sister?
W: Troubled. She's been trying for weeks to solve her Rubik's cube, but she can't get it out of the packet.
K: You ever cried out of anger?
W: Always. It's when I feel most alive.
K: Tell me more.
W: Communication is only possible between equals.
K: You been riding around on the horse as fast as you can, looking for the horse.
W: Are not.
K: Willugbai, show me your nuts.
W: I keep them in tupperware, but matching lids is always a problem. There's cashews, almonds and pistachio disguisey.
K: Do you think it's a problem that people are largely ignorant of biochemistry and neuroscience?
W: Hardly, Koogy. I don't know how I'd perceive the world without evolution and the amazing scientific details, but it doesn't stop some people from being great.
K: And it stops you from being a modesto. Recite some poetry for me.
W: Flow, flow, float your boat, gently cross the stream, utterly utterly utterly utterly life is butter dream.
K: All's well that ends swell. I got a permanent semi.
W: Enough! Coffee. So long to wait, but it's good to have to wait. Makes you appreciate it some.
K: True dat. But then at the end you never know if you're gonna be served a bad beveridge.
W: There was a strong visual pattern on the stage tonight. It soaked my retina and felt nice. It was still a shallow emotional experience.
K: If all your clocks are showing the wrong time.
W: There is no clock. There is only movement. Take away movement you take away time. Clock is the stars and what if the stars stopped moving? What if they weren't there?
K: Hellish knowledge.
W: To know whether your struggle against the flow is a motor or a drown starting.
K: You never struggle, you never change.
W: Bullshit. Reasonable woman don't change the world, ergot all change from the unreasonable woman. Load of crap.
K: Aim for the fulfilling experience.
W: Don't aim. Do what thou willst.
K: Warm, warm, stretch satisfied. Sleep sleep smile deep sleep.
W: [nods]

Wince memory

What are your wince memories? You must have one or two that stand out. I better not go into the details of mine. We've all done stupid things, and we'll all do many more. Some of them are stupid enough that when we recollect them we wince. The wince is all about preventing pain. The pain of embarrassment, stupidity and pain. When we wince, it's like the shaking the mind's etch a sketch and trying to forget the wince memory. A little GO BACK WRONG WAY sign in the minds pathways. Wincing acknowledges that something very awkward or humiliating happened. It's possible to get over wince memories, I reckon. On closer inspection, we might not get over them, just smooth over them. If we are forced to revisit in fine detail the thing, the wince may well return.

~~~

I've mentioned this before, perhaps, but Foreign Correspondent has indeed a really lame theme song. This song belongs on a kids educational programe, not one of TV's premier world current affairs shows.

~~~

The once proud once Belmore club.

~~~

Involuntary subjunctive replays. This is a topic worthy of far more detail than I can give it now. I just wanted to draw your attention to it. This is a universal human trait, which isn't to say that all people have it, just that it's part of the human cognitive repertoire. It may well be connected to one of your wince memories. Here's how it works. Something happens. Something goes wrong, and it's very significant those ramifications. It could have gone the other way (couldn't it have?). So nearly might have. Sport is the obvious example that comes to mind, but would form but a small part of the human catalogue of subjunctive replays. Bulldogs up 20-6 at half time in the grand final qualifier against Brisbane in 2006. They go on to lose the match 37-20 and the mind afterwards is populated with what if thoughts. What if Hodges hadn't busted that tackle and made that inspirational break that lead to the first comeback try? What if Luke Patten had scored in the corner just before half time, stretching the lead out to 26 points to 6? I can't remember the other ones, but the essential features are
- bad, significant outcome
- it's plausible that things could have gone the other way
- your mind replays the events over and over
- it's involuntary
- there's a strong what if element - your stupid mind almost thinks it can change reality if it tries hard enough.

I once wrote to a scientist in the UK asking them about the possibility of studying involuntary subjunctive replays, and they replied that they were interested in collaborating with me. I was flattered, being an honours student and all, but never pursued it. I sent out a lot of emails like that during my study days, and had some really nice exchanges. Gee, academics are nice.

The Games of the 29th Olympics

when you’re a sports commentator, it’s a real benefit when you can call your event by multiple names. football is also the world game, the beautiful game. Racing is also the sport of kings. well, the olympics are not just the olympics, or the biggest and most watched sporting event in the world, the best of the best, the olympic spirit yada yada yada – they’re also the games of the twenty ninth* olympiad. This is great. It’s such an unusual construction. You can’t say ‘7even is proud to broadcast the Olympiad’, it doesn’t work like that. It’s the games of the olympiad. What is an olympiad? And I will have no wikipeding or googling here. We must reason this out. Is an olympiad some kind of quadrennial festival, not limited to games? If it were limited to games, then saying they’re the games of the olympiad would be a tautology. Is there anything else of the olympiad? And has anyone ever used the word olympiad without preceding it with ‘games of the [insert ordinal possessive]’?

Can we coin some other –iads? How silly would it be if we referred to pollies as members of the XXIV Parliamentariad? (Forgetting for a moment politics would never qualify for RN status).

For the games, I prefer Olympiac anyway. Stay tuned, for more of the Games of the 29th Olympiac!

More importantly, Olympiad could be the first name in the history of all names in which a man’s name is derived from a woman’s. This is a landmark event in the anti-sexism in language movement. Olympia is a nice name, although somewhat spoiled by Olympia Dukakis. Olympiad is strong, athletic, great.

And while we’re on diving, what an incredible sport. A couple of things here. Firstly, as far as I can tell, there is no greater sign of skill in diving than making the least possible impression on the water as you enter it. That’s a little perverse, isn’t it? Like running as hard as you can into a brick wall and then walking away serenely as though nothing had happened. Alright it’s not really like that, but it’s like something I can’t put my finger on but the point is the same it’s odd. Secondly, surely the judges shouldn’t be so myopic as to limit their judging to what happens in the air and then the initial entry mark – they should follow divers all the way through as they descend to the pool’s well-lit depths, and possibly even as they rise to the steps. Divers should have to make their way to the steps while making as little impression on the water as possible. Thirdly, in the synchronised diving, if one person’s landing is piss poor but the other person matches it exactly, they should be rewarded, not penalled. Finally, there should be more scope for playfulness in synchronised diving. They could bow to each other mid-air, shake hands, embrace, or have one person acting out attempting to win the other’s attention for purposes of seduction, while the other acts out cooly ignoring them.

Matthew White just informed us that Olympic fever is spreading fast and the only cure is gold. Well, I’ve just inhaled 30 migs of gold filings and my sinuses are worse, not better. Matthew, you’ve just secured yourself a malpractice suit.

* in this case, aka XXIX. Note thus that the olympics qualify for roman numeral (RN) status, a mark of history, dignity and esteem. Curiously, Wrestlemania and the NFL - but not rugby league - have attained RN status.

Blank jugsaw for sale in supermercado

This dream I had

1. Simple enough. Darkened stair well, metal grate with railing. Bottom lighting. Near the bottom step sits a red hairy behemoth. Red monster has a briefcase. Is waiting. This is the dream I had the other night. The dream was real strong - I'd had a busy, memorable, sociable and drunken evening, and my dreammaker was somehow so loaded up with energy and material that I fell straight and deep and clear into this one. Emotions from the dream were: strangeness, fear, incredulity, helplessness, absurdity, curiosity. I almost recognised myself. I felt resigned to my strange fate, but that could have been a mistake. The dream might have revealed nothing.
2. This wasn't a dream peopled by persons. Obviously the human touch was there though, because of the strong emotional feel of the dream. But it was basically me just wondering about, but I can't for the life of it remember where. All that remains is this bizarre scene.
3. I may have mentioned this before - call it sympathetic pregnesia - but you know how sometimes you're in that sleepy state of wakefulness, where you have access to all kinds of past dream memories? It's like they're on tap. You can roll through vistas, landscapes, pathways, very often modified versions of real places, you can get the strange shock of remembering a recurring dream that was previously hidden to your conscious self, you can bring back those feelings. There's not many other kinds of memories that can be evoked so fully. What an oddball tour. Mine includes another version of my high school, trains, underground city food courts... I just remembered another class of dream that doesn't actually fit neatly into this evocative set - it's the dream I have where I'm playing basketball, and I can jump real high, with real big hang time, multiple pump fakes and all that. Haven't had one of those for a while. No strong emotions attached to those, I don't know why.
4. The other night I had the most vivid dream of a massive shelf of ice falling into the sea.

The transitory permanence of beauty

People look different

Give up

Who's really in control in your noggin? You? You don't even know what a you is anyway. Shine a torchlight in every nook and cranny and you'll agree, there's no one home. Who's shining the torch?

Contemporary opposite of innocence

Like a rusty barnacle, Beck's new album has grown on me. I initially had doubts, but those doubts have been swept away in a sea of funky riffs, beats and melodies. Beck retains the ability to make really cool musical moments. Not to be confused with tour de force songs, uplifting harmonies or penetrative lyrics, musical moments are those little gems within songs that pop up in your head, in anticipation and again and again afterwards. I can count at least five of these in the first five songs, but i'm confident the back end of the album will contain its sweet rewards too. I'm still not convinced that this album, like the last few, has the same emotional depth or simple richness that I feel some of his earlier work does. Heck, what do I know?

There's so much more than straight ahead

Sometimes as I'm walking near the road I avert my gaze from its usual residence - eye level or thereabouts, or attention grabbing things within a metre or two either side of that. I might raise my head to the heavens or take a moment longer to examine something I normally walk straight by, or glance at thoughtlessly. I make no apology for that. I gotta say, it's really worth it. Walking through life is a little like struggling to keep sleepy eyelids open. Your eye's view or your mind's eye's view struggles (or accepts) getting more narrowed, restricted, blinkered. It's normal, it's comfortable, it just kinda happens. But the inescapable truth is that you end up missing out on a lot. Course, you can never catch it all, but that's not my point. Averting my eyes is only a small thing, but it feels like a victory. Good to be with you.



I saw this when I peered out of a room in the Masonic Centre. You can't really make it out, but take my word for it - that's a black and white striped bikini top. As far as I could tell there was no easy access to this space, something my mentor tended to agree with me about. Chuckle and that versatile signifier, a shake of the head.

Fun and games at the tempe tip

So away I browsed, hopeful and doubtful of finding anything decent. For some reason I thought I might find a science gem - like the time I picked up a second hand volume of the Feynman lectures on physics.

Instead I found Tattoos On My Soul - From The Ghetto To The Top Of The World. This was a cover that had a lot going for it - as anyone who knows me would agree. An entree into the world of black American gangsta culture, an amusing name (Burrel Lee Wilks III) and standout cover quotes. One from megaproducer / big fat violent guy Suge (pronounced shoodge) Knight, although I don't understand why he put quote marks inside a quote. The other was from none other than babyfaced (him not her. although she does kind of have one too. i had a crush on her after somersault) Abbie Cornish-lover Ryan Phillippe. His quote is notable for its absence of adjectives and nouns - a good hint it may have been taken out of context.

I turned to the back and discovered a quote from Baron Davis, the man more responsible than any other for Golden State Warriors' recent resurgence (since opted out and gone to Clips, but thassanutha story). I flipped open the book and discovered to my incredible shock that it contained an authentic dedication, penned by the author himself to un certain Tim. For everything you have done for me and my brother. Who is this Tim? Could it be Tim Webster? Tim Bailey? Both! What did he do for Burrel and his brother? Sell him life insurance? Look after his labradoodle? Commit perjury?

I was momentarily saddened that such a lauded and autographed book was now sitting amongst worthless duds on a crappy old bookshelf. One day, I hope to meet someone who's read the book, that I might discover its contents.

Grimly but eagerly I trudged onwards, stupidly and predictably ignoring my true mission to search for furniture, and this time I found something equally amazing - the Power 2000. This was, to my eyes, a carbon copy of the AbFlex, a circa '96 televmarketing piece of crap that my beloved father purchased in a moment of deep insanity. The red end is nestled into your stomach flab, the handles are gripped (from beneath I think) and the body is pulled inwards to you, against all odds plus the resistance of a piece of stretchy rubber on the underside. The rubber broke on my dad's one and they sent him a new part. I dont know where the aBfleX is now. I can't recall how much they were selling the Power 2000 for, but whatever it was it's too much.

You don't need to go first hand

In a way, these pictures tell a story. In another, more accurate way, I'll be telling the story about these pictures. Stay tuned.

Curtis White

I just read a short essay called the Spirit of Disobedience by above author, wherefrom I got the three suggestions above above*. On the whole it's a great piece, and reminds me of Ralston Saul, Suzuki and Hofstadter, in that certain things (dare I say, truths? Interpretations of reality? No matter.) are said in a simple and engaging way that make sense, and that no one else ever seems to say. The kind of writing that makes the usual fare seem like an utterly misguided, laborious waste of time. I meant to write a post about the piece, but haven’t gotten round to it. Yet. And yet.

* since removed. They are "Misbehave. Make something beautiful. Try to win."

The power of mobile phones

Some of you might have seen a viral marketing video floating through the air, in which some hipster doofuses create popcorn out of corn kernels merely by merely placing their ringing phones in the kernels's' vicinity. I decided to have a lark and so I stole three mobile phones from passers by on the street. After I had recollected my breath, I layed me down on the yielding ground and placed a phone beside either ear, one above my head, and the other on my face. I then demanded my number one, two, three and four guys, Phil A. Shio, C. Bass, Col Medina and Rick Tal-Payne, to ring the four phones stimultaneously.

Can you guess what happened next?

That's right, my pineal gland exploded. This had some startling consequences. First of all, it turned me into an unpredictable, suave and tic-laden hermit with an inability to tell more than three true words in a row. Second of all, it really, really hurt. Fortunately, modern medical technology has a solution for me - liposuction.

I wrote a poem describing my new life, entitled Reaching Within

Pineal gland
disintegrate
to dust and sand
Help me mate

Internal pain
cellphone weird
Cellulite gain
my curly beard

My new life
full of hope
no more strife
no shit rope

Reaching within...

i'm a big fan of succulents

Do yourself a favour and head down to the succulents garden at the Botanic. There's some wild succulents there - not wild, but freaky, you know what i mean. I discovered my favourite plant there and one day I hope to own it.

Nope, that's not it. But pretty cool, huh?

It's pretty close to this one, except - get this - the trunk has spines all over it. That's so cool.

I wouldn't mind having a garden that looks like that.

By the way, I really don't care for the ubiquitous little balcony succulents, you know the ones that people put on their window sill above the kitchen sink? They have every right to exist, but they're just not on the same plane of awesomeness as these ones.

The Draft Post

In lieu of a decent column about the NBA draft, might I make the following points:

1. Huuuge Torres Strait Islander Nathan Jawai is the 41st pick of the draft, going to the Indiana Pacers. This guy can't be worse than Bogut, right? Let's hope he makes the team.

2. The Warriors do little with their pick. Dang it.

3. One of the Lopez twins looks really funny (image courtesy of the Sports Guy, by Seth Wenig for AP photos). So too does NBA Commish David Stern, three feet shorter shaking his hand.

4. This makes the Sports Guy remember a hauntingly similar image from the annals of baseball cards: Oscar Gamble.

When Shaq raps, I listen

"I love 'em, I don't leave 'em. I got a vasectomy, now I can't breed 'em."

I'm no stranger to freestyling. Sure, egos get hurt, but the adrenalin is intense and the benefits for the crowd are there for all the crowd to see. There's much, much more of Shaq here

I've heard that when you crack a compass, the magnetic is toxic*

I was brilliant enough to attend the artist's's party for the Sydney Biennale on Wednesday. It was quite a night, in less ways than ten. The party was held on Che Cockatoo Island, a glittering jewel in Sydney's otherwise shithouse harbour. We waited for what seemed like 20 minutes for the ferry to depart. From the top deck you could see the harbour bridge in the night sky and it was something else. The black steel, those girders, the lighting, the night sky, the gargantitude of it all. It was magical and it reminded me of the first Batman movie, my number one guy.

We were shepherded through a hundred metres of scooped out sandstone and before us stood a great big hall, with a stack of arty types mingling, dancing, greedily scoffing free alcohol and food, and enjoying the many luxuries that accompany the life of an artist. I had the best time at that party. The wife and I thank the organisers very much. The party raged and we danced. We had to call it a night around 1, but not before some great peoplewatching, stimulating conversation, tomato juggling, and all around soaking up of island meets art culture. Oh Biennale. Boom shaka jam.

*It's the same principle as when you crack a thermometer and the mercury is toxic

NBA Finals part two

Amazingly my prediction turned out to be wrong and the Celtics beak the Lakers in 6 games. Also amazingly, there were a stack of people at Cheers bar, where i caught the last 10 minutes of game 6, who seemed absolutely over the moon at the C's win. I gotta say, I let out a few yelps when the Dogs took out the title in 04, but my fannitude is nothing compared to these freaks. Spose i'm just not used to seeing people care about basketball teams like that. One guy in particular was way too happy - heck, he was even more excited that Kevin Garnett (by the way this reporter takes the cake, for today, in terms of stupidity. "Kevin, you've dreamed of winning a championship. How does the reality compare with the dream?" What's he supposed to say? Well, reality is better. The dream is obviously more dream like, but it's not quite the same as reality. Great question!) I was very happy for the original manchild, don't get me wrong. We've been through so much together. I really feel he can kick on and win another title in the next 10 to 15 years. It was also funny watching Paul Pierce's reaction: "I told y'all! Yeah!!!" Simple but good.

What now on the sporting horizon? Sports Guy has kind of demolished Wimbledon for me, if it wasn't already. The Euro champs are heating up. I really want to watch Italy Spain but i don't think SBS is televising it. Goddamn it! Meanwhile the dogs are laying turd after turd. This isn't a rebuilding year, by the way - it's a demolishing year, where they fall apart and destroy all the foundations. Rebuilding will be the next year or two. And the Kings are dead too. Sport, you've left me unfulfilled once again. I shall now go and play with my Kubb sticks.

He died with a Gaytime sticking out of his jacket pocket

It is an interesting non-fact that of all the great
dualities that underpin, or if you like permeate
reality, 'stop-start' receives surprisingly little
attention. It is a disinteresting fact that this unity
underlies all others. Figure that out, dipshit.

- Anonymous,
Anonymity for Dummies

I first encountered the Illuminati in a manner not unlike most of you, my temporarily distracted readers. In other words, I can't recall. But it sits there, in plain obscurity - knowledge of knowledge, of a feeling, of something. That was a long time ago, you see. Certain things have come to pass and I'm now in a position to say something more substantial about the Illuminati. To all but a demented few, this will be news. He died with a Gaytime sticking out of his jacket pocket.

Also in his jacket pocket were a mobile phone, some maroon-coloured lint spiced with sand, and a soggy, ink-stained piece of paper torn from a notepad and folded a single time, haphazardly. We'll get to that presently. The phone contained no contacts, no user generated files and a single sent message. The text of that message was !, an exclamation point. This isn't the placetime to recount that mysterious phoney tale. The lint had built up over six months, three weeks and 45 seconds. And continued to do so. Blurry ink notwithstanding, upon the paper was a triangle with a circle in it. The circle was supposed to be an eye. Underneath the seeing pyramid was written "Stop then Start."

The whole point of the Illuminati is that they're a secret society - a secret within a secret, if you care to check. If you're gagging to check, you'll also find a thousand and one unravellings of this secret. Most often it's power, sometimes chaos, occasionally order, rarely tantra. Yet these are all false and furphy. The real truth about the (232 year old?) Illuminati is that they are an unfaith-based society.

Specifically, their tenets are agnosticism and infidelity [in several senses, as we may not come to later]. Absense of belief, absence of commitment. Two shadows reflecting each other. We're imprisoned by our beliefs - as soon as we've got them we stop thinking! Like you'd ever stop thinking, you idiot. Well, I'm thinking about stopping, that I might start. So they say. As for infidelity, it's the secret to life on earth, so they say.

What's the point? What do they mean, what would they achieve by these dual idiocies? Could they really achieve anything? Further exposition would mean me getting into a whole heap of arcane, mundane, scientific, pseudo-spurious psychoriffic playgrounds of thought. If the intrigued reader really is, I recommend The Illuminatus Trilogy, by Bob Shea and R.A. Wilson. Just know that it's out of date by several decades, and wrong. That said, I've never read a better account of them and I doubt one exists. Alright, off you go.

NBA finals

The Lakers are playing the Celtics in the NBA Finals. I gotta say, I kinda hate the Lakers. Something about Kobe Bryant is just... eeurgh. He is a freaking good player though, and seems just too good for everyone else right now. What bugs me is that the Lakers were not supposed to be that much better than everyone else. It just kinda came outta nowhere. So here I am, rooting for the Celtics, who can't even pronounce Celtic. Kevin Garnett, the original man child, won't ever get a better chance to win the title. Based on regular season form you might have tipped the Cs, they did win 66 games, 10 more than the Showtime. But postseason they've been poor. Worst case scenario, they lose their first two games at home and the series is over in a cakewalk. I'm hopeful that they'll make a series out of it, and even squeak out a win. A sweep is probably too much to ask, although Kobe could slip on a banana peel and be ruled out for the Finals. Prediction: Lakers in 6.

I drop rhymes like nobody's dirty business

My lyrics are unstoppable
My images are croppable
i’m totally sustainable
I never touch a fossil fuel

My veins are ice and I’m known to fly
There’s a lotta imitators but I don’t know why they try
Some have likened me to the archaeopteryx
Part bird part reptile a truly stunning mix

But I’m fully equipped with the cortical lobes
that these other motherfuckers lack
and plus I’ve got robes
long, red and flowing and they’re never restrictive
if you impair my circulation I get super vindictive

Bimbimbie Bibimbab

It was a cold autumn day when I decided to become a writer. After wasting 25 minutes trying to decide whether numbers above ten should be written as words or numerals, I got out of my computer chair in a huff. No, the life of an editor was not for me. It was not without infinite sadness that I returned editor Norman Blume’s soul to him, and allowed him to resume his life, no more to be molested.

I quickly resolved never to publicly acknowledge the influence of various comic writers on my own style. This way it would be up to my audience to figure this out for themselves. A back of the envelope calculation informed me that the type of people who would read my work, or be forced to read it for some reason (act of God), are unlikely to have the wherewithal to extract these influences from my writings. Indeed, it could be said with some confidence that my writings are so impenetrable, anyone claiming to understand them is surely guilty of one of life’s most pleasurable sins, lying. It could also be said with confidence that I enjoy chewing aluminium, but surely one would see through the brazen façade to the harsh, unpalatable truth: aluminium can often be harsh and unpalatable.

After agreeing with myself on the suitableness of my new venture, I set out to put paper to pen. I realised that this was more than a bit gauche, in this age of electrical computing machines and world wide nets. I returned to my computer chair with my tail between my legs and sat on it - the chair, not my tail. I then concocted a tale so fantastical, so bizarre, that it’s imagery haunts me to this day. Incidentally, I am writing this on the same day that I wrote that tale. It would surely be a tease of aggravated assault-inducing magnitude to leave the reader in a state of ignorance as to the contents of that miraculous tale. I am therefore duty-bound to reveal it to you, as I am now revealing myself to my neighbours.

… Reginald and Fatima were on a high. They had just finished sculling (I am aware of the alternate spelling, “skoll”, and it can go and get nicked) a can of beer each, and were eager to continue their celebrations.

“Fat’, I'm overwhelmed with happiness and it makes me happy.”
“Reggie, you sure do get in a funny way when you drink. Sometimes I’m not sure whether I shouldn’t beat you to death with my TCP/ICP Networking book while you sleep. What do you say we go hit the town?”
“You read my mind. Got any dips left on your travelten?”
“I do. I’m quite sure of it.”

With that, they set off down the street. It wasn’t long before they got on the bus. Although they received a few stares from their fellow passengers, Reginald and Fatima couldn’t have cared less. The heady rush of a can of VB had worked its magic, and even the most deranged of stares couldn’t have yanked our protagonists from Cloud Nine.

“Reggie, have you ever noticed that whenever we decide to go out on the town, we always end up in the same bar?”
“What’s your point? The Malmsbury’s got style, it’s got pokies, and it’s got VB on tap. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
“Fuck you.”
“What?”
“Just kidding. It’s just that tonight I feel like doing something different. I have an idea.”
“Please, I gots to know.”
“Let’s do a pub crawl.”
“It’s too cold. The wind is blowing so hard, I fear I wouldn’t survive for long on the street.”
“A pub crawl… with a difference.”

The deranged look in Fatima’s eyes was this time enough to nudge Reginald perilously close to the edge of Cloud Nine. Somehow, in the deepest, darkest kernel of his soul, Reginald foresaw what was about to happen. He couldn’t articulate it, but he could feel it. And that was enough.

“Oh, no.”
“What do you mean, oh know?”
“I said ‘Oh no’, not ‘Oh know.’”
“Oh. Well anyway, I haven’t even told you what the difference is.”

Reginald was puzzled by his own behaviour. He wasn’t normally the one to hold back. In the sixth grade, when the teacher had bent over, exposing a generous butt crack, Reginald had not only inserted a pacer pencil, but clicked a full-length pacer lead all the way out, much to the delight of his erstwhile classmates. But this was different. For a start, there was no butt crack involved, and nary a pacer in sight.

“Here’s the difference. Instead of going from pub to pub, one drink at a time, we’ll stay in the same pub, going from table to table one drink at a time.”
“What a lame idea.”
“No it isn’t. Come one, it’ll be fun. There’s the crew from Mama’s Cleaning we normally say Hi to. We can have a bourbon with them. There’s that girl you’ve got the hots for.”
“I do not!”
“Fuck you. Just kidding. C’mon, it’s a friendly enough bar that most people will be happy for us to share a drink with them. And after finding that money in the apartment of that lady who passed on, we’ve got enough to actually buy people drinks. Who could refuse a classy couple like us?”

As it turned out, no one could. Well, almost no one. Wait, it was no one after all. Reginald and Fatima were having one of the greatest nights of their lives, and that’s saying something, considering they were each 65 years old. Reginald even bought his crush a drink. Fittingly enough, it was a triple vodka body shot. Reginald had stunning abdominals thanks to his 7 Minute Abs program, and offered them up to Gelsomina for her drink. The feeling of apprehension that swept over Reginald earlier in the bus was forgotten, like all his other post-1973 memories. Still, he would learn the hard way to trust his intuition…

“Reg, I don’t know about you, but I’m as sozzled as a fly in a vat of beer. And I don’t mean swimming on the top. I mean equidistant from the top, bottom and walls.”
“Fat’, people are getting drunk from the fumes coming off this oily rag I've positioned near my mouth.”

In a flash Fatima pulled a cattle prod from her handbag. Exhaling loudly, she kicked the empty schooner stack out of the barmans hands and delivered a cattle-leavening zap to his midriff before he could protest. Then she zapped the barlady after she protested. Reginald broke out in a cold sweat. He knew the day had come. The day he’d discussed with his stockbroker all those decades ago. Fatima spiralled out of control, zapping patrons, pokie machines, and the pile of Drum Medias by the door. After that she placed the cattle prod on the table and whispered in Reginald’s ear.

“Go to the till. Put this hunge in and get me change for the bus. Drivers abhor changeless passengers, or so I'm told.”

Reginald had by now somewhat calmed down. He knew that he needed to get a grip on himself, much as he had done during his teens. He changed Fatima’s money at the till while the bargoers, slack-jawed by nature or by cattle prod, looked on. He turned around to assess the situation. Fatima had seated herself on a couch in the corner. She emptied a bag of salt and vinegar chips on the table and filled the bag with beer, then started to sip at it.

“It reminds me of drinking wine from the bag, Reg’!”
“I know Fat’. Why don't you sit down for a while. I'm gonna go over here for a minute.”

He looked to Gelsomina, whose easy gaze and languid smile comforted him no end, until he realised she had two glass eyes, was wearing dark sunnies and was completely drunk. He turned to Fatima, who was reaching her hand into the recently fashioned beer vessel and splashing beer on her face, a la an early riser. Reginald figured that she was ready to stop her criminal rampage, and plotted his next move. Trying to win her over, he seized the cattle prod and applied it to the 8-ball on the pool table. It ricocheted off the cushion and landed safely in Fatima’s chip bag-cum-goon, sending a few drops of ale into the air. Fatima cursed. "By the trident of Neptune!" She stood up shakily and headed for the door.

Reginald knew that the worst was over, and smiled to himself. The next day they both had splitting headaches, but were able to laugh as they penetrated into their cavernous subterranean office.

“Mr Speaker, my question for the Member for Mackay is this. If the Government cares deeply about small business, as they claim they do Mr Speaker, why have they introduced such draconian legislation, Mr Speaker?"

Fatima gave a barely perceptible brown eye to Reginald, and rose to answer his question.

Non serviam

That's how I've always lived my life. Ever since I was a teenager, ever since I was a kid, ever since I was a baby. In fact - this might sound crazy - ever since I was a facecloth, some kinda cheesecloth, I've lived by this motto.

Non serviam.

That's latin, m'boy, a language from the days of yesterfar, and it means "I don't serve". I'm my own person. Do what thou willst is the law. It's this kind of freedom - some say it's the only freedom penguins have me - that is so rare these days. Take a look around, smart guy, and you don't see many people living by this credo. This maxim. This tenet. Mandamus - mandamus? Of course, looks can be deceiving, as can smells. Many who think they don't serve are beautifully ignorantly kidding themselves - take me for instance.

Just another reminder that we are all nothing if not many-layered onions. Each removed husk seems so final, yet the process goes on anew. Humility is endless.

Justified and Ancient Mummus?

Hmmm. Hmmm.

~~~

I keep waiting for Beck to interrupt his stream of good, but ultimately insubstantial party albums with one that is more befitting his talents. Now he's put out a song in a similar vein to recent efforts, if weaker, but the strong point is the film clip - a series of images demonstrating U.S. consumerism in all its vastness. I've seen it all before, but maybe it takes something like this to reach more than the usual suspects, and jog them out of their collective stupor.




~~~

I am falling so far down the hamster hole. I look up. I look around me. It's dark. I'm drenched in fear. I'm covered in sweat. I continue to fall and then with a thud I put my hand in my pocket. I pull out my apple core and hurl it downwards, that I might hear a tock and gauge how far below the floor is. I throw it and hear nothing. Still nothing. Still nothing. And then I hear a sound so hideous, so mortifying, so primal that it chills me to my core. It is the sound of my apple core hitting the ground. All up I'd say it took about a tenth of a second, which means that I too will hit the ground in a tenth of a second or so.

Recounting this tale, it still makes my hair stand on end. I can "see" the hamster hole. I can still "taste" the bitter potion that Ladbrook gave me in exchange for a hunge. It took me three long weeks to recover from the ordeal, and if I wasn't on leave at the time I probably would have been fired. You see, I was utterly incapable of calling my employer and telling them of my predicament. Of course, now I'm better. That's what my daughter's high school sweetheart tells me anyway.

The reason I'm writing this is that I need your help. People don't realise that there are many more hamster holes. Upwards of 250,000 in fact. And each one poses a real threat to our national security. Densely populated with treefrogs and camomile, they represent a penny drop of momentous proportions. And yet eight letters to Local and State MPs have been ignored, replied in name but not substance. Let me quote you one:

Dear Master Gee (if that is your 'real' name),

Thank you for your correspondence, dated -2 February 2018, concerning hamster holes and discounts of upwards of 40%.

I share your concern for Australia's security. Sadly, as you are not a member of my electorate, your letter has been shredded and stored for posterity. I thank you for your interest, and commend the following websites to you: http://flickr.com, http://abs.gov.au.

I trust you have enjoyed this little exemplar of democracy in action, ya prick.

Yours sincerely,

The Hon. Born Pab

What a fool! And people wonder why society will shortly crumble.

So my dear reader, this is what I ask of you, should you choose to take on this noble and ponderous task. Stand up and call out to the heavens "You b free, you n me, taking on the world with a gin and some verve! You b free, for all eternity, taking on the planet with a packet of crisps!". It's my theory - and I'm yet to tabulate the remaning data - that if at least a billion people do this, we will instantaneously break the shackles of modern society that blind and block us at every turn. It's pretty obvious that after that there'd be some real opportunities and possibilities for personal growth. On the other hand. if just a couple of people do it, results would be less transformative.

If I have failed to convince you, perhaps these words from a famous guitarist will do the trick. For now, see you later :)

"Hendrix was a perfect guitarist. That's all I wanted to do as a kid. Play a guitar properly and jump around. But too many people got in the way." Syd Barrett

~~~

I'm trying to put some power chords to this sweet verse I just came up with.

You've returned it to meeeee
But iiiiiii did not want it back
Now my life has some prooooooblems
Better call Fortinbras

I hate Parramatta Road from Ashfield to the start of the M4

Pique Doughnut
I wish I'd come up with Peak Donut theory, but it dates back to 1982. Argentinian Economist Reinaldo Hermes pointed out that if you graph world donut production against time, production rises until it reaches a peak, after which it must inexorably slide towards zero [though it will probably never fully bottom out, for reasons I won't go into here]. We can't tell now because we are still on the rising part of the graph, but if the world is finite - and it is - then a day will come when the amount of donuts produced begins a slow but inevitable decline. Couple this with the fact that demand for donuts shows no signs of decreasing, thanks partly to strong growth in China and India, and we are faced with a sobering thought: the social, physical and economic infrastructure built around the notion of a cheap and reliable supply of donuts is not long for this world. As demand exceeds supply, the foundations of this seemingly impressive set of arrangements will shudder and eventually fall. First will come price fluctuations, then shortages, then a probable rapid descent into chaos as groups compete for scarce donuts. A host of other implications follow from these self-evident propositions, and others have now adapted the thoery to cover the idea of peak oil, peak gas and even peak money.

In cold blood by Truman Capote
I was just watching David Attenborough explain how iguanas lie on rocks to warm up after obtaining food in the cold blue sea. The camera switched to infrared, showing several orangey red iguanas that had heated up, and a dark blue one that had just climbed out of the swim. "This iguana has been chilled to the bone." I half expected him to add "It is at precisely this time that iguanas are at their most vulnerable", followed by the old knight picking one up, flipping it over and prodding its belly. "Normally a ferocious creature capable of crushing bones with its powerful jaw, this sea-chilled iguana is powerless to stop me from having my way with it." And then he tosses it back onto the rock, leaving it to struggle for thirty seconds trying to turn itself back onto its stomach.

Spandeckx
The Australian Olympic team has unveiled a high-tech uniform for the Beijing Olympics, designed keep athletes cool and give them an edge over their competitors in battle. Beloved hurdler Jana Rawlinson said modelling the uniforms was a reminder that the Olympics are only a few months away. Australian Olympics supremo John Coates said that only a few expenses had been spared in designing the outfits, but admitted to being concerned that prior to today Rawlinson appeared to have completely forgotten about such a major event in the sporting calendar. 100m sprinter Jessica Horvat added "Look, if the uniforms give me that extra 0.01 seconds, it'll be worth it. If they give me an extra three seconds, all the better."

Guv-Gen
Quentin Bryce has been appointed as Australia's first female Governor-General, despite having a man's name. It is widely agreed that Ms Bryce was the best person for the role, although some pointed out that this is a bald-faced assertion supported by nothing but a crude vox pop of B list celebrities such as Natasha Stott Despoja and morning television hosts. Prime Minister Kevin Rudd said it was time a woman held the job. "It's taken us 107 years, which incidentally is the age of Ms Bryce."

I like to keep my finger on the pulse

No, that's not a line from an adult movie, that's a description of my fondness for news. Which is to say, my fondness for hearing about certain events that are classified by media outlets as news.

Special Broadcasting Service News from 7 April two sows and an eight:

Protests overshadow torch relay
There's still four months until the Olympics start, but at this rate the total number of protesters following the olympic torch is going to outnumber the Chinese population.

Brazen school attack 'retribution'
Police say five armed youths (not to be confused with five-armed youths) may have been seeking revenge. It's time to call a spade a spade. Revenge is clearly an incredible motivator of human behaviour, yet government officials continue to refuse to insert it gently but firmly into the middle of their plans. If I am elected President, I will make revenge a central platform.

Republic on Agenda
A BBC interviewer asked Kevin Rudd about Australia becoming a republic. Some douche decides this means the republic is back on the agenda. Don't get me wrong, I'm a dyed in the dye republican, but just because a politician utters a word, does not make that word 'back on the agenda'. Rudd was also asked how he was enjoying his trip. Looks like 'gruelling visits to strings of heads of state' are back on the agenda.

SBS secures 13 Logie nominations
A lesser known fact is that they are all for the Jim Lehrer News Hour in the category of "Best Imported U.S. Current Affairs Program That Is Light On Sensationalism And Heavy On Serious Examination Of Events But Is Unfortunately Screened At A Time Which Means It Has A Viewership of 380". Have you seen Ray Suarez' beard? It's lovely.

No one dies like Joe Morton

Anyone who's seen Terminator 2 will remember at least two things: John Connor plugging a keyboard into an ATM and Miles Dyson hyperventilating in a soon to be exploded building.

Such a sensitive portrayal of a dying man, and for such a long amount of screen time. Well imagine my surprise, discomfort and elation when I saw Joe Morton lying on a hospital bed, doing the exact same hyperventilation in an episode of House, the TV show about an antisocial maverick doctor. According to IMDB, the two roles were 14 years apart, yet the performance was uncannily similar.

This begs the question: in how many other roles has Joe Morton expressed bodily anguish through hyperventilation? One? Two? 150? It can't be that many.

Which other Hollywood actors have trademark expressions of pain? We've already witnessed Patrick Swayze's amazing range. What about most unusual crier? Most heartfelt whimper? Further evidence that Joaquin Phoenix is taking acting to a whole nutha level - he's expressed mental anguish through vomiting in We Own The Night. [It's a little known fact that he induced vomiting by eating his agent's weight in halva]

***

In other news, Artful Science draws attention to a fantastic speech given by David Suzuki about our current predicament. He makes points that are simple, refreshing (because no one else seems to say them) and usually right on the money.

Easter - a time for giving eggs

Opposition Leader Barry O'Farrell has blasted Taronga Zoo for wasting thousands of dollars on Easter gifts for its animal inhabitants. "Yes, we should feed them, by all means. But do they really need Louis Vuitton bags? I would have thought not."

This is the latest in a sparkling series of Artful Science exposes.

Acting at its best

I used to joke with my sister about this, and now someone has actually put together a list of the top 20 most stupidest faces Patrick Swayze makes in Ghost. Thanks to the Sports Guy (or more likely his readers) for this one.

Bad news about Barry, he's back on the tap water.

Hard drugs in our tap water? It can't be! Of course, alarmist reporting like that would never be found at Artful Science. For a measured, yet schocking report, read on.

Biscuits and cheese

Old Man: I have discovered the most marvellous mixture of foodstuffs, that one may indulge in on an afternoon. Biscuits and cheese.

Young Man: Yeah, that’s quite common.

OM: Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve only just discovered this combination, but I’ve walked this earth for 73 long years!

YM: You hate walking.

OM: Rather. But you see, the manner by which I discovered this delightful duo – biscuits and cheese – was most fortuitous. I was watching a program on the television, when an advert appeared. The advertisement portrayed a young couple eating biscuits and cheese in the park, nestled on a woollen blanket.

YM: Get to the point.

OM: Well, it wasn’t five minutes after the television commercial screened that I had to leave to catch my bus. Now where do you suppose I was going?

YM: The shops?

OM: You’ve got it in one! I made a note of the brand depicted in the advertisement and asked the young lady at the checkout counter whether they had any in stock. As I asked her, I showed her the piece of paper on which I had written down the product name. The lady pointed in the direction of one of the aisles and I searched for my desired item. To cut a long story short, I’m now utterly sold on the blend of Tim Tams and grated parmesan cheese – the aforementioned “biscuits and cheese.”

YM: You idiot.

Sorrow without bridles

There comes a time in every woman, man and old person's life when they must watch celebrity boxing. I could write a lot about this clip, but it ultimately speaks for itself. Suffice to say, I lost a little bit of humanity by watching Screech fight Horshack. And I encourage you to do the same. Deeply disturbing. Sorry Mr Belding! Post Scriptum: I forgot to add links to parts two and three.

I stayed awake for four days in a row. I was delusional.

Alright kids, quit your yappin and come gather round ole uncle Hammertime. I’ve a story to tell, but I ain’t gonna tell it if you don’t shut yer traps! Alright, that’s better. Now you make yerself comfortable – wassat? Yeah, eating’s alright, just keep yer slobberin down to a minimum. This is a story about music, about life, about living and alrighty I might as well throw it in, about dying. I don’t want to hear any eatin!

Now I know you kids think you know about music. You got your ipods and your itunes and your ishuffles and it’s all about fuckin me, isn’t it? Have you even any idea what an “I” is? Course you don’t, and I doubt you have a mind to figure it out either. Go read some Hofstadter and come back and then we can talk. And don’t think that these two things are completely unrelated, either. As you’ll see, and I’ll try to spell it out for you in the fullness of our sacred and preciously limited time, digging music and understanding a self have quite a lot in common. Now as I was saying, you don’t know shit about music.

I know you think you do, and lest Uncle H-Time be caught with his pants down, allow me to explain. Don’t get you wrong - you like music. Some of the time some of you even love it. It’s the soundtrack to your favourite movies. You worship implicitly cool directors like Tarantino, even if you don’t know it, coz they tell you what’s hip so you don’t need to figure out for yaself. Never mind that he’s not interested in touching you, or getting inside you (don’t be crude) – he’s after the perfect pop movie moment, and he does what he does well. But the closest he gets to reality - to what’s real to you or me or anyone - is his craftily worn reels. That’s a pun right there. He’s havin a whale of a time, and we do too, but does anyone ever listen to his soundtracks after the movie? I said listen to, not buy.

What I mean to say is there’s a great many of you whippersnappers these days that get music incidentally. You bumped into the cinema and some music brushed off on you. You were takin the tv for a walk and you stepped in a song. TV shows, advertising, theme tunes, jingles, movies. Music is no more the focus of these things than it is the focus of video hits and a great many other shows of its plastic ilk. (I’d consider making an exception for Rage, which is a bit of a different story, and a topic for another day and in all likelihood another author. With a bit of luck, persistence and assistance, Rage delivers interesting musical experiences, but they’re of a different dimension to the one’s of which I’ll soon speak, real soon now my little ones.)

I can hear some of you in the back sniggering amongst yourselves, ol’ man Hammertime’s drunk again, he’s lost his wits, if he ever had ‘em in the first place. You’s the ones that listen to music all the time. Screw the soundtrack to a movie, this is the soundtrack of your lives. You were born with earphones in your little baby ears, and damned if they’re not still in there. Don’t worry, I know there’s no music comin out of em right now, you just leave em in there hoping people’ll leave you alone, or maybe realise how cool you are. You take those headphones on to the train, down the street, onto the bus. Sometimes you forge everlasting bonds with your contemporaries by wearing an earpiece each.

You’ve got a million songs in those miracles of modern design, and I’m deeply impressed by Apple’s marketing savvy, but there’s a few things that constrain your listening pleasure. For starters you barely listen to more than 10 seconds of each track. If we take modern day rampant short attention spanism to its logical conclusion - and yes, I’m afflicted too - then we’ll all be just constantly skipping songs, flipping channels – never stopping, ever. Sounds like fun. But I digress. Being out and about, you can’t really focus on the music. You got the friggin platform announcer competing for audiospace in yer head. You can’t give it the time and attention it needs, if you want to get out of it what’s in it, lurking in there, somewhere. Lurking inside the good stuff anyway. And then there’s the lovely shuffle mode, in which you get to listen to an utterly, utterly random selection of your own musical library. Which also prevents any buildup of mood, of atmosphere, and any unlocking of the precious fruits that some albums yield only to complete listening. Have you ever thought about how to create a really, truly random sequence? Is that even possible anyway? As I see it, there’s two kinds of randomness: the kind that’s miraculously built into the fabric of reality at the subatomic level, and the kind that’s for all purposes random, like a die. You gotta tap into one of these things if you want randomness. Either that or talk to someone under 25, who’ll pop it into conversation at quite predictable intervals.

High above and far beyond all this, you do listen, and you do enjoy, and f’crissakes your music means something to you. It speaks to you. It speaks, it raps, it adds useless and useful extra notes, it sings of life’s big themes – love, (much less often) hate, (more often) loathing (including self), pride. Pride is a big one. So many lucky people getting their pride taken for a ride in pimped out musical cars. And given today’s topic, we must add that it speaks in the voice and spirit of rock! There are beautiful voices, sweet melodies, driving guitars. Honest to goodness, down to earth, rockin’ out, heartfelt but ultimately really, really lame songs which tend to get played on Triple J a lot. Well please, ‘cause you’ve stuck around this long, do me the favour of noting all that, taking it in, and setting it aside. I’d like you to open your mind, and get ready to receive. Cause I’m going to talk about passion, about fury, about precision, about wince-inducing off notes, about strong and strange emotions.

I first heard about the Mars Volta when I was working in the old secondhandbookshop on City Rd. Run by the extreme left SRC, who invariably go on to become middle of the road Laborites. The future of Labor, even. Christ! Right above the footbridge, it was, until they moved it, not the bridge, but the shop, and then they moved the bridge too. I had Yoshimi Battles… on the stereo, and one of the custudents told me if I liked this I’d like the Mars Volta. Retrospectively viewing the comment, it was ridiculous. They’re two very different bands. But he was right, I do like them both, though not with the causality suggested by his remark. I soon fetched myself some Volta. I listened to the song Roulette Dares and was taken aback. It was a little chaotic and challenging at first, but I discovered a darn good rock song in there, complete with tension building intro, loud bits, quiet bits and noisy instrumentals. After a few listens, the song grew on me, and I was struck by just how heartfelt Cedric’s plaintive cry was. Though I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Still don’t. Something about an exoskeleton and a delay. All the same, I gave it no thought for months. After these months, a conversation with a friend prompted me to invest in Frances the Mute. Now that’s a sentence in sore need of context. In this fashion, a hideously beautiful metamusical mushroom sprouted in my temporal lobes and I still can’t get the dang thing out.

Allow me to lay it out for you, my lovely ones, in big clear letters like George Bush on a battleship, my central thesis. Is that the Mars Volta are one of the top 5 rock bands ever, who have created a unique and good sound, that has an uncanny ability to embed itself into the fabric of your mind and no napisan or new age cleaning recipe could ever get it out, not that you’d want to. With the Mars Volta, there’s much in common with other musical experiences. You bop your head, you grin stupidly, you have your favourite bits. But there’s much in rare too. You try to sing along but it’s fuckin pointless. You realise that there’s no other band for which you can remember 10 discrete mind-numbingly powerful drum solos. There is no other band that quite illuminates the moody, murky, morbid, manic and maniacal backwaters of your mind like the Mars Volta.

Passion and Fury
TMV somehow remain sincere, ridiculously sincere given the lyrics and cd art work, yet it all makes sense. Like all good works of art, it has its internal logic. It sends you down a path of disgusting dissonant sounds and morbid, fifth grade lyrics, but after you’ve been down it a few times, it looks normal and everything else odd. Cedric has an amazing voice, there is no doubt of this. When I was passing through that ineffable first stage of listening to a band, I found it offputting. I was able to appreciate a bunch of other stuff they were doing, but his lyrics were silly, his voice nothing special. How wrong I was. His voice and words are still all those things, but he is flat out the best singer going round at the moment. It’s an implicitly understood fact that if you ever want to make a point in a song, you sing just a touch higher. You find that point of auditory contact that is somehow more meaningful, more sincere, more heartfelt, whatever the emotion involved. Cedric hits this note and then sings the rest of the song an octave higher. But he sings like he is possessed, and heck, maybe he is. After all, Bedlam is an album about a possession of sorts, a ride through the dead side with an ancient evil spirit named Goliath. To pre-empt a recurring theme, uncannily perfectly sense making.

Singing aside, the whole band plays with a passion rarely matched, in the studio or live. And when it is matched, the matching band probably doesn’t compete in areas like musical creativity or depth of emotion. A good example of this is when they were touring Frances at the Enmore theatre, and two band members were grabbing a bite to eat beforehand. Sage concertgoers recognised them (might have been Jon Theodore and the sax player) and said hello. Jon said that they’d try to play harder tonight than they ever have. I’m afraid I can’t back this up with statistics, but I was there and they played fucking hard. Over the two and a half hours straight they played, you became progressively more hypnotised, while retaining the ability to appreciate their excellent renditions. How many other bands can do that? Hell, they can’t even do it themselves all the time. When they toured Amputechture the show was good, but not great. Listening to it afterwards I realised it was great, which is useful but too late for people there on the night.

I’ve little idea what the band members are like. I’d like to interview them some day. Jon Theodore comes across as intelligent and thoughtful, someone who loves what he does. Hardly deserving of being thrown under the bus, but that’s what Cedric did when he said they had to fire him. Yes, Pridgen is a freak, but so is Jon. Maybe it’s a little in joke, but where are his fuckin manners? And I suspect it wasn’t, as it was said in an interview with some Italian kids that you wouldn’t think would be but of course was inevitably going to be translated and made available to everyone out there on the innernet. Bottom line: TMV operate on a plane of passion and force that few other bands match, let alone sustain, far from freakin exceed. They demand attention, and won’t tolerate being a background soundtrack to yer life.

Precision
Goddamn they are good musicians. This is what pushes them over the edge. It’s one thing to have ideas, to have attitude, to have energy, but to back it up with insanely advanced technical execution is just scary. It’s not that they play unplayable stuff, although it would be to the majority of weekend hacks out there. But when you combine the guitar, drums, singing and the rest of it, they’ve left the rest of the pack in their sick wake. You can switch off and listen, but you can also pay attention, and when you do you blow your mind cottoning on to what they’re doing. ‘Course when I say pay attention, I really mean pay attention. Too quick, too complex, too detailed to pick up all in one go. Maybe that’s the banal secret behind their genius, to add more and more layers, with sufficient precision and arranged with sufficient delicacy, until it takes three years of listening to the same song to finally hear everything on it. But I’d like to see someone else try. My ears aren’t sufficiently developed, sufficiently evolved in this lil ol lifetime I’ve got, to hear everything they’re doing. I speak mostly of drums, which I do hear most of, but I guarantee you right now in an ironclad fashion, serious musos will get even more out of a listen than I would. Of course, they don’t have the constellation of tastes, thought patterns and musical history that constitutes my distinct mental sphere, so their reaction will be different, quite different probably, but we’ll get to all that stuff later.

Off notes that’ll make ya wince
Dissonance is an explicit musical strategy of the Mars Volta. For some reason, it often works. Maybe it’s just the sweet, goddamned relief of finally hitting a sonorous note that makes it work, maybe it corrupts your senses into thinking this is normal. I found it hard to explain to my German friend Thomas that this five minutes of repetitive, dissonant noise was actually part of a good song. It’s just that there’s been too many times a horrible sounding song has suddenly wormed its way into my good books. They make you listen to their dissonance, cause you never know when something incredible’s about to happen. Who’s the fool, me or him?

When it comes to musical fineness, consistent high performance levels are hard to come by. It’s something I’ve come to accept, and for some reason relish in a Cedric-kinda way, that no matter which way you cut the steak of musical excellence, you’ll always hit some gristle. You can’t have one without the other. So it is with comedy, so it is with many other creative endeavours. To hit those moments of brilliance or insight or shocking hilarity, you gotta have plenty of misses too. Mars Volta is no exception, and there are some songs I just can’t listen to, and even a few that have gotten old. But that’s some fine gristle, because you’re eating it at the same time as a steak like no other.

Strong and strange emotions
TMV’s breakout album Deloused was accompanied by a booklet, with text. It is the story of Cerpin Taxt, the album’s protagonist, and inside it are found the lyrics amidst a much bigger story. But if you thought the lyrics were odd or hard to parse, you haven’t read the rest of the booklet! I’ve tried to read it three times and I still haven’t come close to finishing it. I think you have to be clinically insane to scan that whole thing, it’s crazy.

This music isn’t afraid of craziness. It looks insanity in the face and sees itself. And when we listen to it, we hear ourselves. Given sufficient lucidity, anyone will admit that the sanity of life and the world is a bit of a knife edge, off which we all fall at times. We could ignore it or forget about it. Or we could stop and take a closer look. Embrace it and see what happens. Deloused and Frances in particular show us a world where sanity is irrelevant, and we embrace it. They manage to make something strange and distant central and heart wrenching. Death is often present, not as a treated theme, but rather as wallpaper. Scratch that, as the air that we breathe, as we go about more germane tasks. The set, on which the real action happens. That which we take for granted.

You find yourself in a song, and they slip a line in, a riff, a sound, that wrenches your guts, that moves you, and not in a Bette Midler Beaches kinda way. No, there is no light, in the darkest of your furthest reaches. Trite, and brutal. One day this chalk outline will circle this city. And you believe it, you contemplate for a second a force so malevolent it’ll wipe out a whole fucking city. When they drag the lake, there’s nothing left at all. Love that line. An abortion that survived. Which makes complete sense when you know the story of the song.

Now I’m lost.

The utter lostness of inertiatic esp. (I hate referring to these songs by their titles.) Forlorn. Simple and forlorn. I’m lost, I’m lost right now, and there’s no friggin way out. You know how it’s a common parable in our society for someone to be lost? Utterly, hopelessly despairingly lost? Until they find a way out. Sweet redemption, sweet foundness. But this song’s protagonist never finds a way out. In fact if you stay tuned, the only way out is suicide. This song absolutely revels in the panic, fear and certitude of being lost, way, way out.

I’ve been lost before, many would say I’m lost now. But goddamned if I’m ever this lost, I’d probably go crazy. And listening to this song is a concession to craziness in a way. Jon Theodore’s drums that keep the beat and meld with the bass. The rhythms he keeps, the patterns he creates are so furious, so heavy, so precise and crisp and so perfectly in keeping with the flow of the song, that he really is irreplaceable.

Of course, they replaced him, and they’re not the same band any more. But Thomas “Theodore on coke” Pridgen somehow fits in, and we have a new Mars Volta, and they’re just as crazy as ever. Over time, I thought they lost something. They lost an edge, a fearfully crazy and soul piercingly emotional force, that was clearly present on Deloused and Frances, but that departed or turned into something else on Amputechture and Bedlam. Listening to Bedlam now, I’m not so sure. They’ve lost something, but they’re still there. They’re still massive, a presence, irritating, complex. In a word, intense. And as I keep listening, it’s building. Maybe Amputechture was an aberration. Freakin good album though.

At The Drive In was a darn good band, all things considered. Yet I doubt anyone who listened to their strange mix of anxious punk guessed it was harbouring the nascent mutant foetus of the Mars Volta. Or that Cedric Bixler Zavala would go on to sing like this. Or that Omar Rodriguez Lopez would go on to play guitar like this, or create music like this.

I won’t for a second argue the band’s perfection or incapacity to produce rubbish. But their music reaches such heights, so often, and they’re not the same heights. They somehow manage to keep finding new patterns, yet all somehow stamped with the same Mars Volta superpattern. If music were a balloon, and musicians the gas molecules inside it, then most artists would float about the centre and never glance the edges. Some pioneers make contact with the interior surface and push it in slightly different directions. Mars Volta pushes the surface so hard they pop out the umbilical cord onto the other side, and start twisting the balloon into different shapes like a clown. Okay, I may be exaggerating, but you’ll grant me that in my old age, won’t you?

If you want to understand the human mind, you can’t omit music. Every piece of music we hear succeeds to varying extents at impinging upon our constantly evolving selves. Multiple points of musical contact get sifted through the sieve of our senses. It’s like a little dance between you and the song, sometimes the dance works, sometimes it doesn’t. Some music never makes it within cooee of our beckoning arms, some gets there and steps on our toes, some fits so well with us that we never knew there was a separate dance partner. Good music fits so well that it changes the way you dance. And by that I mean it changes us, our selves, our souls. You couldn’t understand my soul without knowing something about the Mars Volta, Split Enz, Crash Test Dummies and Ween. Hey! Stop fuckin laughing! I’ll smack you for your impertinence. There is surprisingly little research out there about just what the fuck goes on when we have a song in our heads, when a song speaks to us emotionally, when we discover hidden aspects to it. But these are real, real phenomena, realer than a whole heap of bullshit which many professional government funded fully accredited paper publishin self respectin idiot cognitive scientists fritter away their hours on.

Let’s just take a little time out here, because you know what I’m talking about. Let’s suppose a sufficiently complex new song you hear. First few listens, you pick up on the chorus, overall flavour. Over time, you notice different things – bass line here, drum fill there, understood lyric over yonder way. All of a sudden, you’ve built up an expectation for a particular little bit – what the hell is a unit of music anyway? We’ll coin that another day – that is so sweetly satisfied when you hear it. A line, a note, a lick. Classic example “Hey now don’t dream it’s over.” Everyone knows that, right? When a song goes through your head when you’re not listening to it, you don’t hear the whole thing. You hear sections, especially these catchy bits I was talking about. And as you listen you accumulate these little patterns, and notice different levels of patterns and so on until your understanding of this song rivals your understanding of complex concepts and any other ideas you care to mention. The ideas we know make us, and songs are that integral to the way we think and who we are.

Back track to the dance. Some music you have to dance with a few, ungainly times, before you hit full swing. Like two clocks out of sync, it may take a while to line up, but when you do, the match is absolute. Some times you do five different dances with the same song, as you peel away the layers of a particularly fragrant aural onion. I’m going through that stage with Bedlam right now. And no, I do not associate onions in any way shape or figure or form with the Bedlam in Goliath.

Back track to the process of acclimatising to a song. As I said, and I saw you all nodding your wee heads, everyone who’s into music knows what I’m talking about. For music you grow to love, it’s quite a precious time, only you can’t appreciate it at the time cause the music doesn’t sound quite right. But you have faith that it will all come good. After a few listens, it starts to grow on you. Then you love it. I occasionally wonder what it’d be like to go back to that first listen. Not just of any Mars Volta song, but of what it was like to discover just what in god’s name they were doing, that Mars Volta thing they do. It’d be a bit like going back to the first beer, when it tasted wrong. We can still detect that first taste if we try, but it’s been so overridden by our accumulated knowledge and expectations about beer, it’s an afterthought, an aftertaste and not much more. It doesn’t change, we do. But it is nothing without us in the first place.

I’ve never had a band inhabit my mind and start shifting the furniture around like the Mars Volta. They take a seat, settle in and set to stabbing darkly coloured shards into your brain and into your mind. Jagged fragments left all over the fuckin place, and each time you pick one out you find another one lyin around in the vicinity. There’s even one shaped like Candy and a Currant Bun. I could write four'n'half thousand words about that song alone. Brilliant.

Well, I can see you all scratching yer itches so I’ll release you from my sweaty, greasy grip. But do check em out. If you’ve a mind a little like mine, or like mine was a couple of years ago, you may have a musical fit.