Thursday, March 17, 2005

No more pashing

As I sat in the back seat of the car exerting my will to hold down the triple distilled contents of my stomach, the Lebanese food and Mexican Liquer, the gin, the wine, the vodka, the late night club sandwich and the beer and every other evil fucking thing that I had so sassily inserted into myself the night I held my dog eared head out the window as we drove through bright, too bright, Sydney like the Redsetter I sometimes am, drooling at other cars and leaving a saliva trail behind us so that like Hansel and Gretel I, or the Woodsman's daughter or whoever the fuck did it, would be able to find my way gingerly back to the Hotel from whence I came.

And just as I thought I had made it back and solids were okay to think about and maybe, just maybe, I would come through...our beautiful curly haired driver suggested to me that perhaps I was feeling green due to the amount of tongues that had been in my mouth the previous two nights.

That image, that tongue-mouth-fucking-touch me i'm pissed-festy image...was like thinking of running water when you need to pee. I tried, I desperately tried not, tequila, mouths...


About 14 hours earlier as I snorted cocaine off the hotel table and got dressed singing "I'M A MAAAAN, YES I AM, YES I AM..." like a naive fool, everything seemed ok. Actually no it didn't, I completely lie. I was hungover as fuck then too, but it's amazing how quickly you forget that when you have a big line of coke and watch hairy-bopping-man-ass porn while someone sucks your cock. I felt a volcano load better then I assure you. I even happily walked in my boxer shorts up the corridor to retrieve some Ice, winking and smiling at the other guests who desperately tried to appear liberated. Fuck 'em, I was happy and feeling that warmth that only a cocaine-hangover combination can give.

So I went, we went, off to dinner to meet a woman whose mind has been my cerebral viagra for the last few months and there she was and we handed her a book a McSweeny's book and I took my top off after dinner and declared, 'I'M dessert!" and then...and then...

What the fuck do you think happened after that?

Pash party.

Alice, the hotness, would have none of the Pash Party which was a shame but the combined sexuality of her, her and her was almost more than enough to satisfy me. Almost. It wasn't until the Tequila wore off and I came to my senses in a toilet cubicle fucking one of those people while the other two tongue kissed and fingered themselves in front of us that I started to realise that this was no ordinary night. I don't name names, suffice to say I've learnt alot about female bloggers. They turn to the computer for a reason, and it's not "intellectual" stimulation. Trust me, I'm psychic.

So, later that night, after the pashing, after the tequila, after late night back in the room sex and coke and alcohol, I again fast forward my brain without knowing and come to my senses. Except this time, I'm standing in the corridor outside the hotel room AGAIN in a pair of boxer shorts. Dirty ones. In case you were wondering. Except this time, I'm not so happy about it, this time the confident boy has been replaced by a melted face who the fuck am I boy and knocking on the door wakes up everyone in the hotel except the one person who's asleep in there, snoring and dreaming of Australian Idol (probably someone singing Knock Knock Knock on Wood) and after half an hour I realise that she's not going to wake up.



I REALLY need to pee. I need to pee...I need to pee NOW. So I race clutching my cock up and down the corridor but they don't have public toilets in a fucking hotel.

I see a fire escape. Open the door and in my alcoholically challenged state of mong club, I decide that I will run down the stairs to the ground floor where surely they'll have a toilet, a relief hole if you will. So, still clutching my cock, pinching it for dear life as my stream of thought flows only in one direction, I leap, four steps at a time down, down from the 12th Floor until I reach the anonymous door with the G branded on it in a typical Marriott font and I push, push, push but like a one way crush it doesn't respond at all. Just knocks me back, my advances...

It's starting to hurt now.

I race back up the stairs but this time I stop on every floor and BANG BANG BANG on the doors, the Fire Escape door as if a passing guest will hear me and decide to take it upon themselves to open an unopenable door with a strange knocking seeping from behind it, and no-one opens and no-one comes and I'm in a fucking stairwell, in my fucking boxer shorts with my cock in my hand and I'm gripping it so tight my face is probably turning blue until i just can't fucking wait ANYMORE.

So I piss...EVERYWHERE, all over that fucking stairwell and it's one of those Niagra fuckers which makes me think of where they got the title for those blue erection pills from because fuck me, that piss went all fucking night long...

And just as it's finishing and the puddle could be the pool the door opens and I meet the cleaner and she looks me up and down and she looks at the puddle behind me and I've still got scrawled across my chest in texta from the night before Pirates Rock with a skull-flower around my nipple, and what else can I do? I smile. I smile what I think is my devastatingly charming smile but really my face is liquid and my eyes point every compass point and I'm standing in a puddle of piss and I could have a ten foot long cock and coke bottle glasses and I still would not be looking either hot or sophisticated.

But like I always do, I move on and she's quickly forgotten. I walk into the lift in my undies, go down to the ground floor, casually approach reception and am escorted back to the room and let in where I find Sleeping Beauty doing what she does.

Well, it's Mardi Gras right? So we wake up and it's man-ass porn and lesbians eating each other's elbows on a fucking ferrari again.

R-rated porn sucks.

Sydney fucking ruled.

Bye Forever.

Thursday, March 3, 2005

The Hell of Therapy

Soundtrack: Sonic Youth / Teenage Riot (and me screaming)

All time favourite fuck everything song. If you close your eyes, turn it up fucking loud, let your soul pour out of your fucking eyes, imagine yourself 19 years old with the world at your feet, ready to love, create, fuck, smoke, laugh, sing, paint, shoot, seduce......ready to fucking LIVE...

I love fucking letting go.

I love it.

I'm beginning to remember.

I'm remembering that I'm an optimist. I'm remembering lessons I've learnt about fucking life. I'm remembering how small shit is and why I shouldn't let things in. Stupid things. Things that make ME small.

I'm remembering how to laugh at myself. I'm remembering how much I fucking love this fucked up life we all live and how to find beauty in the things that threaten to squash us.

Passion is a double edged sword. It means you feel everything so intensely but flip it round, shine some fucking light on it and it means you feel everything so intensely. Get it? Why would I trade that feeling for anything. Mediocrity, not in terms of intelligence or career, but in terms of emotion is the greatest fucking evil I can imagine. It disgusts me. It SCARES me. If I want to love, I want to LOVE. If i want to scream, I WANT TO DO IT LOUD. Dance? Go fucking crazy! Feel that motherfucking song. Let go, let go, let go. Cry, care, laugh, do a show, wave your fucking arms at the sky, fuck like a fucking animal! People can think I'm crazy, or a drunk, or wild, or stupid, or an addict or whatever the fuck they want to think.

That look in my eye?

That's my soul.

And it's burning, pressing, itching for release.

Sometimes I think I'm looking to connect, but right now, with this song playing and the universe once again not swallowing but licking, biting, scratching at me, tugging at me, stroking me, fucking communicating with me...

I'm right here. In my office. Surrounded by walls and people and shit shit shit. But I'm not here at all. I'm sitting next to you, I'm smiling cheekily at you, I'm laughing with you never at you and I'm asking you to dance and I'm asking you to fucking let go of the bullshit and check it out, it's fucking life and ain't that motherfucking shit grand.

Yes. It really is that good a song. But it needs to be LOUD.

Tuesday, March 1, 2005

The Hell of Bang Bang Bang

I am fortunate enough to know the nicest drug dealer on the face of the earth. Not only will he extend a credit line the size of a Third World Country's GDP, ride his bike in the rain to meet me at 6am at someone's house to deliver but he will also give me a Christmas present and a Birthday card. His name

This has not always been the case however. Many years ago at a club known affectionately as Revolta, I happened across a man who would become the Only Man Who Ever Pulled A Motherfucking Gun On Me. His name I shall happily share, as I am pretty damn sure he will be by now either dead, in Jail or at the very least, kicking back Dealer stylies and not in the least bit concerned with some motherfucker's blog.

His name was Ray. And even though I am Satan I still feel a pang of shame when I honestly say that I really do hope that scary man is actually dead.

It all began at my going away bash, the night I finished working at Beat Magazine. Everyone feeling the lurve we of course decided that there would be a shitload more love to be felt if we coonie-eyed ourselves up and got all festy touchy on the couches by taking some ecstasy. I thought this was an especially good idea as there happened to be a hot little blonde girl amongst us and I was sure as Hell that if I pumped her full of drugs it would follow that I would have the opportunity later in the night to pump her full of me. Now, for a music magazine Beat had remarkably few contacts in the area of Pharmaceutical Phriends. I, however, was always of the opinion that if you don't ask you don't get, so downing a shot of Absolut Mandarin (this blog now being sponsored by WLTBWA) I proceeded to scope out Revolta for a suitably suss looking banana.

I didn't have far to look. Ray was new in town and he was also looking for a suitably suss looking banana.

Thus our Mind-Banana-Meld began.

He approached me with typical forthrightness.

"Hello mate, do you want pills? If you want pills, I'll give you 20 for $15 each and you can meet me here next week and give me all the money"

*Cue soundtrack: Pennies From Heaven. (Not your Pennie Kranki, though I'm sure she's a little angel)

Later in the night, I discovered that all 20 pills had somehow found their way into either my mouth or the mouths of my friends with little or no money being exchanged. Whatevs, I was cashed up back in those halcyon days so I had no problem reimbursing Ray the following week.

All good. Except, these were my TOTALLY FUCKING WILD DRUG PIG FANATIC DAYS and a guy who keeps wanting to give you more and more pills to sell for him at ridiculously cheap prices was not exactly the sort of thing I needed at that point. Well, actually it was exactly the sort of thing I needed know.

Needless to say over the next few months I was a hit at many a fancy soiree, and even more that were not so fancy. In fact some that were downright fucking fucked up. I would go to Ray's, he would give me sometimes 20, 30, 40, 50 pills and off I would frolic a happy little clam necking these fuckers like there was no tomorrow and selling them cheepcheep to all my friends.
Tonight we're gonna party like it's 1999...

Except it was 2000. I think, my memory is very hazy...

There were times I would go to his house and he would offer to make me a cup of tea. I would accept not wanting to appear like a ungrateful guest. Ray would open his kitchen cupboard and thousands of pills would fall out and he would exclaim, "Hahahaha, I've been looking for those!"

Don't you just hate it when that happens! Yeah...I know I do.

One rainy day I was driving my girlfriends car down Chapel St when I stopped at an intersection. All of a sudden there was a sharp rapping at the passenger window and there stood Ray ten times a' crazy. I let him in. He asked me to drive him home.

About a block later he pulled out a gun.

I used to live on a farm with an old Vietnam Vet. He had all sorts of guns and would let me take them out to the paddock and the shoot the absolute fuck out of trees and shit. BANG BANG! Woohoo! An old .303 sniper rifle, a pump action shotgun even an underloading old school cowboy Winchester Rifle. BANG BANG! Woohoo! We used to hunt Wild Goats up on Mt Delegate and I was always concerned that he was having some creepy Nam Flashback where all of a sudden he'd yell out "You're Charlie! DIE!!!!" Thankfully that never happened. Maybe it was because I was his Pot Supply and he knew not to fuck with me.

Anyway I'm generally pretty comfortable around guns, when they're in MY hand. But when there's a psychotically deranged drug dealer in the passenger seat of my car waving a pistol around and mumbling shit like, "They think they're boss of me, they think they're the boss of me, fuck him, FUCK HIM, I'm gonna fuck that fucker up. Then I'M THE FUCKING BOSS" well, refer back to the shitting of my pants story if you want to know how that made me feel.

It wasn't the whole gangster thing that scared me. At my mother's funeral her past came out and I had a bona-fide Hitman sit down next to me whilst I was staring into space and ask me in all honesty if I'd like my Step Father whacked. I said no, it's cool, but thanks for asking. I've never seen that guy again. Pity, i've got a big list now.

No, it was THE GUN. EEEK! THE GUN! And the fact that I owed Ray $280 at this point. EEEK! THE GUN!

Just keep driving, he said.

I didn't wanna. I wanted to go home. I wanted a beer or a hot chocolate or a marshmallow or a doona or a fucking pacifier at this point...

I tried my luck. I mean I really fucking tried my luck.

Sorry Ray, I've really got to be somewhere mate, I'm really sorry, can I just drop you here?

They talk about how time can stop. Five of the longest seconds of my life they were as his empty fucking eyes stared straight at me. As did the not so empty chamber of that fucking gun.

Yeah. Sure Matty. See you soon.

But I never did. And fuck me, I hope I never do.