Wednesday, August 31, 2005


Soundtrack: Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young / Suite Judy Blue Eyes

Last night I played a game of Dict-Predict. Initially I thought they said Dick Prick, so I was a little disappointed when they asked me to "retire my member" back to its appropriate position.

(If anyone wants to play Dick Prick with me, let me know...)

If you've read the book Running with Scissors, which I believe YOU SHOULD HAVE YOU YOU FUCKING LAZY FREAKS READ IT! REEEEEEAD IT!!!! Yes, well, if you've read it you may remember the characters engaging in a pursuit known as Bible Dipping, whereby you hold a Bible in your hand, ask a pertinent question regarding your life, open up the book and place your finger on a random page, reading out the words and translating them as an answer to your question.

You with me?


(Hey it's Spring, I hope all you spunky chicks are out buying Tartan Skirts instead of sitting indoors on the INTERPUTE! Spring! Fucking! Oops...)

Anyhoodiddly ho, we played the same game but with a dictionary, because the people I hang out with aren't QUASI RELIGIO FREAKAZOID MANIACS, no. They all learned like and smartsies. So Dictionaries Are Go.

(this reminds me, check out the band Thunderbirds Are Now! Is good...)


Ok! Pushy pushy...

So, I was all like...Describe my life in one word....

Dictionary says...

A covering for the head, especially one with a shaped crown and brim.

HAT? Motherfucking HAT?

Is that a Daniel Day Lewis movie or some sort of Disney fuck fest... My Life as a Hat. FUCK YOU.

However, obviously I was not thinking LATERALLY. Outside the square yo!

It was put to me thus...

Maybe it means, like, you use your head Matty. You know, and people like, keep people's heads together...

Right. I'm a hat. Ok.

Next question.


Dictionary says...

(This is NO SHIT YO...)

Something that suggests the presence or existence of a fact, condition, or quality.

(This fucking book has a sense of humour, I muttered, drinking another glass of fine Yarra Burn Pinot Noir...)

Alright Dictionary, I don't like you and you don't like me. TELL ME! IMPART UPON THINE SERVILE BRUTE THE ANSWER TO THIS! Describe in one word....


Dictionary says...

A person lacking or having progressively lost normative biological or psychological characteristics.


More more MORE!

Oh Macquarie Dictionary High School Edition, BOOK OF LIFE, TELL ME! HOW IS MY LOVE LIFE TO FAIR????? TELL ME TELL ME TELL ME!!!!!

Dictionary says...

To become excited or ardent.

Alright! Sexio!

At this point my friend The Bean, who is in a state I will not go into in public asked the book, How will I feel on Friday?

Dictionary said...


And the book was promptly thrown out the front door, set alight and trampled by WILD OXEN.

I am off now to buy tight black jeans and scour the streets for short skirts.

Oh. Also I get to sit in a bar tonight talking to THESE FUCKING HOT CHICKS.

Hopefully tomorrow I will type with a limp.

Love and erections.



Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Wherever that river goes, that's where I want to be

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

Damn near impossible to follow Mr Kipling's wisdom, but then again, I like a challenge. Is that not why you like me? Heh.

I watched a documentary on Dennis Hopper last night and a certain part has been burning within me since. There was Sean Penn, smoking a cigarette, gesticulating at the camera, speaking passionately about Dennis and Easy Rider. And the words, "It would be nigh on impossible to make a movie in this day and age which so perfectly resonated with a movement, with a generation...with a TIME..."

And I thought, Fuck it if the man ain't right.

We live in a recycled age. We live in a constant age of worshipping past eras. Punk, grunge, dance, hippies, rockers, blah blah blah...And now, I guess, it's the age of this...goddamn internet. So what, we get the movie Hackers? Hahahaha. I liked Tron...

But it's more than that, these thoughts I have. Mostly they relate to a single word...


Freedom to smash windows without being an anarchist or a punk or even angry. Freedom to practice Free Love or live beyond the boundaries of Money and Work and The Man and the fucking Capitalist System that enslaves us without being labelled a hippy. Freedom to just get up and get your Move on. Freedom to practise Buddhism, as in, the only thing that matters is right NOW, and yet still be able to eat a steak, because sometimes I need a steak right NOW.

*eats steak*


Freedom is the impossible dream. Freedom is humanity's most attractive trait. Freedom is forever the carrot and we the hungry Mules, with expectation our Fat Bastard Master holding the stick.

Does the concept of being without money cancel Freedom? Does the concept of love and partnership cancel out Freedom? Is Freedom just some bad sixties band? Or is it just a long, slow exhalation of all the internal shit that builds up within us since the day we're born.

Is Freedom sexier if you keep it hidden within and go to your job and go home to your wife and kids or play in your band or do WHATEVER the fuck you HAVE to do but the whole time you're grinning a little cheeky grin because you KNOW that all it would take is just standing up and walking off, in any direction, for you to be free.

Is Freedom an attractive mate that it is best never to find out the reality of?

I've had a lot of coffee today, and my thoughts are a But I'm going to keep investigating this concept because I think there is something deeply important in it. Somewhere.
I'd like to hear what you thought. In the meantime, I may be on a motorbike somewhere. Or I may be just reading a book on the grass in the sun.


Thursday, August 25, 2005

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

An end, a beginning and all points in between

Soundtrack: Leftfield / Song of Life

I sat holding her hand and laughed at the ironic analogy. In front of us, a gigantic fucking concrete wall. Mocking us with its permanence, its vastness laughing grey black steel stone at the tiny two humans below.

I introduced myself.

I'm not who you think I am. I'm not who YOU think I am. I am afraid and I am lonely.

I am sad. And I have been for as far back as I can remember.

The dam broke, the dam broke and down my slipway, my cheeks, the torrent, the waves, the tears crashed down and I opened up like never before and it was a physical endless fucking black hole that could no longer be closed.

Her finger touched my cheek. And she lifted it to her mouth and tasted my saltiness. My dirtiness. Unclean and raw is my essence and after that first taste she leaned closer and licked the remainder from my cheeks and held me tight and here she was my French Resistance Belle, all beret and jacket and secretive missions to save those poor, stranded, broken souls behind the lines of War. Or life. Or are they one and the same for some.

We were in a place of unspeakable beauty and wrapping her arms around me I saw in her the same.

I love you, she said, SO FUCKING MUCH.

I laughed the laugh of a man in tears.

I sobbed with giggles.

I cried with laughter.

And she was as present as she has ever been. This friend, this lover, this fucked up kid. And that is the gift that has been bestowed upon me, looking back. Presence. Truth. Reality. No crushing weight of complications can ever take that away. I have seen in her what you may never see. I have experienced something that, no lie, God's Truth, I am not sure ANYONE is lucky enough to have experienced.

It's our secret.

But that aside, I am at an end, a beginning, and there is nothing in between.

It is...liberating in its devastation.

I've been cloaking myself in various diguises for many, many years.

I am complicated. Bitter irony, sweet fucking beautiful Life. How I fucking adore you though you throw me such ravaged bones. I am a Cunt, I am a Mess, I am a Hard Stone Heart. Nothing can touch me, nothing gets in, nothing will break me.


Cack. It's a cack. I like that word. It's sharp and to the point, something to be soaked, bathed, drowned in.

So. I have to start to tear away at the layers of skin, the mutliple personalities, the endless fucking disguises that I have created until only I remain. Bare chested, bare legged, a codpiece for my modesty (yeah right), my humility, before I take up that sledgehammer and turn my attention to that gigantic fucking wall in front of me.

It's going to be a long road. It's going to take more than just day to day living to discover what lies behind.

Born an old soul is an acursed blessing. Born an old soul means tearing this life down and in its destruction finding the pieces, the rare fucking rough diamond, which gives you but a start, a hammer and a nail, with which to begin to build.

It's my choice to avoid a life of mediocrity. But having made the choice the rose covered glasses lie smashed underfoot and you see the road and its distance is dizzying.

So you take one step, and you better fucking make sure it's forward.

But at least she makes good company on a road trip. The best actually.

This is Mathew James Barker.

Signing out.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Lay some skin on me Holmes.

Soundtrack: Pixies / Vamos

It must be in the stars. A week ago I ran naked across Sydney Road to the cheers and jeers of the night time shopper throng. (Sounds so fucking dirty doesn't it...THRONG. I like.)

On Friday Night I found myself drinking Jagermeister shots at The Retreat when I was approached by one of the Bartenders there, Sean. He suggested we break into the Brunswick Baths and go for a secretive late night swim.

The two of us? I asked.

Yeah! He replied. He has a moustache. I think he may have twirled the ends of it at this point.

(It's like a young man moustache, and kind of ginger / blonde. I like it)

Hmmm, I replied, a little...worked up...How organise two girls to come with us, and I'll organise some drugs, and them I'm in.

Okey, he replied. He's quite a happy fellow, and oft says things like okey.

So I found my man, twenty two dollars in my hand or however it went...

And meeting back up with Sean discovered that he had been unable to coerce any of the fairer species to join us as we illegally jumped a barb wire fence on drugs and swam naked at 1am.


So we went anyway.

And the fence was a lot higher than what we had imagined but we made it over and LO! Before us in all its perfect temperature 27 degree glory was the vast expanse of the Brunswick Pool. And even better? It was cloaked in in it's baby blue pool cover...

So. Of course. I got naked. And Sean said:

Oh, we're gonna go naked?

If a look can say, watchootalkinboutwillis, mine would have.

And ran, ran, ran, ran straight onto the pool, onto the pool cover, to see how far we could make it, how close to the El Dorado of the middle of the pool as the quicksand cover tugged at our legs and about 10 metres in began to wrap around me and swallow me whole...(hmmm...quite a homo-erotic story this one isn't it?) and under I went and bobbing (see! it really is!), rushing, blood drunk and screaming banshee laughter I choked (gross...let's drop it now...) and drowned and fought under the surface to find a way out and did, crashing back through the surface and seeing...

The camera.


*pun intended*

And climbing back over the fence all soggy and drugged was fun.

And things get a bit blurry after that, but I think I had a party at my house.

Nude, dude.




Sunday, August 21, 2005

Be careful what you wish for

Soundtrack: Janes Addiction / Jane Says

For a trashy, fucked up, weirdo, lust-driven nymph slut, I've fucked up my fair share of opportunities for weird and wonderful sexual experiences.

Best opening line ever.

My first ecstasy pill was given to me by a friend of mine called Ray. He played in a band as did I at the time, though his band was quite famous and mine was a perennial Support Act. Anyway, we became pretty tight and used to smoke pot together and jam and drink and talk about girls, girls, girls. One night he invited to me out, to what was possibly the most disgustingly debauched club in Melbourne at the time. Janes Bar at The Dome. Not my thang really, but I was single and toey and ready to try new things so I agreed to go.

So there we were, surrounded by half naked Buffed up Tank Boys and Transvetites and Hot Dirty Slappers (my favourite) and I was discovering what it feels like when your first pill begins to take hold and here came the vomit, but hold it in matty, hold it in, and those days a pill was a PILL and wooooo boy, this sure was interesting Mr Magoo...

I stood smoking a cigarette, or rather I leant against a pole watching it burn down toward my fingers surrounded by flesh and the scent of dirty fuck when Ray approached me with a strange girl on his arm. I fell in instant ecstasy love. (I was still quite naive and a believer in such things)

The three of us hung out for the rest of the night, laying back on couches, buying rounds of vodka and talking melty faced talk until the wee hours, until it was time to leave.

So back to Ray's house we went. And he and the girl and I sat on the bed and talked until he began to stroke her leg and slide his tongue into her lipsticked dirty mouth and and her skirt was pushed up higher...and I in my naivety, thought this my cue to leave so into the lounge I went, perusing coffee table books and wondering how the fuck I was going to get home...

Ray came in.

"Hey brother, what are you doin?"

"Oh you know, thought I'd get out of the way..."

"Out of the way? Hahaha, you want me to send her home? I'll send her home..."

"No no no..."

Too late. Slightly annoyed and not a little ruffled she was sent home in a cab.

"Do you want to come to bed?" Ray asks...


So I strip down to my boxers, get into his bed, pull the doona over myself and fall asleep.

Later, I wake to Ray smoking a cigarette. Shaking his head and laughing at me.

"You're a funny boy Matty"

I don't get it but have a drag on his cigarette anyway.

About three years later, I worked out what the Hell had been going on. And both kicked myself for missing out on strange threeway drug sex and congratulated myself for missing out on strange skanky threeway drug sex.

I was going to write more stories of my failures (hehe) but I can't be bothered now.


Music and girls and food are my favourite things.

Writing is nice too.

As are you.




Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Touch me I'm sick

Soundtrack: Galaxie 500 / Ceremony

This is why events unnerve me,
They find it all, a different story,
Notice whom for wheels are turning,
Turn again and turn towards this time,
All she ask’s the strength to hold me,
Then again the same old story,
Word will travel, oh so quickly,
Travel first and lean towards this time.

Oh, I’ll break them down, no mercy shown,
Heaven knows, it’s got to be this time,
Watching her, these things she said,
The times she cried,
Too frail to wake this time.

Oh, I’ll break them down, no mercy shown,
Heaven knows, it’s got to be this time,
Avenues all lined with trees,
Picture me and then you start watching,
Watching forever, forever,
Watching love grow, forever,
Letting me know, forever.

When it rains it pours. Apparently. But when it's dry, it's a motherfucking drought.

I have a sickness. It's impeding my plans for world domination. It's fucking with my sleep. It's messing with my work and making me walk everyday for miles in a daze. It's stopping me from eating and forcing cigarette after cigarette into my lungs. It's poisoning my favourite music. Its tentacles are reaching into every facet of my life and choking the breath from me.

I voluntarily took this sickness upon myself.

I am addicted to it.

I fear living without it, for I am accustomed to its pleasure-pain.

What lies beyond this?

I never want to find out.

I want this sickness. Forever.



Fuck writing can be cathartic sometimes you know? Cryptic fucking posts meant purely as a public release valve to my internal pressure cooker.

Last weekend, I undertook to keep myself nice. To not start drinking on Friday afternoon and throw myself into the world, a repeat of myself this time last year, broken and wild.

Broken and wild.

And I succeeded. I watched movies and I ate well.

And come Monday morning, I felt...sad.

Same time last year I was broken and wild, a drunkard and a drug taker, nihilism my escape from the reality of what I had done.

Funnily enough, at my worst, I found what I had always been looking for.

Or it found me.


But twelve months is either a blink of an eye or forever.

Either way, look out, because if you think you've read some fucked up shit on here in the past...

I can feel it bubbling inside, I can feel it whispering to me, I can sense it offering its sweet fucking debaucherous NOTHING. Numb. Blind. Mute. Gone gone gone...

I've been fighting it.

I've been fighting it.

Y'all might get a bit scared...

But its offering me something that I need right now.

Well...that's not quite true.

It's offering me something I DESIRE right now.

Fun. (not numb)

Peace. Go easy on me if you see me.

Oh, and there's a soundtrack to it.

Setting sun deals hands of gold
There's velvet eyes in Mexico
Just a fall away
And all she said was true
Speak in tongues, speak in lies
Drooling livers, born to die
It's a wonder that those guns don't point at you

Keep sayin, go on, keep sayin, go on, keep sayin, you will live forever

Point and shoot, I know just what you mean
In a world that's full of shit and gasoline, baby
One dog's dead one's on the phone
Just leave a lung or leave it alone
It's that same old song again
I hate it cause it's true




They're jigglin' baby....They're jigglin' baby....

Oh yeeeeeah...

Monday, August 15, 2005

The Flash

Soundtrack: The Juan Maclean: Shining Skinned Friend.

Last night I ran across the street naked in protest at the horrific result of Big Brother 2005.

People at the tram stop cheered. Cars honked. And I was almost propositioned by an old lady.

Thankfully, my "friends" had all gathered on the second floor of my house (yes, I live in a Miami style Cocaine Mansion...) and cheered me from my bedroom window.

You see, I say thankfully because I do not actually live in a Miami Style Cocaine Mansion. I live above a shop on very busy Sydney Rd and it has just occured to me 12 hours later, that they're exactly the sort of "friends" who if they had have been watching from downstairs, would've shut the fucking door behind me and left me naked on the street right next to a full tram stop.

They would have laughed.

I most likely would not.

Mondays are now officially Naked Dare Day. You're all invited.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

I tried to catch the wind and the wind blew me down

For You.

Soundtrack: The White Stripes / I'm Lonely (But I Ain't That Lonely Yet)

I have been trying to catch the wind.

In my life, I have caught the oceans, and I have caught the mountains.

The oceans once crashed at my feet. Lapping my toes and caressing my skin. I lived under the ocean once I had caught it and I was amazed that something that looked so one dimensional on the surface hid such treasures, such colour, such LIFE! The ocean was the first to introduce me to the Euphoria. In the ocean I could travel up down round and round and it would caress me, wet me, love me...But after a time...the tides...the waves...the weeds...the bubbles, I began to lose my way, began to feel ill, began to become afraid like when you look down into the deep and dark grey sea and you see nothing nothing nothing...your heart beats and that is all. And you know not what your heart beat calls. But you are sure, sure in your panic, that it...will...hurt.

I climbed out of the sea. Coughing and crying and bruised and broken.

Land! It's wide arms open ready to receive me, believe me, reprieve me. Land under my feet as far as I could see, so that no matter how high or how low or how far I travelled, Land was there. Always there, always supporting me. Taking me on its shoulders so that I might still see in the distance the sea and the air above and the FIRE that had ravaged it. And lo! I began to despise all fire for this Land was my Euphoria and I would not abide it being ravaged. And I ran my hands through it's grass, and I held it's rocks in my palms and I traced the curves, the contours of its body and I had never before seen such complexity, and in that, such beauty.

And over time, I explored Land. Until, I knew every inch and every crevasse and every peak.

And I began to look up. And I saw the eternity of the sky above me.

That was when I first felt it tickle the back of my neck.

The wind.

So I lifted my arms up high nigh on a year ago. I lifted my arms up and I let my feet fall upward and the wind wrapped itself around me and lifted me up and I was...flying...and...this was Euphoria, this was EUPHORIA AND I SCREAMED IN DELIGHT AND I COULD SEE ETERNITY IN THE SKY AND IT BRUSHED MY CHEEK AND KISSED MY FACE AND...

It vanished and I fell.

No land no water no wind, just falling and black and worse than the water and drier than the land I fell......until......the familiar prickle on the back of my neck once more and once again its arms gripped me tight and carried me skyward...the wind the wind the feather light fucking wind...

and let go...

This repeated and I grew addicted until I, in my madness, began to think of ways to catch the wind.

A sail? A sock?
A cage? A lock?

Tossing and turning a captive of the wind, my body was lost and my mind raced to keep up with the beating of my heart but could not match its pace and so eventually my mind gave in, gave in...

and my heart spoke:

Do not try to catch the wind.

Enjoy its breath, enjoy its adventures, its tickle, its laughter, its caress as it travels, breezes past you.

Marvel at it. Then return to where you belong.

Or better yet.

Face the Fire.

And following that, The Void.

Poetry in Sloth

Sountrack: Polyphonic Spree / Night and Day

Smoking my thirteenth cigarette in as many minutes.

Eyes clenched tight.

Fists tighter.

Stomach tightest.

Opening them to salt spray tears, and the wind, the wind the fucking Can't Catch Me Wind...

Open that bottle, drown that sorrow. Porn for now, Eternal Sunshine tomorrow.

I find some pot under my couch. I found it with a flyer for a party I put on 6 years ago.

So motherfucker, I smoked that shit.

Then I thought, and I thought and I thought and I thought.

Now my thirtieth cigarette in as many minutes is burning my lips and burning my eyes, and the bottle is empty and so am I.

And I looked back down at my phone.

And morals don't keep me warm, nor kiss my neck nor make me laugh make me feel wanted and exciting and liked.

But at least I slept easy.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Acid House

Soundtrack: Spiritualised / Won't get to heaven (the state I'm in)

LSD is a strange drug. A tiny, tiny scrap of paper no larger than your fingernail doused in enough chemicals that one tiny tab would hold enough KICKASS power to clean your oven for a good ten years. If you eat it, or of course suck on it first for a while, you either:

a) Have an incredible journey through your psyche, confronting both your emotions and your ego as your Spirit Id Guide meanders through time and space analysing your entire life as well as your relationships with the other people in the room. If you are mentally fit, you will find this quite exciting and often reach many, many life altering conclusions about the nature of the universe and your place within it.


You will dress up as a widdle baby in front of strangers at a party and doing poopy out your botbot in your pants, giggling hysterically and screaming, "YOU DON'T KNOW MAN. I AM THE BABY! I AM THE BAAAAAAAABYYYYYYY!!!!!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAA"

Either way, you are in for a good 16 hours once you've ingested. Unlike cocaine, which is a good fifteen fucking minutes of fun, and ecstasy which is one ride up then one ride down, acid is a long drawn out journey of peaks and troughs. Just when you...


It's ok. I'm not actually on acid.

Just when you think you've made it through and you've hit a nice quiet patch and everything seems normal again, you have a cigarette and BANG, off you go again staring at the other person in the room thinking he/she is either your soulmate or What The Hell Do I Even KNOW ABOUT THIS PERSON...

Once a group of friends and I decided in some stupid fancy that even though we had been in the mad grips of a psychotic acid trip for about three hours, we would cook a roast lamb. Now, the fact that we even managed to walk around the supermarket and buy the correct ingredients is one of the Eight Wonders Of My World, however through the grace of God (or Timothy Leary) we made it out alive and were still able to correctly prepare and perfectly cook the juicy, juicy BLEEDING juicy Leg of Lamb.

Yes, I do make the best Roast Lamb in the world. Truly.

That was all good, until it came time to carve, slice, chop the bloody flesh off a bone of a baby sheep and I swear I just heard it bleat and DUDE THIS IS A MOTHERFUCKING LEG MAN IT'S A LEG, WE'RE GOING TO EAT A LEG AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAh.

Waste of a good roast.

Why the hell am I talking about LSD?



*at hallucinations*

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Give the mule what he wants

Soundtrack: Queens of the Stonge Age / You've got a killer scene there man...

In an effort to force myself into some sort of literary enema I have decided to embark on what will possibly be my longest post to date. It, like me, will have peaks and troughs. It, also like me, will be mostly self-indulgent. However, hmmm...maybe like me, it does have a purpose. It's purpose is to kick start the fuck my heart back into this imaginary world from which I have been absent, at least in spirit.

Topic #1: Cocaine 101

I am in no way extoling the virtues or lack thereof of this drug, however I have had some experience with it recently and as such am drawn to write about it.

Cocaine makes me do strange things. Cocaine makes me do incredibly filthy fucking things. Cocaine takes my already wayward libido and magnifies it. If you had ever been intimate with me, this would possibly scare you. Unless of course, you were also on cocaine and then most likely we would not be bothering with this blogging shit, we'd just be fucking. A lot. Some people think cocaine is a social drug, as in, if you're out at a club you will feel increased confidence. Hmmm. I guess you could call it that. With me cocaine gives me the sort of confidence that will lead me to try and drag as any people into bed as possible. At the same time of course...which leads me to...

Topic #2: Threesomes

I have a filthy fucking mouth. Cunt. Hehe. When sexually aroused, I tend to enjoy a multimedia type of experience and as such am what is known in scientific circles as...Talkus Dirtius Quite Alotus. Now, if for our experiment, we were to combine this with cocaine we would find ourselves in a bath drinking champagne and watching porn with a naked girl. Fine you say! Kudos! Yes, kudos. However combine all the above ingredients with a mobile phone full of the phone numbers of strange and easily excitable people and an interesting result ensues.

Text Message sent half in jest and half in a cocaine induced Red Lust Mist:
Yo, we're in a bath watching porn in a hotel room drinking champagne and snorting coke. Come and play naked with us!

Surprising response received:
Sounds good, what's the address?

Text message returned half in jest and now half in incredulous hope:
Really? Address....

Response forcing champagne out my nose:
Yeah, sounds hot. Be there soon.

Now, I'm not saying this situation did or did not happen, I am merely stating the possibilities available to you if you are either:

a) A dynamo sexpot with a phonebook full of hot sexy chicks ready to fuck at the drop of a hat


b) A messy fucked up 32 year old who straddles precariously the line between immaturity and just plain WEIRD.

What happened after that, IF it happened at all, I will leave to your imagination. Suffice to careful what you wish for.

Topic #3: Love

It's difficult for me to write about this here. There are so many people with some sort of interest in my personal life that every day I flip flop between thinking I should shut the fuck up about it although it provides me with such inspiration to write and thinking along the lines of...

Do you remember Greg the Boyfriend's blog? (haha...) What so many people were impressed with about him was that he wrote with such honesty about his personal life even though he knew a lot of the people involved were reading. He didn't care. I think that's hot. He remains my first and only TRUE blog crush. Courage is sexy. Not giving a damn will always be sexy.'s difficult to decide. I think for now I'll leave it at:

Fucking Love. Love has been my hobby for so long now, my goal, my pinnacle, that I've forgotten all about those macrame classes I was enrolled in and instead for the last 13 years I have focused purely on the destructive search for True Love. I have learnt a lot about it in these years of studying it, breathing it, living it. I'm still not quite sure of it's true nature. I hope that by the time I do, if I ever do, that I will still have a long time to enjoy it, rather than 90 years old on my deathbed and with my last words splutter, "Hey! I think I finally underst...."

It's dangerous. It's huge. It makes me sick and it makes me cry and it makes me angry...but most of all, it makes me happy. So fucking happy.

Where are we? Oh yeah...

Cocaine, Threesomes and Love.

The Mathew Barker Story.

Topic #4: A different kind of Love

Last night my New Best Friend arrived at my house drunk and in an alcohol induced introspective mood. She spoke about her relationship and she spoke about ours. She looked me in the eye and said, "I don't know where your heart lies, so I can never tell when you're taking the piss out of me. Are you taking the piss out of me?"

She goes out with my Actual Best Friend. For some bizarre and wonderfully surprising reason, she and I can talk more than she can talk to him. It's cute. We talked about her tumultuous but loving relationship with my best friend and she tearily sang his praises to me.

There is nothing better than someone telling you how fucking cool your best friend is.

Topic #5: Hi!!!!

Wowsers, sometimes shit gets serious and sometimes it's easy to forget why the fuck we're lucky enough to have been endowed with this Gift called: A Sense of Humour. Look! That man fell over and hurt himself. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Slapstick rules. So does beer, and music, and chicks, and having a new house. And enjoying this fucking life while we're here.

There's a few things I'm looking forward to in the next few months.

Meeting you in September.

Unshackling myself from work. Sooner rather than later.

Jamming with my oldest and closest friend ex-bandmate and sometime mortal enemy.

Tongue kissing.

Travelling to a place I have never been before.

Finally stopping this long drawn out and completely ridiclous self-indulgent post.

There is love.

Sherriff B.


Tuesday, August 9, 2005

Words of the Stone Age

Soundtrack: Iggy Pop / Search and Destroy


I been down. I been dirt. I been high and I been hurt. I been messy and I been straight, and I there's too much fucking love to be all gut twisted n' hate.

And other stuff y'all.



I've been forgetting how to write. Slowly. Each day that I let it slide, becomes more of a stilted constipated sentence. Paragraphs as yawn yawn as Patha Panchali that old goddamn ten hour long Indian Cinematic Masterpiece we had to watch in Year 12.

Yawn yawn.

So. Best way to get on with it and get it back is to get on with it. Get it out, let it out, burn baby burn.

I was rock, now I am a shell on the seaside, shaped by the waves that crash over me.

I forget where the rock went.

Lamar! Lamar! Long forgotten world where the rocks roamed and sang and formed this fucking earth. Before us, before them before you, was the Rock. And yea, the stoner's rejoiced.

It's freeform baby. Dig it and deal.

So specifics are out, but I can open that valve just a little, just a lot to let y'all in on SOME of it.

Things which cause the most pleasure cause the most pain.

Newton said something along those lines, every action has an equal reaction.

Being a rock, being a rock with the potential to grow into a mountain means not moving. Being still. Forevs. Which means...sometimes it seems like things pass you by. Sometimes it feels like people climb over you, the mountain, and then climb off. Or sometimes it seems like people clamber to the top of you, just so they can see the horizon. What's to come. You make a good vantage point, being a mountain.

But mountains, inside, are volcanic and alive. So these things don't go un-noticed. Inside you, as the mountain, boil and bubble and rage and bleed lava but as a mountain...that is all you can do. You can't uproot and follow. You can just stay.

And grow.

And wait.

And watch the world change around you.

And as winter comes and the snow forms on your crown you look inward and back as that's all you're allowed to do, and you look at all you've seen and all that has grown and died around you...and the payoff comes.

You have the fucking wisdom of a mountain.

It ain't sexy if you wanna fly or burn.

But it lasts and lasts and lasts and lasts.

I'm not a shell, though sometimes I feel I am.

I'm not a fucking grain of sand, though we all are.

I was a rock. For a while.

Now, I'm just a shape. Wanting to be a mountain.

Rock on.

The thing about stuff

Soundtrack: Grandmaster Flash / White Lines

The thing about stuff is, sometimes there's too much of it. The thing about stuff is, sometimes it makes you want to say...STUFF IT. But then, well, that just means there's MORE STUFF doesn't it, 'cause like you know you've just stuffed the stuff and stuff squared is a whole lot more stuff.

The thing about stuff is, sometimes you need to spring clean your stuff gland, and if you happen to write a blog it sometimes seems like a nice anonymous way to do it.

The thing about blogs is, a whole lotta people end up knowing who you are so spring cleaning your stuff on your blog becomes less and less of an option.

So stuff it.

It's going to be quiet around here. It must be a Capricorn thing.

Love love.