Sunday, June 28, 2009


“Imagine if we were in a movie. Like, some Truman Show sort of thing. Would you want to know?”

“Would I rather the ED TV or Truman Show scenario, is essentially what you're asking?”


“I don't think I'd want to know. It would become too much pressure. It would change me. Performance anxiety. I would wonder if people 'liked my character'. You would change.”

“I wouldn't do most of the stuff I do if I thought people were watching. My balls would remain stuck to my thighs forever if I thought people were watching.”

“I know what you mean. It would be lame. Paranoia and self consciousness could ruin you. Hell, it already halfway does in front of like, ten people. Multiply that by 100,000 and you get exploding heads.”

“I would prefer not to know. I don't think our lives are TV shows though. Descartes can suck my balls too. This is real life, I think. I couldn't sleep if it wasn't.”

“Even if it isn't, its easier to pretend.”

“Suspension of disbelief I guess is what we're getting at. Necessary in real life too.”

“Exactly. I choose what I wanna believe, and stick to it. Choose arbitrarily, but whatever, Makes life easier. Don't worry, be happy. Whistle that shit all day long. Suspension of disbelief. Have you seen the Transformers yet?”

“Nah dude. It looks ridiculous. Worse reviews than the Hannah Montana movie. Michael Bay, holy shit.”

“On a purely explosion per dollar / Megan Fox screen time per dollar basis, it is totally worth it. Summer blockbuster, man. Anyone expecting something 'good' is a fucking chump. Just wanna see fire and tits. Not at the same time though. Well, maybe. I dunno. The point is you get to forget yourself for a few hours. It works.”

“I might go and see it on a Tuesday. Maximise the explosion per dollar ratio.”

“That is a plan. Hell, I'd probably go again. If my life was a movie I wouldn't want it to be like Transformers. Shit would be way too stressful. Imagine having saving the world on your back? I'd want my life to be the sort of movie that achieves poor ticket sales because it lacks drama and suspense and explosions. A generic romantic comedy, maybe. I do some 'dumb / zany shit' and end up with my hot best friend after she decides not to marry her sports-car driving gelled hair boyfriend, who cheats with waitresses.”

“You want to be a real life Matthew McConaughey character? And I think I am your best friend. Are you suggesting I be your Meg Ryan? Are you coming on to me in some fucked up and elaborate way?”

“I always thought of you as more of a Kate Hudson. And, nah. Besides, you wouldn't date a guy with gelled hair. I hope.”

“You're probably right. But the life of a Matthew McConaughey character. Are you sure?”

“It could be worse. Just seems pretty chill, y'know,”

“It would be interesting to see the 'AFTER' in a romantic comedy though. 'They had three kids and lived happily ever after.'”

“'They slowly grew apart and had awkward sex on the first Thursday of every month, to keep up the illusion. He 'had his golf', and she went to book club. They both still had dreams about how things were.'”

“Like I said, happily ever after. Even what you described sounds okay. Kind of like happiness, these days.”

“Is it the same 'being contented'? I'm not sure sure. At least there is something resembling a family.”

“The 'AFTER' could be that he skips to Australia to work the mines, leaving her with nothing but the DPB and a bunch of Legal Aid bills to try get some money out of him.”

“She will catch the bus alone with a pram and people will judge her. Slowly she will absorb the identity of the single mother. Maybe start smoking at her baby, expressing secret loathing and regret. Adopting the dress code one item at a time. Trying to replace him.”

“There is no single mother dress code. You're being judgmental. Do you realise how much like a talk back radio caller you sound like right now?”

“Okay. So if I said to you – white girl in pink and white skate shoes, boot cut polyester pants, one of those white singlets which is kinda long and then a shorter black one over the top, a Playboy bunny necklace, hoop earrings and way too much foundation, you wouldn't think 'oh, there totally is a single mum dress code'?”

“I would just think 'skank', to be honest.”

“I think there is a lot of cross over. It leads to my confusion, maybe."

“Would you watch a reality show about skanks? If it was like Cops but just followed a bunch of skanks round instead. Sucking dick for bus fare, missing the bus and spending the money on cheeseburgers. Smoking weed through aluminum cans. Riding in cars with “crack a Woody” stickers on the back. It would rate well. I am on to a winner.”

“How do you get a TV show? I think your idea will die.”

“Its one of those things which you talk about happening but know never will”

“Like starting a rap crew.”

“Or dealing meth.”

“Did those guys just throw a bottle at us?”

“I think so. It was way off.”

“Its probably hard to hit stuff when you're throwing from a moving car.”

“It seems like it would probably involve physics. Maths, at least – factoring in the speed you're moving in the opposite direction, making allowances for it. Beyond the average bottle thrower no doubt.”

“Guys like that throwing bottles. I dunno. Kind of seems like they're shooting themselves in the foot. I mean, the broken glass is just gonna pop the tyres on the bikes they have to ride when they lose their license for trying to do one too many 'fukken sweet driftiez bro'"

“Yeah. Lacking in maths, and foresight. A blind generation with dead tyres and too much fucking anger at nothing. Why throw bottles.”

“It is pretty anarchy! Pretty chaos! My job sucks so I break stuff!”

“'Life means nothing so we steal bikes'”


“I am paraphrasing Cioran, I think. Like, it doesn't matter what you do because life is so meaningless – no objective morals. Life means nothing so we steal bikes is how I sum it up. Like I said, I'm paraphrasing.”

“Life is meaningless, so we litter!”

“Except I guess throwing bottles isn't littering. Not in the city, anyway. You can't litter on concrete and steel. That shit is already litter. Fucking entire civilisation of litter. All of us. We are litter and getting bottled is a part of that.”

“Oh man, you're getting depressing. Lets not start this.”

“I'm not starting. Just sayin'. It doesn't matter.”

“I think I'm gonna rap about how cars look when you're walking.”


My eyes are cut to ribbons by the bright lights

walking down dark roads on hot nights

“It sounds cool.”

“That's all I've got so far. It kinda sucks.”

“You got any more beers? I'm out.”

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

honesty is another word for neurosis

Decided one day that I don't really like myself sober. Awkward and over-active-brain-hindered. Wanted an escape. Decided three days later that I don't really like myself drunk. Loud and liver-fucked in the mornings. Can't stop caring what other people think. I am a bad drunk. Or my conscience needs to quit. Or my memory needs to give up. Shit. I am floating. I am tragic and I will one day pitch a TV show where I interview everyday people about their lives. Just like the worst parts of game shows. “Gail is a hairdresser from Christchurch!”. It will have limited market appeal. It will get cancelled. I cannot concentrate on anything ever. Television and the internet stole my attention span, and every time I do lines of ritalin off the tops of rubbish bins down alleyways I secretly pray that rather than the chatterbox-energy-rush, I will feel calm and centred and ready to 'get myself together'. That way I would have some clear idea of what is actually going on. I'm not coming to terms with anything. Being older doesn't make sense. Should I own stocks? Maybe I should buy stocks. Or bonds. Whatever they are. Maybe I need both. Have been thinking about “becoming a capitalist”. Not quite sure what this involves but it might make me “a man” or something. I would feel happy and mature. If I lived in a systematised world I would know where I stand. Could just move to Japan, I think they have rules for everything there. What to think about at certain times of day, that sort of thing. Feel kind of racist now. Have been thinking about putting everything I write into 'scare quotes' maybe. Seems 'kind of popular' right now. I could pretend to 'be detatched' and just write about things ironically. I went to a 'totally cool' party last night. That kind of thing. I could just grow a beard instead. It would be easier but probably achieve the same results. Every time I walk through town I feel like I have been doing the same thing for the last six years and I start to choke. Every show I go to with the same faces and the same bands, I want to stab myself in the heart, or get out of this city. I feel like telling people I think their band sucks. That they should give up. Just for a change, something different to the same old local-music-circle-jerk-no-objective-opinion-because-you're-down-with-the-band fuckfest I dive headfirst into. Yeah, we get by. Yeah, 'the scene' is a joke. Yeah, honesty is looked down upon. People would rather drink in carparks than watch the bands. I would rather do this too. I want to throw hammers at the crowd, and use razor blades instead of stamps at the door. This should be ugly. This should be blood-on-guitar discomfort. Bad vibes, bad vibes, bad vibes – take me away. I will never act on my opinion. I am too scared. Fucking terrified of everything. Cars that go past in the dark. Groups of people outside houses waiting to fuck me up / stab me / bottle me / rob me. Life. Death. Almost everything in between. Feel like I'm floating 90% of the time and crushed the other 10%, and can't figure out which I prefer. The funniest thing I ever saw was a bible in the toilet at church. It made perfect sense at the time. Almost everything that “is true” makes me feel like shit. Objectively, I'm gonna have 2.2 kids and live until I'm 80. Objectively I am one of 6 billion of a specific class of mammals. Objectively, my life is pointless, meaningless and worthless. Good vibes, good vibes, good vibes. Bring on the escapism of blockbuster movies, Big Macs, internet porn and $16 dozens. Its all I've got left, anyway.

Monday, June 22, 2009


gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.
gotta get a job.

Monday, June 8, 2009


Bill was, by most accounts, a reasonable man. Bill watched his kids play rugby on cold winter mornings, and Bill paid his taxes. He didn't like paying his taxes, but he did it anyway. Bill was a straight up kinda guy like that. A straight up kinda guy in every sense of the word, even – the sort to call a spade a spade, and the sort to have a few DB's down the pub on Fridays, after work knocked off early. Bill knew the guys down the pub, and they knew him. They talked about work, and family, and sport, and cars. Mainly about sport and cars. Sometimes there was crossover. Motor sports were a popular topic. Bill was a “lifting equipment salesman”. He thought he liked his job, and it paid the bills. Kept the missus happy. Mouths to feed. That sort of thing.

Bill got broken one day. It was, ultimately, the oatmeal soap which broke Bill. Cause and effect, determinism, modern life and all that played its necessary part too. It is easier to say that the oatmeal soap broke Bill, though.

The soap at Bill's work had been the same for as long as he could remember. White. Non-descript in almost every way – yeah, it cleaned your hands alright. There was a new manager at this office, a young bloke, had his degree and everything. Got on fine with Bill, but y'know, a boss is a boss and all that. He was making changes alright, but nothing major. The coffee in the break room changed. The timesheets were electronic now – you needed to log in each morning. And the bathroom soap had changed too. Bill didn't notice the soap change, until some of the other guys were talking about it.

“Yeah, the boss was saying. Oatmeal and honey soap. Gentler on your hands, or some limp-dick shit like that”.

And Bill laughed. Fucking soap. The day progressed. Pneumatic hoists were sold.

Two days later, Bill drove to work like usual. The traffic was heavy down Blenheim Road. The weather was messing with the radio reception – Hauraki was cracked and edged with static. Bill punched his code into the computer ten minutes late. “Another day, yeah, another dollar”. Make a coffee, drum out of time on a free desk pad with margins of printed advertising, yeah waiting for something to happen. Check your emails, read the news. Maybe do some work, if the boss is in.

Bill went to the bathroom around 10 o'clock that day. Good to take a walk, at least, get the blood flowing. And Bill used the oatmeal soap for the first time. Bill wondered about the soap. Why is our soap made out of food? Are people somewhere eating soap? Life was confusing. Bill wondered about the endless days in which the old soap had featured. How many more times in his life would he look at a different-but-the-same bar of oatmeal and honey soap, in this same bathroom stall? Synapses fired blankly. Cum to infertile eggs. Resulting in no life. “This is not life” though Bill, as the procession of old--soap days, all constumed in the same drab grey cloth, danced through his mind. “Yeah, this is nothing”.

Bill left the bathroom, and left work entirely. He didn't bother with his jacket. He never even clocked out on his work computer. Bill was shaken. It wasn't that he couldn't face the soap. It was that he couldn't face the days that would be punctuated by soap. A daily reference to the crushing boredom. The soap would become a symbol. From the first thoughts about soap, everything fucked with Bill. He didn't know why, but it did. The pace at which people in malls would walk. The way his teenage daughter would blank eye stare at the sixteenth birthday parties of spoiled Americans. Before, this was just “life”. Things that just happened. A good look at the daily soap had opened Bill's eyes, replacing squinting acceptance with a wide-eyed view of caustic banality. Bill was fucked.