My work buddy David’s birthday party was at Zelda’s strip club, Rockingham foreshore. We met at David’s place and he introduced me to his friends; his uncle, his cousin, two heavy-set locals, and a stoned dude called Spence. His cousin Amanda was pretty in a Gillian Anderson kind of way (ie, the best way.) I was talking to her as we walked to the strip club.

The cover charge was only eight bucks, it being Thursday. That was alright. Inside, the walls were wood panelling and puke green, and thin waitresses walked around in tacky underwear. I immediately had to avoid the gaze of a feral from work who accosted David instead. We played pool for a bit. I went to get Amanda who was having chips next door and not sure if she wanted to go in. Once we’d finished the chips, she did come in. We were kinda clicking. I bought her a drink somewhere in there.

The strip show, to sum it up, was not in the least bit sexy. It wasn’t even funny or kitsch. Amanda and I ogled the strippers for cellulite and bitched about the music (who does a striptease to Michael Jackson? It’s just wrong) while trying to avoid the semi-naked women roaming about the room. On the main floor, you’re all seated in a circle, see, and there’s stage with a pole and the women walk along the rows and sit on people at random. They did some fairly weird stuff a few of the guys in the audience but we managed to avoid it. When you view these events without any real desire for the women involved, you get a sense of revulsion - but only a mild one because you’re not really participating. It doesn’t seem to matter what the woman is doing, you just wonder how much they’re paying her and speculate about the bar sales verusus the markup on drinks.

Let’s face it: tiny undies aren’t sexy, womens’ breasts aren’t sexy, without the right context - ie, an engagement on personal terms, conversation, eye-contact, something of the heart. Otherwise it’s all bodies, animate the routine of performance, but not human. Sexuality, at least as I’ve found it, cannot exist under such conditions.

Meanwhile, a different set of conditions were being set up between Amanda and I. They were sexual. When we arrive at the club, she takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. Neither of us seem to be into it though, and her lack of communication makes it apparent that she’s scanning for people she knows and simply kinda wiggling herself. We meet up with the others and stand around for a bit, dance a bit more, then stand around again, while Amanda walks off. I should add that the Vibe nightclub in Rockingham is all about standing around looking bored. I don’t know what fucked-up kinda social behaviour can go on in a place so crowded, noisy and full of people who don’t want to talk. The air is a strict vaccum, like the surface of the moon.

When Amanda reappears, we get more chips and walk home. I don’t know what she was thinking at all; she exhibits a cute side that I don’t mind. We watch a bit of the Paris Hilton sex tape she’s brought along, then she calls up some guy and pisses off to meet him at her place. I hear she has a few boyfriends. Alas, the curse of Rockingham. She’s a nice woman but it surely is a curse she carries.

The Curse goes something like this:
“You will spend your time and money at Rockingham’s dive nightclubs.
You will have many partners.
You will defer to one-night stands readily if other options fail.
You will drive too fast.
You will drink syrupy alcohol.
You will blink and look stupid when hearing about places that aren’t Rockingham.”

In this town, your world is as small as you like. You’re only an hour from the city, but you can still run in a small community of like-minded young working-class people. You can be at the high school ball every Friday night. You can organise your life around the prospect of sex and relationships while mouthing the words to the latest R&B record and downing plastic test-tube shooters.

Amanda probably is nice, and I wouldn’t want to cloud my judgement with frustration because she went off with someone else, but I don’t think she’s worth being cut up about. I’m not sure whether I would have found any depth to her. I used to think that my being different from other people was a big deal, so I left Rockingham behind. Now I’m back and I talk, laugh, and most importantly dance like I come from different country. I still don’t fit in but now everyone else is acting weird, not me. David says I come across a bit gay because I’ve been to uni, but there’s more to it than that. The world is just so much bigger than people here are willing to contemplate. Rockingham is a tiny, synthetic, tame and profit-seeking little town that sustains a perverse, insular deadhead culture. Did I see more than that in Amanda’s eyes? We’ll never know. Adios.

Let’s talk about Russell Crow.

Is Russell Crow a bogan? He wears flannel, he fights, he doesn’t shave very much. That’s bogan. He plays in a crappy rock n’ roll band. A bit proactive, but yeah, that’s bogan. He’s famous and filthy rich. Um… not so bogan. He’s got a thriving career. Not bogan at all.

See, Russell Crow is a man of contradictions. He believes in being a dickhead when it suits him (and don’t we all?), but he manages to get away with it and scrub up for the women’s magazines when the come to take his picture on the red carpet. He’ll go a little biffo with the reporters of course, and anyone else who happens to be standing around, but this isn’t a source of national shame (unlike boganism which, when taken overseas, is strictly contained within Kontiki tours and the Australian cricket team to prevent international embarrassment) - in fact, we like the idea that Russell Crow is out there being an unpredictable idiot because we have no other weapons with which to face US military might.

Yes, he displays many of the *superficial* aspects of boganism - the flannel, the rock music, the propensity for random violence - but none of the requirements for being a real bogan. They are:

a) No job, or a crap job.
b) No money except for smokes, petrol and booze.
c) Only bogan friends.
d) No talents or abilities.
e) No prospects.
f) A veneer of confidence that hides a deep-seated lack of self-esteem.

Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken. Russell Crow is to bogans what hippies were to the protest culture of the fifties and sixties - normality with a new wardrobe.

To boag or not to boag?

wearing flannel, listening to ACDC and daydreaming about cars and lesbians… this culture of ours, which is so much the product of millennia of appropriation, should find no difficulty in seizing upon these things and nicking off without having to take participate in the milieu of socioeconomic depression in which they were born. Every time you pull on your jeans, you are drawing on an aspect of colonial America, but that doesn’t make you an American colonialist, does it? It may be La Dolce Vita listening to Acca Dacca and swearing like a pirate, but it ain’t necessarily bogan.

I had a chance to drive the panel van at work today. It’s a big white Falcon - EF, I think - from the mid to late eighties. It’s an absolute monster, with blind spots big enough to hide a semi-trailer in and the most filthy bogan interior you’ve ever seen. But I jumped at the oppportunity because it’s such a great car to drive (and let’s face it, I was bored out of my fucking skull, too).

The van has a big engine that accelerates without too much effort and makes the whole car vibrate in a very satisfying way at traffic lights. You know could be going at a million miles an hour, but you aren’t - therefore you must be cruising along in a relaxed fashion, and because you know that, you actually feel more relaxed. There’s also a bench seat which you can hang your left arm over to complete the ultimate cruisy driving picture. Despite being full of cigarette butts and old drink bottles, it’s a kickass car.

Anyhoo, when I was down at Mallacoota last summer (on the coast about half an hour from the NSW border) this lesbian couple set up camp across the road from us. They had a big Falcon panel van like the one just described, with a full-on double mattress in the back. (We were all extremely jealous of the mattress after a few weeks sleeping on leaky lilos.) Anyway, we didn’t talk to them much, except once when the Iranian family next door showed us all where to catch fish at the river (in exchange for us showing them where to find mussels). Dad started up a conversation with one of the women, which was, like, the high point of his entire vacation. It turned out they were on holiday travelling around in their panel van, and they were headed to… - well, wherever. She had a job doing something somewhere and her girlfriend was from Darwin, or had lived there or perhaps it was Derby or somewhere else. I can’t remember; it’s not really the point. I decided that we had nothing in common, so lesbian or not, I would have to leave her alone. Dad took a little longer to work that out, but I think he had some stories about Darwin.

Anyway, nondescript holidaying lesbians aside, I think the idea of having a great big panel van is totally the pants, and one day I’ll get myself one and go away on big long trips along the coast. iPod gaffa-taped to the dashboard, seat all the way back, and wearing a sensible light-coloured long-sleeve shirt for sun potection: destination unknown ;-)

Dear Paper-Trap,

Hylas of the Argonauts

Dear Hylas,

If Hercules came across a pack of horny Nymphs, do you think he’d spare a thought for you? I doubt it. He’s just a big lump of stupid beefcake who’ll jump on top of anything that moves - man, woman or mythical creature. Pretty soon he’ll be eyeing off other young aristocrats and you’ll be wondering what you did to lose his interest.

In the long run you’d be better off seeing other people, so go and let your hair down and don’t feel guilty about it!!

PS: Can you get some water Nymph phone numbers for me?

It’s raining like crazy here. I can’t believe it.

Tonight’s weblogger’s meetup saw a decent turnout, with about eight people. We’re having a blog night at Curtin Uni next week which I’m looking forward to, and Anthony gave me a meatpack which will provide some much-needed fuel for weekend.

I have in mind to write a paper on blogging and philosophy because, as you know, jounal-writing as a moral practice is a big issue in Michel Foucault’s later work. It would go a bit like:

a) Marcus Aurelius, Seneca, and the ‘Care of the Self’ in Antiquity - how keeping a journal is a way of practicing morality.
b) Blogging as a return to the diary, and how this translates into a modern form of self-reflection.
c) Why blogging in particular? How communities of choice bring together people of similar ethos. Exhibitionism and opening ourselves to the world, gaining the courage for honesty.
d) Ethical issues with discosure and anonymity in weblogging; eg. the problem with people who know you reading your weblog.

I might also pay attention to weblogging (as a genre of quotidian non-fiction) as marginal literature and the way it implicitly questions western literary and artistic practice, but this is not really my strong suit. Anyone know much about comparative literature?

Well, I’m off to make a fanpage for Arundhati Roy
…seeya :)

Is this just too much beer talking, or is Arundhati Roy the sexiest person alive? I mean, she’s just the most intelligent, down-to-earth, sensible person on the planet, and even though she’s about forty she’s cute as a bug. She was on Denton tonight, talking about being famous and stiring up trouble with the Indian government - I wanted to move away from the television but I couldn’t. In fact, the mere possibility of seeing more Arundhati on TV is the only good reason I can think of for not throwing out my TV set. Oh, she’s so wonderful :D

In case you weren’t aware, Arunhati Roy is an Indian writer. She wrote The God of Small Things (which I actually haven’t read, on account of it looking a bit like a Bryce Courtney book or a Tim Winton pile-o-soppy-crap), which is seen as being critical of the Hindu caste system, and she also spends a lot of time, apparently, being taken to court for being so outspoken on social and environmental issues. She is an excellent speaker who has the rare gift of being able to talk politics without oversimplifying things or being dogmatic; and as mentioned above, she’s very good looking.*

Here’s a website on her.

*Arundhati Roy rates about a 9 on the Gillian Anderson Scale of Sex Appeal in Older Women.

Word count: 550
Setting: the refugees are onboard the Maoist space-destroyer Golden Bird. They are about to be relocated to a new planet…

We came out of hyperspace with a bone-shaking jolt and the sound of the metal hull creaking and groaning under pressure. In seconds we were thrown to one side and our cots slid across the cargo bay as the ship made a sudden turn. Through the portholes we could see a planet below with dark brown deserts and shining lights of cities. We turned toward the planet, descending at a frightening speed.

It became clear when alarms began to ring that we were going in guns blazing. Yellow Ion Bolts zipped past the port holes as the planet returned fire. Radiation from our defense shields flickered and flashed and everyone cowered beneath their upturned beds. The *boom*ing thuds of the planet’s weaponry against our shields sounded like the coming of Armageddon; God himself having a heart attack (his huge heart thumping and shuddering irregularly, tearing itself to bits.)

People tumbled everywhere in the wild turbulence as hot, glowing air screamed against the hull. The cots slid toward the front of the cargo bay as we began to brake hard. We were still blasting furiously at the planet’s surface as we levelled out.

…

The cloud of dust and wind dissipated. I was lying in the dirt and there were other people lying all around me. We slowly began to sit up and dust ourselves off. The surface of the brown planet was nothing but smoking ruins. The Golden Bird of Mao was gone. Wide-eyed, we looked around for signs of life, like visitors to a dark house.

Oh well. I think that’s enough practice. NaNoWriMo is in two weeks and I’ll need to break 1k per day to get that done, so I don’t want to tire myself out too early (these late-nighters… I don’t even know what I’m writing sometimes). All of this week’s bits were from Chapter 5 of the novel ‘2′ and more of them will be posted if you stick around.

Nighty-night :)

Just to compensate for this really long post, here’s an mp3 :-)

Taken from Rodney’s ‘The Journey’. Yeah, we all say we hate these, but secretly I know you love them.

1. What time do you get up?
11am *sheepish*

2. If you could eat lunch with one person (dead or alive), who would it be?
I would eat lunch alone.

3. Gold or silver?
Silver.

4. What was the last film you saw at the theatre?
Er, ‘The Ladykillers’.

5. What is your favourite TV show?
Angela Anaconda. Maybe Bounty Hamster.

6. What do you have for breakfast?
Pie? Whatever’s there.

7. Who would you hate to be stuck in a room with?
Metallica.

8. What/who inspires you?
Anything unique, anyone honest.

9. What is your middle name?
Noel *sheepish*

10. Beach, City or Country?
City for sure.

11. Favourite ice cream?
That one down from Retro Betty’s. What’s it called?…

12. Butter, plain or salted popcorn?
Butter

13. Favourite colour?
Red

14. Favourite sandwich?
Knuckle. No wait, chicken.

15. What characteristic do you despise?
Youth.

16. Favourite flower?
Violet.

17. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?
Japan.

18. What colour is your bathroom?
White.

19. Favourite store to shop at?
Any pawnbroker’s.

20. Where would you retire to?
um, not really on my mind just now.

21. Favourite day of the week?
Tuesday.

22. What did you do for your last birthday?
Got drunk, packed into a VW with friends, went to a poetry reading and severely injured Tom during a performance of 2 Unlimited’s 90’s club hit ‘No Limits’.

23. Where were you born?
Mooney Ponds, Melbourne.

24. Favourite sport to watch:
Tennis.

25. What fabric detergent do you use?
I dunno. It’s just washing powder.

26. Coke or Pepsi?
Coke?

27. Are you a morning person or a night owl?
It’s 2am. I’m not sure what to say.

28. What is your shoe size?
9

29. Do you have any pets?
Some fish.

30. Married or single?
Single.

31. If married, for how long?

32. Favourite scent?
Old books.

33. Least favourite scent?
B.O.

34. Do you collect anything?
Signs, posters, flyers and cartoons - anything printed on paper.

35. Favourite author or type of book?
Since it’s timely, I’ll say Jacques Derrida.

Word Count: 1,400.
Setting: I have been saved from the stricken shopping arcade. By who? Could it be… an army of Maoist space-rebels?

S.2: Vote 1 Mao.

“Listen up, converts. We have come to save you from your pathetic, wasted lives. Be thankful for the liberation you are about receive. The Party is looking after you, even though your mindless capitalistic system has abandoned you.”

The Maoists made us stand rank and file in the plaza. We were glad that they had arrived just in the nick of time and turned on the power so we were not going to die. More than a few of the Arcade People were nursing hangovers or regrets they didn’t think they’d live to feel the morning after, but generally spirits were high. The deal was this: the Maoists wanted Super Discount Moon C1832B as a military base, and we were going to give it to them in exchange for saving our lives. The one catch was that we had to vote for Mao.

“You do *not* have to vote for Chairman Mao. Voting is where you make your choice according to your ideology. Vote for the free will of the people. Be reminded though that the spaceship Golden Bird is off-limits to all enemies of Mao, and your votes will be recorded to determine whether you are a friend or enemy of Mao. After the voting process is finished, those who remain enemies of Mao (as is their ideological right) will be taken to the basement detention centre. They will be expected to do menial labour and unpacking the spaceships until such time as they are ready to be dissected for organ donorship.”

I decided that I would vote for Mao. At least he had a policy of not killing me, which was more than I could say for a lot of other people.

Ohkay, only two weeks to the start of NaNoWriMo, so I’m going into training. I’ll throw in a short passage from each practice-write and make a note of the word count. You can comment, but please be positive - NaNo is not about quality.

Word count: 1,200
Setting: In space. The shopping arcade’s power has been shut down and everyone is trapped inside.

I wandered over to the window. The only darkness outside was the asteroid belt, which cut the sky from left to right with its thick shadow - the straight line; katakana for ‘one’. Otherwise, the sky was packed with stars - even more packed than I remembered it from those cold nights on medieval Earth, when there wasn’t a light around for miles. From the brightness of everything, I guessed that Super Discount Moon C1832B was a lot closer to the hub of the Milky Way than Earth was. It was an unthinkable distance, but I thought about it anyway and wasn’t that impressed. It was just a couple of days from here to the Earth… or whatever it was that passed itself off for the Earth these days. ‘Distance even less tangible than time due to free availablility of the hyperspace warp drive’, I decided.

My breath was fogging up the glass window. When I tried to rub it off my hand almost froze onto the glass it was that cold. I watched the little crystals of my breath grow outward, and breathed a bit more on them so they could grow bigger. A little bit more breathing and soon I had an ice crystal patch the size of a dinner plate or a business envelope. Not wanting to leave it untarnished, I grabbed a coin from my pocket and scratched one translucent word into it:

ARSE

My beautiful last testament to life in this universe. Scrawled on the window by a doomed individual looking at the most awe-inspiring view ever seen by human eyes. I smiled and decided that I would die satisfied as long as someone saw my message.