bad dudes versus dragon ninja

I swear that I haven't altered this image. It's a screen grab from a fairly decent beat-em-up called Bad Dudes versus Dragon Ninja.

shock of the new

I've been working all week on this publication called Bite and my sleeping patterns are out of whack. That's why I'm blogging at 4 in the morning.
I've also just discovered Photobucket. Expect to see many pictures from now on.

The pic below was from the paper. The paper itself was black and white, but I thought I'd do a colour version just to test some things out.

The graf stuff isn't particularly relevant to the article, either. I just really wanted to do some bubble lettering and use this Illustrator plug-in I just acquired. I guess graf is an element of hip hop so it's not totally off the wall.

The subject is an MC from San Francisco named Katastrophe. I don't know if he knows about the article yet so, um, no-one tell him.

you've gotta die of something.

flesh for fantasy

Omigod omigod omigod! I was in Prahran on Friday night with some friends preparing to go see The Amityville Horror. We went into Borders Bookstore (where I bought the great Semipermanent book) and guess who I saw? Oh, you'll never guess. I saw NICHOLAS FUCKING CAGE! That's right, the same man from Face/Off and Con Air. Okay, and Wild At Heart.

See and feel my sex attack.

I wanted to go up and say g'day, or something along the lines of, "How does it feel to have dicked a woman who was dicked by Michael Jackson who came from Elvis' dick?" but I didn't want to come across as too strong. Besides, we exchanged a look that said far more than words ever could.

He looked at some magazines, then went into the psychology section. That's so like him.

In case you didn't know, Cage is in Melbourne for Ghostrider, a movie based the comic. I always liked Ghostrider, especially Sam Kieth's rendition of the character.

In other news, I'm totally obsessed with Billy Idol's 'Flesh for Fantasy' at the moment. I've been punctuating silences with its lyrics.

Flesh for Fantasy
There's a change in pace
Of fantasy and taste
Do you like good music?
Do you like to dance? Oh yeah.
Hangin' out for a body shop at night
Ain't it strange what we do to feel alright? Oh yeah.
So when will you call?
I'm experienced Oh yeah

Face to face
And back to back
You see and feel
My sex attack
Sing it
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
We want
Flesh, flesh for fantasy

It's after midnight
Are you feelin' alright oh yeah
Turn on the light, babe
Are you someone else tonight?
Neighbour to neighbour, door to door
Don't ask questions, there's time for it all Oh yeah.

Face to face
And back to back
You see and feel
My sex attack
Sing it
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
We cry
Flesh, flesh for fantasy

I sing for culture...

Father loves his son,
Mothers, daughters, too.
It's an old old story,
Cries the new world too.

Flesh, flesh for fantasy
We want
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
We want
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
You cry
Flesh, flesh for fantasy

henry: portrait of some serial filler.

Sorry about yet another long gap between posts. Believe it or not, I'm super busy at the moment. Oh, and I'll start posting pictures to go with my blog again soon. I'm currently trying to organise some server space so i can start posting some anti-work pop anthems (my current fav is '9 to 5' by Dolly Parton, by the way).

I found this confession I wrote a couple of months ago. Not really dole related but, meh, it's kinda funny. And totally true.

I Broke The Telly, Not Jacinta.
It was around 1985 and we were living in Hamilton, Victoria. I remember it was hot outside. I was in the lounge room by myself and for some reason, instead of turning the television on to see if a Ma and Pa Kettle movie was on BTV 6, I started to bump the screen with my stomach.

I knew it was a stupid thing to do, but watching the idiot box rock back and forth on its stand was hypnotising. A crash bought me back to reality. My eyes just caught the vase on top of the set falling backwards. Water and petals poured down the back into the ventilation slots.

The dull greenish grey screen blurted white then went pitch black. A small, comical puff of smoke followed a short cracking sound.

A sickly terror filled my stomach until I realised that no one had seen me. Perhaps if I left the room, I reasoned, the destruction would be blamed on an earthquake or the western barred bandicoots that lived over the road.

I stealthily made an exit. Sure enough, as I was busily pretending to play with my Modulok He-Man figure as my alibi, I heard a scream of fury from my mother and she summoned my older brother, my younger sister and myself in front of the TV.

She asked rhetorically what had happened. Before I had the opportunity to give myself away, she looked directly at my sister Jacinta and asked her if she was responsible. It was the way she asked that indicated she already suspected Jacinta was at fault.

I seized the opportunity. Before my sister could plead otherwise I said, “I saw Jacinta playing there before and I think she’s too scared to say she knocked over the flowers on top.”

Jacinta’s jaw dropped in disbelief at the pure treachery of my actions. I don’t think she could believe it even as Mum had grabbed her by the arm and lead her to her room. As Jacinta was dragged off, Mum’s words of anger were syncopated on every syllable with a slap to her daughter’s legs.

I slinked away to my bedroom. I buried my face in a pillow and proceeded to giggle my fucking arse off.

your name is sex in my rolodex

Now that I'm not writing my column in The Brag, I have more time to talk about the important aspects of life on welfare. To make this entry even more cutting edge, I have modified a column I did several weeks ago to fit in more with parochial interests. So awesome!

Some of you might imagine that I live a life of glamour and riches. Like so many medieval horses, to thee I say a mighty “Nay!”

With all the punitive measures associated with being on the dole, anyone would think that Centrelink or the Job Network were necessary to force me to actively seek work. Fuck you government bureaucracy! I’m super enthusiastic about the whole wage-labour-death thing. Just to prove it, here is my job application to a major broadsheet newspaper for the position of "op-ed writer."

Dear Sir or, less likely, Madam,
My name is Leigh and I would like to apply for the position of “op-ed” writer. I am not completely certain what “op-ed” means, but if it is anything to do with opium and/or opinions I certainly feel I would be apposite for this position. As you might have guessed, I already own my own thesaurus and I am familiar with its operation and purpose. Therefore I have at least 40% of the qualifications you likely require.

There are qualities I possess that I feel would be an asset to your esteemed paper and should make up the other 60% of my qualification quotient.

One quality I posses is brashness or, as my generation likes to call it, an “in your faceness.” I’m like a cross between Andrew Bolt and Bart Simpson. Like Bart Simpson I have irreverence for convention and an ability to make Rupert Murdoch a lot of money. Like Andrew Bolt, I’m willing to limit my expression within predifined terms while pretending that my opinions push the envelope. For example, I am prepared to support any war so long as I don’t actually have to do anything, that’s how in your face I am.

My social position would make me a unique voice in the world of commercial “journalism.” You see, like around 20% of the population, I am dependent on welfare. The perspective of an actual dole bludger to matters of social import could act as a foil to the middle-class moralism your paper vomits onto my eyes. I have taken the liberty of proposing some articles in this vein:

“Lying on Dole Forms for Fun.”
“FuBu Vs WuTang: Fashion War On Our Streets.”
“The Case for Banning Morning.”
“Why One Form a Fortnight is Too Many.”

In addition to these proposals, I have formed opinions on just about everything. Specifically:
- Vanilla tastes nice.
- Poetry is stupid, but that’s okay.
- The Asian Tsunami was bad even though nature is good.
- Peter Russel Clarke or Denise Drysdale should be made Australian of the Year.

I’m sure I have whet your appetite with my cutting edge ideas. If you would like to hear more, we can discuss it at a pub over a chicken parma.

Yours Humbly,

Leigh.

i'm a soul boy! i'm a dole boy!

Jesus FUCK it's been a long time between posts. The new locale has meant that my internet access has been fairly restricted, but now I have a dial-up connection at least and should have broadband in the next couple of weeks. This should translate into more postings and maybe that podcast I've been promising to do for quite some time now.

The sad news is that my weekly column in The Brag was cancelled this week, along with every other column in the paper. They're being replaced with 15 pages of photographs of drunken hipsters. It was good while it lasted. I tried being like Hunter S. Thompson for the final ever column, so I got drunk by myself and tried writing. What came out was incoherent crap that I'm reluctant to post here. Maybe later, eh kids?

This entry I thought I'd give a report on my new Centrelink office.
I'm not completely unfamiliar with Brunswick Centrelink, my new local. I used to come here years ago when I lived in the area and was on Youth Allowance— obviously a different engagement with the remenants of the welfare state than receiving the Dole.

Compared to Windsor Centrelink (my old dole office), it's all negatives for Brunswick. The open space of the Brunswick office is filled with fake plants and a skewed layout. In my tour of Centrelinks in Victoria and NSW, I've observed that the various desks and reception points for different payments seems to be either entirely ad hoc or possibly tailored to local needs and circumstances.

The Brunswick Centrelink seems to have been put together with the idea of infuriating recipients and compounding the sense of insecurity. The wide open spaces of the office are filled with wandering people, many of whom are angry at having payments cut off, or intoxicated, or lost. There are a lot of arguments and aggressive posturing. Perhaps it would be giving the Department of Social Security too much credit to think that this is deliberate. Finding the desk you need to go to seems to be random luck or dependant on who is staffing it at the time.

The lines are much longer compared to Windsor, at least half an hour wait if you go in after 11am. If you go in after Jerry Springer, you probably wait for at least 45 minutes. An interesting aside is that the consistantly quickest Centrelink I've ever been to is Redfern (near a notorious ghetto in Sydney).
Brunswick is also massively understaffed. With so many people having difficulties with English, the process is slowed down even futher.

Holy shit, I listened to 'Wham Rap' by Wham! for the first time today. I had no idea that song was an anti-work anthem. It's like they're singing about me. Check out the lyrics:

Wham Rap
Hey everybody take a look at me,
I've got street credibility,
I may not have a job,
But I have a good time,
With the boys that I meet "down on the line"

I don't need you
So you don't approve,
Well, who asked you to?
Hey, jerk you work
This guy's got better things to do
Hell
I ain't never gonna work, get down in the dirt
I choose, to cruise
Gonna live my life, sharp as a knife
I've found my groove and I just can't lose
I'm style from head to toe
Cool cat flash gonna let you know
I'm a soul boy - I'm a dole boy -
Take pleasure in leisure, I believe in joy!

Chorus:

Wham!
Bam!
I am!
A man!
Job or no job
You can't tell me that I'm not
Do!
You!
Enjoy what you do?
If not
Just stop!
Don't stay there and rot!

Party nights, and neon lights
We hit the floors, we hit the heights
Dancing shoes, and pretty girls
Boys in leather kiss girls in pearls!
Hot - damn! everybody, let's play!
So they promised you a good job - no way!
One, two, three, rap!
C'mon everybody, don't need this crap!

Chorus

If you're a pub man
Or a club man
Maybe a jet black guy with a hip hi-fi
A white cool cat with a trilby hat
Maybe leather and studs is where you're at
Make the most of every day
Don't let hard times stand in your way
Give a wham give a bam but don't give a damn
'cos the benefit gang are gonna pay!

Now reach up high and touch your soul
The boys from wham! will help you reach that goal
It's gonna break your mama's heart (so sad)
It's gonna break your daddy's heart (too bad)
Just throw the dice and take my advice
'cos I know that you're smart
Can you dig this thing? (yeah!)
Are you gonna get down? (yeah!)
Say wham! wham!
Say bam! bam!

Chorus x3

Do you wanna work
Are you gonna have fun
Do you wanna be a jerk
Are you gonna stay young

Everybody say wham!
Say bam!
Everybody say wham!
Say wham! bam!