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Sexin' up the science like it ain't no thing

dear diary...

Waking up this morning, I decided I had two avenues I could persue with the sun shining high in the newly born sky:

A) Spend the day crying and starring aimlessly at the mocking friends list in Myspace, or...

B) Take a charter flight out of DC 10 into London, land in Heathrow, take a cab at the city center, dont let people lie to you, hostiles are for the ugly. Stay at home house, the most beautiful hotel in the world. Call a friend fro school who was selling hash but she wasnt in, meet a couple of Brits who would take me to of all places Camden street.

Flirt a bit at the virgin mega-store, buy some CDs , then follow some girls with pink hair. Wander around trying to get laid until it started to rain then went back to home house. Ministry of sound is dead so maybe I go to Remform, but its gay night, I find the one hedero girl in the place and we dry hump on the dance floor, we cavite back to home house, I strip her clothes off, suck her toes, and we fuck. Hang out for four or five days. Meet the worlds biggest DJ Paul Arkenfold, write my mom a post card I'll never sent. Buy some speed from an Italian junky who is trying to sell me a stolen bike. Smoked a lot of hash that had too much tobacco in it. See the Tate, see big ben, eat a lot of weird English food.

It rains a lot, it is expensive, and im joansing so I split for Amsterdam. The Dutch all know English so I dont have to speak any Dutch wish was a relief. I cruise the red light district. Visit a sex show, visit a sex museum, smoke a lot of hash. I meet a Dutch TV actress and we drink Absinthe at a bar called Absinthe. The museums were cool I guess, lots of Vangohs, and the Vermieres were intense. Wander around, bought a lot of pastries, eat some intense waffles. We buy some coke, and I cruise the red light district until I find some blonde with big tits who reminds me of Laura, I gave her a hundred guilders, in the end she pulls me out, and I cum between her tits even though im wearing a rubber. afterward we make small talk about aids, her marocain pimp, and herself. I wake to the sound on a wino singing, its 8 am and hot as blazes.

I pretend to ice skate around Central-Station while someone plays the sax, trade songs with a kiwi girl that had split for Paris by train. No wonder the Chanzelize climbed the eiffel tower for only 7 franks because the ticket machine was broken. Get the hang of the metro, take it everywhere, go to a for model party and hooked up with a Romanian model named corrinna, she chugs my cock at the Marriot Chanzelize wish is good, we played billiards, went shopping; I think she gives me mono, drive a Ferrari wish belonged to a member of the Saadi royal family, make out with a Dutch model in front of the louvre, see the arc de triomphe and almost became road kill crossing the street.

Some girl from Canada calls me on my cell so I let her listen to the church bells in Cracticus. Captain cruise is beautiful but there are no girls there, just old hippies, so I go to Switzerland where I ironically couldnt find anyone who had the time, took the glacier express up to Shiltzenor which is beautiful in a way I cant describe, we ride past into Italy and ended up in Venice where I met a hot girl who looks like Rachel lee cook and speaks better English then I do. Shes living for a year on only five dollars a day , we gondola around, buy some masks, she thinks im a capitalist because my hotel room costs more then her entire trip, but she dosnt mind it when I pay the bills, I ditch her and hook up with a couple of Lochs who want a threesome, too much tension there but the duffus offers to drive me to Rome an offer I jump at, traffic is bad and were stopped for hours without moving, the wife turns out to be a freak, the guy starts to wig out on me , its like a Pilandski film.

We stop for a while in Florence where I see some big dome, a bomb goes off and I lose the weird couple wish is probably for the best. Ended up in Rome wish is big an hot and dirty. Its was just like LA but with ruins. I went to the Vatican wish is ridiculously opulent, stood for 2 hours to get into the Sistine chapel wish now that its been cleaned looks like its fake. I meet 2 underage Italian girls who I try to talk into fucking each other while I jack off onto them . Bored I buy them ice-cream instead, My hotel is a gym so I work out. I bump into some guy from Camden who swears that he knows me but im sure hes a fag so I lose him. I try to fart and instead shit my pants. Back in my hotel room I masturbate and have a pain in my groin. That night I dream about a beautiful girl half in water stretching her lean body. She asks me if I like it and I told her she can clean fish with it. I dont know what it means but I wake well rested, masturbate in the shower and check out. I make my way back to London and hang out in Piccadilly Circus. I swap shirts with some upper crusty Cambridge chick. Hers was a ninespy mine was a cost from national, she acts stuffy and prudish but is really wild underneath it all. She barely looks at my abs though she wants too. The next day I drop some acid and get lost in the subway for a full day and cant find my way out. I meet a cute girl who lets me jack off onto her as long as no cum gets onto her false smitten coat. We get stoned while listening to Michael Jackson records, and the next morning I wake up talking to myself. I have a big bump on my head from flailing in my sleep. I get my stuff and barely make my flight back to View Bank.

...Unfortunately, I chose option A.

Most memorable moustache in a motion picture or television series

...and the nominees are:

Tom Selleck for his outstanding work in Magnum P.I.

The man with the bulletproof stache, Charlie Bronson

Acting without ever seeing his lips move, Elliot Gould in M*A*S*H

Now I realise I'm missing out on one very significant figure here, however I think we need to rule out the obvious because of his unfair advantage in being the first man on the planet to ever grow a mo. Therefore, awarded the lifetime achievement award is none other than Mr. Burt Renyolds, without whom Jason Lee and state troopers of the world would have no one to look up to.

............................................................

I challenge anyone out there, can you think of a moustache in history before Burt?

...I didn't think so.

Talking Weird Science Blues...

"Look what you can make with a little imagination, Son:

...a little imagination, an Amstrad PC, a bolt of lightning and a bra on your head!"

Don't listen to this movie, it sits on a throne of fucking lies and will only get you yelled at by your sister for ruining her "date night" underwear.

I think I love you, Barbara.

Just finished watching Peter Bogdanovich's What's Up, Doc?

...and now I have uncontrolable crush on Barbara Streisand.

This can mean only one of two things:

1) I'm now gay - and like Kevin Kline in In and Out I'm going to stand up my viking princess on our wedding day.

Of course, the only thing against this concept is my terrible sense of style and grooming and oh yeah, my preference for transexuals over gay men, but that's not queer, right? They still count as girls, don't they? After all I am British, which Ben tells me is a common hangup we all share what with being seperated from the rest of Europe and all.

2) I'm now a middle aged Jewish woman. I share almost nothing in common here, but oye vay I do love Babs.

I wonder if Barbara would consider marrying a skinny white boy from Melbourne who can't get his drivers license until March and eats cereal three times a day. I can only hope...

(Note: I must remember to ask the doctor if these thoughts have anything to do with losing my appendix or perhaps my total under exposure to vitamin E recently. I have been in doors an awfully long time.)

Surefire cure for the blues...

Been feeling a little blue of late. Had camera problems, Viking Princess fantasies and I find myself saying "you don't know what it's like. You've still got an appendix?" It's funny how much you miss them until they're gone and how many bars require you to have them for entry...

...blah, blah, blah, essentially I've been crying, chain smoking and making papier-mâché hats with a support group for Matt Dillon lookalikes for about a week now, but this morning all of that changed. Why, you ask?

Well...

Because Jeff Daniels is now a myspace friend!

I feel happier just saying that out loud "because Jeff Daniels is now a myspace friend!" I might even make a little song:

Jeff
you are my friend,
Jeff,
we are good friends,

Jeff,
I worship SATAN,
I love ROBOTS,
ARGH...!

(I think that's more work than what goes into a my chemical romance song)

My dearest peeps, I need a little help…

During my time with the Austin's eighth floor posse: Adrian (Liver Transplant), George (Heart Attack) and Angel (Whinny old guy), we were all presided over by one Nordic princess, Ingrid. This 6’1” Viking beauty not only tended our wounds, but administered 100mg of love in the process to each and every one of us; and after three days of care we were all biding for her plastic-gloved affections. Indeed, this could purely be because she was the only resident capable of taking our ills away with those lovely, pearl-like white pills she would manage our way every four hours; or it could simply be a stereotypical case of Florence Nightingale syndrome, wherein the patient falls in love with his immediate career. Whatever the case, I’ve been out of the ward now for seven days and while I'm sit lamenting over the lovely princess, Adrian, George and Angel are still privy to her affections.

Something must be done.

Now, these five days haven’t been without purpose. Concurrent with the healing of my battered stomach, I’ve managed to watch every Richard Curtis movie made available, research in itself that should enable me to be the most romantic man in the world, no? So, I’m thinking, like Hugh Grant I should march down to the hospital, down to the white walls of “w” wing and woo the precious Viking queen like she’s never been wooed before.

I can do it, I know I can.

...However, the only draw back to this otherwise flawless plan, is that I’ve also spent the last week listening to Ronny James Dio records and for anyone who knows his work, knows that Dio is spent on tales of Dragons and the adventures of Knights. So, while my heart is savoring the dry witted romance of Four Weddings and a Funeral and Notting Hill, my mouth is sprouting the words Lord of the Rings and Excalibur; and as experience has taught me, this is not the strongest of suits. The way I see it I have three choices:

1) March down there, sounding like a dwarf lord and all, and let the chips fall where they may.

2) Grow back my appendix so that they can get inflamed again and get back on the ward to some more reconnaissance work.

3) Forget about my Viking Dream girl, make the final payment on my Russian bride and live happily ever after.

The clock's ticking and I'm without a clue...

Yo, Snoop. You gotta try this shit right here, man.

Because of the operation my movements are pretty much limited to the span that my wee Hobbit-like arms will allow, but the always active biographer in me makes damn sure that the camera is always within that reach.

Case in point, while dosed to the eyeballs last night, I woke prematurely from my hydrochloride induced date with the Olson Twins ( I hadn't even removed my socks yet) to find myself unable to sleep and high beyond all belief - I mean high, like, really high, as in Robert Downey Jr high.

I remained awake for over three hours until sleep eventually provided refuge for me. I remember the sensation of having my faced licked by a Labrador, but Lord only knows what’s going on behind these dilated pupils.

The result of a Tramadol drip/100 mg capsule cocktail.

Kids, say no to drugs.

Hands up everyone that has had an Appendectomy

Funny how you can go from a glass of milk at 9.30, roll on the floor for two hours, roll on a gurney in the ER for nine hours and still remember to take some ridiculous pictures for your blog when you finally get hooked up to The Machine.

Morphine says "make it so!"

Here's a poem I composed to shorten the experience but to sustain the order of facts into nine lines:

Pain
Oh, Pain
Emergency room
Pain
Searing horrible pain
Emergency room
...and then finally,
an attractive doctor felt me up!

Slam Dunk

From being admitted on Saturday night, I wouldn't see the sweet, sweet relief (however brief) of the surgeons knife until 4am Monday morning. Then, dosed up, I was back in the sactuary of my bed for 6pm that very night...

...only to be back in hospital eight hours later for another round with the white coats when things went belly up - I'm so glad Steve Bracks spends more money on sms voting for Australian Idol than Health Care.

People, if you don't vote your Idol won't win!

Oh, well, at least it gave me time to grow this poor man's imitation of a Nate Fisher beard:

Apologies to everyone who thought I was dead for not answering phones calls, MSN messages, smoke signals and the front door. I'm back home, still in the worst pain ever, but and high as a mofo.

P.S. Big ups to the nursing staff at the Austin. Each and everyone of you is as skilled and attractive as Brett's father's VHS tapes led us to believe.

...and I'm spent.

Well, that's all folks...

After what seemed like a month, editing has finally wrapped on the film. My eyes hurt. My brain hurts. I’m hungry and I think I’m getting the flu. Completely exhausted.

There’s me, and there’s this panda – we both need a long nap (and a new job).

...and maybe a little detective hat for the panda so he can solve crimes at the zoooooooooooooooooooooo...

*crashes into keyboard*

Kung Fu Crazy (re-post)

Despite a brief hiatus for sleep, in which I dreamt of robots trying to steal my brain, I've been editing this film for nearly 20 hours now. My eyes are sore, my mind is weak and I’m pretty sure I spilt cornflakes on myself a few hours ago, but can’t for the life of me quite remember it happening.

Cross Dissolve, Freeze Frame, Star Wipe….

Cross Dissolve, Freeze Frame, Star Wipe….

Cross Dissolve, Freeze Frame, Star Wipe….

And so it has gone since 10am yesterday morning…

Around 4.30 today, sometime between editing hundreds of Bruce Lee photos and Van Damme’s roundhouse kicks, I think I officially lost touch with reality. How does one know when they have lost touch with their surroundings? Can someone know when they lost touch with their surroundings? Well, the answers to these metaphysical questions are indeed debatable, but yet, I would endeavor to say that the point of no return happens sometime around the moment when you begin to seriously question (verbally, mind you) whether or not you would prefer to live in movie Hard to Kill or Hard Target. One, you are chased by Lance Henrikson and are forced to wear skin tight acid wash jeans and don a sleezy permed mullet, and the other, well, you get to be Segal: pony tail, kinda pudgy and just plain mean….

Bring on the mullet acid wash.

*passes out mid Star Wipe...*

Express Yourself!

It’s funny to think that the endless stream of emotions that we feel everyday are often boiled down to one dimensional terms like happy, sad, frustrated or mad. That despite the millions of minute intricacies that occur within every smile or frown we still reduce that felling to either happy or sad. Your favorite television show gets cancelled, “well, I feel sad” you say; or perhaps the family dog passes on and you use the same adjective to describe your disposition, it’s all every odd and all very funny when you think about how we pair some of the emotions together.

The only reason I bring all this up is because I was watching Six Feet Under this morning.

There I am watching Six Feet Under and part way through the exhausting rollercoaster of emotion that is the show, I suddenly reflect on how involved I have become with this rear-projected reality, I was just as involved with Nate’s plight as I have ever been about anything in my own life, which is a completely ridiculous concept, but nevertheless true (at least on a very instinctive level).

This sudden awareness of what I was going through instantly brought a smile to my face, and at once gave me an idea for project of Claire Fisher proportions. During the remainder of the episode if I suddenly became conscience of my involvement in the show, I would try to maintain my expression and take a photograph to document my attachment to the show. The results are pretty hilarious, especially in light of my introduction here and I admit some of the photos are rather indulgent, but it is a saturday morning after all and Roadrunner isn't on anymore...

(AFTERWORD: Despite my hypothesis that we reduce all emotions into singular adjectives I'm now aware, after looking through 25 years worth of photographs, that these are the only four expressions my misshaped head in capable of making).

Hello Lovely...

I'm thinking of placing an add in the newpapers personals. May read something like this:

"Level 12 Elf with specialties in both marksmanship and magic, seeks early 20s female Necromancer to discuss the black arts and enjoy raising the dead with. Must love dogs."

Not sure about the font yet, but tired of waiting for the one special Dark Elf to knock at my door.

I See Dead People

Three series of six feet under in three days makes Mark a little crazy.
Three series of six feet under in three days makes Mark a little crazy.
Three series of six feet under in three days makes Mark a little crazy.

Three series of six feet under in three days makes Mark a little crazy.
Three series of six feet under in three days makes Mark a little crazy.
Three series of six feet under in three days makes Mark a little crazy.

Three series of six feet under in three days makes Mark a little crazy.
Three series of six feet under in three days makes Mark a little crazy.
Three series of six feet under in three days makes Mark a little crazy.

Friendly faces everywhere. Humble folk without temptation.

For nearly a week now my days have been spent staring aimlessly at my inbox and reading onion articles until I eventually fall asleep browsing some inane post on IMDB (read "the answer to what was in the briefcase" thread - truly the work of super nerds and Taratino Fanboys who take his oft retarded word as lore). I’ve been bored to say the least, and I fear the Internet is sucking my will to live. The constant flashing of the Word typing cursor seems to bellow at me “useless” as my word count rests without direction at 0.0.

To be fair though, while the Internet does do more harm than good these days, everyone once in a while I do find something online that helps wane away those daylight hours without reducing me to tears at the reality of how uneventful my days are.

Now call me crazy, but I’ve always wondered what my friends would look if illustrated in the South Park style, well, now I know…I found this program on the glorious www and after tinkering with it for about hour I couldn’t help myself from smiling ear to ear at the realism of each of the following characters.

While I think we all look great, David’s Butters-esque smile absolutely kills me. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you The Super Friends of South Park.:

This surefire cure for the blues can be found here.

If there is one thing I think about more than anything, it’s the prospect that one day the world will become overrun with zombies…

Call me crazy, but I’m sure one day it’s going to happen. There you are eating your breakfast of coffee and oats or perhaps you’re the sort of cat that likes tea and crumpets in the morning, I know I do; whatever the scenario, the day will come when you lean over the kitchen table to kiss your loved one goodbye before heading out to a hard day of work at the office and BAM! She/he tries to eat your face off. Are you prepared for that? What would you do? After all, they were, up until a few moments ago anyway, the love of your life. Just because they’ve suddenly become a member of the living dead doesn’t necessarily mean you have to stop loving them, does it?

Then again, the sacred vows of marriage do proclaim until death do us part, so technically, if you’ve ever had a gripe with your loved one: maybe they spilt red wine on your favorite shirt, maybe they ran over your cat, or maybe they just bug you with their always happy upbeat spirit, well now you have the catholic church’s blessing to lob their head off with the nearest kitchen knife. According to the Pope and his rules and regulations of marriage, God wants you to kill zombies. Once they’re dead, they’re fair game. How can you argue with that? But what happens and bear with me now, if they are really attractive? Could you still axe them? “But, Mark, they're a zombie, for goodness sake,” I hear you say, well, that is true enough, they are the undead, but when I say attractive I mean really, really attractive like Natalie Portman in Closer, or if you are a lass, Tim Curry in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, were talking super fit, here people. I don’t know about you, but I’d find it pretty difficult to put fair Natalie out of her eternal misery of damnation, especially if she had that pink wig of hers on. Sure, she’d constantly be trying to eat my brains, but I’d be a fool if I said that wasn’t kind of a turn on.

Super hot deadites aside, I’ve always wondered how I would cope – scratch that, how I will cope – when the zombies do finally take over. If it happens suddenly like in the remake of Dawn of the Dead where I wake up one morning to find one of those tricky zombies running around my lounge room, then I imagine my chances of survival would be pretty slim, but if I received word ahead of time about the rising of my great grandparents, well I think it would be safe to say I’d be in pretty good shape to get past day one, as training to kill zombies is something I’ve spent my life preparing for – believe me, when I first heard of the Bird Flu I was so excited that the dead would walk I went out and bought a new chainsaw and lawnmower.

Now, I’m fairly confident in my abilities to take out zombies, but you can never be too sure, you know, so I decided to put myself to the ultimate test developed by American scientists who have devoted their whole lives to zombie research. Based on my given answers, a super secret, super computer located somewhere in a super secret, super government lab seems to think I’m the Rupert Everett of zombie killers.

Sure, I like to fall in love with the undead, but with the fall of the government and the police department, I figure there's no laws against it and besides, you can never choose who you fall in love with, right? Anyway, take the test yourself here and post your results in the comments section of this post; and don’t worry, if you find the prospect of living dead terrifying, I’ll make an effort to help you out with some pointers.

Talking Grand Final Blues...

What loser forgets to take Grand Final day off work? Unfortunately, I know only one fool lame enough to let that most hallowed day in September slip through their fingers; I refer of course, to the loser typing this post.

Yes, after taking Saturday night off for the past few weeks, the probability of securing a day in the sun with the time honoured Aussie tradition of snags n’ beers in between kicks of the pig’s skin were sorrowfully slim to none. Now, I don’t even like the Aussie Rules, but given a few drinks and let’s say three sausages, I’m yelling for holding the ball and dropping the C-Bomb at the pixilated umpire like any other hot-blooded, testosterone-filled male.

Serving maybe six people at best, during the sunshine hours of work, I quickly slipped into a mass depression as every customer came to see The Devil Wears Prada – mostly mothers with their daughters or gay couples; I guess most of the “blokes” planned ahead a saw the movie before the big game – while I sat forlornly staring out of the window at the merriment of the people playing and having an all-round goodtime (we don’t have any windows at work, so I spent most of the day starring at the ventilation ducts planning my escape). The only reprieve from the dreary white walls of work came on the cover of the Age’s Weekender.

Reaching a point where any distraction was welcomed, an animated Tim Robbins made his way around the facilities in a modest attempt to cheer me up.

A cheeky Daisy gets some time alone with an Academy Award winner.

Hannah giggles at Tim's persistent advances.


A surprised Tim nervously eyes Bonnie as the lioness prepares to pounce.

A wandering Tim finds a surprised Rita (note the expression of Renae who can't believe her luck at meeting her favourite actor)

Tim did bring a little sunshine into an otherwise grey day, but I think next year I'll just take the day off in advance.

Driving for your life

I'll be honest with you, when I first faced the prospect of driving I was a little apprehensive. After all, this is something I should have done way back in the 1990s, a time long before the iPod and high-speed broadband. Goodness, back then I still believed all gorgeous, long-legged blondes named Britney that I had cyber sex with were what they seemed, and not truckers from Adelaide named Big Jed - but then again, what did I know? I was sans license in those days. Alas, all that has changed now and I'm well on my way to becoming a John Q. Nobody on the road. The early twenties phobia of driving is long behind me and I'm ready and eager to start my own midnight drag club.

For the life of me, I can't remember why I found the idea of driving so terrifying in the first place - minus images of horrific accidents every time I would drive with certain friends (looking in your direction. Mr. Mathews), whatever the case, I found myself receeding into a life spent moving the car from behind a control pad rather than the steering wheel. However, it turns out that my years of Xbox and all-round suburban Bumdom did yield some precursive tools which I now find help me on the road: renegade drivers and small children running out in traffic are not dissimilar to the infected zombies of Resident Evil parts one and three (not so much the second one), in that both scenarios require you to slow down, address the hazard and give way if necessary.

Not only has my many years of gaming given me the abilty to aviod harazards - be it fresh-eaters ,stray pets or otherwise - but it has also bestowed upon me a way of looking at the roads that your average "I just turned 18, look at me" driver (or child born after 1987 for that matter) could never hope to achieve. I refer to the following image taken from today's lesson.

Note, I still have all my lives and have already equalled the high score...

Pending I don't have to park off any moving logs and past any jaw-gaping crocodiles, I may be the safest driver in the world. Well, that is, the safest driver in the world in the event that zombies do eventually take over...

and God willing, they will.

Ripley's believe it or not...

After nearly a decade of promise, I've finally got the ball rolling:

Seeing as I owe nearly everone living in the Melbourne Metropolitan area countless lifts from years of mooching, I will endeavour to return the favour by securing a small buisness loan and driving every single one of you to work everyday for a year. I realise that this doesn't really balance out, but think of it a bit like when Allen Bond got busted and promised to pay back .10 on the dollar.

The countdown to my Ps has begun.

Why? Because Ben Affleck says so...

Sure, Ben Affleck has made some trash - and it should be said, nobody loaths Michael Bay movies more than me (well, that was until I found out that you can circle Armageddon on your calander sooner than you think!!!).

- and yes, I'll grant whoever stands in objection to my claims that Bounce and Forces of Nature are as bad for your health as chain smoking, but mark my words, I will fight anyone: man, woman or child, who wants to attack The Affleck's awe-inspring "goon" performances in Dazed and Confused and Mallrats, and remember before he was an Oscar winner, he stole the show from Kristy Swanson with his "just take it, man" delivery as Basketball Player #10 in the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer - all amazing performaces, all of them.

But somewhere along the line, and for reasons beyond even the most avid fan's imagination, the people forgot Ben; cast him aside like Deuce Bigalow sequel; stopped downloading DivX rips of his movies and started going to Colin Farrell movies instead. These were dark days indeed.

Yet, it seems that now, after much waiting by the fans, that Hollywoodland is a surefire winner, with The Allfeck's characterisation of George Reeves said to be right up there with his Chasing Amy and Phantom days winning big ups at the Venice Film Festial. Not only this, but besides being a lucky enough [dare] devil as to hook, line and sinker the often smoking Jennifer Garner, 2006 also saw The Allfeck's return to director's chair with the shooting of Gone, Baby, Gone a feat he has not indulged in since I Killed My Lesbian Wide, Hung Her on a Meat Hook, and Now I Have a Three Picture Deal at Disney way back when Ace of Base topped the Billboard charts with All That She Wants, or 1993 if you prefer a numerical timeline. Thankfully, it seems that the Affleck is set for a much deserved return to the limelight.

...But all of this provisional, lest we forgot the reason the world fell in love with the man in the first place. If your memory fails you, quickly, sign up any highspeed broadband contract availible, care not about the small print, and press the following link as fast as you can:

Life Lessons 101

.................................................

For those who can't wait for the realese of Hollywoodland, you get a dose of The Affleck's radio performances here.

Don't laugh, It's a serious problem, Baby

I was thinking earlier tonight of the old adage that the average male thinks of sex once every seven seconds. Immediately I thought of sex. Then I thought of sex again...

and then again...

….but after about 20-25 minutes of catholic school girls playing a naughty game of Twister, I realized that I probably thought about sex closer to seven times each second.

Concerned by these figures I spent the next two hours taking online sex surveys, to assure myself I'm part of the "lie back and think of England" status quo. I won't bother linking any of the quizzes as a Google search will yield more than enough for a thorough diagnosis, but suffice to say, if your thoughts are anything like mine you may expect a reading like this:

* You should consult your General Practitioner about your sex addiction.

(Note: apprently it is healthy to see Margret Thatcher, John Major, James Callaghan and other former Prime Ministers of the U.K. in the following ink blots:

- Am I the only one turned on by these? You dirty tart number three)

Terrified, questions started to circulate my smutty little brain: “what’s wrong with me, surely I’m not in the not that far gone that I would be called an addict?” and “Holy Jesus, what can I do about this?”

I continued to take a more of these tests with similar results, until eventually I realized that many of them were run by private sex addiction clinics and almost always recommended help at one of their clinics. I guess that's what they call synergy in the big city.

Of course, there were a few tests I took that arrived at the same perverted conclusions, but by that time I had found the picture of this guy on one of the respected sites; and if he’s out there, I know I’ve still got some time to go before I join Sex Addicts Anonymous.

...Then again it could be a sound place to meet women???

Steve Irwin is dead!

By now I'm sure you've all heard the devastating news: Steve Irwin has brutally murdered by a savage, wrong side of the tracks, reform school juvenile, emo-esque stingray. A fucking stingray!

Apparently, the man loved the world over for his 'crikey' catchprase, was filming a documentary off the coast of Port Douglas when a stingray's barb pierced his chest.

If you're like me, then the news of Steve's death isn't all that shocking; it had to happen sooner or later, right? The way he wrestled those crocks, one had to think that he would be caught in a triple-lock death suflex sooner or later. Hell, I'm sure even Steve wanted to go out in the jaws of one of the crocodiles he loved so much, but a stingray - please, this is outrageous.

The only explanation I can fathom is a global conspiracy involving the numerous governments and global corporations and probably even those pale geezers from the Davinci Code, which all feared (and held back) Steve's ability to end the war on terrorism and secure world peace.

Steve Irwin's chest cannot be pierced by a stingray's barb.

Steve Irwin's love for taunting crocodiles, like the love his millions of fans around the world had for his larrikin antics, will live on long past this truly darkest of dark days...

...But rest assured:

I will hunt down and kill every motherf$%#@g stingray I can get my hands on (...Including the Philadelphia Stingrays Hockey team, if I have to), until I rain down venegeance on that no good sonofabitch that has denied the world of ever seeing a sequel to the critically aclaimed Collision Course.You know, I don't know what a barb is, but it better be loaded because when I find you, Stingy, your a one dead sea bed dwelling tit.

Theme Time Radio Hour

You know that niggling feeling you get sometimes when you wake in the middle of the night, that feeling that you are disconnected from every soul on the planet, and if only for that time, while the sun is hiding, you can't help but feel totally alone?

Well, finally there is a cure for the blues; and not just lonesome blues, but all the blues: homesick blues, financial blues, my dog peed on the carpet blues, and what Hank Williams diagnosed as the lovesick blues - all of these and more, can now be mended with one weekly dose of radio. Well, to be precise, one weekly dose of Bob Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour.

Playing through an assortment of themes on a weekly basis and handing out wisdoms like free candy, Dylan is touring the radio waves and providing free medical care to any that care to listen. Girlfriend left you for an another man? Car's being repossessed? Megatron Basketball whipped you by 30 points? Well, perhaps a little blend of Calypso and Bluegrass will help turn that frown upside down. Results guaranteed.

Get your dose here.

(If pain persists please see a doctor)

'T.S. Elliot once said, “radio is a medium of entertainment, which permits millions of people to listen to the same joke at the same time and yet remain lonesome.” Well you’re never lonesome when you listen to Theme Time Radio Hour.'

Amen, Bob.

Legend of Blood Ninja!

While he is already a hero amongst anyone addicted to online cyber sex, they're a few unlearned souls out there who don't know of his majesty, his prowess, his downright legend. I couldn't tell you when he first appeared online, for all I know he's been here all long, rising from time to time like Tim Curry in IT to feast on the souls of the unsuspecting, I don't know where he came from, only that he exists.

To transcribe all of his prose under one post would be a blasphemy, so, to pay homage to his work I'll endeavour to post a different transcript every other day. All of the subsequent dialogues were taken over several chat rooms. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Legend of Blood Ninja...

bloodninja: Baby, I been havin a tough night so treat me nice aight?
BritneySpears14: Aight.
bloodninja: Slip out of those pants baby, yeah.
BritneySpears14: I slip out of my pants, just for you, bloodninja.
bloodninja: Oh yeah, aight. Aight, I put on my robe and wizard hat.
BritneySpears14: Oh, I like to play dress up.
bloodninja: Me too baby.
BritneySpears14: I kiss you softly on your chest.
bloodninja: I cast Lvl. 3 Eroticism. You turn into a real beautiful woman.
BritneySpears14: Hey...
bloodninja: I meditate to regain my mana, before casting Lvl. 8 Cock of the Infinite.
BritneySpears14: Funny I still don't see it.
bloodninja: I spend my mana reserves to cast Mighty F*ck of the Beyondness.
BritneySpears14: You are the worst cyber partner ever. This is ridiculous.
bloodninja: Don't f*ck with me bitch, I'm the mightiest sorcerer of the lands.
bloodninja: I steal yo soul and cast Lightning Lvl. 1,000,000 Your body explodes into a fine bloody mist, because you are only a Lvl. 2 Druid.
BritneySpears14: Don't ever message me again you piece of ****.
bloodninja: Robots are trying to drill my brain but my lightning shield inflicts DOA attack, leaving the robots as flaming piles of metal.
bloodninja: King Arthur congratulates me for destroying Dr. Robotnik's evil army of Robot Socialist Republics. The cold war ends. Reagan steals my accomplishments and makes like it was cause of him.
bloodninja: You still there baby? I think it's getting hard now.
bloodninja: Baby?

ometime later...(note the savvy name change:)

BritneySpears14: Ok, are you ready?
eminemBNJA: Aight, yeah I'm ready.
BritneySpears14: I like your music Em... Tee hee.
eminemBNJA: huh huh, yeah, I make it for the ladies.
BritneySpears14: Mmm, we like it a lot. Let me show you.
BritneySpears14: I take off your pants, slowly, and massage your muscular physique.
eminemBNJA: Oh I like that Baby. I put on my robe and wizard hat.
BritneySpears14: What the f*ck, I told you not to message me again.
eminemBNJA: Oh ****
BritneySpears14: I swear if you do it one more time I'm gonna report your ISP and say you were sending me kiddie porn you f*ck up.
eminemBNJA: Oh ****
eminemBNJA: damn I gotta write down your names or something

Beware the Blood Ninja. He won't be stopped. He can't be stopped.

Pardon the delay

Potentional cover to my forecoming autobiography: Mark! Found wherever good books go to die.

Brian and Me

Phone rings.

"Hello. Hey, Brian, How the heck are you, you old sunofagun? Excellent, good to hear, buddy, loved Smile by the way. Sunday? Nothing really. Lunch? Sure, around 1.30, after your painting class. Yes, I'll bring some chicken. Yes, and I'll bring my camera."

Top guy that Brian Wilson, but when we get on the source together with a camera near by, things can get crazy.

.................

Well, the clock on the wall says it's time to go. Until next time, remember, you are all my sunshine; and if you think the sunny sun is too hot, just remember, at least you don't have to shovel it.

White Jacket Woman

A funny happened on the way to the opera...

Well, actually, that's not entirely true, we better replace "on the way to" with "on the way home from." That's better, now we have a funny thing happened on the way home from the opera. Still not entirely right, you see it wasn't so much the opera as it was the cinema: a funny thing happened on the way home from the cinema...better, but still riddled with untruth. To call Adam Sandler's latest movie, Click, cinema could get me beaten up in academic circles around the country, so lets go with: a funny thing happened on the way home for Click. Okay, now that the tag line is out of the way lets get on with the post.

a funny thing happened on the way home for Click...

Still chuckling from watching professor of linguistics Christopher Walken bouncing up and down, placing full stops in mid sentence and punctuating words like only he can, Jess and myself we're making our way through the bustling streets of our fair Metropolis to the car parked on the other side of the city. Not a particularly interesting journey once you delete the all too frequent drunken cries of yobbos in the night, but as the World Cup is on at the moment this only adds to the ambience of a city overflowing with soccer fans who have no idea of the sport there cheering for, but are patriotic to bone and most likely wasted on cheap 'n' nasty beer (works for me).

Somewhere between seeing the seedy bouncer of a seedy night club usher a group of young girls into his den for free entry and the car, we pass a guitar wielding busker, a busker of better than average talents it should be noted, yet nonetheless a site we've all scene before. Walking by, the independent musician suddenly comes to the understanding that his endless days of strumming Pearl Jam covers in cold doorways have come to an abrupt end, and inspired by his new muse, the struggling bard proceeds to sing a song about Jessie and her white jacket, which she wore this night more for instillation for the cold than to inspire art. Smiling, we carried on our journey.

Around thirty or so paces from the busker we stop, his lyrics still echoing in the distance. "How much change do you have on you?" I ask Jess. We count our loose pennies and make our way back to the doorway.

The music stops.

"Look," I begin "we've got about $4.50 here. It's yours. It's yours if you can scat for while on my friend's jacket here." Not knowing the code of the street musician, I think for a moment that I may have offended this gentlemen of the verse by forcing his material. Yet still mesmerized by lady muse, the busker glanced only for a second at Jessie's coat and inspiration flooded over him like confines of the dam of rhyme had been opened. No description I could ever conjure could ever do justice the magic of what came next, you'll have to downloaded and listen for yourself:

http://rapidshare.de/files/24039312/White_Jacket_Woman.mp3.html

What's so funny about these events is that I think the guy was genuinely trying to make a move on Jess, as he never took his eyes off her and seemed to be boxing me out of the way like Charles Barkley with every cord he played. Between the magic of Chris Walken and the song, I think Jess had the best night out of her life. Heck, Lord knows I did...

The flu made me do it...

I've had the flu for almost four days now and I can't seem to shake it.

Tried cold and flu tablets...

Didn't work.

Tried honey and lemon... Didn't work.

Tried watching 13 straight episodes of Northern Exposure...

Didn't work (but well worth watching).

With all conventional medicine taken and all fabulous mid-ninties television logged what defense is there left to battle that furious flu....?

Try editing the poster for a Gene Wilder movie in Photoshop...


Feelin' fine.

Woody and me

I own a bass.

A bass guitar that for the last two years has given me identity as a man of music. An intrument that has allowed me to see the underbelly of a culture I might not normally be privy to. People, especially musicians themselves, treat you differently when they think you’re a kindred spirit; I don’t think this is a deliberate judgment on their behalf; it’s closer to a sense unity between canards than an act of discrimination to those that “can’t wail.”

Case in point: A popular Indy bar – Melbourne. Sitting at a bar after a rather lively show, the bass player of the band that has just finished its set sits on the wooden stool adjacent to me and orders a pint:

“Hey man, badass show tonight.” I compliment the longhair.
“Thanks,” replies the skeleton dressed in Iggy Pop memorabilia.
“No, man, I mean it. You guys played a mean set.”
“Yeah, well, what would you know about it, Narc?” He enquires in a rather agitated tone; presumably he believes I bought my ACDC shirt over Ebay. I did, but he doesn’t know that. In defense I quickly retort, “Hey, I’m just like you, man, I play bass too.”
A moment or two passes. The pale rocker looks me over, presumably grading my rock ‘n’ roll presence. I must score at least in the lower percentile of his criteria, because he says to me, “sorry, chief, I’m a little jumpy lots of posers out here gets under my skin, you know? Than again, it could be the speed kickin’ in, you never can tell.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I reply and run for door as fast as my girlish legs will carry me, but not before raising my first in the air and yelling “rock ‘n’ roll.”

What the Skeletor look-alike doesn’t know is I can’t play a lick on the guitar. I do own a bass, this much is true, but outside of a few relatively simple Nirvana songs, I can’t play a thing. Well, that's not entirely true, I can play Summer Lovin' from Grease, but that’s got more to do wearing leather pants than it does rock ‘n’ roll.

Like all slackers of my generation, I started out with noble intentions: the desire to learn, evolve and eventually create my own art, but soon got distracted by the latest installment in the NBA Live series, and left the guitar in the corner to collect dust, where it’s done so since sometime in early 2004.

What can be learnt from this little espisode? That the identity of a musician is only a superficial thing? Maybe, but then again I was posing as a musician so does that make me even more superficial? Maybe so. I have thought about taking another crack at learning the bass, but that would take far too long and cost millions of lives in the process. No, I thought it better to take a page out the Bill and Ted's book of learning and instead of exhausting countless hours making my fingers bleed, I decided to travel through time and learn from some of the greats long past.

It's amazing, but in only a few months of jumping through the circuits of time (yes, just like Bill Espreston Esquire and Ted Theodore Logan) I found myself jamming with folk legend , Woody Guthrie. Don't believe me, here's the evidence...and for the seceret to time travel just originate Pi to its 1,000,000,000 place and divide by two - it's that simple, and fun to boot.

Excelsior!

Photoshop made easy

Recently I've become obsessed with Photoshop. Well, I say recently, but in reality I've been at this game a long time. The object of all my sadistic talents is, and has always been, my brother in arms, Mantastic (I'll use his most apt nickname just in case one of the millions of readers out there know your true identity); and I'll admit over the years I've hounded my friend tenaciously with countless movie poster parodies and speech bubble quips, and while I'd like to promise all of this will stop, we both know that's a promise I could never keep (and perhaps deep down you don't want me too?), but today I've turned the tables and worked over myself.

However, in creating this latest digital tomfoolery I hit the Photoshoppper's preverbal wall: the colour matching was all amiss, with no hope of rectifying the most obvious of cut 'n' paste jobs. After some great inner turmoil and debate, I humbled myself by calling in the aid of my greatest rival, and to be fair, the leader of the pack in Patrick Stewart related .gif animation, Millie, Photoshop queen of the South and lover of all things booze related. Swallowing my pride, I send the work I had done to the photo away, attached to a note simply querying:

"I can't seem to colour match the neckline, send help."

Many moons pass but eventually I receive a reply that simply reads:

"I fixed it...I fixed it good!!!"

Skeptical at first, I open the email wondering if she has indeed "fixed it good," yet before the file has even fully refreshed I know I've received a piece of Photoshop mastery and the bar has once again been lifted to an entirely new level. Here's the finished product.

Surely, this evens the score a little, Mantastic, surely...

Dramatization #001

The names and characters have been changed, but rest assured, dear reader, things like this happen all the time…

The glowing light of beauty draws near. “Oh, Holy Jesus, she’s coming. Quick, pretend like I’ve just said something profoundly funny.” The person I’m addressing, let’s call them David Caruso for arguments sake – that, and with David Caruso in your story the reader instinctively presumes there may be some sex on the way – turns in bemused interested to identify the audience of my little pantomime. “Are you crazy? Don’t look now, she’ll see you.” I quickly reprimand the leading man of Jade “– don’t look, just laugh.” With all the vim and vigor of a drunken Irishman on Saint Patrick’s Day, Caruso lets fly the most heartily of hearty laughs, the type of laugh that can only be transcribed in capital letters and explanation points. Dammit, I think to myself, too much ham and cheese Caruso, this time you’ve blown it, the loveliness can see right through you’re one dimensional acting, it’s over. Between the moment the beauty arrives and the first syllables of what is to be a perfect sentence leave her heavenly forged lips, a mere instant passes, but in the gah-gah-she-so-pretty mode I find myself in, the vision seems to stand there for eternity.

“What’s so funny?” She asks. The lyricism of her voice renders me speechless, while the blatant gawk of my eyes resembles that of an old man trapped in an elevator with an attractive catholic school girl inspecting her stockings for an elusive hole. Caruso, seeing my immobility, ascertains the role of life guard and comes to my rescue, “oh, nothing really.” Thanks Caruso you’re a real pal, and I take back the ham and cheese insult and praise his underappreciated work in Deep Cover and Kiss of Death. But my thanks are cut short as he continues, “nothing really, just perhaps the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” What! I squawk inside my mind. How dare you, Caruso, I'll see you dead for this. She’s mine, you hack, and you can’t have her.

“Common, guys, what’s so funny?” Time is running out. Grace Kelly wants an answer, she deserves an answer. She won’t judge you, just make something up. You’re funny, she’ll love you no matter what you say, baby. You can do it. Go for it.

No you can’t.

“Er…” I begin. The fear rapidly swells. Nothing’s coming. Think, dammit, think.

“Yeah, tell us, don’t hold out, tell us. You're a dead man, Caruso; Sipowicz can’t save you now. Am I sweating? Must say something before it’s too late. Be like Fonzie, be like Fonzie.

“I was just saying…”

Time freezes over and and in the same way a movie may have an ellipses of time to skip the details of a lengthy scene, the next few minutes contain several smiles and nods from the princess, and not to mention delicious, jealous ridden scowls from Caruso, while my dialogue flows effortlessly from my tongue into the enchanted heart of the lovely. It’s working. I throw a few well timed voices and staged hand gestures to thicken the tale for good measure.

I am the master storyteller.

I am Shakespeare.

I am Mozart.

Building to a crescendo the tale comes to a triumphant conclusion. All that is left is to take the beauty in my arms and discuss what the name of our first born shall be: I’ve always like Jeremy for a boy. Alanis for a girl.

Smiling, but seeming somewhat bemused, the lovely looks at me for further explanation.

Everything’s all right, I tell myself: you do have a slight accent on some words, perhaps she didn’t hear everything you said, especially during you’re hilarious Scottish overture.

“I don’t understand,” she says, removing the poisoned dagger from my heart.

“What part?” I enquire in waving hope.

“Well, all of it, really.”

Whilst I inaudibly curse myself for over indulging in a Shaun Connery impression that has always brought me nothing but pain and anguish, I see in my peripheral vision the perfect princess glance at her perfect silver watch which sits on her perfect wrist.

“Yeah…well, I’ve got to be leaving now, nice seeing you, though.” The unborn cries of Jeremy and Alanis curse my foolishness.

I’m so sorry, kids.

“Hey, I’m going too,” the interjection of the Judas, Caruso, “I can give you a lift if you like? I’ve got a great joke Jimmy Smits once told me” Not knowing the icy shards of rejection her assertion strikes down my spine the beauty replies, “sure.”

I am a terrible storyteller.

I am not Mozart.

I am Pauly Shore.

The moral of this story is simple: always have a remotely funny story on backup and if you know anyone like David Caruso kill them before they kill you.

Mark.

Together at last!