Dear Spencer,
There's been a Bensplosion round these parts since you've been gone. I'm not talking just one Ben but many. There are many Bens. I have spent time with at least one Ben a day for the last week. In my head I refer to them by their surnames so as not to become confused, like I do with Hunter, and Wilson, and Worrad. I suppose you've being seeing a lot of those folk lately, say hi to them for me.
Gemma has been texting me words like 'Benglorious, Benerific and Benutopia'. She said I have Bens on a revolving schedule but it's entirely unintentional.
Showing posts with label Benito Di Fonzo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Benito Di Fonzo. Show all posts
Sometimes when a person dresses like a pirate it is only a costume
I'm sitting in Ikea reclining on a sofa placed on a raised platform watching my very own personal parade. They've all shown up, samples from everywhere, every nation, every suburb, every brand of deodorant.
Grizelda and I came here looking for a chair named Jeff to place on the Peach Deck but I am so pleased by my very own personal people parade that I am sat here nodding mildly at the masses. This might be my ideal office. I can imagine myself sat here typing happily, I might periodically relocate to an office desk or a dining table and if I become tired I might nap in the pretend flat.
I like these nowhere spaces, where there are no obligations now. There is room here to think about the weekend and what has transpired. On Friday I was accused of being a lesbian when I told a man named Scrubber that no, I did not want him to exercise his "civic duty to make all women feel loved by making them feel sexy". I was standing in the same rehearsal space that I'd sat in watching Tex Perkins and The Cruel Sea rehearse before going on tour but everything was different. Some people were dressed like pirates but underneath you could smell their suburban skins, their organised kitchens and the spaces where ideas should be. Last time I was staring at Tex Perkins while he howled into the microphone, this time I was telling a man named Scrubber, who was wearing deck shoes, that no, I did not want to feel sexy.
In the bottom of my handbag I have the NYWF anthology, I bought it last night at the launch party, Benito Di Fonzo wrote "At least wait until I'm dead before you call me a cunt (again)" in the front of it and signed his name. Artboy appeared wearing a t-shirt and benito stooped forwards to read the small text on the front of the shirt while I thought this isn't right, this moment is as bad as exploding kittens with the power of thought. . I leant back against a brick wall, as far as I could, until I bruised my shoulder blades, and sipped from my bottle of water.
So I'm sitting in the in between space of Ikea on a mustard yellow chaise longue watching my own personal people parade with a book in the bottom of my handbag, two bruised shoulder blades and twelve kinds of memory. I think I kind of like it here, I might stay.
Grizelda and I came here looking for a chair named Jeff to place on the Peach Deck but I am so pleased by my very own personal people parade that I am sat here nodding mildly at the masses. This might be my ideal office. I can imagine myself sat here typing happily, I might periodically relocate to an office desk or a dining table and if I become tired I might nap in the pretend flat.
I like these nowhere spaces, where there are no obligations now. There is room here to think about the weekend and what has transpired. On Friday I was accused of being a lesbian when I told a man named Scrubber that no, I did not want him to exercise his "civic duty to make all women feel loved by making them feel sexy". I was standing in the same rehearsal space that I'd sat in watching Tex Perkins and The Cruel Sea rehearse before going on tour but everything was different. Some people were dressed like pirates but underneath you could smell their suburban skins, their organised kitchens and the spaces where ideas should be. Last time I was staring at Tex Perkins while he howled into the microphone, this time I was telling a man named Scrubber, who was wearing deck shoes, that no, I did not want to feel sexy.
In the bottom of my handbag I have the NYWF anthology, I bought it last night at the launch party, Benito Di Fonzo wrote "At least wait until I'm dead before you call me a cunt (again)" in the front of it and signed his name. Artboy appeared wearing a t-shirt and benito stooped forwards to read the small text on the front of the shirt while I thought this isn't right, this moment is as bad as exploding kittens with the power of thought. . I leant back against a brick wall, as far as I could, until I bruised my shoulder blades, and sipped from my bottle of water.
So I'm sitting in the in between space of Ikea on a mustard yellow chaise longue watching my own personal people parade with a book in the bottom of my handbag, two bruised shoulder blades and twelve kinds of memory. I think I kind of like it here, I might stay.
Reliquary
I'm not eating dead saints but I'm walking through like everything is holy. I'm too earnest, we all know that, so I can take a skitter or an occasional low slung arrow but when he simply turned his back and walked away holding his wine glass out like a flare I thought this time Benito Di Fonzo you've gone too far.
I was sipping coffee with Spencer in the back part of the cafe having forgotten that Benito had sent out invitations to some kind of thing happening in the front part of the cafe tonight. I remembered quite suddenly when I ran right into Benito in the narrow hall connecting the back of the cafe to the front. I said hello then kept moving to the counter but on the way back out Benito and I had what would pass for conversation until we were talking about Jon Wah. I suspect that Benito believed I did not care for Jon Wah because I once referred to him as a reprehensible cunt but I don't recall seeing Benito at Jon Wah's funeral where I stood silent in the freezing rain wondering how in the hell a light like that could extinguish itself so completely.
I paused and dropped my head at the thought of Jon Wah and all that his death has done, this is when Benito turned his back and walked away holding out his glass of red wine like a flare. I burst onto the street in a fury matching Spencer's long stride. Spencer turned to me and said "He rates himself" then fell silent again.
I'm not eating dead saints but walking through like everything is holy so please, if you don't mind, just take a little care.
I was sipping coffee with Spencer in the back part of the cafe having forgotten that Benito had sent out invitations to some kind of thing happening in the front part of the cafe tonight. I remembered quite suddenly when I ran right into Benito in the narrow hall connecting the back of the cafe to the front. I said hello then kept moving to the counter but on the way back out Benito and I had what would pass for conversation until we were talking about Jon Wah. I suspect that Benito believed I did not care for Jon Wah because I once referred to him as a reprehensible cunt but I don't recall seeing Benito at Jon Wah's funeral where I stood silent in the freezing rain wondering how in the hell a light like that could extinguish itself so completely.
I paused and dropped my head at the thought of Jon Wah and all that his death has done, this is when Benito turned his back and walked away holding out his glass of red wine like a flare. I burst onto the street in a fury matching Spencer's long stride. Spencer turned to me and said "He rates himself" then fell silent again.
I'm not eating dead saints but walking through like everything is holy so please, if you don't mind, just take a little care.
Twelve kinds of luxury
Free cigarettes from Bangkok, an electric blanket, some cushions, Chuck E Weiss, a brand new plastic comb and a glass of water. That's twelve kinds of luxury right there. I am against the colour orange, dirt orange, brown orange, earth orange, tree orange. I'm banning orange for the foreseeable future. Orange caught me with my gloves down, that was a boxing analogy.
Last night I saw Colonel Funtastico at The Empire Hotel. I wanted, very badly, to ask him to change his name from colonel to captain. There was a cowgirl with a particularly pink nipple, it might have been the stage lights but I'm not sure. I wasn't supposed to be able to see the nipple, it escaped without warning, let's be clear about what kind of cowgirl she was, it was the outer space kind and not the stripper kind, those being the two main types of cowgirl.
I am thinking about The Crossroads Pact, or was it a challenge? I am unsure. Last night after the hats, nipple, colonel and Benito Superman and I ate unsatisfactory cake at an unsatisfactory cafe. I was tempted, for a moment, in defiance of having had a marvellous time to draw to me all that glittering dark and sink somewhere below the ice but is difficult to be ridiculous with Superman. He has many anti-ridiculous qualities, this does not inhibit the spaz, let us also be clear about that.
Last night I saw Colonel Funtastico at The Empire Hotel. I wanted, very badly, to ask him to change his name from colonel to captain. There was a cowgirl with a particularly pink nipple, it might have been the stage lights but I'm not sure. I wasn't supposed to be able to see the nipple, it escaped without warning, let's be clear about what kind of cowgirl she was, it was the outer space kind and not the stripper kind, those being the two main types of cowgirl.
I am thinking about The Crossroads Pact, or was it a challenge? I am unsure. Last night after the hats, nipple, colonel and Benito Superman and I ate unsatisfactory cake at an unsatisfactory cafe. I was tempted, for a moment, in defiance of having had a marvellous time to draw to me all that glittering dark and sink somewhere below the ice but is difficult to be ridiculous with Superman. He has many anti-ridiculous qualities, this does not inhibit the spaz, let us also be clear about that.
Shall I cry hallelujah?
The differences between anything insurmountable and obvious, negligible. Cry Jolene cry hallelujah and the answers will come back the same. I'm feeling the fall of my human race but either one of those things will do. I came out of an absurdest den wearing a white spangled fur-trimmed cowboy hat staring at Superman in his gold opalescent cowboy hat. The hats were thrown as plates by outerspace cowboys under the direction of Benito Di Fonzo but it wasn't his fault. My five dollar dinner tasted like five dollars, I'm crunching governments in my teeth. This here is nothing but typing for the clatter of words.
I'm headed down the highway. I'm headed down the highway. That thought isn't going anywhere. This is the decision to type without reason without pausing for the bell that signals thought. This is the result of typewriters and the purposeful arranging of sound onto sound onto sound. You can build something that way but paper cuts landscape into fingers, so personal an invasion. I didn't invent the train, this does not prevent me from riding on them. Oh cows. Grass balm and how fat the river sits at Emu Plains molten glass green but without proper reason for being. I walked there once and wondered something about frogs or termites or the burrowed fighting for flesh.
I can't put my finger on it. Something shifts and Superman said he was like Bob Dylan with no answers and Newtown was empty and the coffee unfamiliar. There's sugar in blood and beheadings. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it, now I'm German and ancient cause Superman's reading Goethe and god it seeps across the room. Shall I cry hallelujah? I'm awake without fields or the awareness of the stopping of time. I'm shaking like coffee. So you think you can tell? Can you tell a green field? Ah I'm typing ether and airwaves and the unbalanced end of last year's mixtape. I'm making walk on parts in my war. Did I tell you that I'm fighting myself. Spider, spider.
Unzip. Unzip inhibitions with purpose. This is a Goethe commitment. I will commit to something happening. You don't know what it is do you Mr Jones? Shall I cry hallelujah? It isn't sordid but it happened none the less. I know baby just how you feel. Can you see me standing with my back against the record machine? Don't even try to describe it.
I'm headed down the highway. I'm headed down the highway. That thought isn't going anywhere. This is the decision to type without reason without pausing for the bell that signals thought. This is the result of typewriters and the purposeful arranging of sound onto sound onto sound. You can build something that way but paper cuts landscape into fingers, so personal an invasion. I didn't invent the train, this does not prevent me from riding on them. Oh cows. Grass balm and how fat the river sits at Emu Plains molten glass green but without proper reason for being. I walked there once and wondered something about frogs or termites or the burrowed fighting for flesh.
I can't put my finger on it. Something shifts and Superman said he was like Bob Dylan with no answers and Newtown was empty and the coffee unfamiliar. There's sugar in blood and beheadings. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it, now I'm German and ancient cause Superman's reading Goethe and god it seeps across the room. Shall I cry hallelujah? I'm awake without fields or the awareness of the stopping of time. I'm shaking like coffee. So you think you can tell? Can you tell a green field? Ah I'm typing ether and airwaves and the unbalanced end of last year's mixtape. I'm making walk on parts in my war. Did I tell you that I'm fighting myself. Spider, spider.
Unzip. Unzip inhibitions with purpose. This is a Goethe commitment. I will commit to something happening. You don't know what it is do you Mr Jones? Shall I cry hallelujah? It isn't sordid but it happened none the less. I know baby just how you feel. Can you see me standing with my back against the record machine? Don't even try to describe it.
In a moment I will make coffee
He's still here. Supine. Wondering what it is that I am doing with the non-click click on the square pads over here on the other side of the bed while his eyelids echo internal tides. Showering the words came back. He chased them away, all of them but not like Benito, not like I was standing on the street with extra shoes tied tight around my tongue.
There was no fig sorbet but I do not mind. Words were ushered into small black velvet bags and tucked into spaces inaccessible and calm. Three hours and not one sentence formed. I trailed my fingers through floating acres of exclamation marks. His right hand circles my left ankle.
There was no fig sorbet but I do not mind. Words were ushered into small black velvet bags and tucked into spaces inaccessible and calm. Three hours and not one sentence formed. I trailed my fingers through floating acres of exclamation marks. His right hand circles my left ankle.
Definitive
Special request. A definitions list for the cast of characters in Slammatown. Easy. This I can do. Much simpler than trying to define just how exactly that snorkeling makes me happy or why today when I sat on the edge of this continent with the lemon light behind me and nothing, oh nothing but that ocean, that I felt stitches pull tighter and empty places pop and vanish. I used to be scared of the edge of this land.
Not in any order.
Foto: Superman's friend. I like him, he lives near me, he seems kind and the verge of something, I'm not sure what but I'll stick around to find out.
Gemma:
Author of Gempires, owner of Cooper the small poodle. Gemma lives in Melbourne and visits Sydney occasionally. Gemma is super in all possible ways. Gemma is an honourary Peachette.
The Peachettes:
The Peachettes are residents or ex-residents of The Peach (my house).
The Spatula:
My friend for almost twenty years and a current Peachette. She is small. We met on the first day of high school. The Spatula sings, paints, massages and designs my zine "Ocarina". The Spatula is a necessary part of my context.
Leurf:
Cousin to The Spatula Leurf abandoned The Peach (she is still a Peachette) to pursue her studies in Perth which is a fucking long way away. Leurf is unpredictable, fantastic and stunning inside and out.
Grizelda:
Younger sister (8 years younger) of The Spatula and a current Peachette. Grizelda is an excellent chef but does not like to have hobbies. Grizelda is rapidly becoming a good friend.
Ron:
I like Ron, he's pretty tops.
My brother:
No explanation necessary. He is tall plays trombone professionally and has an unnatural love for all things flamingo.
Spencer:
Spencer is the walking talking home of rock. He fronts the band The Holy Soul. He sometimes wears a cowboy hat. Spencer went to university with my brother and Boli. His main squeeze is Madam Squeeze.
Madam Squeeze:
Madam Squeeze can often be found busking with her accordion on King St. She is a source of light.
Robert:
He is a poet. He often eats toast during the day, he has a plant on his desk called Sylvester the Abject Plant. He is quite excellent.
Boli:
I shared a house with Boli at university. He is a music therapist. He plays all the instruments to an excellent standard. He likes hats is recently married and is the man I phone to ask if I am being a spaz or not. He always tells me if I am being a spaz.
Mr X:
A friend of Elliot's. I don't see him very often. Sometimes I see him on King St, he does not appear to like me very much.
The Cowboy:
Lives next door. He sometimes sits out the back in a cowboy hat playing cowboy songs on his guitar.
Creamboy:
Author of More Boring Rants from Anonymous Eccentrics. Creamboy is Superman's brother.
Superman:
This is what I used to think about Superman: I high three Superman, he is excellent. He has a way of not letting me panic, the best way to describe is that he makes me stand on a platform which is higher than where I normally stand and I can see more, further forward, further back and with some clarity. He is immensely silly and quite possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met. When he makes a decision you can hear the clang of an iron gate dropping somewhere in the distance. We wrote a song. Superman is Creamboy's brother.
Now I don't think about Superman at all, I do sometimes think about Superman movies but that is not the same thing.
Elliot:
I once thought I loved Elliot. I fucked him more than once with little sexual success. He used to be an excellent friend. I haven't heard from him since I told him I wouldn't see him if he's drunk. He's back in rehab.
Artboy:
The ex. After seven odd years of living together he developed a major mental illness. He had a manic episode and literally went screaming out into the night. He did not come back. This is how our relationship ended. This is how my heart fractured. I sank to the floor and it took me a while to stand back up.
Benito Di Fonzo:
A man that I can not talk to because every time I see him my head empties of all words and I stand there like a fucktard. Once I went to a party with him and set my hair on fire in the bathroom. This was not on purpose. Benito is the author of Benito Di Fonzo Jr & The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer.
Slammas:
My family.
Mum, her partner (I don't have a name for her on this blog), my brother, Dad, his wife (I don't have a name for her on this blog). Various relatives occasionally pop up, very occasionally.
Sylvia:
Gemma reminded me that I have not written a definition for her. Initially I did not use the cat's name in order to protect her privacy however I have since realised that this is ridiculous. The cat does not have any friends with the internet. Sylvia is a Norwegian Forest Cat, she is four years old.
Zissou:
I met him at a party, at my house on new year's eve, he stayed the night. We met for drinks, he stayed the night. He said "are we going to do this again?" I said "call me sometime" he said "I will". He called, we met another two times. He is a good man. He moved interstate for work, this made me sad.
The Beautiful Boys:
A bunch of beautiful boys of a literary bent. I admire them greatly for their verve, intellect, joy and youth.
Failed Ant Farmers:
Members are Superman, Spencer and Madam Squeeze and me.
There is more but really today I cannot be bothered.
I think this is all. I should make links but oh I am lazy, so lazy. I am tired from swimming in Clovelly Bay for hours on end. The ocean is battering this continent so a sheltered beach was necessary but still, it was the edge of things.
Not in any order.
Foto: Superman's friend. I like him, he lives near me, he seems kind and the verge of something, I'm not sure what but I'll stick around to find out.
Gemma:
Author of Gempires, owner of Cooper the small poodle. Gemma lives in Melbourne and visits Sydney occasionally. Gemma is super in all possible ways. Gemma is an honourary Peachette.
The Peachettes:
The Peachettes are residents or ex-residents of The Peach (my house).
The Spatula:
My friend for almost twenty years and a current Peachette. She is small. We met on the first day of high school. The Spatula sings, paints, massages and designs my zine "Ocarina". The Spatula is a necessary part of my context.
Leurf:
Cousin to The Spatula Leurf abandoned The Peach (she is still a Peachette) to pursue her studies in Perth which is a fucking long way away. Leurf is unpredictable, fantastic and stunning inside and out.
Grizelda:
Younger sister (8 years younger) of The Spatula and a current Peachette. Grizelda is an excellent chef but does not like to have hobbies. Grizelda is rapidly becoming a good friend.
Ron:
I like Ron, he's pretty tops.
My brother:
No explanation necessary. He is tall plays trombone professionally and has an unnatural love for all things flamingo.
Spencer:
Spencer is the walking talking home of rock. He fronts the band The Holy Soul. He sometimes wears a cowboy hat. Spencer went to university with my brother and Boli. His main squeeze is Madam Squeeze.
Madam Squeeze:
Madam Squeeze can often be found busking with her accordion on King St. She is a source of light.
Robert:
He is a poet. He often eats toast during the day, he has a plant on his desk called Sylvester the Abject Plant. He is quite excellent.
Boli:
I shared a house with Boli at university. He is a music therapist. He plays all the instruments to an excellent standard. He likes hats is recently married and is the man I phone to ask if I am being a spaz or not. He always tells me if I am being a spaz.
Mr X:
A friend of Elliot's. I don't see him very often. Sometimes I see him on King St, he does not appear to like me very much.
The Cowboy:
Lives next door. He sometimes sits out the back in a cowboy hat playing cowboy songs on his guitar.
Creamboy:
Author of More Boring Rants from Anonymous Eccentrics. Creamboy is Superman's brother.
Superman:
This is what I used to think about Superman: I high three Superman, he is excellent. He has a way of not letting me panic, the best way to describe is that he makes me stand on a platform which is higher than where I normally stand and I can see more, further forward, further back and with some clarity. He is immensely silly and quite possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met. When he makes a decision you can hear the clang of an iron gate dropping somewhere in the distance. We wrote a song. Superman is Creamboy's brother.
Now I don't think about Superman at all, I do sometimes think about Superman movies but that is not the same thing.
Elliot:
I once thought I loved Elliot. I fucked him more than once with little sexual success. He used to be an excellent friend. I haven't heard from him since I told him I wouldn't see him if he's drunk. He's back in rehab.
Artboy:
The ex. After seven odd years of living together he developed a major mental illness. He had a manic episode and literally went screaming out into the night. He did not come back. This is how our relationship ended. This is how my heart fractured. I sank to the floor and it took me a while to stand back up.
Benito Di Fonzo:
A man that I can not talk to because every time I see him my head empties of all words and I stand there like a fucktard. Once I went to a party with him and set my hair on fire in the bathroom. This was not on purpose. Benito is the author of Benito Di Fonzo Jr & The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer.
Slammas:
My family.
Mum, her partner (I don't have a name for her on this blog), my brother, Dad, his wife (I don't have a name for her on this blog). Various relatives occasionally pop up, very occasionally.
Sylvia:
Gemma reminded me that I have not written a definition for her. Initially I did not use the cat's name in order to protect her privacy however I have since realised that this is ridiculous. The cat does not have any friends with the internet. Sylvia is a Norwegian Forest Cat, she is four years old.
Zissou:
I met him at a party, at my house on new year's eve, he stayed the night. We met for drinks, he stayed the night. He said "are we going to do this again?" I said "call me sometime" he said "I will". He called, we met another two times. He is a good man. He moved interstate for work, this made me sad.
The Beautiful Boys:
A bunch of beautiful boys of a literary bent. I admire them greatly for their verve, intellect, joy and youth.
Failed Ant Farmers:
Members are Superman, Spencer and Madam Squeeze and me.
There is more but really today I cannot be bothered.
I think this is all. I should make links but oh I am lazy, so lazy. I am tired from swimming in Clovelly Bay for hours on end. The ocean is battering this continent so a sheltered beach was necessary but still, it was the edge of things.
Wang shaped pudding is odd
I've had a long overdue date with vegetables in the form of vegetable and bean curd noodle soup. Those faithless masses have returned to Newtown in force, they elbowed me between the shoulder blades and informed me they liked balls.
I am developing a rock solid anti Benito Effect plan. The Spatula and Grizelda doubt the excellence of my plan but I feel sure that it is a good one. I am in drastic need of a plan. Last week I ran into Benito in the street. I walked straight past him then thought that might be rude so I turned around and said hello. He said "How are you?" to which I replied "shopping" then stood like a fucktard. This has got to stop. I will fix this once and for all.
I am going to write a note, in large print so I don't need to find my glasses, I will place this note in my wallet and if I run into Benito again I will simply read from the note. The note will be an explanatory note apologising for being a fucktard and explaining the mystery of the Benito Effect. After I have read the note Benito will burst into flames, return to the dimension from which he came and I will never turn into a silent fucktard ever again. It is a very good plan.
The flames are not indicative of hell, they are merely flames indicating an instant change of dimension.
I am developing a rock solid anti Benito Effect plan. The Spatula and Grizelda doubt the excellence of my plan but I feel sure that it is a good one. I am in drastic need of a plan. Last week I ran into Benito in the street. I walked straight past him then thought that might be rude so I turned around and said hello. He said "How are you?" to which I replied "shopping" then stood like a fucktard. This has got to stop. I will fix this once and for all.
I am going to write a note, in large print so I don't need to find my glasses, I will place this note in my wallet and if I run into Benito again I will simply read from the note. The note will be an explanatory note apologising for being a fucktard and explaining the mystery of the Benito Effect. After I have read the note Benito will burst into flames, return to the dimension from which he came and I will never turn into a silent fucktard ever again. It is a very good plan.
The flames are not indicative of hell, they are merely flames indicating an instant change of dimension.
Yaarrgh for the drinken blooger
I set my hair on fire in Tug Dumbly's house and now my head hurts. I blame Benito Di Fonzo, that's rtight. You heard me. I blame Benito. I went a thing and Benito was there and somehow somewhere I ended up at a party in Chippendale singing Tangled Up In Blue and then setting my hair on fire in Tug Dumbly's bathroom. A Romanian poet gave me licorice papers to roll my cigarettes with.
My head really does hurt. I think I have burnt my head. There were at least seven conversations about my hair this evening and that was before the fire and Gary the Groper who valiantly tried to pick up The Spatula whilst simultaneously sticking his hands all over my person. As long as he kept above the clothes I refrained from punching him in the head quite hard.
Benito offerd me a xanax and I was slightly surprised. I don't think anyone has ever offered me a xanax before, perhaps I should have taken it. When I first saw Benito the usual Benito effect took place and words flew everywhere except out of mouth then Benito said "Are you wearing a wig?". That was the first conversation about my hair. Most of the other conversations I overheard rather than participated in, it was very odd and then there was the whole fire thing but nobody saw it.
Oh god I had two glasses of water and I feel terrible, my head is pounding from terrible wine and I don't even know what's happening I think my bedroom is traveling through time. Its time I went to sleep.
My head really does hurt. I think I have burnt my head. There were at least seven conversations about my hair this evening and that was before the fire and Gary the Groper who valiantly tried to pick up The Spatula whilst simultaneously sticking his hands all over my person. As long as he kept above the clothes I refrained from punching him in the head quite hard.
Benito offerd me a xanax and I was slightly surprised. I don't think anyone has ever offered me a xanax before, perhaps I should have taken it. When I first saw Benito the usual Benito effect took place and words flew everywhere except out of mouth then Benito said "Are you wearing a wig?". That was the first conversation about my hair. Most of the other conversations I overheard rather than participated in, it was very odd and then there was the whole fire thing but nobody saw it.
Oh god I had two glasses of water and I feel terrible, my head is pounding from terrible wine and I don't even know what's happening I think my bedroom is traveling through time. Its time I went to sleep.
How can you sleep while human geographers are burning?
Some of my excellent friends were recounting stories from Trash Sydney the other day and one of them recounted a particularly horrifying tale of setting alight a mattress in Benito Di Fonzo's house. This is not fabulous. I do not like that my friends set alight a mattress in Benito Di Fonzo's house. I hope nobody was hurt.
I have been very busy with Operational Planning Day at my place of employment, fortunately they paid for my lunch in a nice pub in Surry Hills, it has a clock on the wall showing the time in Reykjavic which is very handy.
Listening to my new Radiohead album on the way home I began thinking about my Radiohead scale of people. It is not a linear scale but it does have ends. At one end are people who did not know that Radiohead had a new album, these sorts of people might say aloud in a record shop in Newtown "I only listen to mainstream and R&B". This may cause some panic and distress in Dale who might reply "Shhhh you're in Newtown now".
At the other end of the Radiohead scale are people who might in a car in Surry Hills whilst taking Dale back to Newtown after playing guitar excellently at The Hopetoun "I am not fussed with Radiohead. I think how they are releasing this album is interesting but I don't think that they acknowledge their influences enough. I think they take credit for originality that is not necessarily theirs to take".
I am in the middle of the Radiohead scale. I like Radiohead but I do not own all of their albums. I pre-ordered my copy of In Rainbows and was curious as to how it would sound. I was very interested in how they circumnavigated traditional distribution methods and contractual obligations, slightly alarmed at the mass potential for breach of copyright and generally very pleased to be a part of it, in a small way.
At either end of the Radiohead scale are people I could never be. One because I am incapable of happily diving into the pool of mainstream then swimming lap after lap finger to toe with the ones in front and behind. The other because I have not the skill, the knowledge nor the sheer fucking style to dig all the way to the bottom of the well and see what the rocks are made of.
I will be content to walk around with my tiny headphones, take my measured doses of musical understanding, my wide open capacity to feel, press play and just walk where I'm going.
I have been very busy with Operational Planning Day at my place of employment, fortunately they paid for my lunch in a nice pub in Surry Hills, it has a clock on the wall showing the time in Reykjavic which is very handy.
Listening to my new Radiohead album on the way home I began thinking about my Radiohead scale of people. It is not a linear scale but it does have ends. At one end are people who did not know that Radiohead had a new album, these sorts of people might say aloud in a record shop in Newtown "I only listen to mainstream and R&B". This may cause some panic and distress in Dale who might reply "Shhhh you're in Newtown now".
At the other end of the Radiohead scale are people who might in a car in Surry Hills whilst taking Dale back to Newtown after playing guitar excellently at The Hopetoun "I am not fussed with Radiohead. I think how they are releasing this album is interesting but I don't think that they acknowledge their influences enough. I think they take credit for originality that is not necessarily theirs to take".
I am in the middle of the Radiohead scale. I like Radiohead but I do not own all of their albums. I pre-ordered my copy of In Rainbows and was curious as to how it would sound. I was very interested in how they circumnavigated traditional distribution methods and contractual obligations, slightly alarmed at the mass potential for breach of copyright and generally very pleased to be a part of it, in a small way.
At either end of the Radiohead scale are people I could never be. One because I am incapable of happily diving into the pool of mainstream then swimming lap after lap finger to toe with the ones in front and behind. The other because I have not the skill, the knowledge nor the sheer fucking style to dig all the way to the bottom of the well and see what the rocks are made of.
I will be content to walk around with my tiny headphones, take my measured doses of musical understanding, my wide open capacity to feel, press play and just walk where I'm going.
The mesmerising effect of hats or time limit fifteen minutes
I sat in my office staring at facebook and SMH online for close to an hour, painting my nails and smoking cigarettes. Soon enough it was time to launch so I checked the map one more time and headed out to The Last Bastion of Civilisation but as usual I was early. Happily enough I wandered about and found a $4 thai curry to munch on while I stared through the window of Mao & More listening to Mireille Mathieu on my mp3 player. Its like somebody put too many sugars in my world when I listen to her and her pink and gold swirls.
I was wearing a tie and was fairly confident that this would aid me no matter what occurred but I was wrong. A tall man in a sharp suit and a mesmerising hat came striding up the street and I thought who is that? He pointed at me and came straight over saying "You're Dale Slamma" and for an unexplained reason things went from shit to fuck in a hurry. It was Benito Di Fonzo and I don't know why but he took away my power of speech.
He invited me for a drink but it was like an afterthought or a nod to the gods of politeness. He bought me a drink and chuckled when I said "I'll have a shandy". I sat like a fucktard on a rock in a blanket of silence while journalists and short Romanian men came and went leaving trails of context glowing neon bright. My water had no fish in it and I didn't know what to do.
Time's up. More tomorrow, must sleep.
I was wearing a tie and was fairly confident that this would aid me no matter what occurred but I was wrong. A tall man in a sharp suit and a mesmerising hat came striding up the street and I thought who is that? He pointed at me and came straight over saying "You're Dale Slamma" and for an unexplained reason things went from shit to fuck in a hurry. It was Benito Di Fonzo and I don't know why but he took away my power of speech.
He invited me for a drink but it was like an afterthought or a nod to the gods of politeness. He bought me a drink and chuckled when I said "I'll have a shandy". I sat like a fucktard on a rock in a blanket of silence while journalists and short Romanian men came and went leaving trails of context glowing neon bright. My water had no fish in it and I didn't know what to do.
Time's up. More tomorrow, must sleep.
Swing too many times and you'll have to take a walk
Benito Di Fonzo is a man that could wear eyeliner if he wanted to. There are details but I am drunk and tired. Creamboy brought a date along and I wanted to say she's lovely, Hubbell. But that would be inaccurate and unkind but still the words are sitting cross on my eyebrows. I will just go to sleep.
Made of these
In my head while I was sleeping these are the facts as they rolled before my mind's eye.
Benito Di Fonzo (a man I have spied once but never met) invited me to his house. He did this by becoming insensibly drunk and leaving objects in my glass cube of a letterbox. He left trousers with notes in the pockets, the barrel of a lock but not the key, an empty bottle, the last two pages of a novel.
I would go to his house or his parties but he always ignored me. They sat on the floor, a great ring of men, all drunk, some of them tended to me fetching drinks in heavy glasses and offering up cigarettes and somewhere to lean my head. Benito continued to ignore me in person and leave objects in my cube by night. This is most curious.
Benito Di Fonzo (a man I have spied once but never met) invited me to his house. He did this by becoming insensibly drunk and leaving objects in my glass cube of a letterbox. He left trousers with notes in the pockets, the barrel of a lock but not the key, an empty bottle, the last two pages of a novel.
I would go to his house or his parties but he always ignored me. They sat on the floor, a great ring of men, all drunk, some of them tended to me fetching drinks in heavy glasses and offering up cigarettes and somewhere to lean my head. Benito continued to ignore me in person and leave objects in my cube by night. This is most curious.
The best band in the world ever?
Yep.
I was gonna stay up late and write a review but I'm fucked and I don't mean literally, thankfully. I would have to kick any stinky man out, I want my nice room and my nice pillows all to myself. I was going to write a review right now but all I can think is this one line. The rhythm of my existence. It isn't even a very good line. I'll sleep on it.
I think that the elusive Benito Di Fonzo was there tonight but I can't be sure. I've never met him. He's everywhere except where I'm at. Will I ever get to meet Benito? This might be a challenge.
The best band in the world ever is called The Holy Soul.
I was gonna stay up late and write a review but I'm fucked and I don't mean literally, thankfully. I would have to kick any stinky man out, I want my nice room and my nice pillows all to myself. I was going to write a review right now but all I can think is this one line. The rhythm of my existence. It isn't even a very good line. I'll sleep on it.
I think that the elusive Benito Di Fonzo was there tonight but I can't be sure. I've never met him. He's everywhere except where I'm at. Will I ever get to meet Benito? This might be a challenge.
The best band in the world ever is called The Holy Soul.
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