Vale the Literary Pugilist

H has proposed a Mailer bio-pic ala I’m Not There, in which six actors/actresses play Norman Mailer (though he says you can't use Mickey Rourke or Whoopi Goldberg - too obvious, I guess).

The lovely Susan Dey as a cockfight referee in a small San Diego fishing village, early 1900s.

Jimmy Smits as the dubious accountant Ozzy Osborne mutters to. Jimmy massages Ozzy's wife while Ozzy naps in his chair.

Harmony Korine as himself, filming himself getting beat-up outside convenience stores all in the name of cinema verite, but after multiple trips to the hospital, he quits when he realises he only has 24 seconds of footage.

Kelly Osborne as Tracy St. Claire a bored goth interning at the New Republic

Unorthodox 80s lightweight Livingston Bramble, as Jackie Jones, a sex-crazed TV repairman down-on-his-luck


Patrick Swayze is Tina Livingston a reformed serial killer transvestite/radical novelist who uses semi colons instead of questions mark and hyphens instead of the letter g.

Kevin Rudd

He deserves a chance to f%#k it up

Muriel Lake Incident @ Cinema Paradiso, ACCA, Melbourne

The security chap was kind enough to hustle over and urge De Campo and I to check this thing out, as it had just begun.

We donned headphones and peered into the black of this miniature movie theatre where a film in black and white is being shown on the little big screen. You can hear it through headphones and even though the miniature cinema is empty you can hear patrons squirming in their vinyl seats and whispering loudly (“I thought this was supposed to be Orson Welles”).

Empty cinemas are ghostly.

Muriel Lake Incident is a disconcerting experiment in watching a movie while listening to people talk during a movie.

What’d you think? asked the chap as we walked out legless, our mouths agape and our viscus slugged. “That was frightening,” was all I could say and it was so much more than that.

Dinosaur Jr, Eddy Current Suppression Ring Live!

One of those reviews that don'r run for whatever (perhaps obvious) reason(s)

Forum, Melbourne - The ironic girl air guitaring in front of me gets the Mentos thumbs-up from her boyfriend and three of his mates, it’s unpleasant but satisfying that I burp into her hair singing ‘Rabbits’. Dino Jr. on a full stomach is like taking a bullet in the gut. Must remind myself not to eat African food before big-time rock shows. J Mascis wears a Wipers t-shirt (ode to the Godfather of high-octane grunge) though he probably doesn’t deserve it. Ennui has never sounded so monolithic and unwaveringly trashy. I suspect the mix licks but my mate Steve says its legit, J just can’t control his volume control, burying the vocals, the bassist (a beastly Lou Barlow) and his beatmaster, sending ‘Beyond’s’ voluptuous bomb ditties into the vacuum of the Forum’s vaulted ceiling. The dino dudes doze after a speedy set by ECSR that sees Brendan Suppression climb the speaker stacks and sass his raps on the lower level roof while Eddy and the boyz spark a nu-rave Life without Buildings and slay like the second coming of ? and The Mysterians.

Pointless persiflage/ Cold Sore Country

I’m skipping a Bryan Brown double at the flicks tonight, which is a shame I hear Austrian movies are pretty good, but I’ve simply had enough stimuli for the week in the last two days and am longing to get cosy on the couch with a bowl of De Campo’s Pesto Pasta. Apologies for the pointless post I’m a pretty pointless guy and am keen to remind posterity of how I was on this day in November, my 35th looming like a leopard through the ferny dusk of my post-pubescence.

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A cold sore has emerged and no, it ain’t a damn case of herpes. Try telling that to De Campo who don’t believe me, she’s certain that that’s what all cold sores are, a case of damn herpes. I have a special crème I've grown accustomed to that I apply to the area five times a day. It’s healing up rather well and I look less like David St Hubbins after a gig at a trade show in Waikiki everyday. Of course I used to get cold sores back in high school but that was when my face was a magnet for any monstrous type skin condition (my parents used to make me eat dinner in the other room and my brother used to call me Swamp Thing)

I believe I acquired the cold sore through the use of a Mentholatum used to stop me from biting my nails. Given that it’s only the early stages in the ‘stop and grow’ process the bitter polish stings the corner of my mouth where I still like to bite, not as often as I once did, but still enough to make my mouth look like David St Hubbins raising the roof at a roofing convention in Cape canaveral.

Bliss-out moment of the week: My barber Craig is so cool he plays vinyl records in his shop just like the olden days! He let me put on a record yesterday when side A of the Smashing Pumpkins had finished: Can’s Ege Bamyisi. It was up so loud I was in heavendrinking Coopers Ale on his couch using the other side of my mouth.

Two films from Bergman

All these women (1964)

A pretentious music critic romps around —in a highly offensive manner— the estate of a near-dead genius on cello, groping the genius’ wives and irritating the viewer with maximum detestability.

Scenes from a Marriage (1973)

Sexless strife and trenchant powerplays among bourgeoisies in crisis. Starring Liv Ullmann, who, I had to remind myself, is only an actress, and this, only a film. Masterful.

But Undercover of the Night always brings a tear to my eye

I did more out of the ordinary stuff on the weekend I went to Sydney and played with my good friend and two of her good friends who are now my good friends.

Out for Thai food at Three Mangoes and Tom said do you think the name of the restaurant is a pun on Three Amigos, I threw my hands up in the air and said damn that’s clever (which was true) and his wife M said no because that’s Mexican talk and then Tom said Hey, check it out and slapped the wall and sure enough it was prime Santa Fe sandstone he was slapping. We ate a bunch of food that was real nice and I was hurriedly stuffing my face with fresh chili trying not to look macho. M did the same. I asked if she could feel the geyser of endorphin and she said no what a strange concept and I told her I said that’s at least 55 percent of why I do it. Her return glance was priceless let me tell ya. We intervened on our good friend and said write a play, be a star, do whatever and do it now! The wine was all gone so we went back to my aforementioned good friend’s who runs a hell of a blog and listened to Stonesy. Companions were all too articulate for me as I struggled to explain why the stones were capable of matching Neil Young for honest to goodness feeling. They knew what they wanted to say and were original in how they said it (but freaking jaded as shit too, I’ll just add quietly). I cut my losses and told Tom I was going to make him a Pavement mix that’s gonna blow his mind! Anyway we’re throwing a reunion party for Tom and M’s band in Melbourne next year. I don’t think I have to ask De Campo’s permission for that!

The next day we checked out Tom & M’s new digs in an artist colony South of Sydney. My good friend couldn’t keep her hands off the trees, tres wild! Meanwhile I never seen so many birds in my life. A white cockatoo Tom said looked like me was displaying its yellow Mohican something or other. A qualified botanist we were like you should do guided tours, Tom. He was like nah. He seems happy making his woodcarvings and playing Facebook Scrabble with his Dutch dealer. But seriously everywhere we turned Tom would point out a kookaburra (if ever a bird made you feel good to be alive…). We also seen some rainbow larakeets and most chilling - a snake in the grass. Tom said it’s a black snake I said No way it’s a tiger snake, which is black too, yes, but also deadly.

Food for Thought

"The brain is the final pathway of all action. You can’t do much without a brain, which is why decapitation tends to lower IQ..."link

The Wonderful Jubilee of FJG: Weird Confessions of a True Partygoer

Please adjust the fader so I can appreciate the rear speakers in the back seat of this 1970s oatmeal Jaguar. Oh yeah. Nothing like a mewling Kleenex number on a warm sunny drive to make me feel like I’m heading to Zurich via Acapulco when I’m actually heading to Bendigo. De Campo rides shotgun in silver denim Capri’s and a classy western shirt. Contessa, glam and summery in a plush black dress she bought at a big sale Gertrude Street is a sensible driver never breaking the speed limit although how is she to know when her speedo is broken? I flip through a New Yorker oddly cultivating a desire to see the new George Clooney movie. Night falls. We pass where we need to turn and ask for directions at a BP station. The woman we flag down throws her map at us.

We get to the party and the hosts have set up some plush lodging for De Campo and I in their garage. Profusely flattered. Classic people eating drinking and being merry. Pleasant spots to hangout like at wrought-iron tables under trees or under their large pergola near a fire. A lot of people sit at a large table under the rear veranda near the sidetable where a selection of salads are sitting. The BBQ is hot and sizzling some sausages. Some people like Mia and the boyfriend of a sterling academic have just put steaks on. After making De Campo dinner, chat to G Roy about shiraz cleanskins and the plight of today’s prose stylist.

Gather inside the studio for speeches, music and dancing. The wife component of the most sensible couple of rock lays down some sweet-lovin' harmonica. The birthday girl is celebrated by two speechgivers in matching dresses who give rivetingly witty speeches that leave the entire party dazzled. One of the girls pitches a reality show starring FJG that is so vividly executed that she begins casting the feature film and taking suggestions from the audience. She needs an actress who is tough and firm and assertive before going onto mention a few other characteristics not representative of Cybil Shepherd yet it was at that moment I meekly suggested Miss Shepherd's name only to be reprimanded by a woman next to me who said that that wasn’t the best example I could have used and rather than say it was a total joke I said I really needed to find a toilet and when I came back to the party everyone was waving their arms to a ridiculous, mesmerising R&B song like it was some Christian revival.

Bendigo’s Surrender Monkeys dropped an ace set, followed by the extremely excellent folk rock of Sydney’s legendary Lighthouse Keepers. Inventive tambourine playing is seen and heard. The Cannanes won’t be playing though, their bassist broke his wrist lunging for a Shiraz. Instead there’s a blinding free-for-all jam to partake in. This lasts for several hours and brings much pleasure to the neighbours living adjacently.

Sunday
11am-12pm: Discuss panic and anxiety and type of medications useful in combating them. Eat sausage listening to Morrissey
12-1pm: Discuss the difference between a swallow and a sparrow — outcome at odds with my belief system. Disappointed with the sparrow, listen to Hansalf Trio.
1-2.30pm: A family of magpies (the same ones who used O Neil’s hair for their nest) and a bluetongue lizard are spotted with sausages in their mouths, listening to The Humpty Dance
2.30pm: Suzie returns to the possibility of Robert Mitchum playing FJG in the feature film version of the reality show.
1.40am: Woke up with a terrible panic proceeded to toss and turn for the remainder of the morning, then I had a dream that was more like an accusation into a type of sock that I stopped wearing five years ago.

The Cabinet of Red Crayola

Movie capsule: Dr. Caligari
”Sleepwalking Cesare, under Dr. C’s command, wakes up after 23 years to embark on a murderous rampage inside the wobbly landscape of the mentally deranged.”

Pretty straight forward capsule. I would have preferred it to be sillier or more outrageous, incorporate some wit perhaps. At least I didn’t give the entire movie away like I did last week (I Walked with a Zombie).

I was keen to see The Ancients at the Tote after the film, seemed like a cool doubleheader, until I found out it was just the Ancient and decided not to. No backbeat, no dice is how I basically roll these days; with rare exception (Mia Schoen, Kirsty Stegwazi). Instead watched some TV: The Chaser (punchable), Summer Heights High (superbly acted), NEWStopia (meh). Even though it was greatly satisfying to see Shaun Micallef back on air the only redeeming moments for me were the inspired names of his correspondents and his facial expressions. Then again I didn’t know what the hell he was on about half the time, so what do I know. Maybe it was gobsmackingly genius.

My copy of Soldier Talk by Red Crayola arrived today. Apparently I should be excited to listen to it and evidently I am. Will my thirst for funk ever cease?

Movie Reviews (in less than 25)

I Walked With a Zombie
On a sugar plantation in Haiti, voodoo has taken a woman’s soul. Why? I don’t know why not ask her mother-in-law.

Cat People
Odd reaction to birds. Met him at the zoo. Wait, who’s this sneaky tramp? Apparently it’s the other woman. Panther time!

Extraordinary Wrap-Up

Rode bikes out to Old Scotch Church and admired the scenery along the way.



My sis got married at this church in 1984, the same year the Minutemen released Double Nickels on a Dime. There’s some beautiful fur trappers buried there.































“What are those?” she asked pointing to a large patch of stuff.

“I don’t know...I ain’t a damn farmer."

We stayed at Asian Salad Guy's after the wild Flipper concert. De Campo took this shot the next morning as we wandered toward Hawthorn Street in SE Portland for a slice of whatnot.

Asian Salad Guy


















Steppenwolf performed at the Oregon State Fair and they were total crap I don’t need to tell you anymore. Interesting sidenote: my cousin’s niece who has a twin gets drum lessons from Steppenwolf’s now drummer, a talented guy who knows his way around a cowbell.

Still at the fair, I befriended several goats and kept stepping in their filth. I still had manure on my shoe when we got our stuff together the next day and loaded our things into the truck and headed for the beach.





No fronting, the burgers at my parent's local are wicked. De Campi has a Helvetia hat she picked up the last time she was here that is frayed from constant use. She went to buy another one, but they didn’t have any, so she bought the shirt which they did have instead. It fits her real nice as you can see in this photo I just took.

Hey ask her what the best burger in the world tastes like and she’ll say it tastes like a Helvetia one does. My Dad used to carpool with a guy who had eaten two of their jumbo burgers in one sitting. Ugh. Ugh, you say? Uh-huh.








The front cover of the Muddy Spurs' posthumous outing.

The last handful are pictures I'm too tired to name, other than to say they were taken in Portland around MusicFest NW, and in Idaho. All photos in this entry were taken by De Campo unless otherwise noted.

Grizzly Boy

Dude, so like, I woke up, totally dishevelled, squinting like hell, had a total meltdown when I realised the car was due back yesterday, so I shook De Campo, said get your things, baby, we gotta roll like a scene out of Badlands, hopped in the convertible blasted the soundsystem up to high heavens like Dick Dreyfuss in American Graffiti and proceeded to go like hell down the interstate as if racing furiously would alter the fact the car was 24 hours late, heading into the airport lot, saw a car turned upside down on the divider, continued on to the Hertz end where my brother and his wife were already awaiting us. "Hey I thought that was you back there," Dirk sniggered. I hugged the crap out of him and legged it into the office, told the dude at the counter my situation and he was like 'don't worry about it'. Next thing you know it's before lunch and I’m sucking down cans of Coors in the parking lot of a Motel 6 in Grants Pass, Oregon like they’re frigging Coca-Cola.

Jet boat cruise on the Rogue River that afternoon. The wildlife roll call:

4 bald eagles
6 river otters
1 deer
7 osprey (two of which had fish in their mouths, one of whom dived into the water before , prompting the river guide to chime: ‘you don’t see that everyday!’)



In Winston, Oregon the next day we came face to face with a hungry grizzly and the camera shook from the absolute danger/life-threatening nearness!



HOLY DOGSBREATH!

Ashland, Oregon

Ashland, Oregon, site of my dishevelled enrollment in the journalism program at Southern Oregon University from 1994-1997 was the next stop on our whirlwind tour.

Here I reunited with my old housemates Scott and Terry. Had arranged to meet Scott on the deck at the old Rogue Ale brewery. Figuring I'd recognise the guy even though it's been ten years I was strangely drawn to a guy in RayBan wayfarers with his hairdo superglued into devil horns. It was the longest few seconds I've experienced in my entire life. The guy I was fixated on may have even snapped his fingers a few times. Scott showed up subsequently, accompanied by his wife Lisa, who instantly reverted back to calling me Shaner in her own sweet way like I had never left at all.

They had a newborn baby with them and a Boxer. I met them both, the baby and the boxer, the boxer from the back of scott's truck parked under the bridge. The dog suffers from such an extensive underbite that it used to use its lower lip to fling food into the air until scott came to the conclusion that that was no way for a dog to live and designed a food pedestal for him (Scott's a carpenter).

Terry I've known for ages. We played basketball at Mt Hood Community College together from 1991-1993. After that he moved to Ashland and I moved home to my parents, disaffected and riddled with angst, before joining him there in the beginning of '94.

These days Terry lives comfortably in a suburb north of Ashland with his Mexican wife and the beautiful Guatamalen girl they recently adopted.

We partied until we were violently ill. The food of choice were Jalapeno pancakes and a slimier version of Oysters Rockefeller than the ones we had in Monterey. Food was washed down with local Rogue Ale's Nutbrown Nectar, several tall Snakebites and several rounds from a ridiculous sushi place that pumped death metal and specialised in mojitos.

Scott and Terry said my technique of combining a box of macaroni and cheese with a can of chili is now available in stores, I told them that that's great but the original idea came from a guy I went to high school with who had this amazing knack of combining those unexpected ingredients into a delicious late night snack.

Ashland is a really pretty city. I arrived there in '94 a total tragedy and left with some of the polish of the man that I am today.

The Redwoods

Exited Frisco spectacularly via the Golden Gate fuelled on French Toast and a Dead set live from the Oklahoma State Fair in ‘72. Nearly ran out of gas at the point where the wine country ends and the artichoke farms begin, managed to gas up at a remote outpost where I rather severely needed to use the toilet of which there was only one and happened to time it perfectly as the second I opened the door a whole throng of people were waiting. Almost left the seat up by mistake, until I saw that the person next in line was a woman, who happened to be of tremendous girth, and I quickly corrected myself and she cried ‘what a gent!’ which was kind. I then went out and traded places with De Campo who badly needed to go and she didn’t return for a very long time, I was quite concerned, turns out she was waiting for the lady to conclude her business, so when she came out De Campo was a little frightened and she hasn’t been the same since. Somehow I feel like I contributed to her state by putting the seat down like I‘m an accessory to the fact or something.




Didn’t get to our cabin in the Redwoods until after dark and the place was deserted save for a silhouette inside Cabin A craning for a better look at the latest arrivals. We drove down to check out our cabin, situated in a row of other equally cute ones. No note or indication of what to do whatsoever. We walked back up where we came and found the office. The sign on the door said SORRY. We tried the general store next to the highway. ‘After hours try Cabin A’ it said on the door . We got back in the car and drove to Cabin A. The room was lit by the blue light from a TV. A man with a porn moustache took his time getting to the door. “The key…is under the mat,” he drawled. I don’t think he had any pants on.



“Do you know where we can get something to eat at this time?” asked De Campo.

He mumbled about two restaurannts, both of which he couldn't, not for the life of him remember the name of, I figured he was on the grass. We ended up going to the place where the directions made the most sense to us, down the road a quarter of a mile, located opposite the world’s largest Paul Bunyan (lumberjack du jour) we even got a picture of the big feller the next day in case you didn't believe me.

San Francisco

Witnessed a car accident, poor Asian girl, she's fine, but upset with herself, the guy she hit was such a jerk, Indonesian food was great, after that we saw a band and they sucked!

No Manatees

Bypassed Clint’s Carmel for Steinbeck’s Monterey. Chagrined at the unappetizing bear claws inside the Otter Inn’s highly-touted, complimentary gift baskets.

About 9pm, strolled from arse end of Cannery Row to some harbourside restaurant with an open sign we could see flashing from the public toilets on the other side of the wharf. Shoveled Oysters Rockefeller and crab-stuffed prawns into our mouths, both items doused in decadent Hollandaise, while sea lions commenced their noisy nocturnal patrol of the pier, a good thirty of them shocking us with their outstanding bleats echoing across the bay.

Monterey Aquarium next day onlookers pressed up against the glass for the 10.30am otter feed. “You otter be there,” said a fanatic from Otterville, U.S.A. She was a strange, frightful lady reciting her town motto/mantra to a young boy who appeared bemused, annoyed and a little frightened. The otters themselves clowned around with a bucket of clams. Terribly cute.

Then we saw a bunch of other stuff. You name it, we probably saw it, but no Manatees.

The penguins waddled around to the sexy sounds of Paul Simon (a better musical fate the singer/songwriter could not have imagined). His tunes are a good match for these uncoordinated creatures who ready themselves for a dive so ineptly it’s like they’re always doing it for their first time. Deep down I don't believe the penguins appreciate the staff playing Paul Simon 24-7. Surely this is in breach of the 'They Call me Al' Animal Rights Act of 1987, or whenever that torturous number was written.

The Hearst Castle

The movie Big was on TV the next morning at the health resort we were staying at in San Luis Obispo and I watched that with the volume turned all the way up while De Campo took a hot tub in water with a high sulfur content that smelled like a dairy truck full of rotten eggs overturned on the patio. Took a shower during a preternaturally goofy Tom Hanks outburst, he was cackling and carrying on and such; a scene that drove De campo from the serenity of the foul-smelling hot tub into the room yelling at me why had I left the goddam TV on.

Resolved our differences and did a Pilates sesh surrounded by amazing Californian wilderness.

The sun created a sun-dappled effect along the the streets of San Luis Obispo alighting the quaint shopfronts. Ate a giant taco salad for breakfast under an equally giant moosehead, while feng shui sufferers everywhere weeped openly. Raided Leon's Book Shop for a few golden hardbacks on the way to the car. Car was amazingly unticketed despite us overstaying the parking meter by forty minutes. Nice town.

Drove hell for leather into the sun and nearly ran out of gas.

Hearst Castle was way sweet, but my respect for W.R., which couldn't have been lower prior to the excursion, diminished even further due to the grand obsequiousness of the Hearst propaganda machine. The tour guide said Mankiewicz wrote Citizen Kane in a fit of bitterness and rage for being thrown from the premises for being drunk and lacking the ability to hang with the sophisticates. I'm sure he was loaded, but to somehow present Hearst as more dignified and respectable than Mank was laughable and made me want to hurl.
photos by De Campo

Sunset Boulevard - HWY 1

Sunset Blvd on the way to pick up the rental car the next morning I am hit with a robust Mexican aroma I knew I would be unable to live without.



The place was called Cheebos and all their furniture was painted orange. Sat near an actress who was complaining about the quality of her scripts. A robust, cologne-dappled Mexican with a handsome face knew how to push her buttons. “She didn’t even comment on the dress you wore to the Oscars remember?”

Relocated to a bus stop. The sky was pink and blue through my sunglasses and the air smelled of exhaust fumes. After waiting an eternity for the bus, we hailed a cab to Hertz located next to Norms, a diner that I was certain was the one used in Mulholland Drive (it has a creepy laneway and everything) but alas, it wasn’t it.

Waited three hours for the car. Hertz guys needed a foot up the ass. Killed some time driving a replacement back to the hotel to get the bags and up Mulholland Drive for mythological interest. Back at Hertz and pretty bored listening to the guy we were dealing with tell us he was divorced. He said he liked living alone. “I know where everything is and it’s easy to keep clean.” The Hertz restroom was immaculate. He had left reminders on the paper towel dispenser for his employees to wash their hands before going back to work. He drew us a map of Australia by hand. We were genuinely impressed.

Tad nervous about driving U.S. roads (having drove once in eight years), but eventually took to HWY 1 with aplomb and pulled it off without a hitch. Must-be-seen-to-be-believed sea views of misty waves wrapping itself around every beautiful clifftop turn.

Destroyed after a hard day on the road, pulled into a dodgy diner in Guadalupe at nightfall and laid down five bucks for the best Mexican one could ever hope for. The waitress had gold teeth and cooked it up in front of us, while we knocked back Pacificos and listened to the 50s jukebox chime mariachi favourites of yesteryear.

Dire Wolf Skulls and Other Monstrosities

Agreeable flight. No hi-jacking hi-jinx thank goodness. No one tried to convert their miniature bottle of Crown Royal into a miniature molotov cocktail or open a bag of poisonous spiders on the flight crew. Kept alcohol consumption to a minimum. Saucy white chicken deeply undesirable. De Campo dozed while I read voraciously. From LAX to glamorous hotel on Hollywood Boulevard, awesome print of Mick Jagger, Lou Reed and David Bowie hanging above our bed. Adjourned to the pool where buff Sicilians and thonged bubble butt blondes with their mountainous breasts waded in the shallow end with cigarettes in their teeth spouting inanities. Threw down two Ruby Red Absolut and grapefruits observing this monstrous display.

Hailed a cab to The La Brea Tarpits, the stench of freshly laid LA freeway in full effect. Pit itself oddly created by earthquake fissures forcing tar to the surface and trapping many a dinosaur who were either too slow or too dumb to avoid it and many died. More wolf skulls here than anything else. Seems the dogs never learned, always going after the easy prey and never able to appreciate Mammoth meat sinking in the bastard stuff. They’re still recovering bones there, we had a look inside Pit 91 and this Indiana Jones-type held up the femur of a horse and we all cheered behind the glass like gorillas.

Caught the Dan Flavin exhibition next door - always delightful these unexpected visual treats.

What the greats say about this record

“Ball Power Forever!” — Stephen Malkmus

“Pretty Powerful Stuff” — Dirk Moritz

My Favourite T-Shirt

Just kidding.

Or am I?

Frances J Gibson Rocks So Well

She is the Greatest Diva. In Rock. Her Charisma. Is. Electrical.

The Cannanes first five songs last night encapsulated everything I’ve ever wanted from music ever since I heard Woolly Bully after school in second grade, only difference is I’m way more sophisticated these days. They rocked well and truly swell for half a set and then ended with a few numbers that were less fortunate to these ears.

And this, overheard between songs by headliner:
Guy with squinty eye in flak jacket and marvellous tie: “Apparently they made a mistake but I couldn’t hear it.”
Other Guy, feathered hair, Epson pin on his lapel: “Writing it.”

I’m reading Bret Easton Ellis’ Lunar Park, I started it last night after finishing Faulkner’s Sanctuary (“EWW” is all I can say about that one).

(NOW STOP READING IF YOU’RE SENSITIVE TO BESTIAL COERCION).

From page 23, whereby BEE has already reflected on his career book-by-book, its glamorous ascent to its grim (read: hilarious) descent into drugs and debauchery:

(PASSAGE DELETED DUE TO POTENTIAL OFFENSIVENESS)

Foreign Correspondent #1

Since H hasn’t posted here since the mid-80s, I’m posting his emails under the title Foreign Correspondent. I’ll do this until he starts complaining, I electrocute this blog, or move back to Portland. Anyway this is a nice 100 worder:

I am currently reading hands down the most bizarre epic of all time: Moby Dick. I didn't anticipate the first hundred pages being a homo-erotic love fest between the canibal Queequeg and Ishmael. I am about half way through it and can't put it down. It is a wierd intense little fucker that feels non-linear but yet the plot moves straight ahead. I picked it up on a whim as Elizah started reading Harry Potter. I figured Melville had to be the complete antithesis of Rowling. Forget Fyodor and Gogol, no one captures madness quite like Melville. I plan on reading his "Confidence Man" next.