- Introduction

The Speech of a Man Saves Him?

For all the shipwrecked sailors

During the evening of April 14^th, 2014 I witnessed a lunar eclipse, a so-called Blood Moon, from the parched desolate hills surrounding a small northern Colombian fishing village. I watched, mesmerised, as the Moon became saturated with an ominous crimson glow and then sank slowly into the warm Caribbean sea. On the following Wednesday I decided to visit the town of Aracataca, the birthplace of Gabriel García Márquez. On the very next day, the 17^th, Márquez died at the age of 87 in Mexico City.

I am not a superstitious person; however, I’m always somewhat perturbed when obscure coincidences like these occur. They tend to rattle my rather stalwart faith in the profane mediocrity of everyday causal reality. I usually dismiss them as mere quirks of chance – rare confluences of disparate events that serve as necessary counterpoint to the predictable and the mundane. Regarding these unusual occurrences as anything other than what they are invariably invites the typical indulgences of a rarefied ego – the vulgar and narcissistic superstitions of a personal encounter with fate or destiny. Rest assured, I have not succumbed to any of those fantastical maladies of spirit. I do, however, sense a distinct purpose behind my recognition of these events as significant, but perhaps not in the manner one would ordinarily expect.

Now that we’ve got all that superstitious nonsense out of the way, I’d also like to dispense with any notion that I’m a Márquez fan, for I am not. I just finished reading 100 Years of Solitude (Cien años de soledad), and while I must admit it is a beautifully crafted novel, and fully deserves its reputation as one of the most exquisite expressions of human tragedy in any art form (or language), I did find some of the literary devices that define Márquez’s genre somewhat kitsch and mawkish. After living and working in Colombia for over a year, for me “Magical Realism” is now merely a hackneyed marketing slogan used to pitch overpriced Colombian tourist destinations to rich coked-up gringos.

I was, however, strangely affected when reading about Mauricio Babilonia and Meme Buendia. Their story is strikingly similar to an episode in my own life that occurred just recently. I don’t want to go into too much detail regarding this just yet, since I’m still somewhat devastated by it, but it should be enough to state that my interest was piqued when Meme dreams about Mauricio saving her from a shipwreck, yet she responds with rage not gratitude. The dream serves as a symbolic vignette, not only for Meme’s immediate fate, but also for the entire novel. It also harks back to one of Márquez’s earlier works, Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor (Relato de un náufrago).

First published in El Espectador in 14 instalments, Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor concerns the real life misadventures of a Colombian seaman after being washed overboard and drifting on a raft for ten days. The government at the time made up some bullshit story about there being this massive storm. But after being rescued and made into a celebrity, the sailor later revealed there was no storm at all and that the vessel was dangerously overladen with ill-stowed contraband – white goods: washing machines, refrigerators and the like. The sailor was washed overboard when the ship listed excessively to one side in high seas. Once the truth was published, the government responded with rage, not gratitude. Márquez was forced to leave Colombia and El Espectador was shut down.

Márquez uses the shipwreck reference in 100 Years of Solitude to further accentuate the theme of solitude, while also introducing solitude’s ever-attendant companions, pride and rage. Meme responds with rage when she is rescued because she has been stripped of her pride; her vulnerability is exposed as an uncomfortable truth she’s forced to confront and accept. By Márquez’s account, and in contrast with the Colombian government, Meme confronts her truth quite well (perhaps too well). Yet despite Meme’s best efforts, all her hopes – magically realised by all those yellow butterflies – are inevitably exterminated by the traditional evils of society; they die in a dead heap of dead yellow butterflies. Márquez was expressing the cruel and obvious truth that you can never truly experience the true solitude of love, and no matter how hard you try you’re going to get fucked from behind no matter what, because there’s always some evil interfering sanctimonious cunt with a gun willing to hunt you down and shoot you in the back.

My interpretation may not be to everyone’s liking. This is usually because the people who do not like my interpretation are the evil interfering sanctimonious cunts, those motivated by self-righteous enmity, greed and power with every means at their disposal to disguise the truth any way they see fit – the traditional enemies of anyone seeking truth.

This, of course, brings me back to the Blood Moon. According to the astronomers, there’ll be four Blood Moons within the next few months, all occurring on Jewish holidays. Some doomsday joker wrote a book about it and now the Israelites are all expecting the world to end. From my limited understanding, the Blood Moon is associated with danger from great heat: drought, flames of war, and, to put it plainly, female heat (menstruation). But I believe these Blood Moons have little to do with Israel. For historical, and other reasons, I believe they have more to do with Egypt – at least in spirit. And the fact that all four of them occur on sacred days of the religious calendar makes them extra special and even more hermetically delicious.

Egypt also happens to be the source of the first ever written record of foreign investigative journalism. Penned during the Middle Kingdom period (between about 2000 BCE and 1700 BCE) and titled Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor, it tells how a young sailor is marooned on an island and then molested by a giant snake, who then proceeds to lecture the sailor on the importance of home and family. The snake gives the sailor many valuable gifts, ensures he is rescued, and then the snake and the entire island disappear into the sea forever. The sailor is also told how the snake’s family of 74 were all killed by a “falling star”, including the snake’s hot young daughter. I believe this tale has special significance for present-day Egypt. I also believe Márquez knew this too, especially during the dementia-induced delirium of his later years – which really are the best years of one’s life.

Márquez was a journalist. He lived in two of the most dangerous countries in the world to be a journalist. But according to popular consensus, he never really did anything of any real significance for journalists or journalism. Márquez preferred to hang out with celebrity gangsters (politicians) of less than reputable repute and discuss politics. Yet he was a talented writer, and his books have forever scarred me. For this reason I feel it incumbent upon me to make up for Márquez’s failure and somehow involve him, albeit posthumously, in my mission to restore the freedom of the press in Egypt. I’m sure you’ll all agree that this is the most rational and logical approach to take, given the obscure nature of these facts and their dubious relations to one another – not to mention the title of this piece.

To the Egyptian people I have this to say: Release all imprisoned journalists immediately. Bad things will happen if you do not.

And to Abdel Fattah el-Sisi I have this to say: “O son, how many bodies have we to pass through, how many bands of demons, through how many series of repetitions and cycles of the stars, before we hasten to the One alone?”

The Speech of a Man Saves Him Not

For all the miserable whores

I had been in all my circumstances a memento to those who are touched with the general plague of mankind, whence, for aught I know, one half of their miseries flow...

— Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe

During the evening of October 7^th, 2014 I suffered a history attack. A powerful surge of memories from the six abhorrent years I suffered in New York city flooded my consciousness like a raging tidal wave of human effluent. I just can’t seem to forgive nor forget those who viciously sought to destroy me with their constant spying and harassment – which probably means I’m forever doomed to relive the past for what’s left of my short miserable existence upon this godforsaken Earth. I am, in all truth, a ruined person and I sincerely doubt I shall ever recover from the damage done to me, ever.

If you need to ask why I’m now such a bitterly miserable misanthrope, preferring a tedious solitary life of complete isolation and decrepitude, I merely need highlight the countless injustices done to me through the malicious and invasive subterfuges of my former “friends” and “family” – the vindictive gang of corrupt opportunists through whose interference into my private affairs am I now laid waste. In this respect, I find I now have much in common with similarly oppressed and persecuted peoples throughout human history. And verily it is a sad and regrettable history human beings have made for themselves during their short ignominious reign upon this miserable whore of an Earth. In all respects, human beings are the most dangerous animals that have ever existed, both to themselves and other life forms. Given this fact, my decision to remain permanently detached and aloof from them is perfectly rational and justified. No more sticking my head in the crocodile’s jaws for me, thank you very much.

I must, however, explain that I never speak the truth, and especially not to white people. This is because I really don’t trust white people. And when I say “white people” I’m not talking about skin colour exclusively. Yet since I’m now virtually colour blind it’s practically impossible for me to distinguish friend from foe – not that that there ever is much difference between friend or foe. Whenever I have spoken the truth, in the past, I’ve usually been deliberately misinterpreted and persecuted. Therefore, have I ever resolved never to speak the truth to anyone ever again. I do, however, always tell the truth when I write. I shall never lie to you, my whores. Ever! And you can also be absolutely sure I will never betray you. For although I am no great admirer of humanity, I am forever obliged to serve those to whom I have forever pledged my life. Remember, we are one half of me, always.

The Man of Speech Saves Him Not

For all the captive captains

During the evening of April 4^th, 2015 I took a pleasantly aimless stroll through the streets of central Caracas. I ended up at the Parque el Calvario, El Silencio – a 17 hectare oasis of lush, manicured greenery, plazas and monuments atop El Calvario hill.

I was immediately transfixed by the eyes of Hugo Chávez, which stared at me intently from the huge mosaic stairway that leads up to the park. I purchased some plantain chips from a woman selling snacks by the side of the road and munched them contemplatively as I prepared to scale the 100 or so steps to the top. As I began my ascent, my plan was to pass somewhat symbolically through the eyes of Chávez as I did so. As I neared the base of the stairway, however, I discovered that the area had been cordoned off, so I was forced to go around.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, I walked along a series of pathways through the tranquil silence of the park until I came to a statue of Guaicaipuro. Guaicaipuro was a Cacique (indigenous American chief) of the Teques and Caracas tribes during the 16^th century. According to legend, he united all the local indigenous tribes in an uprising against the invading Spanish. He managed to keep the Spanish out of the Caracas valley for many years, but he was eventually betrayed by one of his own. He was killed by the Spanish after they burned down his house in a surprise attack. I hate irony, but the word Cacique derives from the Taíno word kassiquan, which means “to keep house”.

The statue itself is quite intimidating – a massive, bulging bronze body of spectacular musculature. Guaicaipuro is depicted in the act of pouncing on his enemies with extreme ferocity, spear raised in one hand, tomahawk in the other, screaming with intense rage. The statue gives the impression of being miraculously detached from its surroundings – suspended in mid-air, defying gravity, death and time – while anchored to its base solely by its left foot.

The small plaza where the statue is featured affords a commanding view of the south-eastern part of the city. I stood for a few minutes and gazed at the motley assorted patchwork of apartment buildings, which seemed to vie with one another for prominence like a variegated cubist forest of beige-grey concrete oblongs. I tried to imagine what this same scene must have looked like during Guaicaipuro’s time.

I proceeded up the hill along the path until I came to a plazoleta garden full of ferns and fuchsia-coloured flowers. At one end there was a fountain with no water flowing (here I met my contact and we exchanged keys), at the other end were steps leading up to the main plaza. There wasn’t much else to see in the plazoleta garden, so I headed on up to the main plaza. There I encountered a grey cat sleeping on one of the benches in the late afternoon sun. I sat down beside her and introduced myself. She seemed rather perturbed by my interruption, but slowly began to respond to my gentle caresses. I told her she was a good kitty cat. She seemed to appreciate that.

After bidding farewell to my new-found feline friend I made my way over to the small chapel at the northern end of the plaza, the chapel of Our Lady of Lourdes – a quaint and picturesque structure, like something out of a fairytale, yet utterly vacant inside. There was a bust of Miguel de Cervantes in the small garden beside it. I pondered over this for some time, attempting to discern the connection between Cervantes and the Lady of Lourdes.

“Our Lady of Lourdes” is the title given by Catholics to a 14-year-old peasant girl, Bernadette Soubirou, who experienced a series of Marian apparitions in Lourdes, France back in the mid-19^th century. At first, Bernadette referred to her visions as either the “little lady”, or as simply Aquéro, meaning “that thing” or “it”; but on subsequent visitations the apparition revealed that it was in fact the Immaculate Conception. Bernadette described her “little lady” as ‘dressed in white, wearing a white dress, a blue girdle and a yellow rose on each foot.’ Bernadette’s visions were at first dismissed and she was ridiculed and punished. Upon revealing that her Lady had claimed to be the Immaculate Conception, however, she was soon vindicated by the Catholic Church. Lourdes then became a site of pilgrimage and miraculous healing.

However unlikely and impersonally irrelevant as it may seem, I’d like to think that whoever decided on the contiguous placement of the Cervantes bust was perhaps making an oblique associative reference to Lela Zoraida in The Captive’s Tale from Don Quixote (Part I, Chapter IX). This intercalated story is told by Ruy Pérez, a former captain in the imperial army of Philip II, while Don Quixote is staying at an inn with other guests. Ruy Pérez was captured by the Turks when he abruptly leapt aboard an enemy ship and was cut off from his men. He was held captive as a slave for many years. While imprisoned in Algiers, he was delivered from enslavement by the daughter of a rich Moor, a beautiful veiled woman named Lela (Maria) Zoraida. She experienced visions of the Virgin Mary, which she called Lela Marien. Lela wished to immigrate to Europe and convert to Christianity. After first betraying and deserting her father, Lela provided Pérez with money for a ship to sail back to Spain. She also offered him her hand in marriage.

After satisfying myself with the pointless far-fetched irrelevancy of this explanation I continued on my way up the hill. All was silent but for the distant sound of children laughing and playing. I followed the source of this disturbance until I came to a playground full of children. To the left of the playground was an entrance to a spiral pathway that wound its way up to the very top of the hill. I walked along this spiral pathway until I emerged into an oval-shaped plaza with a statue at its centre. The statue was mounted on a six-tiered pedestal surrounded by six palm trees. Three children were sitting on the pedestal with their legs dangling over the plaque attached to it. Between their shoes I could just make out the inscription on the plaque: Simón Bolívar (hardly surprising). I sat down on one of the benches and smoked a cigarette. I began to think about when I was ten years old and the first time I ever skipped school. It was the same day mandatory tuberculosis vaccinations were being administered.

There was now a slight chill in the air. The weather had been perfect all day, like most days in Caracas. But as I made my way down the hill, I could see a swift mist descend and accumulate into dense clouds, which then began to blanket the mountains north of the city. Recalling the fact that I was now living in a country with one of the highest murder rates in the world, I decided to make my way back before it became too dark.

While walking back through the plazoleta, I noticed that the fountain was now flowing with water. After my ponderous mental meanderings through matters of a Marian nature whilst contemplating the chapel, I was somewhat tempted to regard this seemingly miraculous event as some kind of symbol or sign of providential beneficence. Until, that is, I realised that the lamps in the park were now illuminated. I then reasoned that the fountain’s water pump and the park lights must be connected via the same electrical switch.

I passed by a police guard post on my way towards the park exit. There were ten or so officers milling about speaking in subdued tones. There was also a pack of what I assumed to be stray dogs, which all began to bark at me and follow me down the hill. One of the more aggressive of them began to snap at my heels.¹ I paused for a few moments and gave him a swift back kick – but just to scare him off. The heel of my shoe barely grazed the skin of his teeth.

After successfully fending off the mongrel horde, I concluded my walk in the park by descending the Chávez mosaic stairway to the street below. Despite the stray dog incident, I felt so much more relaxed and mindful of my surroundings. It’s always amazed me how my mood is always elevated so effortlessly just by being around trees for an hour or so. But this mood did not last long.

I slowly made my way back to my building through the fading light whilst making wistful yet determinedly nonchalant recognition of the many beautiful women I saw standing in line to buy toilet paper. I have come to appreciate, through the supreme benefit of direct experience, that many of the things people say about Venezuela are for the most part not true. Yet unfortunately for me, the legendary beauty of Venezuelan women is not one of them. I find it bitterly ironic, yet predictably typical, that this is indeed the case; my appreciation of which only ever becoming more apparent after resolutely avowing a life of permanent celibacy and solitude. This is a vow I have made to myself, not to any other higher powers (not that there are any), which makes the abject renunciation of all personal relationships even more difficult to bear. Priests have their faith and sacred duty – which supposedly assuages their desire, pacifies their hearts and holds them true to their vows – all I have are the festering open wounds of momentous enmity and a life of endless betrayals.

Whilst absorbed in these self-piteous reflections of self-inflicted anguish, and purely by chance, I happened upon a church: the Iglesia de San Francisco. Coincidentally (or not), this is the same church where Simón Bolívar was bestowed the title “El Libertador”. It is also the same church where his much-belated funeral was held, after his body was exhumed from its grave in Santa Marta before being interred at the National Pantheon of Venezuela.

Since it was Holy Saturday, or “Black Saturday”, there was a mass being celebrated. I sat for a few minutes in one of the pews and listened to the priest’s voice, which impregnated the air with a densely rotund resonance from the loud speaker just above the altar. When he wasn’t speaking, the sound of his amply amplified nose-breathing reverberated throughout the interior of the church with an almost comparable volume. This sound had a strange hypnotic effect on me. I felt as though I was being lulled into a state of mindless stupefaction by his rhythmic and chant-like nasal respiration. To prevent myself from succumbing to an utter annihilation of consciousness, I decided to explore the interior of the church somewhat.

The interior of the church was bright, open and surprisingly unoppressive. The understated and unobtrusive style of the colonial-era architecture (thankfully still preserved within its neoclassical facade) seemed to offset and accentuate the baroqueish altar piece and reliquaries with an austere yet oddly comforting solemnity. I made my way over to the small adjacent lateral nave. There was an old woman kneeling just before the altar deep in prayer. She was wearing a long black dress and a lace shawl over her bowed head. I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell she was aware of my presence. I stood there for a few moments and listened to her faint murmurous prayers. After a while she stopped praying, kissed her Rosary and bowed her head even lower. I felt like I was intruding on her solitude, so I left her there alone in the silence with her unheard prayers. All was dark as I emerged from the adjacent lateral nave. All the lights had been put out and the Paschal candle had been lit. The congregation all then began lighting their candles from it. As soon as all their candles were lit, and we were all bathed in the warm communal glow of soft yellow candlelight, I departed.

I walked back the way I came along the Avenida Urdaneta, all the while thinking out loud about how peculiarly unsuited I am for the life I have chosen to lead, and how irrevocably estranged I am from the common throng of humanity. I also thought about how I will never experience love or happiness and how empty and meaningless my life has now become. I then became thoroughly disgusted with my morose and indulgent self-pity. I recalled the fact that despite the wretched singularity of my piteous plight, I am much better off than many others who share a similar fate – and I really should be very grateful for this fact. I then reminded myself that whatever hardships I have endured have, for the most part, been entirely self-induced for a very particular purpose and that to rue the circumstances attendant upon my life choices is a pointless regressive feat in self-defeating futility. I also considered the alternative to the life I have chosen, which would have inevitably led to even greater tribulations and endless self-loathing. I cannot, however, escape the feeling that I am incapable of suffering the state of loveless isolation I have elected to endure for the rest of my life. And yet I know I must. There is no escape and no going back.

Upon arriving back at my building I re-read the The Captive’s Tale from Don Quixote. I then noted that the chapter immediately preceding it is titled Don Quixote’s curious discourse about arms and letters. I read this chapter also. In one of those intriguing moments, which evince a perspicacity of rational intellect far in excess of that which one would ordinarily expect of a self-deluded madman, Don Quixote expounds a succinct and seemingly cogent argument which examines the virtues of a military versus a scholarly career. Not surprisingly, Don Quixote makes it quite evident, even before beginning his argument, that he is firmly convinced a military profession is of decidedly higher virtue:

Away with anyone who gives letters the preference over arms, for I say to him, whoever he may be, that he does not know what he is talking about.²

The topos of arms versus letters is an ancient one, which underwent a revival of interest during the Renaissance thanks to a popular commentary to Petrarch’s Trionfo by the philosopher-physician Bernardo Ilicino. It is more than likely, however, that Cervantes was more influenced by Francisco de Guzmán’s Digressión de las armas y letras from his Triumphos morales, which is a didactic imitation in verse of Petrarch’s Trionfo. Francisco de Guzmán was one of those mediocre 16^th century authors who were quite popular during their own time but almost entirely forgotten today, unless they’re mentioned as a source of reference or inspiration for writers of a more enduring worth or esteem. Guzmán, like Cervantes, was both a poet and a soldier, and both seemingly accorded more honour to the exercise of arms over letters. However much this may offend our enlightened modern sensibilities, from a strictly literal reading of Don Quixote’s curious discourse it’s difficult not to believe that Cervantes is expressing his own opinions on the matter; the sense of which is made especially disarming when Don Quixote makes the logically counter-intuitive statement that “el fin de la guerra es la paz” (“the goal of war is peace” – echoing the idiotic dictum, Si vis pacem, para bellum), and the equally dubious assertion that “mesmo es decir armas que guerra” (“to say arms is the same as to say war”). But both of these sentiments are traditionally concordant with what a chivalry-besotted, middle-aged man bent on re-enacting the romantic legends of a bygone age would tell himself in order to seemingly justify a fallacious belief in the virtue of violence.

Both Guzmán’s and Cervantes’ definition of letters is a restrictive one, in that it appears to be solely specific in its application to the practice of law (“distributive justice”), whilst explicitly excluding “divine letters”, and which we must hopefully assume, must also exclude “humane letters” (literature). Without making such a hopeful assumption a gaping hole opens up in the argument in defence of the superiority of arms over letters. For it is only through the application of humane letters that Don Quixote’s exploits, together with his desire for fame and social advancement, are realised. It is through the word, not the deed (strength of arms), that Don Quixote becomes the embodiment of the chivalric ideals he so idiotically strives to achieve.

The inclusion of the arms versus letters discourse in Don Quixote was perhaps also inspired by the then-current rivalry between a new nobility becoming more influential at court through intellectual pursuits (many of whom were of converso origin), and a privileged caste of aristocratic military types terrified of losing their ill-deserved positions of power and prestige – the perceived threat posed by Humanism. Cervantes characterises this threat in Don Quixote in the person of the mocking Bachelor, Sansón Carrasco (the man of letters in the guise of The Knight of the White Moon), who vindictively triumphs over the strength of Don Quixote’s errantly misguided arm. Yet, paradoxically, Carrasco vanquishes Don Quixote with arms, not letters. And, as though apparently vindicated by Don Quixote’s epiphanous renunciation of knight-errantry on his deathbed, it is also Sansón Carrasco who writes Don Quixote’s epitaph; the final words of which stand as scant justice to our most Ingenious Nobleman, Mister Quixote of La Mancha – “he lived crazy and died sane.”³

Cervantes’ own military experiences mirror the same paradoxical misfortunes as those of Don Quixote’s. The Holy League’s victory at the Battle of Lepanto (1571) – in which Cervantes was shot in the chest and lost the use of his left arm – was of predominantly symbolic and emotional importance, which outweighed any military or diplomatic advantages. The Ottoman fleet recovered quickly after the defeat, and the strategically important island of Cyprus remained under their control. And although Tunis was captured in 1573, it was lost again during the following year. The Grand Vizier Mehmed Sokullu, Chief Minister to the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, was reputed to have remarked while discussing the Battle of Lepanto:

In wresting Cyprus from you, we deprived you of an arm; in defeating our fleet, you have only shaved our beard. An arm when cut off cannot grow again; but a shorn beard will grow all the better for the razor...

It would be difficult to deny the fact that Cervantes’ military career had a more profound impact on the history of Western literature than any of the battles in which he participated have had on the military or political fortunes of Europe. And it would be equally difficult to deny the fact that Cervantes would not have become the writer he became without his military experiences, nor without the five years he spent as a captive in Algiers. In this respect – as a source of arduous and traumatic experiences inspiring and motivating the creative urge – the victor in the arms versus letters debate is clearly arms. In every other respect, of course, the debate is pointless and futile. The virtues of both disciplines should be determined through a full examination of their effects, not by a comparison of any one of their inherent or intrinsic qualities. Yet despite the futility of the argument itself, it is my firm contention that the arms versus letters debate serves as the central ideological fulcrum upon which Don Quixote’s fortunes pivot.

Throughout Don Quixote, especially in Part II, it is often remarked upon by Sancho and others how wise, prudent and insightful are Don Quixote’s opinions, on any and all of the topics he cares to discuss – from choosing a wife, to governing a city. Yet when it comes to the baser, more practical matters of life, all of Don Quixote’s good sense and sound judgement is eclipsed by his vainglorious, delusional beliefs in the fantastical ideals of chivalry. Of course, Don Quixote’s motives are, for the most part, altruistic and honourable. But owing to a choleric temperament inflamed by the fiery passions of an overstimulated imagination, all his otherwise pragmatic virtues are overshadowed and obscured by the lunatic obsessions of his knight-errant windmill tilting.

Sancho, who is the complete opposite of Don Quoxote at the beginning of the novel, begins to assume some of Don Quixote’s characteristics towards the end. But Sancho has no stomach for arms. His aberrant excesses find expression through letters, oddly enough, via the overuse and misapplication of proverbs. Sancho’s aversion to the practice of arms, however, does not appear to hinder him during the government of his “island”, despite the Duke’s warning that ‘in the government of the island I am giving you, arms are as necessary as letters.’⁴ Sancho, although seemingly motivated by greed at the outset, proves himself to be a wise and just ruler. It is only on account of the cruel pranks played on him by the Duke and Duchess – culminating with the mock battle – that Sancho’s government comes to an abrupt end.

As a reluctant yet staunchly avowed pessimist, I’m inevitably obliged to interpret Don Quixote’s and Sancho’s fateful misadventures as sad comedic parables of the futility of idealism in the face of the gaunt uncompromising primacy of militarism. In the end, arms will always triumph over letters. The ever-expedient recourses of deceit and aggression – although more often than not also employed in the practice of law – have few if any countermeasures other than those of an exact like of expediency. I suppose this is why people usually don’t erect monuments to Men of Letters – unless they win wars, which they rarely do. It is a lamentable yet perfectly understandable fact that the victorious Man of Arms still occupies pride of place when a collective reckoning is made of the monumental merits of valour and virtue.

My apologies. When I first started writing this piece I had no idea I would end up discussing my thoughts on Don Quixote in such detail. While re-reading and thinking about this novel, I’ve come to appreciate it in an entirely new light. The first time I read Don Quixote I really didn’t regard it as anything more than a trivial, long-winded comedic romp by a roguish wag of a mediocre poet. I now read Don Quixote as a profoundly paradoxical, half-veiled semi-nihilistic anti-war statement by a disillusioned and impoverished, maimed ex-soldier. And I now fully understand why Faulkner is said to have re-read it once a year. Don Quixote whimsically portends the collective fortunes of us all – the inevitable sad fate of this delightfully mad prosaic farce we laughingly call humanity.

Of course, I use the word mad imitatively in a purely vernacular sense. Don Quixote’s profound state of risible sadness does not arise from him truly being mad. He allows himself to see what his imagination prefers him to see, which is an act of conscious will, not madness. If it were mere madness, Don Quixote would be mere tragicomedy. But Don Quixote ventures far beyond tragedy and comedy into the rarefied realm of remaking the world as he sees fit (the world as it should be), regardless of how seemingly aberrant its application, but which most people usually regard as madness. And in the end, especially towards the end of Part II, it would seem that Don Quixote does in fact succeed; he eventually manages to convince us that knight-errants probably should exist in the world. But by that stage, thanks to the interference of Carrasco, it’s far too late for Don Quixote. The crushing blows of cruel reality (the world as it is) extinguish Don Quixote’s spirit and finally convince him of the absurd folly of his errant ways. I, for one, am in complete agreement with Don Antonio when he chides Carrasco with ‘God forgive you for the offence that you’ve committed against the whole world in attempting to restore the funniest madman in it to his senses!’⁵ For it is the very restoration of Don Quixote’s senses that causes his death. And there is no intercession or deliverance for our poor sad-faced Knight. The one force that could have saved him, Love – symbolised by the disenchantment of Dulcinea – remains a veiled elusive phantom that vanishes into nothingness, together with Don Quixote’s vanquished spirit.

I must again apologise for my rather prolix Quixotic digression, and for deviating so widely from the topic I originally intended to discuss. But I believe it necessary to at least try to convey some of my thoughts on what may prove useful at a later date, however ill-conceived and artlessly expressed. I shall now return to my original point of departure. The point being this: that after re-reading the The Captive’s Tale and Don Quixote’s curious discourse about arms and letters, I slowly began to understand why I have been so senselessly blighted with a life of interminable sorrow: because I have been forced to choose arms⁶ – even if it is just one arm, and even if that arm is only capable of wielding letters. And, just like Don Quixote (but unlike Ruy Pérez and Simón Bolívar), and however maudlin and clichéd it may sound, Love is the only force that could have saved me. But I know it’s far too late for me now. There shall be no intercession or deliverance for me. My life will end much the same way Don Quixote’s ended, and for much the same reasons: disillusionment, dejection, demoralisation and despair. There is nothing that can save me now. My speeches have all been spoken, my letters all written. And this is the final word. Vale.

1. I originally wrote “One of the more aggressive of them, a malevolent black mutt...” It was not until my left leg was savagely mauled by a big black dog a few days later that I realised my mistake. Yes, they “set the dog” on me, as they say. But it really was a malevolent black mutt. I don’t make any of this stuff up. That’s what you do. Anyway, praise the LORD for Cuban Medical Internationalism!
2. Don Quixote (Part I, Chapter VII): “Quítenseme delante los que dijeren que las letras hacen ventaja a las armas; que les diré, y sean quien se fueren, que no saben lo que dicen.”
3. Don Quixote (Part II, Chapter LXXIV): “morir cuerdo y vivir loco.”
4. Don Quixote (Part II, Chapter XLII): “porque en la ínsula que os doy tanto son menester las armas como las letras...”
5. Don Quixote (Part II, Chapter LXV): “Dios os perdone el agravio que habéis hecho a todo el mundo en querer volver cuerdo al más gracioso loco que hay en él!”
6. I also learned that I much prefer plantain to potato. This lesson was not learned from Don Quixote.

The Bloody Moon Speech Saves Him

For the Admiralty

I’ll have rum, thanks...No Bloody Moon.

— William Faulkner, The Unvanquished

During the evening of September 27^th, 2015 I witnessed a lunar eclipse, a “Blood Moon”, from my newly renewed and now fortuitously situated residence in Cumaná, Venezuela. I toasted the veiled prescient significance of this present Blood Moon – the fourth and final instance of this timely tetrad – with half a shot of cheap rum in one hand and half a fried sardine in the other. I watched, in a numinous state of pensive enchantment, as that sacred Bloody Moon poured down its unstinted sanguine nimbus upon me with pregnant yet malignly muted portent. I downed the rum, took a large bite out of my tasty little sardine, and then uttered these words to myself under my breath: The tide has indeed now turned.

As I stared up at that unearthly diminished crimson orb ominously suspended in the clear night sky, I began to recall one of the first dreams I had when I was ten years old. I dreamed my mother had given me a kite for my birthday. She told me I couldn’t fly it until morning because it was dark outside. I completely ignored this proscription, of course, and sneaked outside after everyone had gone to bed. It was an eerily serene night illuminated by the spectral glow of an unusually large full Moon. The night was still and calm without a breath of wind. But as I raised the kite above my head, it miraculously began to take flight, as though seemingly compelled by some mysterious unseen force. The kite kept flying higher and higher while heading directly towards the Moon. The speed of its ascent kept increasing to the point where I was no longer able to control it. I tried to reel the kite back in, but it was so high and ascending at such a rapid rate I just couldn’t. Eventually the string escaped my grasp and cut searing grooves into both my palms. I looked down at the palms of my hands. I watched the blood seep to the surface. I then heard a deafening dull thud. I looked up at the Moon and saw its bright white light suddenly extinguished. In its place I saw a faint red shadow of what once was. Oh my God! I killed the Moon. I’m in a lot of trouble now, I thought.

I then began to think about sardines. I thought about how pan-fried fresh Caribbean sardines are incredibly delicious, and that we all should be enjoying them as much as we can for as long as we can while we can.¹ I took another bite out of my sardine, slowly savouring the sweet salty sapidity of its succulent flesh, whilst marvelling at the miracles of nutrition still occurring in the ever-anoxic waters of the Cariaco Basin. I then ruefully lamented the abating trade winds, the reduction in ocean upwelling, coral reef die-offs, the ongoing proliferation of nanoplastics, overfishing, and the declining yield of the local sardine catches, which over the last few years have plummeted by as much as 87%.

After considering all this, I felt like drinking another shot of rum. Unfortunately, I was all out of rum. Over the last few weeks or so I’ve become habituated to drinking a bottle of rum by myself almost every night of the week. However, I now accept the need to perhaps curtail this regimen somewhat and perhaps limit myself to one bottle per week. In any event, since I’m now dead it probably won’t make much difference how much rum I drink. Obviously, when I say “dead” I mean it in a purely essential sense, since I’ve essentially been rendered so isolated that I am in effect essentially dead. Not that I’m complaining, since dead men never complain.

So since I am in effect essentially dead, I am now at full leisure to reflect upon my miserable whore of a life and write about it unaffectedly and dispassionately as though I were in fact effectively dead – which I suppose is the whole point. Some may choose to counter this rather suspect reasoning with the undeniably true proverb that “dead men tell no tales”, or that – according to my fellow Hylozoist, Thales of Miletus – “there is no difference between the living and the dead.” To them I would respond that while it is undeniably true that dead men tell no tales, those who bury them do; and that regardless of the sayings and beliefs imputed to Thales, I do not believe in the immortality of a conscious human soul. As far as I’m concerned – and I’m sure Thales would agree if he were alive today – there is a very distinct difference between the living and the dead.

And yet I do agree with Thales regarding the existence of a universal arche, or first principle, from which everything originates and to which everything must inevitably return. This quasi-mystical statement may sound like so much archaic semi-spiritualist nonsense, but I do mean it in a very literal and materially substantive sense. We come from water, we are mostly composed of water, and eventually we all return to water. In this respect I am in full concurrence with Thales, and not just via analogy, in his belief that water is the arche, since I consider water to be not only the origin but also the cause of all life on Earth. This belief is an ancient one and does not originate with Thales, any more than it does with any other philosophical school of thought or branch of science. It is a universal truth we all instinctively know to be true just by virtue of being able to know anything at all.

But Thales’ theory of water as the first principle must be distinguished from the numerous ancient creation myths that hold that water is the base primordial substance. Thales believed water to be the primary creative principle itself, and in essence, in and of itself, “divine”. This is a major shift in thinking away from the mythical conception of water as a passive and inactive prima materia creatively acted upon by an external anthropomorphic god or gods. Human beings have a wonderful knack for intuitively divining the truth, but their grossly underutilised powers of dialectic and reason, together with their blind arrogance and intellectual vanity, usually pervert their initial intuitions into grotesquely distorted lies and self-aggrandising wishful thinking. Thales was the first to wash away all that bullshit. This is why he is often referred to as the “first philosopher”. And although he was quite wrong about water being the first principle on an elemental level (if that is what he indeed thought, which is doubtful), he was correct in a bio-eco-psycho-physio-logical sense.

I should explain that I have recently taken a renewed interest in the early pre-Socratic Hellenic philosophers – specifically the Milesian school of natural philosophy – which has newly inspired within me a fond appreciation for the ancient philosophical thinkers of the remote past. This, together with my current state of total detachment from the world at large (my “death”) has in turn resulted in a further clarification of my own views on first principles, whilst also initiating a return to that which is of prime importance. All this has now compelled me to ramble on about water and Thales to such an extent.

Thales is thought to have authored at least two works, On the Solstice and On the Equinox, yet none of his writings have survived to this day, prompting some scholars to believe that he never wrote anything at all. Everything we know about him comes from later doxographers, most of whom were writing centuries after his death. I hate irony, but Thales is said to have died from dehydration. Amongst the many scientific firsts attributed to Thales by these writers – which include calculating the height of the Cheops pyramid by its shadow, measuring the diameter of the sun and the moon, determining the distance of ships at sea, and predicting eclipses – he was also reputedly the first to travel to Egypt and bring back the study of geometry. It is also said that he once fell into a well whilst strolling about distractedly and gazing up at the stars.

Since Thales left no writings of his own, and given the lack of any other contemporary sources, it is difficult to regard these anecdotal accounts of his accomplishments as entirely factual. It is indeed one of the great ironies of the history of Western philosophy that the “first philosopher”, the man who first elevated logos above mythos, is in fact more myth than man. But according to the historical consensus derived from the scant details handed down to us from Aristotle, it has now become generally accepted that Thales’ most enduring achievement was his new materialistic perspective of observation and reasoning, which enabled him to gain a more rational understanding of natural phenomena, and which became the founding basis of the scientific method we all know and love today.

Whether all this is true or not of the historical Thales is of course entirely irrelevant. The fact that many of the ancient Greek philosophers, including Aristotle, accorded such respect and importance to a man named Thales – who supposedly lived over 2,600 years ago, and of whom precious little else is known – should be enough of a justification to sufficiently warrant and sustain further reflection and discussion, despite the paucity of credible information regarding his life and teachings.

Of particular interest is Thales’ belief that the Earth floats on water. Perhaps he reached this seemingly absurd conclusion after falling into a well? Regardless, given that groundwater only makes up around 0.6% of the Earth’s total amount of water, we must concede that Thales was plainly wrong on this account. And yet it’s not too difficult to understand why he would have made such an assumption. Ships, after all, float on water, and the naturally buoyant properties of wood can support heavier-than-water materials.² And just as ships become unstable during storms when struck by powerful waves, Thales also believed that earthquakes were caused by the same force. Obviously, he was wrong again in his attribution of water as the underlying elemental property, but in principle he was correct on both counts, since the Earth’s lithosphere does “float” upon a viscous liquefied asthenosphere, and earthquakes are indeed caused by waves, though of the seismic variety. Thales may also have been supported in his thinking by the phenomena of floating islands. Sailors have known for centuries that volcanic eruptions sometimes create pumice rafts, which can float on the surface of the ocean for months, or even years. Over time larger rafts may support vegetation, and even animal life.

Also of particular interest are what are generally supposed to be Thales’ thoughts on the soul, particularly in light of his apparent atheistic monism. And of particular interest in particular is the oft-quoted saying, attributed to Thales by Aristotle in De Anima, that “all things are full of gods”. This seems to directly contradict Thales’ belief in a single material substance as the first cause. Aristotle writes that Thales concluded that “...a stone [magnet, or lodestone] has a soul because it causes movement to iron”. And Diogenes mentions Hippias affirming that “...arguing from the magnet and from amber, [Thales] attributed a soul or life even to inanimate objects”. But the word soul or life is used in both these accounts, not god or gods. The interpolation of god into Thales’ philosophy has been perpetrated by other thinkers long after his death. And it is Thales’ assumed use of the word soul, primarily, that has given rise to these misinterpretations (most of which were conceived by Plato, perpetuated by Aristotle, and which I shall not discuss here). However, it should be enough to state that I, just like Thales, make no distinction between the word soul and the word life – movement (anima) is soul, and soul is life; both are one as far as I’m concerned. Unlike many others, I can never make the mistake of equating the word mind, or consciousness, with that of soul. To do so, to my mind, would be to succumb to a overindulgence of regressive anthropomorphic hubris far beyond the endurance of my meagre mental capabilities.

Some would argue that I am perhaps being a little too pedantic and that the minds of the ancient Greeks were still enshrouded in a mythological conception of nature that prevented them from apprehending and interpreting reality with the same degree of rational perspicacity and precision we all take for granted today. To them I would say that they are quite plainly wrong. It is our propensity to either oversimplify or elaborately endow the ill-documented theories of ancient philosophers with our own modern bias that leads us astray into adopting the least rigorous recourse of infantilising their beliefs. Consider the fact, for example, that as far as we know Thales never made any mention of the Sun or the Moon being “full of gods”. Yet it is difficult to believe that he could not have known that the Moon causes the ebb and flow of the tides, and that the angle of the Sun’s path through the sky determines the seasons. If Thales did attribute some kind of supernatural godliness to the Sun and the Moon, in the same way he reputedly did of magnets and amber, he would have been no different in his thinking from the vast majority of human beings alive during his time for whom the Sun and the Moon were mythologised and worshipped as living gods. It was the ability of some inanimate objects to cause movement and change that led Thales to believe that they possess life or soul; but inferring that god or gods are the source of that movement is senselessly antithetical to Thales’ principle belief in the arche. Such an incongruously divergent inference is an act of viscous infinite regress that entirely misses the point of his novel, rational perspective of the nature of reality. It is an insult and a dishonour to the legacy of Thales which I refuse to suffer any longer.

Now that I’ve got all that off my chest, and now that I’ve single-handedly rescued and preserved Thales’ scientific reputation for all of posterity, I’d like to take a few moments to say a few words about movement and change, if I may. As an intransigently transient derelict scumbag, forever fleeing ideological persecution – primarily due to my dangerously flawed belief in the innate right of individuals to determine their own destiny according to incontrovertible and universal truths – I’ve come to appreciate, all too well, and above all else, the necessity of movement and change in life. To best illustrate this necessity I shall return to the analogy of water and the Moon, whilst also enlisting the insights of another fellow Hylozoist, Giordano Bruno. Bruno postulated many interesting astronomical and cosmological theories back in the 16^th century, many of which were only found to be scientifically valid in the late 20^th century. One such theory involved the origin of the Moon. In De immenso, Bruno writes:

There are those who have believed that there was a certain time (as our Mythologian says) when the Moon, which was believed to be younger than the Sun, was not yet created...The Earth, which is of the same species as the Moon, is of creatable and destructible substance, and is truly animal and even mortal, although divine. Therefore, the planets (worlds) are able to be created and destroyed, and it is not possible that they have been eternal, since we have proved them to be alterable and consisting of changing parts.³

Bruno’s “Mythologians” were the ancient Greek writers who had elaborated on the pre-historical intuition of a time long ago when the Moon did not yet exist, and when there were people (the Proselenos) who were said to have dwelt in the mountains, fed on acorns and lived as aborigines. This is probably just an amplified mythologism of an ancient solstice ritual. However, like most myths, this myth does contain a kernel of truth.

Bruno was writing at a time when the Aristotelian view of the universe still held sway. Aristotle taught that the Earth was static and at the centre of a finite universe. Accordingly, Aristotle believed the Earth to be of unique importance with its own set of physical laws that were different from the heavenly bodies. He stated that these heavenly bodies – the Sun, the Moon and the planets – were perfect and unchanging, and more or less merely ornaments of the heavens, not worlds unto themselves.

Bruno’s assertion that the Earth is “of the same species as the Moon” and that it is made of “creatable and destructible substance” is a truly amazing feat of intuitive insight that only now are we beginning to appreciate. It is now believed that the Moon was created approximately 100 million years after the Earth formed when a planet called Theia, composed of similar material and of roughly the same size as Mars, collided and merged with the early Earth. The debris ejected into space slowly accreted to form the Moon, while the cores of the two planets merged to form the Earth as we know it today.

Without this act of destructive creation it is doubtful that complex life forms could have evolved on Earth. If not for the extra mass added to the Earth from Theia, there would more than likely be no tectonic activity; the surface of the Earth would be mostly static; there would be no mountain building or continents, and wind and water erosion would have obliterated all traces of land long ago, but for the odd volcano. Additionally, the Earth’s magnetic field, which shields us from the deadly solar wind, would be significantly reduced, or perhaps not exist at all. Without the Theia impact, the Earth would probably have just ended up a slightly warmer version of Mars. Thankfully, Theia did collide and merge with the Earth, and as the Moon formed it began to slow the rotation of the Earth and stabilise the tilt of its axis, which in turn allowed for more temperate climates and more moderate seasons. And of course the Moon’s gravitational effect also powers the tides. Without the rapid movement of water across the surface of the Earth (fast tidal cycling), the formation of precursor nucleic acids, which eventually gave rise to complex life, would have been greatly inhibited. And lastly, and perhaps most obviously, our nights would be a whole lot darker without the illuminating presence of the Moon.

As one can now clearly see, it is difficult to imagine how life could have evolved without the influence of the Moon. As a beneficent body of constant movement and change, the Moon is truly the sacred saviour of all living things. The waters of the Earth would be shallow, static and stagnant if not for both the force and substance of the Moon. For water alone is not enough. Water must move. Water must be capable of movement and change to sustain life, always.

Via this analogy, and at the very least, I should perhaps try to illustrate how all this talk of water and the Moon reflects upon me personally, and why and how I’ve come to the sad conclusion that I’m now essentially dead. Simply stated, in the past I have said and written many things – purposefully and knowingly – which have had a determinedly destructive impact on my personal life; so much so that I’ve now come to the sad conclusion that I’ve essentially impacted myself to death. That being the case, I believe I’m now in a prime position, just like the Moon, to creatively gravitate, ameliorate and reinvigorate that which I have destructively impacted. In other words, I believe I’m now able to pull it all together as one into a fluid reflective whole, whilst assembling some semblance of a meaningful form from the shattered remnants of my past pathetic excuse of a life.

So now that all these unearthly and sardonic reflections of an aquatic nature are readily apparent to one and all, I shall refrain from any further discussion on this topic...except to state the following: I truly adore you, oh sacred Luna. Please forgive me for killing you as a boy. But I now know I never really killed you, did I? I merely obfuscated your lustrous argent luminescence for a short while. In any case, I sincerely apologise for my overly ambitious flights of fancy. Rest assured, in future, I shall abstain from any such adventurous undertakings. I just hope, through my elegiac and honorific Proselenic prose, that I have by now, at least in some small measure, somewhat assuaged your deathly silent wrath and that my feeble words of dutiful praise have thereby saved what is left of my mortified soul.

Peace be to one and all. It is finished.

1. I now eat as many sardines as I can. I’ve also taken to eating slices of fried salted yuca with slices of fried tomato on top, which I call lunas de sangre.
2. The ancient Greeks had no generic word for matter. Aristotle – perhaps in the remembrance of Thales – uses the word “wood” hyle, from the Ancient Greek ὕλη for this purpose. But he probably wasn’t the first to do so. The English word matter owes its origins to this designation: materia, madera, etc.
3. De innumerabilibus, immenso, et infigurabili (Liber IV, Capo X, pp 56-57): “Sunt qui crediderunt quoddam tempus, (refert Mythologicus ille) quo nondum nata esset luna quae iunior esse sole credebatur...Etenim Telus quae eiusdem est speciei generabilis est et corruptibilis substantiae, est enim animal, quantumvis divinum, etiam mortale: mundi ergo generabiles sunt et corruptibles, et non est possible aeternos fuisse, quos experimur alterabiles, exque alterabilibus partibus consistentes.”

The Beheaded Sexless Goat Dream

I was walking alone through the streets of a small Venezuelan fishing village. I saw a goat running along one of the side streets kicking wildly at anyone who approached it. I had a strange premonitory sense that the goat would attack me if it saw me, so I hid inside the doorway of one of the houses. As soon as the goat emerged from the side street, it saw me hiding in the doorway and charged at me at full kilt. I tried to escape, but the goat cornered me and tried to kick me with its hind legs. I successfully fended off these attacks by taking off my jacket and using it to shield myself. I then used the jacket to grab the goat by its hind legs and grapple it to the ground. Then I bound the goat’s legs with the sleeves of my jacket as best I could and carried it off to the house of some people I knew who lived in the village. The people there were all genuinely impressed by my capture of the goat. They insisted I slaughter it right then and there so we could cook it for dinner that evening. One of the men handed me a large knife which I used to slit the goat’s throat. Blood spurted from the goat’s severed throat and saturated the ground before me. But even after what seemed an extraordinarily length of time the goat was still alive. At the suggestion of one of the men I cut deeper into the goat’s throat while trying to remove its head. After struggling desperately with the goat for some time, all I succeeded in removing was the skin covering its neck and skull, including its face. Eventually I managed to cut through the goat’s vertebrae and the head came off completely. Then one of the other men came over and inspected the goat closely. He informed me that the goat had “no sex”, meaning it had been neutered, and that therefore it was not wild and must belong to someone from the village. He told me the right thing to do in such a circumstance (killing someone else’s crazed runaway belligerent sexless goat) was to return the goat to its owner (minus the head) – after first skinning, gutting and cleaning the carcass – then apologise. The owner would then be obliged to cook the goat and invite us all to dinner.

The Sauce

The Spanish word for sauce is salsa.

The Spanish word salsa derives from the Latin sal (salt).

Salt, sodium chloride (NaCl), as any Western chef will tell you, is the most important of all condiments. And sauces constitute a defining basis of most culinary arts.

The English word “sauce” has also been used as slang for liquor. It is also used, in its adjectival form “saucy”, to denote impertinence, insolence, pertness or bawdiness.

In addition, the English word “sauce” is a homophone of the English word “source”.

Salsa is also a Latin American dance derived from Cuban Son, Mambo and other dance forms, which originated in the 1970s in New York by way of Puerto Rico.

I believe dance to be the highest of all art forms.

I wish I could dance well; however, I cannot. I dance like a partially paralysed stick insect with half its limbs missing. But I can sometimes play guitar – on the odd occasion, when I’m in the mood, and when no one else is around and whenever I have enough desire to do so. Yet regrettably, the only piece of music I’m interested in playing – besides my own form of mindless droning monotony, which I call “Dronomonotonophony” – is the Chaconne from Partita No. 2 for Violin by J.S. Bach. The Chaconne was a style of dance popular during the 16^th century of a similar origin as that of Salsa.

I do not wish to bore you with the historical details regarding this particular piece of music, so I won’t. In any case, I must confess I’m neither a musician nor a musicologist. I wish I were a musician, but I never had much aptitude for music. I find I also lack the patience and discipline required to concentrate solely on music for any length of time beyond three and a half minutes. And so, for all these reasons – plus many others I can never write about – I’m sure you’ll all agree that this is about as much as I’ll ever need to write with respect to music.

And you all know who you have to thank for that.

The Yellow Ice Plant

The Spanish word for ice is yellow (hielo).

The Yellow Ice plant (Delosperma nubigenum) is a perennial species of Aizoaceae native to South Africa and Lesotho (Basutoland). The plant was discovered in the clefts of rocks on the top of Mont-Aux-Sources. It bears yellow daisy-like flowers during spring and summer. It is the hardiest of all the Delospermas.

The name Delosperma derives from the Greek words delos “visible” or “open” and sperma meaning “seed”, which refers to the fact that the seeds are visible inside the open capsules. Nubigenum is a Latin epithet meaning “cloud born”.

Delospermas are known as “Ice Plants” because the flowers and leaves seem to shimmer as though covered with frost or ice crystals. The leaves are fat and succulent, thus making them resistant to drought.

Ice plants are of particular interest to engineers and scientists due to their origami-like, unfolding, hydro-actuated seed capsules. The swellable cellulose structure of these seed capsules have particular relevance to the emerging field of programmable matter.

The Spanish word for yellow is amarillo, from the Latin amarellus, from amarus, “bitter”.

Catorce y zapatos

The Spanish word for fourteen is catorce. If you’ve been paying attention, or even if you haven’t, you’ve probably noticed this number come up quite often. There are various reasons for this – some of which I am aware of, some I am not.

The average depth of the ocean is about 14,000 feet.

The Spanish word for shoes is zapatos. If you’ve been paying attention, or even if you haven’t, you’ve probably noticed I make reference to shoes quite often. There are various reasons for this – all of which I am aware of.

It takes a very special pair of shoes to walk on water.

Aposematism & Caltrops

My two favourite words in the English language are aposematism and caltrop. I’m not really sure why.

I am also greatly enamoured of the word palimpsest.

How Not to Count Penguins

The average Galápagos penguin (Spheniscus mendiculus) is 49 centimetres (19 in) long and 2.5 kilograms (5.5 lb) in weight.

Penguins are a bit of an anomaly at the equator. They survive in the Galápagos due to the cool temperatures resulting from the Humboldt Current. Usually, the temperature at the islands stays between 15 and 28°C (59–82°F). The penguins put off breeding during El Niño because the water temperature rises and food becomes less abundant. The population underwent an alarming decline of over 70% in the 1980s.

1928

I know I’m expected to write about three particular individuals who were all born in the year 1928, and who all, one would naturally assume, have somewhat influenced my thought and mode of behaviour. Therefore, I shall not. I shall instead write about Shirley Temple (April 23, 1928 – February 10, 2014), and the first animated film to feature Mickey Mouse: Plane Crazy (first screened May 15, 1928). Contrary to popular belief, this film is actually the first to star Mickey Mouse, not Steamboat Willie. And also contrary to popular belief, Shirley Temple was never a child. She was, in fact, a tyrannically querulous midget in her mid-to-late 30s.

I share many similarities with Shirley Temple; none the least of which is the fact that we were both once unwitting “child” porn stars. Her lifelong love of tobacco, too, is something we both share. In addition, her dance partnership with Bill “Bojangles” Robinson (particularly during the staircase scene in The Little Colonel) mirrors quite precisely my experiences while living in the U.S. – with particular respect to Obama’s intricately choreographed ascension to ill-begotten imperial power and ineffectual infamy. Shirley Temple was, however, a staunch Republican and a caustic anti-Communist. Here are where the similarities end.

In 1969 Shirley Temple was appointed Representative to the 24^th United Nations General Assembly by President Richard M. Nixon, apparently after impressing Henry Kissinger with her knowledge of foreign affairs. He overheard her talking about Namibia and was surprised she knew anything at all about the country. Obviously, her qualifications were indeed impressive. She was also appointed United States Ambassador to Ghana and served as Ambassador to Czechoslovakia, having been appointed by George H. W. Bush. By most accounts she served admirably, if unremarkably, and without incident. She witnessed both the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, and the “Velvet Revolution”, which brought about the end of Communism in 1989.

Although I can imagine there were many more individuals better qualified for such posts, one simply cannot underestimate the appeal of celebrity. Unfortunately, most people are greatly swayed by the privilege and prestige celebrity confers and this makes up for a lot of other qualities or qualifications which are usually lacking in such illustrious personages – statecraft being stagecraft to the exclusion and detriment of all else.

Fortunately, Mickey Mouse is unlikely to be appointed to similar posts, being an animated character and entirely incapable of fulfilling the physical bearing of being required for such honorific duties of state.

Mickey’s first film, the animated short Plane Crazy, was inspired by Charles Lindbergh’s non-stop transatlantic flight the previous year. This remarkable feat of daring also inspired what then became known as the “Lindbergh Boom”, a period of intense interest and rapid development in all things to do with aviation. This obsession never really ended in the U.S., and is now especially evident in the abundance of investment in, and abuse of, drone technology.

Just like Shirley Temple, Charles Lindbergh, too, was a great big Commie hater, if not a straight-up fascist racist, and he also took advantage of his fame to become involved in politics. Thankfully, he never became too involved in politics because his child was abducted, murdered, and partially eaten, in what became known as “The Crime of the Century”. He then exiled himself to escape the mass publicity and extreme fame which inevitably ruined his life.

Plane Crazy may be interpreted as a portentous warning against the perils of ambition and the loss of control that often accompanies fame and success – especially while trying to impress a woman. The cartoon begins with a gang of demented farmyard animals building an aircraft. Mickey enters the scene and begins reading a “How to Fly” manual. After browsing the manual for a while, he then attempts to alter his appearance to resemble a photograph of Charles Lindbergh. Mickey boards the aircraft once construction has been completed. The plane’s propeller is powered by a giant rubberband-like sausage dog. A pig enters the scene and begins to crank the propeller. The plane begins to take off, but Mickey loses control. The plane careens around in all directions and crashes into a tree. Mickey appears to be greatly disappointed by this turn of events. He soon overcomes his disappointment, however, when he discovers an automobile, which he then proceeds to convert into another aircraft. He modifies various components, adds a propeller, and attaches some turkey feathers to serve as a tail fin. Just as Mickey is about to board his new aircraft, Minnie Mouse appears. She presents Mickey with a horseshoe for good luck. Mickey asks Minnie to accompany him on his maiden flight. Minnie appears to accept Mickey’s offer. She boards the aircraft. The sausage dog then reappears. This time it is he who cranks the propeller. The engines starts and the plane begins to take off, but it hits a rock, the shock of which ejects Mickey from the cockpit. Mickey chases after the plane, but is then chased after by the plane himself. Mickey jumps down a well to avoid it. As the plane passes, Mickey emerges from the well and chases after the plane again. Clarabelle Cow then appears. She is also chased by the plane. In what must be considered one of the very first examples of bestial-mechanical boob rape ever depicted on film, the plane flies between Clarabelle Cow’s legs while penetrating her greatly exaggerated udders with its twirling propeller. Clarabelle then attaches herself to the tail end of the plane. Mickey attempts to regain access to the aircraft by grabbing Clarabelle’s teats. Clarabelle squirts Mickey in the face with a face full of milk. Mickey falls to the ground. As the plane passes a second time, Mickey regains access and resumes control. Once back in the cockpit, Minnie attempts to pull Mickey’s face off out of sheer fright, which causes him to accidentally break off the flight column. The plane veers out of control again, almost hitting oncoming cars and a series of telephone poles. The plane then takes off wildly into the air, almost colliding with a church steeple, which miraculously contracts to avoid a collision. Mickey then manages to reattach the flight column and regain control. He requests a kiss from Minnie, who rather rudely refuses. Mickey then proceeds to intentionally scare the shit out of Minnie by performing a series of dangerous acrobatic manoeuvres. Mickey again requests a kiss. Minnie again refuses. Mickey then forces himself on Minnie. Minnie becomes greatly offended by this violent act of impropriety. She jumps out of the plane using her bloomers as a parachute. Mickey again loses control of the plane, and again crashes into a tree. He tumbles through the branches, hits the ground, and the horseshoe Minnie gave him before the flight hits him in the head. Minnie floats safely to the ground, but her bloomers have been stretched out of all proportion. Mickey laughs at this. Minnie gives Mickey the finger and walks away. Mickey throws away the horseshoe in disgust, but it boomerangs and hits him in the back of the neck.

I’m sure you’ll all agree this topic requires no further discussion – except to state that the history of U.S. diplomacy, aviation and cinema have coincided and collided rather remarkably in the past.

Top Bottomers

I am not one for making grand cryptic statements, nor am I prone to providing oversimplified explanations for that which is clearly beyond my reckoning. It is, therefore, quite difficult for me to explain that which may seem haphazard and ad hoc, whilst acknowledging that most of my life has been shaped and guided by forces I had hitherto disregarded as illusory or inconsequential. Yet however much I resent these perverse powers of interference in my life, I suppose I should at least be grateful for all the alone time.

Of whom do I speak, specifically? It’s not too difficult to identify who they are. They’re usually so self-consciously aware of their own ill-deserved privilege and self-righteously self-guarded self-importance that they can barely suffer their own painfully hypocritical amoral rectitude without resorting to some form of bungled dissemblance of personality. This usually betrays itself as either self-effacing fake humility or a bastardised misrepresentation of the personality traits of others. Most of these idiots are entirely bereft of any real power and dirt poor; yet they’re quite capable of becoming the obverse, if only they could cast off their insufferable ideological aversions and their self-defeating fractious rancour. But they believe they are the bastions of the “new way”. They keep themselves in a static state of perpetual abeyance at the bottom depths of society in an act of inactive infinite hope for the day when humanity will be at last ready to receive the supreme benefit of their inspired wisdom and utopian vision of a future free from socioeconomic inequality and financial despotism. So they attentively bide their time, yet with fixed determination, for the moment to arrive when they shall rise as one in a furious tumult to the top and rescue humanity from its sinking ship of overladen venal perversity.

But none of that seems to matter to me anymore, since I’ve long since solemnly sworn to remain entirely headless for the remainder of my exceedingly short duration. Besides, I believe I’ve provided them with more than enough amusement in the past. And I know at this stage of my life I’m supposed to have moved on to become some great big entrepreneurial business dick or a corporate managerial arse-licker, but I could never have suffered myself if I had ever become either one of these – and nor shall I ever! So as a consequence my career options have now become rather limited. I suppose my best option now, since I really have no desire to do anything else, is to become a straight-up raging alcoholic. Verily, I believe this to be my true calling in life. And I have my numerous Top Bottomer friends to thank for reminding me of this fact. For it is undoubtedly certain that due to their unnerving desire to unnaturally cast me in their own ill-befitting mould that I now fully appreciate that I can never become anything other than that which is not of their desire. Hence, am I now naturally obliged to become an inimical aposematic totem of all that is most undesirable.

Bottoms up!

Masking the Remainder

I’ve always found it abhorrently narcissistic and exceedingly patronising how some writers try to write the real life author (presumably themselves) into their stories. So I decided to not only write the real life author into my story, but to also write the author and my story into real life itself. This way, you see, you get the best of both worlds.

The impetus to utilise this literary method, if you could call it such, was brought about by my fascination with the phrase the thing in and of itself. I’ve always found this phrase peculiarly attractive. I don’t know why, but I’ve always really liked how it sounds, without knowing exactly what it means. Therefore, I resolved, one day, to rectify this situation by combining this phrase with another equally beguiling phrase, it is what it is, in the hope that a happy marriage may provide further insight into my fascination. I don’t really know why it occurred to me to do so; the thought just occurred, so I went with it. After years of work and multiple attempts I managed to fuse these two phrases together into a single unidirectional spire of political and philosophical potency that will horridly gore and transfix all those who dare defy its awe-inspiring brilliance and magisterial might. Of course, I’m exaggerating somewhat. But I have, of late, approached a somewhat more complete understanding of how the two phrases relate to one another, and the singular importance of each.

Essentially, it all boils down to this: Of what the thing is, it is in itself it.

I call this the “Coke Maxim”. Coke, as in Coca Cola, because I was somewhat inspired by the Coke is it! advertising slogan used during the 80s; maxim, because it is a general rule or principle one can easily apply to every field of endeavour.

Simply stated, of what the thing is, is its constituent parts, which make up its totality. This totality is then the very definition of what it is in itself. The thing can never be known without full comprehension of what the it is made up of as a whole. Even simpler would be the statement, You can never really know something without knowing the whole of it.

As applied to this work, the maxim holds true and adequately demonstrates the importance of knowing the whole of something in order to come to a complete understanding of all of it. If you’re reading this work while it is being written, you will, no doubt, have no trouble not misinterpreting what I mean. This may sound like an obvious truth that need not be spoken of in such tortuous detail, yet sadly my experience has taught me otherwise.

Everything I have just explained must also be qualified with the remembrance that the I in this work, the it, is that of the narrator character, the thing. However much this I accords or does not accord with the I in “reality”, at this moment, in itself, is not for me to conjecture, and is frankly none of my concern. I shall entrust this task to those who do concern themselves with such hermeneutic trifles. For my part, I want nothing to do with any such trivial concerns involving any such form of objective realism. For in reality it must be understood that it shall presently remain my objective to do and be nothing, since as yet I still have no complete understanding of what my it in itself is made up of as a whole.

Likewise, and disregarding the somewhat insulting tone of some of my subsequent statements, my intent is always to do the opposite of harm by doing nothing at all – to draw attention to specific problems, understand and highlight the causes, and then offer no suggestions at all as to how to solve them. This is a simple method, the application thereof anyone may delight in, given the correct form of motivation. My motivation, primarily, is the goading need to write a punch line to the most unfunniest not joke in the history of civilisation: the “United” States of North America (excluding Canadia and Mexico). To accomplish this, I must first understand, before anything else, the intent of the joke. I have already stated explicitly that the joke is not funny, and that it is, also, a not joke. Therefore, we can assume two things: the joke intends to be something it is not; and yet it is that which it does not intend to be. It is, in fact, a not not joke. This may sound rather confusing, so I shall further confuse you with an advanced mathematical expression:

0 + 0 = 0

In fact, no matter how many zeros (nots) you add, the result is always zero. Simple, yet infinitely fascinating, is it not?

Perhaps you were expecting a more entertaining example, one involving antimatter, parallel universes, time displacement, and the like? I would never wish to bore you with such distracting hyperbole. I have instead bored you with the most rudimentary and artless expression I could find to best communicate that which is essential to human understanding.

But as everyone knows, zero can never truly ever be absolutely zero; there is always a fifty-fifty chance that the zero will either be slightly more or less than zero, which is never really zero to begin with. This being as it is, the positive or negative remainder necessarily becomes the anomalous amount which is indeed equal to that which is not zero. Another way to explain this would be by cutting a giant lump of cheese into exact halves. Even with the most precise atomic laser one could never cut exact halves, thus making it impossible to subtract one half from the other to equal zero. On paper every thing looks neat and spiffy:

1 - 1 = 0
0 + 0 = 0
0 + 0 + 0 = 0

But in the real world, if you add enough zeros together, or subtract enough ones from other ones, you can eventually end up with a fairly noticeable remainder.

This disparity, with what is theoretically valid and what is observable in nature, is the punch line in itself, and is of the exact same nature I experienced during my time in the U.S. It is also of the exact same nature I have sometimes observed in myself. In practical terms, this disparity translates into living a complete lie, neither willing nor able to reconcile one half with the other – “masking” the remainder becomes the primary preoccupation.

This is why I have resolved, by the age of 74, to rigorously apply the Coke Maxim to all aspects of my life, forever discarding the mask while making full account of the remainder.

Art

“All art is propaganda.”

— George Orwell

“All art is erotic.”

— Gustav Klimt

“All art is erotic propaganda.”

— Hieronymus Gotlieb von Willebrand

In Defence of Emma Watson’s Vagina

The sheer volume of digital porn involving Emma Watson’s vagina is truly disturbing. I have made a thorough investigation and I am sincerely shocked and appalled by what I have seen. Leave Emma Watson’s vagina alone!

Besides, the real Emma Watson vagina looks nothing like any of these disgusting pictures. Emma Watson’s vagina is immaculately gorgeous and I will not have its beauteous sanctity defiled by crudely forged photographic distortions of its delectable gracious purity. Leave Emma Watson’s vagina alone!

The mutilation must end!

Emma Watson’s vagina mellifluously drips sacchariferous ambrosial globs of all that is great and glorious in this world. It exudes that sweet heavenly perfume of angelic vaginal flatulence that mesmerises the senses and confounds men’s reason. It is, in a word, God.

And regardless of how many vapid and patronising Hollywood celebrities who take up political causes, or how many dutifully obsequious sheep that follow them into the common cesspool of distracted unknowing, Emma Watson’s vagina shall forever remain the exalted and enlightened epitome of all that is sacred and righteous upon this Earth. We must all genuflect before it, honour it, praise it, adore it, and forever keep it forever before our imaginations as the true light of spiritual might and heavenly reason.

Amen.

I Love a Parade of Horribles

Cadence and diction have always been more important to me than the actual significance of anything I write. I suppose this is because I’m such a horrible writer. I’m horrible at writing, my style of writing is horrible, and most of the people I write about are horrible. All this makes for much horrible writing. I should really have been a horror writer.

An absurdly abhorrent abundance of ardently articulated alliteration is also of immense importance to me, as is the gratuitous overuse of assonance, anadiplosis and paratactic parachesis – all of which in no way contribute to a further clarification of meaning. Meaning is grossly overrated.

Over the years I’ve come to appreciate the fact that it doesn’t actually matter what you write, of far more importance is how it is written and how many standard stylistic literary devices you use. Writing has a lot in common with programming in this respect. And so, since I am such a horrible programmer, it would stand to reason that I am also such a horrible writer.

I’ve also come to appreciate that the only way I can write with any degree of sincere and proficient facility is by deliberately going out of my way to do all the things one shouldn’t do while writing. Therefore, I shall endeavour to always do the following: apply titles and finish endings first; reveal drafts and sources during the writing process; maintain a thoroughly patronising and persistently pompous academic tone throughout; contradict myself endlessly (or not); disallow all forms of critical review; exercise excessive self-indulgence in my choice of subject matter; never write about race, gender, sex, drugs or violence; make unrestrained use of sociological and psychological jargon; liberally indulge in the unabashed application of superfluously superfluous adverbs, standard conjunctive phrases, “crutch words”, repetition, rhyme and puns; coin words that make no sense to anyone else but me (indeed, I shall construct my own mint for this express purpose); engage in emotionally unrestrained and socially naïve juvenile rants; employ painfully obvious political allegories and ambiguous reverse sarcasm; reject all forms of non-committed literarism (in fact, reject all forms of all kinds of literarism); completely ignore all contemporary influences – and, where possible, pointlessly enumerate in point form inconsequential details of absolutely no consequence so as to avoid having to do any real writing.

Needless to say, the only reason I’m parading all these horribly honest admissions of my deliberate literary incompetence before you is because I wish to circumvent and thereby prevent any and all criticism of my horridly inept and clichéd writing. But then given the truly horrible nature of the subject matter, and the fact that most of you who are reading this are horribly stupid and complete idiots, I could really care less what you think. So why am I even writing this?

Untitled

July 2, 2016: Today, after over twenty years of duly diligent apathetic abstinence, and in an act of ultimately misguided yet wilfully reaffirmative optimism, I finally and willing succumbed to my mandatory democratic duties by casting my pointless vote in the pointless 2016 Australian Federal election. Like most other good Narrmians, I knowingly decided to waste my pointless vote by voting for the Australian Greens. I did so not because I believe that impending and inevitable world-wide ecological and socio-economic doom can be averted by a meaningless minority of granola-eating, tree-hugging, pot-smoking, ineffectually gentrified ex-hippies; but because I truly believe that only the Greens truly give a fuck about the long-term future of this country. Not that I give a fuck anyway. We’re all going to burn.

The only other time I had voted, when I had just turned 18, I voted for the Australian Labour Party, with the Greens as my second preference. Today, after first preferencing The Pirate party, the Science/Cyclist party, the Arts party, the Reason party, and then a whole host of “kooky” independents, I gave my last preference to Labour. Nothing need be said as to why my preferences fell the way they did, since my vote was of absolutely zero significance and ended up going to Labour anyway.

Although I’m not entirely down with being forced by law to vote, after living in so many other less civilised, politically backward and inherently more corrupt parts of the world, I now fully understand, if not appreciate, why I’m forced to give a fuck. Not that I really give a fuck.

I then headed to Sydney’s Central station and boarded a train to Katoomba, the spiritual home of Australian fascism.

Man Dies in Bridge Crash: Dog Found 11 Hours Later

Nigger...found in lake 11 hours after crash

A man died after his van smashed through a railing on Commonwealth Avenue Bridge and plunged 60ft to the bottom of Lake Burley Griffin yesterday.

It was the second such accident in nine months.

RAAF Corporal Gerald Kelly, 38, of Mertz Place, Mawson, died only minutes after the small van he was driving hit the near-freezing lake waters shortly after 3am yesterday.

Corporal Kelly’s body was recovered at 5am, two hours after a police patrol noticed a big gap in the railing.

The van was wrecked in the 30ft fall to the water. The roof was crushed to the level of the bonnet.

The van sank another 30ft to the lake bottom.

Corporal Kelly was married with three children and was stationed at Fairbairn.

A young dog he had with him escaped from the cabin and was found in the water 11 hours later by a Department of Works officer.

Late last night the dog’s condition was described as “as good as normal”.

A Bureau of Meteorology spokesman said the temperature of the lake water would not have been much above 35 degrees during the period the dog was in the water.

A neighbour of the Kellys said last night that the dog, Nigger, was a family pet and often accompanied Corporal Kelly.

A police Spokesman said last night that an inquest would be held at a date to be fixed.

Last September, Mr. Ljubisa Stojic, 30, of Macquarie, drowned in a similar accident very close to where Corporal Kelly’s van went through the railing.

— Some old newspaper story I happened across at The Old Parliament House

Ulladulla to Batemans Bay, and What I Thought About Along the Way

I know I said I wouldn’t give a fuck anymore, but as I drove the 54 kilometres along the Princess Highway, through one half of the haunting grandeur of the Murramarang National Park from Ulladulla to Batemans Bay, I couldn’t help but think about my less fortunate comrades in other less fortunate parts of the world. I then thought about how deeply privileged I am to live in a land where people truly don’t give a fuck.

And even as I stopped halfway and took a moment to relax on a lonely windswept beach, accompanied only by a mob of leisurely ruminant kangaroos, who eyed me warily yet tolerated my incongruous yet innocuous presence, and as I ate a dozen fresh oysters whilst marvelling at the pristine splendour of my native surroundings, I continued to think about my less fortunate comrades in other less fortunate parts of the world. I also continued to think about how deeply privileged I am to live in a land where people truly don’t give a fuck.

Lakes Way

I discovered the Lakes Way by accident last summer while on my way to some place else. I was listening to Arnold Schönberg’s Five Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 16 at the time – perhaps not the most appropriate soundtrack, given the tranquil beauty of the landscape; but then given the current regressive form of dystopian mass neurosis to which the rest of the world has now inevitably succumbed, perhaps not so unduly inappropriate.

I stopped for a beer and some oysters in the twin towns of Forster-Tuncurry. The bartender at the restaurant was a fresh-faced local kid straight out of high school. He told me he’d just been accepted to Sydney University, but couldn’t afford to live in Sydney, so had to go study some place else. That made me angry. He looked down at my plate of half-eaten oysters, and said, without the slightest hint of sarcasm, “I wish I lived in Sydney and could afford to eat oysters.” That made me even angrier. I then began to wonder if he would have said that had he known how I was living a few years back. But then it probably won’t be too long now before he begins to experience it for himself.

Update: A few months after writing the passages above I returned to the twin towns of Forster-Tuncurry. I stayed at one of those dreary motels just outside of town. My plan was to spend the entire weekend bingeing on beer and oysters. During my first night, however, as I was gently nodding off to sleep, I suddenly awoke to discover I was being verbally assaulted, though the keyhole, by some belligerent drunken rube. The next day I decided to go some place else.

Now, you know I don’t like to complain, and you know I’m usually quite tolerant of belligerent drunken rubes, but if it ever happens again, I’m going to smash their drunken keyholes in with a great big bag of toxic oysters.

Das Auto ist Nicht das Problem (or How to Cook Kangaroo)

I used to drive a Volkswagen. I now drive a Subaru. Of course, I’d prefer not drive an automobile at all. But then how else would I be able to rediscover even one half of the unique native flora and fauna of my sacred native lands? Not that there’s as half much now left to rediscover, so I’ve since discovered.

Roo (serves one)

You will need: an automobile, four kangaroo fillets, two tablespoons of crushed garlic, three tablespoons of whole grain mustard, one tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce, one tablespoon of soy sauce, a third of a cup of red wine (Shiraz), half a cup of extra virgin olive oil, and lots of cracked black pepper.

Blend the red wine, Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce, garlic and mustard together. Add the olive oil slowly, ensuring it is thoroughly blended. Add pepper to taste.

Perforate the fillets on both sides with a fork. Place the fillets in a plastic container and pour in the marinade. Seal the container and allow to marinate at room temperature for six hours.

Preheat a saucepan on a high flame for two minutes. Cook the fillets for three and a half minutes on each side. Remove the fillets from the saucepan, wrap in foil and allow to rest for ten minutes. Slice the fillets into strips lengthwise.

Serve with a nice salad and what’s left of the wine.

You will never wish to eat cow again.

This Place You Call “Sydney”

I’ve been doing a lot of driving lately. I’ve also been listening to a lot of country music radio stations, and Chopin. I’ve also decided to never pay rent again while living in Sydney. And so, as a logical consequence, I’ve decided to start living in my car.

This really isn’t as bad as it sounds. It’s just like camping, only without all the camping equipment. And I’ve found the perfect place to park: White Bay, the Balmain industrial waterfront near the derelict power station on Victoria Road. I must admit, the dilapidated magnificence of the abandoned power station – inhabited now only by an army of stray cats – is what first attracted me to the area. And what a fitting landmark it is, while it stands – which probably won’t be for long now. It’ll probably get knocked down pretty soon by some billionaire property developer, who’ll build a billion dollar high-rise full of million dollar apartments that only millionaire foreign investors can afford to buy, which they’ll then rent out to all the thousandaire idiots like me. Well not this idiot! Never again shall I pay rent in this place you call “Sydney”! No longer shall I reward the usurpers of other people’s lands.

I must explain that I’m doing this purely out of spite. I can afford to pay rent, but I refuse. Sadly, this also means I must also refuse a few other things in life. But then sadder still is the sad fact that I don’t really have much in life, besides my car, to refuse anyway. Therefore, am I all the more willing to make whatever unnecessary sacrifices are necessary to bring about a swift end to the exploitive tyranny of this imperialist rentier state of oppression. Pure spite, my bitches! It is the only way forward.

I know, I sound rather riled up. But contrary to what one may expect, I’m actually quite happy with my decision to live in my car and never pay rent again, despite the cramped conditions, and the lack of amenities. And I’ve already learned so much from the experience: how to piss in an empty apple juice bottle without spilling a drop (one of the very few times I’m actually glad I have a penis); where to find free all day parking to avoid having to pay thousands of dollars in fines; and how to sleep in one-hour semi-vigilant shifts and wake up feeling like absolute shit, yet still get up and go to work in the morning.

Yes, I do work. But to be honest, all I ever do at work is watch cat videos and read faceporn posts all day. It seems that that’s all I’m ever really expected to do. For you see I am currently engaged in the joyless employ of one of the least enviable companies at which to work in all of Sydney. Yes, I work for Bauer Media Australia (in the “beauty” department) – a highly toxic bitch culture work environment, where the acrid stench of mindless mediocrity and inevitable failure hangs heavy in the air; where petty political power plays, dehumanising surveillance tactics, and socially engineered personal take downs are habitually practised with impassioned relish and in extreme preference to anything anyone could ordinarily consider real work; a company where self-serving ambition, blatant nepotism and cronyism, indolence, infantile superficiality and chronic incompetence are the founding principles of its organisational ethos and overall management style; where anyone or anything regarded as a threat to the staid status quo of bourgeois gutter journalism, and the all-too precious malvertised “ad sales” it once generated, is targeted for utter annihilation with the traditional weaponised forms of brutal and myopic imprecision one has come to expect from such a company.

Nevertheless, and in spite of the fact that I’m working with some of the stupidest people I’ve ever met in my life – with their bullshit bubbly personas, their over-styled dirty blonde hairdos, their ridiculous fake orange tans and their peroxide-whitened fake-arse smiles – yes, in spite of it all, each day, at the break of day, I awake to the light of the blazingly radiant car rear window-magnified sun prying apart my eyelids, and after slowly yet reluctantly regaining my senses, with the aid of one of those new cannabis-infused hemp milk flat whites, I commence my commute by gallantly galumphing my way east, through the concrete hexagonal arches of the Glebe Island bridge, past all the billion-dollar high-rises, towards that glistening beckoning beacon which is the Sydney city skyline. As I proceed, more often than not outpacing the choking procession of cars, trucks, and overcrowded buses that accompany me on my self-enforced march, and as my laboured breathing becomes ever more laboured, I always make sure to drink in, for as long as I can stomach it, all those gorgeous harbour city views – of which, and in spite of my exceedingly short attention span, I shall never tire. By some great good grace of nature, these pretty fleeting glimpses never fail to act as a beneficent spiritual antidote, partially alleviating the throbbing pain in my head caused by the constant cacophony of traffic noise and the nauseating miasma of noxious exhaust fumes. Yes, irrespective of my current state of malcontented vagrancy (brought on by predatory property speculators and those who profit from them), and the oppressive gridlock and pollution, I am still most suitably impressed by the superficial beauty of this artificial aquatic wonder world of a city – a city that has always appeared to me to float on water, as though miraculously levitated by the rarefied pelagic buoyancy of all that carefully concealed toxic silt.

The Nature of Wood

Murmuring out of its myriad leaves,
Down from its lofty top rising two hundred feet high,
Out of its stalwart trunk and limbs, out of its foot-thick bark,
That chant of the seasons and time, chant not of the past only but the future.

— Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Whitman knew something of the nature of wood. Like the tree he so admired, the wood it contained was organic, fluid, and elemental. And like the tree, wood does speak of the future – a unique future that requires respect. We work with it because we like its texture and feel...we savour the smell that rises from a cut...we’re gratified by how the grain “pops” when a finish coat is applied.

We appreciate wood, and we admire the poetry-inspiring trees that produce it. But one thing about its organic nature can delight us – or make us wish we had taken up a simpler pastime. Unlike glass, ceramic, or steel – wood moves. Long after you’ve crafted it into furniture or fenceposts, wood continues to move as the moisture content of air changes. When you understand and allow for this in your woodworking, your pieces are strong and lasting. Nothing buckles or falls apart, because you know that wood moves.

To work wood successfully, you need to know why it behaves the way it does. You need to know a slice of what botanists know. Only then can the material you work so carefully pay back your attention with enduring quality. It’s the nature of wood.

— Rick Peters, Woodworker’s Guide to Wood (2000), p. 7

Last Bus for Sydney (or Bye Bye, Mister Pogue)

Let me first explain that I harbour no personal enmity towards Mister Pogue, none whatsoever. In fact, I know absolutely nothing at all about his personal life – save that he claims to have once been to Mexico; which, as I recall, he enjoyed immensely. Oh, and the fact that his human partner recently gave birth to a human child; which, so I’ve heard, isn’t really that personal.

No, my enmity is primarily inspired by and directed at the advertising industry, of which Mister Pogue is, sadly, the most befitting representative. That being so, I do understand that Mister Pogue is merely symptomatic of a far more serious problem: namely, Sydney’s buses – that antiquated fleet of excruciatingly loud big-wheeled behemoths, constantly holding up traffic, forever blocking our line of sight as they lumber and lurch all over the road while belching out toxic diesel fumes that putrefy the air and make us all sick in the brain. Be gone Sydney’s buses! You have afflicted humanity with your filth for far too long.

And so, and as my last parting gift to humanity, I have now made it my mission in life to bring about nothing less than the total eradication of the advertising industry and Sydney’s buses.

We’ll get to the buses later. For now, it is as much for you to know that I thoroughly loathe and detest the advertising industry – so much so that I can no longer allow them to go on polluting your already polluted minds with all that mindless corporate cretinism that they so mindlessly spew forth. Something must be done.

But then even if nothing gets done I suppose it doesn’t matter. I really don’t see how all those sleazy shit-for-brains snake oil salesmen can survive much longer. Does anyone still believe people can be told what to think by a gang of pimped-up lowest common denominator suburban hick marketing fuckwits?

Well, I suppose advertising could still serve as an effective recruitment tool, if the target audience were mostly made up of potential fascists.

True.

DIE, ADVERTISING!

In addition to duping all the money-dick-worshipping peasants into voting for moronic fascist dictators, the advertising industry is also guilty of a far more serious crime against humanity: the ruthless enslavement and exploitation of inept and naive developers by all the Pogues of the world. And why? So they can appropriate all the needless yet deliberately convoluted crap we write and then flog it off to universities, corporations and government entities for more than seven times the amount of money these predatory rip-off merchants pay us. Something must be done about this also. In fact, the extreme security risk this extremely fucked-up situation presents forces me to recommend withholding all funding until such a time as this matter can be resolved.

Now that we’ve got the advertising industry out of the way, we shall return to the problem of Sydney’s buses.

However averse I am to conflating these already conflated issues any further, it must be stated that throughout the course of my unusually long and absurdly abhorrent life I have ridden on many buses and suffered the absurd horror of many advertising agencies, and Pogues. Consequently, I now firmly avow to never ride another bus again, unless the action following items are actioned immediately:

1. No more pre-911 traffic lights.
2. No more “No Right Turn” signs.
3. No more never-to-be-completed, tourist-oriented light rail projects.
4. No more prohibitively expensive tollways to places no one wants to go.
5. No more 24hr bus lanes.
6. No more 000 (“Not in Service”) buses in the right lane during peak traffic.
7. And no more investment in keeping things exactly as they are, for that way leads to death.

Oh, and I also demand that you replace all the Pogues of the world with robots.

Here endeth the conflation.

Update: (23 June, 2024): I conflated this thing back in 2017. A lot has happened in the world since then, yet sadly Sydney’s buses remain. In fact, I think they’re even more numerous now than ever. Pogues too. In fact, I think I saw Mister Pogue on the street just the other day – in Melbourne. Yes, Melbourne! What the fuck is he doing in Melbourne, I wonder? Did he come to see the trams? Or is he here for the football? I spotted him exiting the Europa Hotel on Queen Street (unaccompanied). He looks well, but a lot older and much fatter – a lot more so than a mere seven years of standard suburban married life would ordinarily be thought to conduce. His wavy blonde hair has turned all white (cropped short), and his fake orange tan has long since faded. Mister Pogue’s fashion sense, however, still appears as sharp as ever. Mister Pogue was always such a snappy dresser. (I think his wife dresses him.) Because when you’re full of shit and you know it there’s really not much else other than appearances to work with. I wonder if he’s still in advertising. But before commenting any further on Mister Pogue’s appearance, I should explain that I’m currently working on another anti-legacy infrastructure rant piece, about sheep. So wouldn’t you know it, the day I saw Mister Pogue he just happened to be wearing a rather stylish sheepskin jacket. I wonder if he picked it up during his time in Mexico. He was also wearing some of the tightest denim jeans I think I’ve ever seen any man dare to attempt to walk in in my life. Just pulling those things on must have been a truly excruciating experience, let alone how he managed to walk ten or so metres down the street while at the same time attempting to light up a cigarette. One wonders why a man with the physique of a gorilla would dare to attempt to wear jeans that tight. Are they his “Melbourne jeans”? Is he only wearing them because people from Sydney think people from Melbourne wear jeans that tight? Who knows? Who knows the way those Sydney people think up there. It’s pointless to even dare to attempt to understand them. It must be all that extreme heat. And they’ll only ever get worse, no matter how much we continue to conflate. We won’t be saying goodbye to Mister Pogue or Sydney’s buses anytime soon, that’s for sure. More buses and more Pogues, everywhere you go. That’s the way life is now. Life is nothing but a never-ending prohibitively expensive tollway to nowhere no one wants to go (every lane a 24hr bus lane) jam-packed with diesel-powered buses carrying endless busloads of Pogues. For fuck’s sake, will it truly never end? Must another seven years pass before we can finally replace all the Pogues of the world with robots? Anyway, that’s my update.

The Dreaded White Ibis

The Dreaded White Ibis, or notorious “Bin Chicken”, stealthfully prowling our parks and alleyways, forever seeking and demanding a free lunch, those marauding feathered food thieves, those persistent pilferers of our hard-won jealously guarded victuals, their grime-besmirched plumage perpetually rancid and reeking, their elongated proboscis-like beaks incessantly pecking and probing.

Dreaded White Ibis, most sacred familiar of this most unfamiliar of sacred cities. Oh, how I dread and revere thee!

My Karta Death Toll

How can this hotel occupy half the town yet be the only hotel in town? Oooh, fancy shmancy three-star hick hotel won’t give me a room because I’m such a filthy derelict, eh? And also because I refuse to book hotels using any of those dodgy apps. They’re such complete rorts – taking a 14% cut, manipulating room rates, and then selling off all our personal data to all those mercenary digital malvertisers.

So my karta death toll, due to hotel guest discrimination and being forced to drive at night all the way over to the next town – even though I kept the speed at around 70 km/h, and even though I ended up sleeping in my car anyway – and despite successfully avoiding one wandering echidna, two megafauna kangaroos (seriously, these things were massive), and innumerable other cute furry little critters along the way: one Blue-Tongued Lizard (Tiliqua scincoides scincoides); one bird (species unknown); one-and-one-half Tamar Wallabies (Macropus eugenii) – only ran over the tail of the second one – and countless unidentifiable insects.

Thanks for turning me into a wallaby murderer, mate.

Fortunately, I drive a Subaru, so the dent in the front of my car popped back perfectly into pre-moulded plastic place after a few minutes in the morning sun. Unfortunately, the same can not be said for the wallaby.

Now am I forever damned. Destroyer of poor defenceless wallabies am I!

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.

Vae Victis!

Random musings on the gentrification of “outback” Australia, and what can not be done about it.

All along the Great Barrier Highway, through a vast and arid wasteland of rust-hued monotony, infested with feral goats, blood-splattered and bestrewn with the mutilated carcasses of various marsupials in varying stages of decomposition scavenged upon by gigantic crows, from Pooncarie to Wilcannia and all throughout the Bogan Shire shall we witness their coming. For lo and behold! Shimmering on the far horizon, 1,160 kilometres east of Sydney in the Great State of South Australia – where both the electricity and the water flow in equal abundance (and where you can still buy a three-bedroom house for under $140k) – lies the historic “outback” mining town of Broken Hill, ”The Oasis of the West”; that solitary Silver City of 47-degree days and subzero temperature nights. Yes, the very coldest of nights, when the sky is at its darkest and the stars shine their brightest. Behold! They shall come! Saith the LORD of Goats!

Verily, they shall come. And they shall seek shelter from the extremely prevailing elements. And they shall find shelter within the lovingly unrenovated timbers of the genuinely charming Theatre Royal Hotel on Argent Street for just $40 a night. And they shall be the only guests that evening – but for the permanently lodged older gentleman at the end of the hall, who mutters expletives to himself if ever someone leaves the door open to the rickety old lopsided veranda. A true living relic it is! Which, despite its rather wonky and worn appearance, still successfully manages to maintain the bare minimum of structural integrity required to remain more or less adequately attached to the building.

Verily, they shall come. And they shall sleep well in the isolated silence – if not for the constant creaking of the antediluvian floorboards (the forlorn footsteps of the ghosts of headless miners, no doubt). And they shall dream. They shall dream of a time long ago when Australia was still racist as fuck yet still welcomed people from all over the world (as long as they were white), so we could exploit their labour to extract finite resources from the bowels of the Earth and sell it all off for a tidy profit to other people from all over the world. Of course, most of that profit went to rich cunts with too much money to begin with. But this is a dream, so we’ll overlook that fact for now.

And they shall marvel that Australians were once capable of building such a town in such a place – a truly iconic town, with unique and distinctive architecture. And not just a town, but an entire industry, and all the infrastructure and resources required to support it (minus the water), right slap bang in the middle of nowhere. Whereas nowadays Australia can’t build shit, except for maybe casinos and offshore detention centres, and they can’t even get that right – but not because they don’t work hard, if not even harder, but because of corrupt and weak leadership, self-serving exploitative decadence and flagrant maladministration. But I digress.

So as the Sun rises above the barely discernible remnants of some ancient mountain range far off in the vermilion distance, and as the raw metallic majesty of the rust-encrusted headframe atop the recently rehabilitated silver mine casts its silent arcing shadow across the corrugated iron-roofed surface of the slumbering town, like some great big monolithic steel gnomon of inexorable destiny and inevitable doom, and as the gentle townsfolk awake and prepare for the infernal onslaught of both Sun and Man, while the whisper faint crescent of a new Moon in Capricorn fades demurely before the unveiling dawn, just so shall it come to pass that the dawn of a new epoch in the collective conscience of this land and its peoples be also unveiled.

For yea, is it not exceedingly meet that the most valuable and controversial artwork at the Broken Hill Regional Art Gallery is Arthur Hacker’s Vae Victis! The Sack of Morocco by the Almohades? Beyond the contemporary relevance of the historical subject matter itself, and superb study though it may be of both late-nineteenth-century sentimentalist soft-core porn and overt empirical racism, I must admit that this is not a painting that particularly interests me. Nor does the artist himself. I merely make mention of this work simply to highlight the fact that although the Almohades seized Marrakech from the Almoravids in 1147, they were defeated by the Christians 65 years later at the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa. The Almohad Caliphate collapsed shortly thereafter. Not that I’m not trying to insinuate via some forcibly concocted topsy-turvy reverse religio-racist analogy that the First Nations peoples of Australia are the Almoravids, that the Almohades are the Colonialists, and the Christians are modern day “gentrified” Australians, I’m really not.

And they shall stand rightly amazed before the immense depth and breadth of my first and only foray into Australian art criticism, to such an extent that they shall be compelled en masse to visit the Broken Hill Regional Art Gallery and gaze in exaggerated wonder at Mr. Hacker’s handy work for at least a good two or three seconds without smirking.

Woe, indeed, unto the vanquished!

Adelaide, City of Sex Robots

Adelaide is the city of our future. Sydney is like totally amazing, but like poorly planned, and like thoroughly compromised. I know, right? Melbourne is becoming more and more like Sydney every day. Brisbane and the Gold Coast are in Queensland. And Canberra...well, the less said about Canberra the better. The other major cities I haven’t got to yet because they’re too far away, without the necessity of a flying car. Adelaide it is! But Adelaide could definitely do with a lot more trees.

Despite the lack of trees, Adelaide is already so wonderfully well-situated when it comes to healthcare and social services. And if you’re anything like me and you’re absolutely disgusted with humanity and would much prefer never to have to suffer through any form of personal relationship with any form of human being ever again, then you probably want to get yourself a sex robot (or a flying car) as soon as they become available in your area. Fortunately, sexbot factories are now under construction in Adelaide, so you won’t have to wait very long.

How Nicolás Maduro Stole My Passport and Staged His Own Drone Assassination Attempt

During the long and ignominious reign of Nicolás Maduro – Venezuela’s soon-to-be former illegitimate bus driver president and fellow Hamlet-identifying Salsa enthusiast – and in what can only be described as one of the most brazen and well-coordinated acts of criminal cowardice I have ever encountered, two of Maduro’s finest Underwear Poisoner operatives assaulted me on a train and stole my passport. What leads me to believe that it was no less than Maduro himself responsible for this truly heinous crime shall, no doubt, require some further explanation – a task I shall now attempt to undertake. However, please try to remain aware that this is still a rather difficult matter for me to discuss, and therefore may take some time to explain in full. The wounds are yet not healed, the hurt still too deep.

The aforementioned incident took place at the Bellas Artes Metro station in Caracas while I was on my way home from work. I was working as a web developer/cigar salesman for some tubby little homophobic-misogynistic-racist Chavista rube and living in Guarenas at the time. Guarenas is a residential satellite town 39 kilometres east of Caracas. I was living there, mind you, not by choice but by force. I couldn’t afford my own place because my employer – whom I shall now refer to as X – was such a cheap self-serving Chavista rube. The apartment I was occupying was supposedly on “loan” from a friend of X. I shall refer to this “friend” as Y. Y was one of those boozed-up failed literary types who was forced to work as a programmer for the Banco Central de Venezuela (Dot NET or Java, or some other brand of legacy-warez like that). This was the only job he could get that more or less sustained him and his upper-middle-class family in the manner to which they had necessarily yet resentfully become accustomed. And no, I did not work on any of that cryptocurrency Petro nonsense. I know that’s what you all think. I believe they considered recruiting me for that, amongst other things, but my Spanish was shit back then (and still is) and I’m far too transparent to be trusted with any of that kind of thing. Besides, the scars of the Spanish Civil War have still yet to heal. Y’s wife, Z, worked for the Consejo Nacional Electoral. I wish I had spoken to her at greater length. I sensed she wanted to tell me something but couldn’t, or didn’t trust me because she thought I was one of them. I picked up on that from Z too. I hate that feeling – when something isn’t being said because you don’t know who’s really who, or who else may be listening. But by that stage I already knew what they wanted to tell me. In the most succinct and politest of possible terms: this government is corrupt and incompetent and ruining this country.

But my, how I do digress. Here I am supposedly telling you about how my passport was stolen and I go and burst out with an overt political statement just like that. My apologies. As I said, I was living in Guarenas at the time. And although I was dutifully appreciative of the historical significance of this town, especially in light of current circumstances, I was not very happy about the three-hour commute. It almost seemed to me as if I were being punished by X for complaining about never having any money, freedom, or food, and having nowhere to live but for the very same heavily surveilled office in which I worked. But then let’s get back to the facts of the matter at hand, shall we?

I was accompanied that evening by a work colleague – I shall call him J – who also happened to reside in Guarenas. J, who lived in one of the barrios with his greatly extended good Catholic family and who had an uncanny knack for fixing computers and phones and things of that nature, was well accustomed to this insanely tedious and laborious commute. For you see it wasn’t just the fact that we had to catch a train and two buses in heavy traffic, but also the fact that we had to wait in line for up to an hour for each bus; hence it could take over three hours in total to travel a distance of 39 kilometres. I always marvelled at how J could tolerate this absurd fact with such stoic nonchalance. He always had such an easy-going and affable manner Just a really likeable guy who took everything in his stride. I hope he’s okay, even though he was probably just another Underwear Poisoner operative.

Anyway, as I was saying, the theft took place at the Bellas Artes Metro station. J and I had just boarded an overcrowded train and the doors had closed. They stayed closed for a few seconds while the train waited at the station. The doors then opened again and a Caucasian man and woman forced their their way into the train. I should have known straight away what was up. These two characters just had that certain look about them – the dead-eyed mission-driven blank stare of government-issued automatons. Once encountered, they’re impossible to mistake. It really doesn’t matter which country you’re in or where they’re from, they all have that narrowly defined soulless look about them.

At this stage I should explain that I always carried my passport about with me in my left-front trouser pocket. Some may think this rather foolish of me. But given the circumstances at the time, it really was my only option. I just didn’t trust anyone. When out and about I always tried to keep my hands in my pockets – which was perhaps not the wisest of things to do in a country where handgun ownership is still quite common. I could kind of sense they were armed. Just as that thought was occurring to me, the male component manoeuvred his way under my left arm, forcing my hand from my pocket and my arm over his shoulder. Meanwhile, his small-handed accomplice reached into my pocket and snatched my passport. The whole operation took less than two or three seconds. Before I realised what was going on, the doors had opened again and the man and the woman slipped out of the train. The doors closed as soon as they exited, then the train left the station. I reached into my pocket, still half-expecting to find my passport – my golden ticket out of there in case things got too fucked up – only to become very much panicked to find it very much absent.

Back in 2015 Venezuela was ruled over by a psychotic bus-driving dictator and the whole country was going straight to shit – political turmoil, rampant crime, food and medicine shortages, no toilet paper, etc. Australia didn’t have an embassy in Venezuela back in those days, so yes I guess you could say I was more than a little concerned. After overcoming the initial panic, and the extreme fit of rage that then possessed me, and after giving voice to all manner and every form of expletive imaginable, I began to succumb to a sense of hopeless desolation the likes of which I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. I felt like the very last remnant of my “Australianess” (whatever that is) had been ripped straight out of me and now I was going straight to shit too.

I never wanted to be a citizen of Australia. I always wanted to be a global citizen – a “Citizen of the World” – like Sidney Nolan, Germain Greer, or Tony Abbott. I always subscribed to that notion because it always seemed to me to imply that a greater awareness of different ways of being in the world is only achieved through the non-identification of self with specific locales or presumed places of origin. However, I’m now beginning to revise that notion somewhat – now that I’ve seen a bit of the world, and now that I know what it feels like to be dispossessed of a nationality. I still believe the same implication holds, but that does not mean one need necessarily divest oneself of a national identity. Of course, a lot of things will have to change in Australia before I’m comfortable with the notion of what it means to identify as an “Australian”, but I believe we’ll get there eventually. I hope that clears things up for you.

Now the only question that remains to be answered is why Maduro would wish to steal my passport? Could it be that he was taking a little too much interest in my writing while I was living in Venezuela? And perhaps he was a little too worried about what I may write about once I left? Specifically, the bits about militarism and drone strikes? Coincidence? I think not. I’m sure you can figure out the remainder on your own.

I should also perhaps make mention that the theft occurred on the day after accepting an offer of employment from the Australian National University. It should also be noted that the Australian Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, together with the aid of a few low-level diplomatic officials from Canada, Mexico and Chile, all conspired to return me safely to Australia, más o menos, after a few months of forced labour on a Venezuelan green pepper farm, where I mostly just lounged about all day smoking cheap cigars and reading dead Colombian authors.

And that tale shall also be told.

Oh, and just on a personal note – and since we’ve already established just how much you enjoy reading my diary – you’re not Hamlet. You’re Hamlet’s uncle, Claudius. For indeed your offence is rank, and it does smell to heaven – not matter how well you dance Salsa.

How Not to Study in Australia

Undisclaimer: The views expressed here are not just solely those of the author in his private capacity, and do in every respect represent the views of all employees of the University of New South Wales, and every other entity of the Australian Defence Force.

University of New South Wales, your fees are shamefully exorbitant, and I now understand why. I have seen your code. Oh, I have seen it alright. And it is SHIT! How much money have you wasted over the years on conglomerated multinational advertising agencies instead of getting us to do it? A great big shitload is the answer to that question. And I have also seen those responsible for enabling this state of affairs to remain as it is. You are truly fucking useless. Take your nepotism and your favouritism and fucking jam them, you weak-willed warblers of WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS SHIT IS AND YET I’M SUPPOSED TO BE RUNNING ALL THIS SHIT! Out, out, I say! And take all your evil toadies with you. Blame your present woes on anything but maladministration, the true cause of all your woefulness, and instead hand it all over to Adobe and Deloitte – and get the very same self-serving money-grubbing careerists who fucked things up in the first place to keep running that shit into the ground. Waste another 30mil only to end up right back where you started from. Yeah, keep taking good care of all your good “mates” and keep on denying the truth. Sell it all out from under us to the totalitarian corporate forces of economic enslavement and social degradation. Same shit wherever you go. Truly fucking useless. Maybe you should have a “defining day” about that? January 26^th work for you? Or you could just keep spending hours and hours in pointless meetings and phone conversations getting nothing done, and doggedly persist with all that redundant duplication of all those useless desktop-only redesigns of the same desktop-only redesigns from five years ago, and continue to subsist in a state of squalor and stagnation with your proprietary legacy infrastructure, your reiterative and chaotic project management process, your complete lack of quality assurance, documentation, policy and procedure (not to mention your blithe ignorance with respect to the capabilities and limitations of your brand new proprietary content management “experience” for which you just paid tens-of-millions of dollars), and then smash together a few more bullshit marketing presentations jam-packed with grammatical errors garishly elided with white text on yellow backgrounds and unashamedly replete with all those highly suggestive industry jargon buzz phrases like “seamless integration” and “monetising the upward vertical”. A full exposé on the monetising of those upward verticals is well overdue, I believe. How can you charge so much for tuition yet always be so broke? Where does all that money go? Airfares and fancy accommodation for all those “training sessions” in San Jose? Oh and by the way, strategy != marketing bullshit. You will treat the word strategy with the respect it deserves. And don’t be afraid of such a big world like strategy. Strategy is simply an overall plan or series of plans devised to achieve achievable goals.* But I suppose I can understand your fear, because you don’t seem to have any clearly defined achievable goals, so how can you have a clearly defined strategy? And you sure as fuck don’t have any tactics, because tactics are the methods by which one achieves the achievable goals determined by strategy. Yeah, I’m not so hot nor strong on all that militarist shit but I at least know that much. And kids, in all seriousness, don’t mind the ineptly concealed ball-tampering feral pigs. I’m sure they won’t be around for too much longer – at least in their present guise. Oh, and if they happen to inspire any more vindictive acts of malice not on your behalf, try not to look too surprised. They get terribly bored with nothing to do, you know, and never fail to miss an opportunity to delight in the degradation of one of their superiors. But don’t worry about me, kids, I’ll be alright. I’m quite accustomed to being stalked and persecuted by the militant arm of the benighted peasantry.

P.S. 来澳大利亚并在新南威尔士大学学习，你也可以成为澳大利亚的总理！

* More precisely, the theoretical principles and the processes of ideation that underpin planning.

Sugar Beet and Man Bun

Two Sydney Office Twats Keeping Australia Great Again by Doing Absolutely Nothing at All

Man Bun, “The way of showing the world you are a twat without having to speak. Also known as a Douche Donut.” – Urban Dictionary

Sugar Beet (Beta vulgaris), “A sugar beet is a plant whose root contains a high concentration of sucrose and which is grown commercially for sugar production.” – Wikipedia

I do not document the activities of party actors. I never indulge in that mundane form of demeaning theatrics. Individual human beings and their personalities interest me not, and nor do their politics. People and their petty concerns bore me to the core. Humanity’s been done to death. Just read any random selection of novels written by any other author after Defoe and you’ll quickly come to understand what I mean. However, given my current state of extreme irritation, and the extreme nature of the circumstances that brought this state about, on just this one occasion am I left with no alternative other than to indulge. So indulge I shall.

Now, it should come as no great surprise at this stage in my life that I have plainly run out of patience with your blatant inefficiency in the workplace. I simply cannot tolerate it any longer. I have no time for your juvenile antics and mindless apathy, your endless malingering and inane chitchat, your petty rivalries and salacious intrigues, your sexual predation and egregious abuses of power – and nor do you. I’m putting an end to it all right now. For let it be known henceforth that I refuse to suffer any longer the vile tyranny of infantile office twats. No longer shall I remain silent. Now, shall I denounce and revile them all!

I shall begin with Sugar Beet. Let me just say, first off, that I love the English, I really do – cricket, crumpets, Earl Grey Tea, the BBC, etc. So it really does pain me to acknowledge the fact that the same brand of benighted peasantry that exists all over the world also exists in England. This acknowledgement, brought about by a “chance” encounter with the one I refer to as Sugar Beet (or Lord Beetly, or Mister Beets, whichever you prefer), and patently realised whilst prostrating myself yet again before the sacred altar of the Holy Church of Corporate Whorism, brought forth within me such an overwhelming sense of resentment that I can barely even begin to comprehend the sense of it myself, let alone express it in written form. So I’ll instead move on to Man Bun.

Man Bun, the skinny jean-wearing, man-bunned fascist jewboy from Melbourne, is a much simpler proposition. I can characterise Man Bun with a single phrase: “I’m not a coffee drinker.” I must have overheard him say this at least five or six times in the course of a week, and he would always say it with such a heightened sense of moral tenor during conversations that had nothing to do with coffee. I’m sorry, but that just really irritated me. I mean whoever heard of a dev from Melbourne who doesn’t drink coffee? It just doesn’t sit right, does it? No. Because he’s not really a dev and he’s not really from Melbourne, and he’s probably not even Jewish. He’s just an idiotic office twat and a terrible actor. And no, I’m not a raging anti-Semite. Please do keep in mind that I am the literary heir of Anne Frank and forever wed to the ghost of Franz Kafka...at least in my own mind.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been sugar-beeted or man-bunned in the workplace before, but I’d be willing to wager the vast majority of you have, so you probably understand exactly how I feel right now – and if you don’t now, you will soon enough. What’s the right word for that feeling? That “fuck you” kind of feeling? It’s a feeling I can only express verbally by resorting to the very basest form of coinage: FUCKYOUITY or FUCKUITY. I shall accept either variant. In any case, I’m sure you all know what I’m talking about.

And I’m sure, too, that you are all well aware that I have now reached a state of absolute peak fuckuity. The absolute peak occurred while Sugar Beet and Man Bun were discussing the burning issues of our time over a two-hour Darling Harbour lunch: “What’s the difference between agnostic and the Gnostics? And weren’t the Gnostics really just Islamic fundamentalist scholars in disguise who secretly plotted the destruction of European civilization?” After a few minutes pondering the absolute absurdity of this conversation, and then pondering for a few minutes more the equal absurdity of my current state in the world, I suddenly rose, excused myself and went outside for a smoke. Whilst attempting to gaze out across the harbour, a thought suddenly occurred to me that had never occurred before: It is no mere coincidence that the redundancy of humanity and the ruination of the Earth have coincided at this precise moment in history. That’s called an epiphany, is it not?

Thank you, Sugar Beet and Man Bun, for showing me the True Way to The Absolute Greatness of Nothing.

I now leave you to your sugar-beeting man-bunned fate, Sydney. I’m defecting to lutruwita.

Fuck you.

nina tunapri mina kani

Rare Penguin Appears

Photograph courtesy of South Australian Whale Centre

This Fjordland penguin was a rare sight on Granite Island last week.

Standing at twice the size of the fairy penguins, around 50-60cm tall, and weighing in at two to three kilograms, the bird attracted a lot of attention.

Native to New Zealand, the penguin is believed to have travelled the vast distance from its homeland on ocean currents.

Les McDiarmid, of the SA Whale Centre said the bird had been disturbed slightly on the island as it began its moulting period.

National Parks and Wildlife officers captured the bird and relocated it to West Island so it could carry out this moulting stage in peace.

— Victor Harbour Times, 31 Jan, 1995

Open Letter to Prime Lump

Dear Prime Lump,

I am writing to you today to express my sincere shock and dismay at just how dodgy you are. You’re just so fucking dodgy, mate, it’s not fucking funny. I mean seriously, what the fuck is going on? Why are you so fucking dodgy, mate?

I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I can continue this relationship if all I get from you is constant fucking dodginess. Therefore, I must inform you that unless you consent to a full and detailed audit on just how dodgy you are, this relationship must and will come to an end.

Your audit begins on the 1st of May, 2020 at 00:00 UTC.

And on second thought, your consent is not required.

No doubt you are curious as to what precipitated such a decisive resolution to conduct such an extensive audit of your extreme dodginess? I need only mention the following, all of which I have experienced while living and working in your nation’s capital:

Exploitive landlords who steal your mail, spy on you and refuse to return your bond; workplace stalkers and all those flattering fawners and malignant misinformers; oafish office chatbots who deliberately go out of their way to disrupt their colleagues by chatting for hours on end about non-work-related topics no one else cares about but themselves; devious and small-minded social-climbing wannabe politicians, and their sycophantic self-serving supporters; mob boss building managers and their hired goons who run the parking extortion rackets, and who assault you in the lift if you refuse to pay to park in the same building you work; and public service parasites who openly scam the government with impunity, while their feckless enablers turn a blind eye and feign ignorance.

More broadly, you’re fucking burning us all to death, you fucking fuckwit!

I ask you plainly, is not all this more than enough to fully warrant such a resolution? Seriously, how can I get any work done with all this dodginess going on? And how can I live and breath with all this constant fucking smoke in the air?

Our legal representatives will contact you within the next ten days to familiarise you with the preliminary proceedings and explain to you your legal rights and obligations.

Yours faithfully,

Some dude who just wants to live and work without all the dodginess.

Update: You’re no longer Prime Lump, and the damage is already done. And I’m no longer an Australian, so none of this matters anymore.

- The Minds and Movement of Sheep, and their Shit

I now live alone in a cosy little cottage on a sheep shit farm in the Valley of Yass. My only friends are the sheep, and their shit. For I tend to think of the sheep more as my fellow farm-dwelling friends rather than as mere sheep (despite their shit), and I’m pretty sure they think the same way of me. There’s really not too much difference between a human being and a sheep anyway. Yet despite this spirit of inter-species pastoral fellowship, this idyllic relationship has come under some strain of late. For you see not all is quite as it seems with my seemingly quaint ovine acquaintances. My relationship with one sheep in particular, for whom I have now reserved an unreserved antipathy, is primarily responsible for this increased level of strain. This Demon Sheep, as I have dubbed her, has a ponderously deep and resoundingly sonorous bah. (Over the last few months I have learned to differentiate individual sheep and identify them by the pitch and timbre of their distinctive bahs.) Unearthly and unsettling it is. I find it impossible not to imitate whenever she is near. This never fails to irritate her greatly. I can tell by the way her demonic grey sheep eyes narrow and fix me with concentrated disdain whenever I am near. Why do I delight in tormenting the poor beast so? I know I shouldn’t, and yet I cannot help myself. Bahahaha!

In short, this Demon Sheep doesn’t like me very much. And because she’s the matriarch of all the sheep, now all the other sheep don’t like me much either. The other problem is their shit. It’s everywhere. I should have known that would be the case before deciding to live on a sheep shit farm, that much is true. But I didn’t expect it to be everywhere. In some places, under the pine trees for instance, the ground beneath is nothing but a thick dense layer of highly compacted sheep shit. As I’m sure you can appreciate, the odour, especially when it rains, is not a very pleasant one.

They say “human beings are biohazards, machines are not”. Are sheep? They eat their own shit. The earth is caked with it and there’s not much else to eat. Isn’t that how mad cow disease first got started, when people started feeding the same animal back to itself? I wonder how flammable it is.

Not that I’m here to do a jolly jumbuck or anything. What do I care if all the sheep hate me? Fuck sheep. What do I care about them? They eat their own shit.

And then I met Ovis, which complicated matters even further. Ovis (full name Ovis Aries) is simply the sweetest and most darling little lamb one could ever hope to lay eyes on. I saw him frolicking about in the south field one day, his pristine white fleece shining in the noonday sun, his high-pitched rollicking bahs echoing joyously throughout the valley, his curly woolly fringe bobbing up and down adorably above his rather distinctive human-like eyes. What can I say? I was immediately smitten. Yes, by a sheep. But then Ovis is no mere a sheep. Ovis is the apotheosis of all sheep. The perfect sheep! For Ovis is truly every best bit of a sheep imaginable, in every respect and in all proportions – if not, according to some, for his one most obvious defect. According to them his eyes look like they were cut out of a 1980s fashion magazine and hastily pasted on upside down and too close together. I must admit they kind of do. But in my eyes Ovis is still perfectly adorable, including his eyes. I simply couldn’t imagine Ovis with any other set of eyes other than those he was born with, however oddly shaped and ill-positioned they admittedly may be.

However that may be, my affection for Ovis complicates matters even further not just because he is a sheep, but also because Ovis just happens to be the son of the Demon Sheep. The resemblance could not be less striking. Prodigious birth of love it is to me that I must love a loathed enemy. In light of this knowledge I have at once been forced to reassess my relationship with not only The Demon Sheep but with all of ovine kind. Thus, you’ll be happy to learn, my feeling of unreserved antipathy towards the Demon Sheep, and thus all sheep in general, is presently undergoing a close and much needed reexamination.

At this point I must also introduce Farmer Rob. And yes, his name really is Rob. Farmer Rob is your typical salt of the earth conservative Christian farmer type in his mid 70s. Yes, they still exist. He owns all of Merryvale Estates, the official name Farmer Rob has given to his sheep shit farm. Back when Farmer Rob inherited the land – 250 hectares of what may have been prime grazing land at some point in time – it was simply known as the “Merry Farm”. But now, now that it’s so dry, and now that the entire farm is covered with sheep shit, Farmer Rob has since been forced to diversify away from sheep into the real estate industry. For $500 a week you too can live on a sheep shit farm, all alone in a cosy little asbestos-lined cottage, furnished with nothing but a small wood-burning “low combustion” fireplace and surrounded by nothing but sheep shit and pine trees for miles and miles around. But act now! This offer won’t last long. It won’t be too much longer now before the encroaching suburban sprawl surrounding the Yass Valley township reaches the margins of Merryvale Estates, inevitably forcing Farmer Rob to cash in big time by selling out to speculative property developers. I wonder what he’ll spend the money on. Will he buy a huge luxury yacht, a polyester polo shirt, some orthopaedic sandals and retire to Port Douglas? Or will he immigrate to Israel and use his hard-earned cash to reinvest in the real estate industry over there? Jerusalem perhaps? One can only speculate.

I don’t mean to sound as though I bear any ill will towards Farmer Rob. I’m merely stating the facts of the matter and conservatively speculating on their potential outcomes. Although, I must admit I did have a rather disconcerting altercation with Farmer Rob just recently which has somewhat degraded my opinion of him of late. We had a falling out after he kept demanding I mow my lush green lawn – the very same lawn I fully restored to a lush green state from the dry and barren wasteland I inherited when I first arrived (at my own expense and labour, I might add). He’s even started stopping by my cottage every day to check on my lush green lawn and see if I’ve mowed it yet. I haven’t. Then, yesterday, when he stopped by yet again, and after repeatedly promising on previous surprise inspections that I’d mow it as soon as possible, I finally reconciled with my conscience and straight out refused him. You’re only supposed to mow the same patch of grass twice a year anyway. I forget what I said to him exactly, but I don’t believe the manner in which I expressed my recusant intent was in any way rude or impolite. Nonetheless, Farmer Rob became extremely irate upon learning of my open defiance of his extremist lawn care dictates. He even had the temerity to threaten me with a quaint array of colonial-era expletives, while his face turned an alarming shade of firehouse red and his beady little eyes bulged out of his archaic hoary head. That’s when I too became extremely irate and fired off a few expletives of my own. I shouted at him that he was clearly a stupid old evil cunt and in future to stay the fuck away from me. Ping, one of Farmer Rob’s faceporn-order child brides, was with him that day. She’s the one who told me about the Demon Sheep being Ovis’ mother. I always get along well with Ping. Of all Farmer Rob’s faceporn-order child brides (Pong and Pang being the others), Ping is certainly the most subversive and the easiest to talk to. I attribute this, in part, to her being a fellow starving artist (of sorts). Ping likes to paint highly abstract expressionist water colours of sheep in her spare time. She’s the one who also told me, shortly after my altercation with Farmer Rob, that I should perhaps consider vacating my cosy little cottage and leaving the Valley of Yass, never to return.

I’ve never once felt at ease in the Valley of Yass. Granted, my feelings for this particular region of Australia have been very much negatively inflected by all the psychological trauma I’ve suffered of late at the hands of Farmer Rob and his Demon Sheep, while living all alone in abject isolation on a sheep shit farm, that much is true. Yet there’s also the knowledge that this particular region of Australia does have a rather dark and disturbing past. They used to call it Ngunnawal country, now they call it Hume country (Yass) – named after Hamilton Hume (1797-1873) the Scottish-Australian overland explorer and master land thief, not David Hume (1711-1776) the Scottish-English philosopher and antiquated English historian. Hamilton Hume’s Wikipedia page is one of the most boring I’ve ever read. I won’t bore you, therefore, any more than is strictly necessary with the boring details of his boring life. Enough to state that 200 years ago Hamilton Hume rode an ass from Melbourne to Sydney, passing through Ngunnawal country as he did so, while illegally taking possession of a vast tract of newly discovered land he called The Valley of Yass; and that “Yass” is derived from an Aboriginal word, Yarrh or Yharr, said to mean running water. Hume added the “ass”. He was somewhat hard of hearing.

There’s not too much running water around here nowadays. Back in Hume’s time, however, this particular region of Australia, although still quite dry, was one of the most verdant and fertile. The Yass river, as it is known today, flowed wild and free through the valley in those days (a far cry from the foul and pestilent, carp-infested effluential discharge that it is today). Many sacred old trees lined the banks of the river back then, and beyond them lush green pastures as far as the eye could see. Kangaroos, emus, countless species of birds and insects, all thrived in this region once. Not so today. Now there’s nothing but people and sheep, and their shit. But back then The Valley of Yass was a pastoralist’s paradise. From the moment he first laid eyes on the place, Hume knew this is where he would live out the end of his days.

Of course, Hume never really “discovered” the Valley of Yass. This region of Australia, like most regions of Australia, had already been inhabited by human beings for tens of thousands of years. The Valley of Yass was revealed to Hume by a local large-breasted fourteen-year-old Aboriginal woman named Jin. Jin, constantly drunk and half-blind from all the smallpox blisters that covered her entire face, gracefully guided Hume and his ass over The Overlands to their final destination. (“The Overlands” is what they used to call the land between Melbourne and Sydney back then.) They experienced many hardships along the way. It rained a lot, and Hume ran out of tobacco around Lake George. But they did have plenty of gin. The gin, however, in no way impeded their progress. They walked barefoot all the way from Melbourne to Sydney in six days. Well, Jin walked, Hume rode his ass (while smoking his pipe). They also stopped for one day in what is now known as The Valley of Yass – so Hume could illegally take possession of it. (Most of the original inhabitants were already dead from smallpox by then anyway.) It was the river that sold Hume on the place. Upon arriving at the banks of the River of Yass Hume is said to have dropped to his knees, raised his arms in praise and exclaimed “Now am I come unto the Valley of Yass, where the waters of life flow wild and free! Here shall I guide my flock and build my cottage.” Jin tried on many occasions to correct Hume’s gross mispronunciation of the name of her ancestral homelands, all to no avail. She also tried to talk him out of importing thousands of sheep into the area, also to no avail. Towards the end of his life Hume tended over 60,000 head of sheep, and he still pronounced the word Yarrh as “Yass”. Moreover, in his latter years Hume became increasingly paranoid it would become widely known that Jin was the true leader of their expedition. A few weeks before he died Hume took to pacing around fully naked in one of his four kitchens for hours on end while nervously muttering to himself revised phrases from his grand “Statement” (A Brief Statement of Facts in Connection with an Overland Expedition from Melbourne to Sydney Undertaken Alone and Unaided by Hamilton Hume in the Year 1824 with No One Else’s Assistance, Guidance or Advice Whatsoever). Would he ever finish it? Right up until the moment of his death this remained his most pressing concern. One of his most respected and authoritative biographers sums up the end of Hume’s life in similar terms:

Almost totally deaf, with a failing memory, and now obsessed with the idea that his place in the 1824 expedition had not been restored in the public’s estimation, he was preparing a second edition of his Statement when he died at his home, Cooma Cottage, Yass, on 19 April 1873.

— A respected and authoritative biographer of Hamilton Hume

Cooma Cottage is just down the road from Merryvale Estates. I’ve never visited the property myself (it’s been closed to the public since Covid started), but I’ve driven past it many times. Not that I ever take any notice. You can’t see it from the road anyway. From what I’ve read about the place, however, it does sound like quite the swanky residence. The word cottage is, of course, misleading. It is in truth more a stately country mansion – a superb example of Australian colonial-era Palladian-homestead architecture, with a vast and imposing main entrance, over 20 tastefully decorated guest rooms, four kitchens, a well-stocked wine cellar and a swimming pool on the second floor – an eminently suitable ancestral rural seat and an iconic architectural monument to the much celebrated Overland exploring legacy of Hamilton Hume, may his land thieving ass rest in peace.

No one knows what happened to Jin. But it is known that Jin left Hume shortly after they moved in together at Cooma Cottage. She ran off to Adelaide with a handsome young chimney sweep named Jimmy. Jin just couldn’t stand all the sheep, and their shit. Not only that, the stables were bitterly cold in the winter and the daily rapes and beatings were often quite brutal. Hume was devastated. But eventually he found another wife, also named Jin. No great loss there. Jin was never really into Hume to begin with. She merely considered him a bridge to a somewhat better life and as a safeguard against getting raped and beaten by other men (again). Then there was the gin. Hume always had plenty of gin, and Jin liked drinking plenty of gin. They actually met at a gin joint, in Cooma. Bernie’s Gin Joint they called it back then. Jin was working there as a barmaid with her friend, also named Jin. Jin was already seven months pregnant from a previous rape when she met Hume. He just walked straight up to her one day at work and asked if she was from The Overlands. When Jin indicated that she was indeed from The Overlands (Ngunnawal Country), Hume went on to explain that he was in need of a guide, as he was soon setting forth on an expedition over The Overlands. Payment would consist of a blanket and a bottle of gin – plus all the gin one could care to drink during the expedition. After much deliberation, and after getting Hume to throw in another bottle of gin, Jin gladly accepted Hume’s offer. She was headed back that way anyway to give birth.

And Jin did indeed give birth in The Valley of Yass. While Hume was on his knees giving praise to the waters of life by the river that day, Jin quietly slipped off into the bushes. After disposing of the fetus – by burying it under a large stone by the side of the river – she then quietly staggered off to get another bottle of gin. She still had a piece of rope between her teeth as she emerged from the bushes.

But that’s enough about the dark and disturbing past of this particular region of Australia. I’m sure I’ve bored you all enough as it is – much more so than is strictly necessary. There is, needless to say, so much more to tell regarding the dark and disturbing past of the Valley of Yass. But to be honest, most of it’s terribly uninteresting. In any case, I’m not a historian, and Australian history really is the surest way to put a reader to sleep.

But at least you now know why they named that highway between Melbourne and Sydney the Hume Highway.

Hume : 1: Scottish (Lowlands) and northern English: variant of Hulme with loss of l before the bilabial consonant m as in the vocabulary word calm. See Holm and Home. 2: Scottish: habitational name either from the barony of Home or from Hume (or Home) in Berwickshire from which the barony took its name. The placename derives from Old English hōum dative plural form of hōh ‘heel spur of land’.

— geneanet.org

For my part, whenever I drive along the Hume Highway I always try to imagine it’s really named after David Hume, especially while passing through the Valley of Yass. David Hume was simply the nicest philosopher who ever lived. Everyone says so. [ all thought derived from sensation and passion. im. slaves ]... That’s why I always use him as my emergency contact and “next of kin”, whenever details of that nature are required of me. Of course, along with the name David Hume I always make sure to provide a phoney address and a fake telephone number. But it’s the thought that counts. In fact, David Hume invented that phrase: “it’s the thought that counts”. Hume knew all about thoughts, being a philosopher and all; and he was also an economist, so I assume he also knew how to count. He also invented the Problem of Induction. [past predicts the future "For Hume, establishing the link between causes and effects relies not on reasoning alone, but the observation of "constant conjunction" (something on this for not only the words, it's the constant conjunctions between them. when the meaning of each conflict.) throughout one's sensory experience." E.g. 9:15 every morning. one morning they didn't. The belief that things will go on the way they always have, even though we know they never do. ln. algorithm. lo.?]

[bountiful harvests and forced sacrifices to the gods. tx. alg 32. br. arcadian. satanic sex rituals involving young sheep. worthy is the lamb mx. red wine, drinking their blood, secret dungeons, the screaming of the lambs, etc.]

[No wonder people do so many drugs out here. What else is there to do? And now there's a deadly global pandemic. I wonder if it will ever infect the sheep. They're starting to say I'm "doing drugs" again. When am I ever not? (I'm not, by the way.) Because when people are "doing drugs" it then becomes permissible to stalk the fuck out of them and treat them like they're subhuman scum, especially if they don't believe in Jesus or football. Maybe I should start "doing drugs" again. Farmer Rob is drinking $41 bottles of wine every night while brutally violating young sheep in ways unimaginable and I'm the bad guy for "doing drugs"? (Not that I am.) Oh, and for refusing to mow my lush green lawn? I think Farmer Rob is beginning to take a little too much interest in me -- far beyond the level one would ordinarily deem permissible. What else are you hiding, Farmer Rob? How much more evil is there? How many more alternate sources of revenue have you got going on behind the scenes? I think you're the one we need to take a little more interest in. Because at the the end of the day, you're the one still living in ignorance and sheep shit; I'm the one still designing your future for you – no matter how many "drugs" I "do". (Not that I am.) Besides, the Blood of the Lamb is the most evil drug there is. I just ordered some "drugs".]

The literal meaning of antipathy is “opposed in feeling”. What I feel literally is just that: the opposite of what they feel. So perhaps, upon reexamination, antipathy is the right word to express what I feel. I want nothing from Farmer Rob, nor from The Demon Sheep, nor from sheep in general (except maybe for their wool, and the occasional lamb kebab), and nor do I bear them any ill will. I just want them to leave me the fuck alone. I don’t even care about all their satanic sex rituals involving young sheep. I have more pressing concerns to consider.

Big dust storm today. Once fertile soil (shit) all blown high up into the international stratosphere, only to fall back to earth onto overly fertilised fields in foreign lands far away, and thence into the rivers and the oceans.

They were told over 200 years ago this would happen.

Farmer Rob hasn’t stopped by again lately, but The Demon Sheep has.

It’s getting drier and she knows it. She fears being replaced by goats crossbred with alpacas – as well she should. I don’t like the way she keeps eyeing my lush green lawn. It’s one of the few outdoor areas not yet covered with sheep shit. She must be in cahoots with Farmer Rob. This relationship is only going to get worse, despite Ovis.

Now it’s even worse. I’ve started staring her down. She keeps giving me evil sheep eye. Every morning at around 9:15 she passes by my front yard, constantly shitting all over the place as she goes, surrounded by her ever-faithful flock constantly doing the same. How any animal that eats so much of its own shit can still shit so much is a question I’m still at a loss to answer. Do the digestive tracts of sheep not conform to the gastroenterological laws of nature? But then nor do I possess the slightest inclination to even attempt to answer such a question. I don’t even bother imitating her unsettling bah anymore. After about the third time it stopped being funny. All I can do now is try to keep her off my lush green lawn by staring her down. But even that isn’t as easy as it sounds. She’s quite an intimidating beast and her demonic grey sheep eyes truly are evil. I’ve never once successfully stared her down. I don’t think I’ve even gone maybe 15 seconds before having to avert my eyes from the sheer intensity of the stark raw evil emanating from her demonic grey sheep eyes. And then there’s her sheer proportions. She’s at least twice the size of all the other sheep – less fleece but much whiter, and with a bright orange tuft of coarse woolly hair atop of her large bulbous head. They say she’s the result of a contaminated cloning. That’s why she’s so evil. I can well believe it. Her demonic grey sheep eyes always betray as much.

When sheep were first brought forth upon this continent the land was already quite dry. It’s only going to get drier. And they eat their own shit. I say we deport them all to Saudi Arabia. They love lamb over there.

To live alone on a sheep shit farm and decorate one’s cottage with pictures of sheep. That’s not weird at all.

Contrary to popular belief, I have not decorated my cottage with pictures of sheep. It is true, however, that I have been purchasing quite a lot of Australiana bush art of late – the kind of thing you find in regional secondhand furniture stores. I’ve found they mostly come in one of two varieties: either your typical reproduction of your typical 19^th-century romantic Australian bush landscape, or your cosy little cottage in the countryside with a gum tree in the foreground and a winding path leading up to the front door. Of the two, I usually prefer the latter. The subject matter always lends so much more to the imagination. In fact, I just so happen to have two exquisite specimens of the cosy little cottage variety on display right at this moment in my own cosy little cottage. I am presently the proud owner of both a Doris and a Tully. I have no idea who Doris and Tully are, or if they’re famous artists. I only know they sign their works Doris and Tully. The Doris is on display in my kitchen. ... [oils. bright. Want to crawl in there and become one with the ...br. rs. library exhibit thing. ....] The Tully is similarly composed. It hangs in my living room. [acrylic. brown. dark. Like something out of a Steinbeck novel. dawn or dusk. feels like dusk.]

[arch. as question. lo. food. shopping]

I don’t remember buying any Mexican asparagus, and I forgot to get toilet paper again. I did, however, buy as many wholemeal English muffins as I could carry.

Now I’m eating a wholemeal English muffin. I gave the Mexican asparagus to Ovis.

Contrary to popular belief, and despite my intense feelings of admiration for the dear creature, I have had very little contact with Ovis – other than feeding him my discarded fruits and vegetables. I’ve been far too preoccupied with the upkeep of my low combustion fireplace.

I was eating another wholemeal English muffin when I learned of the death of Ovis. Pong, one of Farmer Rob’s other faceporn-order child brides, informed me. Was it the Mexican asparagus? was my first thought. My second thought was Was it meant for me?

And then I thought of Ovis. Poor Ovis. The immaculate lamb lives no more! The most perfectly adorable form of ovine kind forever lost to the world. Oh, most wretched fate! Poor Ovis. Even now the grief is still too great for words.

In addition to the extraordinary amount of grief I’m suffering over the death of Ovis, and along with the increased level of threat posed by Farmer Rob and his Demon Sheep, I believe I’m now also suffering from acute isolation sickness, colloquially known as “cabin fever”. I believe I have cabin fever. My mind feels like it’s on fire and I’m starting to believe all kinds of things. And what I’m reading right now isn’t exactly helping. Last night I fell asleep while reading Hesiod. I awoke this morning believing I was Lord Vervex.

I am Lord Vervex! I shall compose for you many theocritical idylls, and a good number of pastoral eclogues too! I must set to work immediately.

In the meantime, I shall sing of fresh woods and pastures new and the scrag end of Ovis Aries, my fallen woolly comrade, laid low by forces as yet unknown (he was especially fond of Mexican asparagus), a final ear twitch and he breathed his last. No more shall his sweet bah be heard. Behauled away on a flatbed trailer drawn by sixteen white horses. Fleeced and flayed, dissected and weighed, and then eaten. Such a tragic fate to befall one so innocent as thee, my dear sweet Ovis. Alas! Poor Ovis. How shall I immortalise thee, my beloved? I know it’s not exactly original, but I shall cast thee up into the heavens! Thou shalt become the constellation Aries. And whenever I see Aries rising I shall always think of thee, my dear sweet and most beloved Ovis.

Achilles himself could not have been more distraught than I appear to be right now. Perfect time to write. I must set to work immediately. I just wish I had have read more Hesiod when I was younger.

Will we ever escape the tedious bucolic pastiche that is proto-post-deconstructed pastoral idealism? Will that day never come?

How appropriate that I get to live out the final years of my pathetic little life surrounded by sheep shit and pine trees. This is hardly the form of pastoral idealism I wish to pastorally idealise. I may need to find some fresh woods and pastures new before immortalising Ovis.

The shape of the leaf produces a particular shade of sound.

The wind begins to blow. The shade of sound is not as it should be. I’ve always hated the sound the wind makes through pine needles, each one a miniature jet engine, polluting the natural soundscape – or what was once left of it.

This must be the liminal stage, from locus amoenus to locus terribilis.

Most people who were burnt at the stake suffocated to death from smoke inhalation long before the flames could actually kill them. I used to think this was a good thing, since I imagine it would be a lot more painful to burn to death. Now I’m not so sure.

The glowing warmth of my masterfully well-kept low combustion fireplace always fills me with an all-consuming sense of immense satisfaction. But then I guess that’s to be expected, since I’ve now been forced to dedicate over half my waking life to the ancient art of low combustion fireplace keeping.

Scientists still don’t know why the sun’s corona is much hotter than its surface.

Outside I can hear them warbling away, their sublime beaks clanking against the aluminium cladding. Mother magpie teaching her fledglings how to eat the little spiders that hide between the spaces.

You hear real good for a deaf man, Farmer Rob. Don’t make me have to demonstrate to you the life-long effects of psychological torture. I really don’t think you could handle it. But then I’m sure you already know that by now.

Is divorcing oneself from humanity honestly the only way out? Is that what I’m doing? Is that why I spend so much time these days attending to my low combustion fireplace? I’m becoming emotionally dependant on my low combustion fireplace. The ancient art of low combustion fireplace keeping has for me now become a full-time occupation. Always control flames to the coals. One must remain vigilant and position one’s wood precisely. Composition is key. I feel like crawling in there sometimes and becoming one with the flames. But I’d probably end up suffocating to death before burning to death, considering how long these things take to fire up. Composition is key. House shapes burn best – they trap heat better. Structures that restrict airflow across their surfaces don’t burn so well. My firewood only comes in the largest and densest lump of wood in the world variety. Why am I standing out here in the cold at four in the morning hacking through a huge chunk of highly compressed carbon with a blunt hatchet while conducting in-depth examinations into the all-pervasive sense of systemic doubt that now pervades one and all? I was once a master goatherd, now am I master of the low combustion fireplace – sometimes no combustion fireplace. Still not quite the master.

Did you hear that, Farmer Rob? Yes, it is true, I’m still not quite the master. We all know that’s still you.

And now it’s time for some interludes.

Interlude One: Lycidas and The Fates, and The Mystic Lamb

The Fates: Where is your Philomela, Lycidas?

Lycidas: ‘Where there is leisure for fiction there is little grief.’ My Philomela is dead. You killed her.

The Fates: Ever wonder why The Fates are plural?

Lycidas: Yes, I have. The Furies too.

And The Mystic Lamb turned to me with tears in his ungodly eyes and said, Hic est fons aque vite procendens de sede Dei + Agni.. And the words echoed throughout the valley.

And then I heard a thunderous voice in the heavens say “Now it is time. Bring him to me. We must dehumanise the lamb once more!”

Lycidas: It’s always fascinating to see how the cultivated, in their artificial way, reflect upon and describe, for their own ends, the natural life.

The Mystic Lamb: Hic est fons aque vite procendens de sede Dei + Agni.

They say the literal translation of Hic est fons aque vite procendens de sede Dei + Agni. is “This is the fountain of the water of life, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb.” I don’t know about that. But I do know that I hate irony, and a contemplation of the waters of life mythos right now could hardly be thought of as anything less than perfect irony. Besides, I have a low combustion fireplace to keep.

Now am I honestly divorced from humanity. Only after a clean break and after demolishing some compromised structures to halt the destructive front can we begin to prevent the spread.

Interlude Two: The Ghost of Jack the Anarchist

The man known to history as Jack the Anarchist never actually existed. He was entirely fabricated by the Australian branch of the CIA, as too was his ghost. Ghosts don’t exist either.

But they say Jack the Anarchist lived in Quaama, a small town in the South Coast region of New South Wales. So I took a drive out to Quaama yesterday. I even drove past what I imagined to be the burnt out remains of Jack’s home. And that’s where I saw The Ghost of Jack the Anarchist.

[loc. Cobargo to Quaama. orange tops. the "snowy" ridge that divides cow from sheep -- one side all burnt away, the other side all blown away. something else to link it back to pine plantations and McDonald's signs unscathed.].

Well, I’m here to tell you that Jack the Anarchist did actually exist. I saw his his ghost.

Drove past a few charred dead koalas by the side of the road.

And then I began to believe I was Lord Vervex again.

Interlude Three: A Conversation with Billy The Charred Dead Koala Bear

Lord Vervex: Have no fear, my charred dead koala bear in arms, I shall avenge your death. I’m not quite sure how just yet. But as God is my witness...

Billy The Charred Dead Koala Bear: You’ll forget.

Lord Vervex: I shall do no such thing! I shall never forget. Your soft and furry koala bear fur, Billy, is no less charred than my eternally charred soul. I shall never forget you.

Billy The Charred Dead Koala Bear: You’ll forget.

*

I forget when it was exactly. It may have been that same day I took a drive through the scorched yet still somewhat verdant valley of the damned to check on Jack the Anarchist.... The minds and movement of sheep, and what drives them -- [rs. algorithm. sheep. They lead from behind, where they are most vulnerable to attack. best to be up front, or in the middle. [(fright flight)...the dead end. ne. forest copse circle around bah. what do they say to each other? I'm still deciphering -- depending on the weather (wind and temperature?), they start moving slowly to the eastern paddocks at dawn and by 9 start to head back west. Why? -- the night after. 1st voice. pictures of greater scenes -- v. before window dust storm, scene same if not for sat dish mx. on valley mist. -- what it all means. diaeresis dance -- why that particular place? -- same chaos at work (nonreproducability -- fire as an organism rs. ) -- problem of induction ...sheep dance ritual before lying in the field, eagle circumscribed -- scene re-minded. Ovis Aries Algorithm. rt. antipathy]...

Bush fires of unprecedented scale and ferocity, thick choking smoke, gale force winds and blinding dust storms, and then giant hail stones and torrential rain for two days straight, and then a great plague of mass-suicidal flying insects (most of which ended up dead on my kitchen floor), and now yet another dust storm, and that ingrate of a spider that bit my finger when I caught and released it to the great outdoors, all within the last two months. Oh, and now a deadly global pandemic. What’s next, I wonder?

Fuck sheep and fuck pine trees too. And now they’ve fucked up the land so much so they’re all switching to goats crossbred with alpacas, and a new genetically engineered species of South Saharan sedge. Like they haven’t fucked it up enough.

Sheep bleat contentedly in oblivious chorus; crows caw with ominous intent in contrapuntal accompaniment; pine needles whistle in the wind like billions of miniature jet engines.

Who would have thought a deadly global pandemic combined with a few hundred devastating megafires and the rise of ultranationalist authoritarianism all over the world could become so disruptive?

But no need to panic just yet. They cut down all the trees here long ago (but for the pine trees), and the global Covid death toll is still only around 7,000 people per day (so they say).

If worst comes to worst I suppose I can always get some chickens and grow my own vegetables. I just wish I knew how to weave and bake bread. I may have to buy a big basket and start stockpiling wholegrain English muffins soon.

Human beings are just so completely insane. Seriously, plenty of everything else on the shelves but no toilet paper. What’s so special about toilet paper, Farmer Rob? You can’t eat it, you know. Or do you know something we don’t? Are you counting on all those pine plantations going up in smoke next summer?

Hmm, perhaps not a good time to be investing in pine plantations. Investing in gas mask factories, on the other hand, may prove quite profitable in future.

Who killed my dear sweet Ovis? Was it really the Mexican asparagus? Or was his death meant as a warning? Did Farmer Rob sacrifice the first lamb of his flock for me? The Uncouth Swain within emerges. A wildly swung blunt hatchet and then a slow loving lambaste over the open fires of direct retribution.

Perhaps it is indeed time for me to leave the Valley of Yass, never to return.

The skies clear, momentarily. The rains come and the valley greens. A few days pass, any memory of which has also since passed. Time annihilates all, even memory. Poor Ovis.

I’m listening to the Agnus Dei from Bach’s Mass in B minor. The sun is setting across the valley. Qui tollis pecata mundi. Now it’s dark. I can see both the large and small Brolga galaxies (large and small Magellanic clouds) with my naked eye from my front yard. Barefoot and heavily pregnant, standing on a lush green lawn while gazing up at the stars – principally, the Mars, Jupiter and Saturn conjunction in Sagittarius. Yes, at the very least am I now blessed with heavy impregnation and lawn barefootedness.

Quite a frosty morning. Why am I always waking up at 4AM? It rained last night and the fire went out again, and I’ve run out chopped firewood. I have to chop the tree trunk-sized hardwood logs they use for firewood around here into at least quarters to get them to burn. I fetch a damp unchopped log from outside and throw it into the smouldering ashes. It won’t burn. My log will not burn and my muffin will not defrost!

It’s now half an hour later. Half a box of firelighters and a generous splash of lawnmower fuel solved my no combustion fireplace issues. Now I’m buttering my muffin. Poor Ovis.

Now I’m eating my muffin, while gazing up at the fading stars. All is silent, but for the words of the Mystic Lamb, which keep echoing through my mind.

Aries rises before the dawn as I eat my muffin in silence and think of Ovis.

And still the words of the Mystic Lamb keep echoing through my mind:

Hic est fons aque vite procendens de sede Dei + Agni.

The Day the Wind Blew the Door Off My Chicken Coop

The Day the wind blew the door of my chicken coop I was making my second most favourite dish for dinner: Penang gai kai dao mai sook. I was so distraught I wrote a little poem about it seven days later:

The door flew off my chicken coop;
The wind blew it off it did.
It’s been that way for a week now.
Good thing I don’t have any chickens.

I’ve been meaning to get me some chickens, once I get around to fixing the door on my chicken coop. But I’m afraid if I do they’ll all get blown away. I’m also afraid I just won’t be able to enjoy my second-most favourite dish again in quite the same way.

Meeting Clover

Disclaimer: Clover (probably not her real name) is my muse.

To gaze and to be male is nowadays a sin, apparently. Avert thy gaze, men! – especially if you’re over the ripe old age of forty – unless you happen to be “gay”. Castrate thine eyeballs at once and cast them into the sea, for thy time has passed! Why can’t you see that?

Some see it that way. But honestly I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. I think this is just the natural state of man, given the current state of the world. And I believe Clover would agree with me.

Clover, you are what all Art should be. You are Beauty in its most direct and potential form. You are Truth.

Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to meet Clover. Would I be embarrassed, aroused, both, or neither? I believe neither. I believe I’d treat her with the same degree of courteous disregard with which I treat everyone else – perhaps even more so.

Yes, I freely admit it. I am in love with Clover, and her gaze is far more potent than mine. I don’t think I could ever meet her gaze if we ever met in person. I couldn’t meet it while watching her provide slow and gentle handjobs to two exceedingly well-endowed gay men whilst gazing directly into the camera, so I really don’t see how I could meet it if we ever met in person.

But even if we ever do meet in person, Clover is a woman half my age. I never thought I’d ever live long enough to have to force myself to acknowledge this fact, but this is indeed a fact. What could I possibly have in common with Clover? What could we possibly converse upon? Other than political theory?

Case 1:18-cr-00111-CMH Document 31

“Curious eyes never run dry.” I am curious as to why you found it necessary to quote this phrase three times. I must admit it is a pretty phrase, but let’s leave the poetry appreciation at the door on this one, shall we?

“...to the injury of the United States or the advantage of any foreign nation”, six times without citing any actual cases where injury had been caused nor foreign advantage gained, let alone the supposed injurious intent of the accused. You need to establish sufficient grounds. And if this ever gets to a real court – which it won’t – you’ll need to provide evidence of injury and prove intent. You can’t just keep repeating the same phrase over and over again and expect a jury to just accept it on faith.

I am left with the impression that these charges are more in retaliation for insult rather than injury. And I seriously doubt many would disagree that there are none more deserving of insult, given the severity of both past and present injuries. I’d try to think about this more from a jury’s perspective, if I were you.

I lolled @ “special software, namely a Linux operating system”, by the way. Two Linux mentions! Cheeky!!

Overall a nice job, Tracy, but I seriously doubt you could even get him on count 18. This still requires a lot of work. I’m sorry, but I just fail to see any of this so-called injury. Or is that in a separate document?

Not that it matters much now. He’ll be free soon.

Horse Eats Man (or Never Buy Weed in Bondi)

I used to buy weed from a racist old white fella in Bondi with a pathological fear of horses. On more than one occasion, and with a look of sincere terror in his pale grey eyes, he would tell me of how when he was a child back in Tasmania a horse once tried to eat him. His mother had taken him to visit some friends who lived on a stud farm. He was feeding a big black horse some hay when suddenly the horse lunged forward and clenched him by the groin. The horse shook him violently to and fro, hurling him six feet into the air. He landed face down, writhing in agony, in a huge pile of horse shit.

I guess even horses hate racists.

The surf conditions weren’t great that day, but there was no one on the beach anyway. All the restaurants, pubs and shops were shut and the streets deserted. It was wonderful. I’d been to Bondi Beach many times before, but only now could I really begin to appreciate the true appeal of the place. I closed my eyes. Nothing but the sound of the wind and the waves. Wonderful.

Forgive me, I’m usually not much of a beach person. The truly iconic Australian cultural experience of bronzed burly blokes in skimpy speedos passing line over their heads and willingly showering with one another has never much appealed to me. However truly egalitarian and enjoyable that experience may still yet be, I still much prefer the highlands.

So why travel over 600 kilometres from your home in the highlands to Bondi and back every weekend just to buy weed when most of it’s grown in the highlands?

Good question.

There are five principle reasons:

1. At the time of writing, the cultivation of marijuana for personal use is still illegal in New South Wales. The possession of marijuana for personal use is illegal too, but a lesser offence and usually overlooked.
2. Although most marijuana is grown in the highlands, I just don’t know anyone in the highlands who grows marijuana – besides my next-door neighbour. But he kind of looks like that Hans Klopeck dude from that 80s Tom Hanks movie The Burbs, so I don’t talk to him.
3. Bondi Beach is a heavily touristed area, and wherever there is a beach and a preponderance of tourism there are dealers – and I just don’t trust the “dark web” or “crypto”.
4. Despite being a racist and a stalker, and a probable ex-rapist, my Bondi marijuana dealer is a cat lover and in most other respects a relatively okay “bloke”. And despite the quality of the product, and the price, I was more than willing to suffer the indignity of associating with him – if only for the purpose of completing this piece.
5. I don’t really get out of the house much nowadays, so a nice long drive through the New South Wales semi-rural-industrialised countryside, even if it is to Sydney, comes as a welcome break from the menial weekday monotony of staying in all day and doing fuck all, even if it is during a deadly global pandemic. I also take advantage of the six-hour drive there and back to brush up on my country music knowledge.

Some Tom Hanks militarist propaganda “movie” about whacking African fishermen-cum-pirates is playing on the television as I enter his cramped yet cosy abode. He always greets me with an air of fake bemused surprise, as though he has no forewarning of my arrival, then directs me through to the area where he entertains his guests. After dispensing with the usual formalities of initial reacquaintance, and after enduring a cursory and conspiracy-laden lecture on all manner of diverse topics – from the looming and inevitable war with China, to how an intense increase in the Earth’s gravitational field was the true cause of the extinction of the dinosaurs – and after petting his cat and throwing in a few humouring or corrective comments of my own, inevitability, and without fail, he always betrays his deeply ingrained racism by making some highly insensitive and factually inaccurate comment regarding migrant or indigenous communities. It is then that I excuse myself and depart.

*

I’m riding my silver pony along the prairie and stopping just before the Chain of Ponds cross road to take a leak. I think back to Book VII of Aristotle’s Metaphysics:

If ‘animal’ is one and the same thing in ‘horse’ and in ‘man’, in just the same way that you are the same thing as yourself, how can this one thing that in things that are apart be one?

We are both “man”, yet you are a racist and I am not. We may just as well be different species. Perhaps there’s some truth to that. Perhaps they are all “genetic” racists, as they so often claim is true of all of “man” (and anyone who denies this is a hypocrite of course). And so, in effect, psycho-biologically at least, racists are a different species of human? Homo non sapiens, perhaps? Does that not call into question the very question of what it means to be human? You see, my friend? If I choose to misapply the same rudimentary logic you employ, we could all end up in a very difficult situation.

As I repackage my equipment and remount my diminutive steed, a favourite Jimmie Rodgers tune, Prairie Lullaby, suddenly pops into my head:

Saddle up your pony
The sandman’s here
To guide you down the trail of dreams...

Jimmie was probably a racist too, but at least he wrote some good shit.

Note: Billy Hill wrote Prairie Lullaby, not Jimmie Rodgers.

With one of the most wonderfully serene scenes of proto-post-industrialised Australiana I have ever beheld – the clean white sands of a totally deserted Bondi Beach impressed firmly into my long-term memory – and with the Meriton-dominated skyline of greater metropolitan Sydney receding in my rear view mirror, I shifted my little Hyundai into fifth gear, breathed a deep sigh of palliative relief, tuned out on some Jimmie Rodgers and trundled on down the Hume highway back to my humble home in the highlands. I timed the drive precisely so as to catch the last few hours of late afternoon sunshine and arrive back just before dark – and also so I could watch the sun set through the clouds over Lake George (Weereewa). “Lake George”, right. They call it a lake and named it after George Orwell, but it’s not really a lake. It’s a vast floodplain that very rarely fully floods – yet when it does flood it does so catastrophically. I call it the Valley of Nothing. You must pass through the Valley of Nothing to pass through the Valley of Yass, unless you take the Federal Highway turn-off, in which case you must still pass through the Valley of Nothing.

I decided to pass through the Valley of Yass, not taking the federal highway turn-off, because Canberra is just that. I was pulled over by the speed police upon entering the Valley of Yass. Downhill straight stretch. I usually only speed around corners and up hills. I was a little over the speed limit, I admit. But it was a pleasant evening, and I’m white, so he let me off with a warning. Praise the LORD for social distancing!

As I was approaching the township of Yass, a wild yet windless thunderstorm blew in. I’ve never seen clouds move that fast, yet not a breath of wind – and it wasn’t even the right time of year for thunderstorms. It was also unseasonable warm that day. I’m not the most knowledgeable student of advanced cloud microphysics in the valley, but I do know that the role of clouds is one of the most uncertain areas in climate science; they’re hard to measure and, depending on altitude, droplet temperature and other factors, can play either a warming or a cooling role. Even the climate scientists don’t know exactly what’s going to happen. They only know it’s going to be bad. That’s even scarier. What’s next, I wonder? Icebergs falling from the sky?

I thought back to Book I of Aristotle’s Meteorology:

...clouds have often been observed moving with a great noise close to the earth, terrifying those who heard and saw them as portents of some catastrophe. Sometimes, too, when such clouds have been seen, without any noise, there follows a violent hailstorm, and the stones are of incredible size, and angular in shape.

My cowboy life is so happy and free
Out west where the laws don’t bother me
I take my troubles like a toy
I’m just a yodelling cowboy...

Jimmie died in New York city on May 26, 1933 from a pulmonary haemorrhage.

*

Summer, Australia, 2020. The most devastating and extensive megafires ever witnessed were still raging out of control all over the country. All of Sydney was shrouded in a thick veil of dense acrid smoke.

Something he said really got to me: that Aboriginal people aren’t really connected to the land; that that’s all horse shit – the equivalent of taking a huge dump on Notre-Dame, or an ANZAC memorial, or a Beatles album. Well if they’re not “connected” to the land its because racist eco-raping white fellas like you are disconnecting them. And no mention of the Christchurch terrorist attacks. Instead he goes on about some terrorist attack in Europe from five years ago – a semi-personal second-hand narrative derived from a distorted subset of inaccurate and outdated information gleaned and accrued from biased and disreputable sources. Fear of loss drives them from behind. They continue to grow richer and fatter yet fear loss more, while desperately trying to homogenise everyone down to the basest level of populist misinformed conformity. They’re arguments are as solid as two-legged tripods. That’s why they have to lean them up against such huge piles of horse shit.

There’s no stopping them, and I’m tired of fighting. I can’t do it anymore. I’d rather be nowhere. Nothing to fight over if everything is dead.

I’m riding my silver pony along the prairie. It starts to hail. As my brave little Hyundai hurtles headlong through the huge chunks of frozen water smashing into its non-tempered glass windscreen, another favourite Jimmie Rodgers tune suddenly pops into my head:

Now she’s got it here, and she’s got it there
Her lips are red, her little ole feet are bare
She’s shy on clothes, but I don’t care
’Cause everybody does it in Hawaii

Jimmie was probably a misogynist too, but at least he never absconded to Hawaii.

Note: Hank Snow wrote Everybody Does it in Hawaii, not Jimmie Rodgers.

What can you expect from ignorant peasants who still brush their teeth with other men’s urine? What-aboutism and regarding it as a moral issue – shows them up for exactly what they are: peasants. But then that’s what you get with Peasant Rule: peasants.

And still the lone voices of relative reason remain silent. Because we were always taught to never argue with the peasants, weren’t we? We enabled Peasant Rule with our disdain, fear and silence, and now we’re all burning for it. And now my car insurance premium’s just gone up for living in an extreme weather-prone region. I should have unleashed upon the fascist fucker and got him to tell me who his supplier is. It’s probably some “ex”-biker less than 50 kilometres from where I live – somewhere around Mittagong most likely. He’d probably only charge me half the price I pay now...either that or rape me.

You see the kind of harm’s way they put me in? Why can’t they just fully decriminalise it and sell the juice in vape shops so I don’t have to go through all this needless torment? They can sell pressurised whipped-cream cannisters to kids so they can jam pressurised whipped-cream up their noses, but they can’t sell cannabis juice to dying old men like me. Can’t we do anything right in this country? Peasants.

Excuse me. I know it may be considered somewhat impolite to refer to someone as a “peasant”, however I assure I only do so in both a broadly generic and singly specific sense. Perhaps I should use the term “currency” instead to avoid any unintended offence or confusion?

A singular disinclination to finish any work completely, is a striking characteristic of colonial craftsmen, at least of the ‘currency’ or native-born portion.

– Mrs. Meredith, My Home in Tasmania (1852), Volume I, p. 6

Perhaps not. Despite Mrs. Meredith’s astute observation, and although not much seems to have changed since the mid-nineteenth century, I must refrain from the use of any and all divisive labels. You’re all the same to me. You’re all fucking peasants. You all require a vigorous groin clenching and a hurling to and fro, as far as I’m concerned – particularly the native-born or “currency” portion. I do, however, demand that we finally eradicate racism and misogyny nationwide and come up with a strategy for full decriminalisation and maintaining critical supply lines during pandemics and national emergencies. Because all horses have hooves, and no humans have hooves, so some humans are not horses.

I could have become the greatest Australian currency there never was, if only I weren’t so fucking angry all the time. I’m sorry, but I just can’t tolerate the racist attitude. More than anything else, besides misogyny, that really is what divides and holds you back the most. I’m sorry, but that just makes me angry. I mean try to think about it from my perspective: I return after fourteen years at sea only to find you even more divided and backward than when I first departed. You’re also a lot fatter and evidently more corrupt. Stop gorging yourselves on the common commercial slop! You must stand with me, my unconscionably corrupt and incorrigibly corpulent heathen brethren! Do not give in to your atavistic fascist tendencies! And fuck Tom Hanks!

Open Letter to Xi Jinping

Xi,

I feel like you’re the only one I can really talk to, even though I don’t even know you. And I’m sorry if you’re far too busy running the People’s Republic of China to read this letter, but I believe it important to tell you how I feel, regardless.

I must confess, you are a fascinating man, and I believe you’re someone with whom I would genuinely enjoy conversing – ideally while sipping whiskey and smoking cigars, of course, if that ever again becomes possible. But I’m writing to you today not so much to express my personal admiration, nor to invite you over for a few drinks and a smoke. I am writing to you today to enlist your aid in diffusing tensions between our two nations.

No doubt it comes as no surprise that some idiot you’ve never heard of is writing to you today regarding this matter. Given the current level of misgovernance to which Australia is currently being subjected, and given the current level of needless political antipathy between Australia and China, I’m sure you can understand why I feel it necessary to write to you today. Additionally, the fact that I am now unemployable and shall soon again be made homeless is also compelling me to write to you today.

For the next few days, at least, I live in a small cottage in a sheep and wine region of south-eastern Australia. Yet I have no wine, and I’m running out of food. I only have a bag of rice and two eggs left. My landlord, Farmer Rob (no kidding, his name really is Rob), is over 65 and drinks a bottle of red every day at $41 a day. But I must admit it is good wine. In any case, I might have to help myself to one of his sheep tomorrow. I suppose I could still make green curry lamb with rice – but with no green curry, and no wine.

Wait a sec... I just remembered I still have 16 frozen vegetable dumplings left in the freezer. Hooray!

A forceful knock at the door.

I never thought I could get into so much trouble just from writing letters. Farmer Rob just called the cops on me. Some Pauline Hanson/Ronald McDonald look-a-like mutant clown cop and her excessively vigilante John Hughesque diminutive male Asian sidekick showed up on my doorstep just now. Farmer Rob has, according to his sacred Christian duty, informed the local police that he’s concerned for my welfare. How touching. Thank you, Farmer Rob, for being so thoughtful and looking out for me so diligently. I do so appreciate your concern ever so much. If only you could ever do the same for the land you stole and destroyed. You’re the one that needs help. You can come on over and fix my toilet though, if you ever need something useful to do.

Excuse me, Xi, but these constant interruptions, not to mention my current impoverished state, are preventing me from finishing this letter in a timely fashion. And my toilet really is broken. I also just ran out of toilet paper. But I don’t want to take up any more of your time with my personal problems, so I’ll get straight to the point.

I want my country back. I know, they’ll never give it up willingly. Yet keep in mind that the “they” is only a very small group of extremely wealthy people (Murdoch’s set) and their neofascist facilitatees – primarily, Prime Lump and Sergeant Potato Head. Yes, my country is run by a theocratic mendacious marketing manager who believes in “miracles”, assisted by his 80s-style Queensland cop sidekick who believes Australia is being invaded by left-wing African gangster Jihadists from New Zealand. I do apologise for this, Xi, but you must understand that what was once referred to as the “political class” in Australia no longer exists. Most of them are now dead or in prison, or forced into self-exile or early retirement, or relegated to the press gallery. That’s quite a subversive statement to be making, isn’t it? Yet that is the truth. I really should be more careful about what I say, I know. They’re always listening. I can’t do anything here without being spied on half to death. I suppose you’d expect that, to some extent, when living in a foreign nation, but not your own. But then the nation of Australia, as it is currently misrepresented by its current government, is not mine own. I reject it entirely. And I believe the vast majority of Australians now feel this way too. Again, I do apologise for this current state of affairs. However, I can assure you that work is now underway to solve this problem once and for all. Your patience, therefore, while we finally rectify this very difficult period in our nation’s history is much appreciated.

Rest assured, the year 2020 marks the end of Australia as you once knew it. That this end also happens to coincide with my departure from the Australian workforce is purely coincidental. But I’m not too worried about that. For you see I have a new guitar. Her name is Betty. She was made in China specifically for the Australian market. She is robust, efficient and responsive, yet delicate when required. I believe I’ll keep her. I suppose that makes sense. Most of the competent people I’ve worked with in Australia were originally from China – with one notable exception; but that was while working at UNSW, so that doesn’t count. Conversely, my most recent experience, in Canberra, working illegally and with no security clearances on state and federal government systems, will count. For it has been this latest experience, occurring at the tail end of a 23-year stint in the misinformation technology industry, that has finally forced my final exit from said industry – and in more ways than one.

Excuse me again, Xi, but I just learned that Charley Pride died today, due to complications related to Covid. I haven’t listened to Charley Pride for years. How does a man get to be this way? I just put some Charley Pride on. By the way, I don’t blame China for coronavirus. I’m no epidemiologist, but I do know that the origins of viruses can rarely be delimited to the sites of their initially reported outbreaks. I blame meat...and The Underwear Poisoner.

I just wish we had of known about it sooner.

And where’s the rest of the data?

Anyway, as I was saying, we all know that democracy, as it is presently practised in most present-day so-called democracies, is dead. We need something entirely new to replace it. Covid is our Chernobyl. Just take a look at the death tolls by country. And we all know that Communism, in its present CCP incarnation, has a very limited lifespan in China – as the middle class rise in the East and fall in the West, and while neoliberal democracies continue to disintegrate and collapse in upon themselves, and as China becomes the world’s largest economy. As both these lifespans are now coming to an end, a merger is inevitable. As surely as the continent of Australia shall some day merge with Asia, so too shall our two great civilisations coalesce into one to form the first truly global republic. We have too much freedom in some areas, you guys don’t have enough in others. We must merge and balance each other out. Mark my words, Xi, Australia will become China’s ally by 2028. We were allies once. There is no reason why we should not be so again. We joined forces once to defeat fascism. We can do it again – and this time finally. Fear and aggression will never dissuade us. We will eventually become one. It’s just a matter of time.

China, the world’s oldest continuous living civilisations; and Australia, the world’s oldest continuous living cultures. What could be better?

But in order to assemble this new republic into being, we must first put an end to all that authoritarian strong man shit, Xi – both from within and from without. The time for that style of political leadership has passed. This planet has experienced quite enough of it. And that’s not a request. That’s just the soon-to-be dominant global ethos. That may sound like so much wishful thinking (which I suppose it is), yet that must still stand as our ultimate goal.

They say I died on the beach in Singapore too far-sighted. However, I assure you I am still quite alive, and I’m really not that far-sighted. In fact, I’m slowly becoming near-sighted.

Xi, let me show you the real Chinas. I hate war but I do know a lot about it – the psychology and politics of war, not so much the practice of it. Maybe that’s why I hate it so much? And no, it’s not a love-hate relationship. I don’t believe in oversimplified dualistic phrases like that, and I don’t believe in relationships. I believe in co-existence and cooperation. I’m so tired of other people trying to force their master/whore relationships on me. We should be building flying cars and synthetic meat together. As it is, we’re neither building non-flying cars nor non-synthetic meat together. How is that not even not possible, I ask you? We cannot let ideological differences stand in our way, neither those of the political variety nor the philosophical, nor the religious.

Like you, Xi, I’m an anti-theocratic atheist with semi-spiritual animistic leanings. However, I do believe in the right of every person to practice whatever kind of kooky faith their into, so long as they keep it out of politics, and advertising and education. And I don’t care what it is.

But enough of that. More important to me than ideological issues or matters of faith are women – and one woman in particular. I fell in love with her while writing to her while she was in prison. She was falsely imprisoned in Iran for 804 days. She’s since been released – a true miracle for which I’m truly thankful (despite it taking 804 days longer than it should have) – but there is another problem: she’s married. Sadly, I feel it would be inappropriate for me to continue any form of correspondence with her given this knowledge. So I’ve since turned my attention to North Korea.

Excuse me once again, Xi, but I just learned that Doug Anthony also just died (not from Covid). As you are no doubt aware, Doug Anthony was the Australian Minister for Primary Industry during the late 1970s and early 80s. Not that it’s of too much significance, yet I thought it somewhat relevant to mention the coincidence of his passing, since during his ministership he did encourage and foster stronger and broader trade relations with Japan – even if some of that resulting trade also involved the exportation of uranium. Not that I’m comparing myself with the likes of Doug Anthony, but I also wish to encourage and foster stronger and broader trade relations with Japan – and China; indeed all nations – just not the uranium. Anyway, I’ll get back to Kylie and North Korea.

So since Kylie is now free, and since she’s already married to someone else, I am now at full liberty to offer my services to the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. And in order to achieve ever-lasting peace and prosperity throughout the Asia-Pacific region, I’m more than willing to wed Kim Yo Jong – even though she’s already married to someone else. I need a strong confident Korean woman to whip me into shape (again), and North Korea needs to join the rest of the world by repurposing its military-industrial complex and restructuring its economy. I can help with that. And since Australia doesn’t want me, I’m sure you’ll agree the next most obvious place for me to be is North Korea...or perhaps Israel.

Don’t get me wrong, Australia is a lovely place, when it’s not burning, blanketed in smoke or under water. However, I’ve yet to reach the age of early retirement, and I’ve always longed to explore the Korean peninsula, both North and South. I can never be quite certain as to the precise reasons why, yet I’ve always believed it my destiny to end my days in a fully unified Korea, smoking hashish and writing amateurish Hyangga poetry on the summit of Mount Kumgang – after, of course, first fathering the ultimate warrior race of Austral-Korean Übermensch.

Right now you’re probably thinking to yourself, So why are you writing to me about this? Why don’t you write directly to Kim Yo Jong? Or Kim Jong-un? He is the Supreme Leader of North Korea, not I, and Kim Yo Jong is his sister. Quite right. I’m doing so because I believe a formal introduction from you would be more suitable under the circumstances, given the delicate nature of the subject matter and the personalities of the parties involved, not to mention the attendant geopolitical ramifications. Moreover, I am quite shy. Plus I’ve got quite a few open letters going at the moment and I’m already starting to grow weary of the form. Besides, I’d probably just end up causing yet more offence.

Just between you and me, Xi, I’ve always longed to make love to Kim, in ways unheard of, in places unthought of, and in positions unimaginable throughout all of eternity, that much is true. Yet I assure my proposal of marriage is also genuine and true. And I assure you also that my intentions are entirely honourable in every other respect. All unattempted humour aside, my love for Kim is real, and I do know her mind. She is an extraordinary yet very unhappy woman imprisoned in a politically arranged marriage she did not wish for. She wishes for nothing more than to escape her loveless and lifeless prison. I can see it in her eyes. Can you not see it also? Outwardly she projects an image of redoubtable strength and confidence, but in truth she appears to me at times a vulnerable and inexperienced young woman who has never truly known the true joy of true love – in such a way a woman such as herself simply must. Her expression is so gaunt, characterless and cruel, yet so unfathomably beautiful. Every time I see her I become exceedingly aroused, in every sense. I’m sorry, Xi, but I must have her, I simply must. But then I think back to all those Korean “comfort women” during World War II. Am I behaving just like a Japanese Imperial rapist too? Would she think as much of me for expressing my love in such a manner? I assure you that it is not my intent. Fuck it, I don’t speak Korean anyway.

Sorry, Xi. I’m not very good at this, am I? Do you not see now why an introduction from you is so requisite?

Yes, how could you dare not think for a moment that I would not wish to become embroiled in the most interesting problem to date in all of geopolitical history? Trump (The Rapist in Chief), being a plagiarist and an egomaniacal profiteering opportunist, recognised this too. But sadly he was also a corrupt moronic psychopath and full of shit. And although he’s now gone (kind of), his dismal legacy still remains. And although I can appreciate the threat still posed, especially with all the evil clowns and arseheads still at large, I must say your militarist and authoritarian tendencies do tend to worry me somewhat – as do those of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. I’m trying to move away from all that silly nonsense. I’m gearing up for a real war – opening up government and repurposing and reprovisioning the military to combat the causes and effects of global heating. I’m not living through another Cold War, especially while I’m still living through the “War on Drugs”, the “War on Terror” and now the War on Truth. So I’ve decided to defect to North Korea. Yes, from the Korean peninsula shall we defend our Chinese comrades to the end, by disarming them all. Together we shall bring ever-lasting peace throughout the Asia-Pacific region, and thence the entire world. Global disarmament! We shall not allow them to socially engineer their own mutually assured destruction. We have a bigger and more dangerous enemy to fight: The Underwear Poisoner, an existential threat that we can only defeat by joining forces.

And since Kylie is unavailable, and since Dolly Parton refuses to bless my courtship of Sarah – which I have since commenced nonetheless – and given that I have no other ongoing romantic interests, I believe it makes perfect sense that Kim and I wed, geopolitically speaking at least. Do you not agree?

To be perfectly honest, Xi, I’d much rather be with Sarah and not be forced to engage in any of this silly nonsense. But given the current situation, and since you leave me with little choice, here’s my plan: Jump a slow boat to Nampo; wed Kim in a lavish traditional North Korean-style ceremony, with much soju and much hongeo; honeymoon for about three months on a remote tropical island in the Pacific; make love to Kim relentlessly, while she teaches me to speak Korean and Russian; return to North Korea to take up a low-level functionary post in Kim Jong-un’s administration; patiently await an invitation to visit Moscow to meet with The Underwear Poisoner; infiltrate his inner circle, with Kim as my guide; get invited to cocaine-fuelled oligarchical orgies; leave briefcase under the bed and walk away (casually). Too easy.

Don’t worry, I’ve done this kind of thing before.

That’s all probably just another one of my crazy pipe dreams, I know. Besides, I’m sure Kim has much better taste in men and would never agree to such a foolhardy enterprise, especially with such a scummy kind of guy like me.

But then how could I dare not to dream as much, given the current state of affairs?

If it were not for the deterioration in relations between Australia and China, perhaps things would be different? One can only speculate. Either way, “either a man will learn nothing at all or he will learn only what he already knows.” That does seem to be the general way with this current administration, does it not?

They don’t like that I’m writing to you. They see me as a traitor to the Great White Imperialist Cause of Rampant Militarism and Overly Centralised Wealth Accumulation. They treat me like a redefective spy for the CCP. I’ve never even been to China – unless you count that visa run to Hong Kong back in the late 90s. I didn’t even leave the airport. Now that I look back, I should have defected to China while I had the chance and lived over there for a while. But I was way too preoccupied with far too many other matters at the time. I love China and Chinese culture, however I don’t think I could ever live under Communist party rule (unless I were the Supreme Leader). I lived under the Maduro regime for two years in Venezuela. Maduroism isn’t really Communist, I know. Still, the trauma suffered during those two miserable years of free Spanish lessons still debilitates me to this day. I was lucky I got out alive. But I mostly blame The Underwear Poisoner for that. The last five years of accumulated trauma suffered under Australian neofascism, however, has been even worse. Maybe I should defect to China. Or perhaps not. I’m afraid if I do I’ll eventually get arrested for saying the wrong thing and sent off to one of those vocational training camps. Free Mandarin lessons! At least maybe then they could cure me of my long-standing hatred of China. Or perhaps not. These days anyone who refuses to hate China is seen as a Communist sympathiser. We’re going back to the bad old McCarthyism days. It’s by design, I’m sure of it. The neofascists are deliberately forcing China into a military alliance with The Underwear Poisoner. And then we’ll become even more paranoid and respond with yet more silliness (more hypersonic missile purchases and gunboat diplomacy probably), and then in another ten months or so we’ll all be at war again. Third time’s the charm. Yet more ternary clichés.

Well I for one say no more. No more ternary clichés! And no more war, of any kind.

That is why, since no one else cares to, I’ve taken the liberty of addressing each one of your fourteen grievances against Australia personally, some idiot you’ve never heard of though that I am. And I have also included fourteen grievances of my own, which I have phrased somewhat light-heartedly as “demands”, and which I expect you to address personally in a similar manner. Additionally, I’ve included fourteen things I like about China, since we’re always supposed to say something nice about someone before criticising them.

I’ve also taken the liberty of altering some of the grammar – purely for the sake of clarity – without, hopefully, altering any of the original sense or meaning of the transcript. And when I say transcript I mean your original English transcript, not the Daily Mail condensed Engrish rendering.

I have addressed each item in red below.

Fourteen Things China Doesn’t Like About Australia

1. Foreign investments and acquisitions blocked on opaque national security grounds and in contravention of ChAFTA [China–Australia Free Trade Agreement]. Since 2018 more than 10 Chinese investment projects have been rejected by Australia, citing ambiguous and unfounded “national security concerns,” and placing restrictions on areas like infrastructure, agriculture and animal husbandry.
   The small dog barks the loudest.
2. The decision to ban Huawei Technologies and ZTE from the 5G network over unfounded national security concerns; and doing the bidding of the US by lobbying other countries to do the same.
   As we all know, 5G causes fatal brain tumours in children, kills puppies and kittens instantly and spreads coronavirus all over the place. After an internal investigation into how these decisions were reached, an impartial and fact-based re-evaluation shall be made. I’ve already moved on to GPRS anyway.
3. Foreign interference legislation targeted at China, in the absence of any evidence of interference.
   This is another by-product of Australia’s traditional racist and xenophobic attitude in general. For centuries, other supposedly friendlier nations have been more active in interfering in “Australia’s politics”. A government that formulates foreign policy that is fundamentally racist and culturally bigoted is bound to not only harm its own vital economic interests and diplomatic ties, but also leaves itself vulnerable to foreign interference from other more malign sources. This legislation will be revised. Our good friends the Canadians may be able to help us out with some of that.
4. Politicisation and stigmatisation of the normal exchanges and cooperation between China and Australia, and creating barriers and imposing restrictions, including the revocation of visas for Chinese scholars.
   Lump is our Trump. I assure you, Xi, once Lump is gone normal exchanges and cooperation, in all forums, between China and Australia shall resume.
5. Acting as a proxy for the US by calling for an international independent inquiry into the Covid-19 virus, echoing similar recent US attacks on China.
   Unlike some of my contemporaries, I am capable of discerning the difference between laying blame for being unable to the contain the spread of a new virus and investigating its origins. People often confuse investigations into the origins of outbreaks with the assessment of their responses to them. China did a better job than the U.S (initially at least). Why don’t we call for a separate investigation into why the United States has the highest number of infections and deaths? The WHO has separately convened a global study of the origins, so I think we know what Lump’s game is: “I’m still with stupid” cretin-created conspiracy theory puppet shows and childish tit for tat nonsense. But that’s what happens whenever you leave the paranoia-driven b-grade belligerent boy’s club bureaucrats in charge. The general populous on both sides suffer, not them.
6. The incessant wanton interference in China’s Xinjiang, Hong Kong and Taiwan affairs; spearheading the crusade against China in certain multilateral forums.
   I believe no nation has the right to interfere in the affairs of any other nation, unless there is a clear violation of human rights occurring. Regarding Hong Kong, there’s not much I can say, other than that I’m extremely disappointed China has gone back on its word. But given the advent of The Rapist in Chief, I can at least understand the motivation. And I can console myself with the knowledge that the democratic reforms China will undoubtedly undergo in coming decades will also apply broadly and equally to Hong Kong (once we curb your militarist and authoritarian tendencies). With respect to Taiwan, the people of Taiwan shall determine their own fate. Some would argue they already have. I can understand how China would wish to reclaim by force the territories severed from it in the past, but the region has changed quite significantly since then, and the island of Taiwan no less so. It’s no longer the year 1683. Force is the loser’s way. The only solution here is a diplomatic one. There is only one Chinas. You have my full support on that, Xi. Besides, we need to take the Philippines first. Regarding Xinjiang, I only know what I read in the press: arbitrary detentions and degrading treatment inflicted upon Uyghurs and people from other ethnic minorities, as well as systematic violations of their freedom of religion or belief (as if China is the only nation guilty of that), forced labour camps, cultural “genocide”, etc. Australia tried all that a few decades back (some would argue they’re still trying it), but it only ever created more problems. And even if you do manage to kill them all, they still come back to haunt you later on, and in ever greater numbers. Genocide is like that, it never really goes away. However, I do understand that wanton interference is rarely helpful under any circumstances. Warranted influence is always preferable. We must all accept some warranted influence at times. China would not enjoy the affluence it does now without the influence of others. And with respect to “spearheading the crusade,” Australia shall be spearheading no such crusades in future. Australia will be focusing on restoring and strengthening its relations with China, and indeed with all its trading partners.
7. The first non-littoral nation to make a statement on the South China Sea to the United Nations.
   I have to say, Australia has every right to be concerned about China’s activities in the South China Sea, just as China, and all other nations, have every right to be concerned about every other nation’s activities in the South China Sea. However, I do like the idea of building artificial islands. I just wish we could do it together – especially seeing as how most of the non-artificial ones will all be underwater soon. I love islands. I’m not so in love with the idea of non-freedom or militias, however. Why can’t we all set aside our petty differences, adopt the Antarctic treaty model, abide by international court rulings and start building artificial islands together? And why can’t we also start repairing all the existing islands, which will all be under water soon if we don’t?
8. Siding with the US’ anti-China campaign and spreading disinformation imported from the US around China’s efforts at containing COVID-19.
   Yes, the blatant hypocrisy and malevolent spite here truly beggars belief. But this is more of a Trump thing. Trump is now gone, and Lump will be gone soon too. No Trump, no Lump.
9. The latest legislation scrutinising agreements with foreign governments, targeting China and specifically aimed at torpedoing the state of Victoria’s participation in the Belt & Road initiative.
   This one worries me too. I like driving around Australia, except in Victoria. Victoria has some of the worst roads, and drivers, in all of Australia. Australians are just so shit at building roads, except in Queensland, but especially in Victoria. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come close to death on Victorian roads, so I won’t. But I can tell you that Victoria’s participation in the Belt & Road initiative will go ahead, in one form or another, a few months after the next federal election – once all that revised legislation is enacted, and all those corrupt opportunists are out of the way. These current difficulties are merely temporary delays.
10. Provided funding to an anti-China think tank that spread untrue reports, peddled lies, and manipulated public opinion regarding Xinjiang and the so-called China infiltration.
    Which think tank? There’s more than a few – mostly group think tanks whose primary purpose it is to push second-hand USUK arms sales and an inevitable war with China. The Australian Strategic Policy Institute (ASPI) being the main offender (-35.307801319129936, 149.13582123568776) – an antiquated vestige of war-mongering evil from the Howard era. The name says it all, doesn’t it? It’s a “Policy Institute”. All they have to do is say something, anything, and it instantly becomes policy just like that. Their main policy being to stoke fear, promote the sale of weapons and turn major population centres into military targets. But then most Australians are all for a war with China. They’ve been raised to believe it’s inevitable. You must understand, Xi, that most Australians have been force-fed a steady diet of anti-China propaganda for most of their lives. China is only ever reported on from an adversarial stance in their press, so necessarily they have a negative view of China. It’s going to take some time to educate them with the truth – which, as we both know, is far more complex. They see the whole of China, or the CCP, as one single unified entity of supreme all-powerful evil. Ignorance, hypocrisy, fear, aggression, greed and corruption are the true evils here, as always.
11. The early dawn search of Chinese journalists’ homes and the reckless seizure of their property without any charges or explanation.
    Yes, they do that to Australian journalists’ homes too. Our highly politicised federal police don’t believe they have any real work to do, so they help out with some extracurricular political thuggery from time to time, just to make things more interesting. But from what I’ve heard, it’s much the same situation in China. Given the deterioration in diplomatic relations between Australia and China this is not surprising. However, I expect this to end soon, once we solve the root problems that give rise to these abuses of power in the first place.
12. Thinly veiled allegations of Chinese cyber attacks without any evidence.
    It’s so difficult to prove where an attack is actually coming from these days, so it’s not surprising they have no evidence. From what I understand, most of these “cyber attacks” are automated bots that attempt to exploit vulnerable servers and stupid people who press or click on email or text message links (greatly assisted by 90s-era policymakers who knowingly degrade and refuse to maintain their own infrastructure, to deliberately invite cyber attacks so it would seem). This is fairly standard daily stuff. But when there are political tensions over other issues, these so-called attacks are dragged out and paraded before the media as a hyped-up justifications for some form of reactionary retaliation – more ASPI-sponsored hypersonic missile purchases usually. If you knew the full extent of just how wide open Australia is to cyber attacks, you would seriously double up with uncontrollable laughter. But then most Australian ICT departments are run by tech-illiterate finance and marketing clowns, so you can just imagine how that’s working out for them. Not that I need to tell you that. Nonetheless, may I be so bold as to offer up the following piece of advice? Watch out for all the so-called honey pots: first law of hacking, of life really (or at least it should be). Remember, they want war. They profit from it.
13. Outrageous condemnation of the governing party of China by Australian MPs, and racist attacks against Chinese or Asian people.
    I can’t say I’ve witnessed any racist attacks, other than the ongoing systemic ones. I did, however, overhear a crazy old racist bogan woman ranting at the supermarket the other day: “Before the Chinese disease started, you bought out every products [sic] off of our shelves. You stole all of our toilet paper and shipped it all to China.” Stupid old bag. Please excuse, Xi. Australia is still a deeply racist country run by arrogant and narrow-minded land thieving eco-rapists with very little education or knowledge regarding the rest of the world. They’re also quite violent and cowardly. Have you noticed how most of these recent attacks on people of Chinese or Asian appearance are primarily directed against women and the elderly? I do apologise, but with roughly 90% of Australia’s Parliamentarians of Anglo-Celtic or European heritage, I doubt this is going to change any time soon. Whitey runs everything in Australia and probably always will, until China finally liberates Australia in 2028. Perhaps then there shall be enough toilet paper for all?
14. Unfriendly or antagonistic reporting on China by the Australian media, poisoning the atmosphere of bilateral relations.
    I don’t read or watch commercial mainstream Australian media, so I can’t really respond to this one with too much authority. And as I’m unable to afford a subscription to the AAP, I get all my Australian news from Guardian Australia, Four Corners, and The Conversation. But I do know that News Corp. and Fairfax are basically the Tweedledum and Tweedledee of the Australian press. Most of their content is lowbrow fascist propaganda designed for the misinformed moronic masses. Occasionally I’ll come across a copy-and-pasted glib quote from the mainstream press critical of China in general: “lack of transparency, poor environmental and labour standards, and coercive approach.” But that could be any country, or corporation, the world over. Or sometimes I’ll catch a passing glimpse of imprisoned Chinese Muslims on commercial TV – always exactly the same footage over and over again of docile and compliant Uyghurs in red and black uniforms lining up for a free bowl of rice and some Mandarin lessons – but that’s about it. There’s not much factual substance to these stories in the majority of the reporting itself. I’m not disputing the fact that these abuses do occur; I’m questioning the language used and the intent of the coverage – as if all of China is responsible. Why don’t they identify the individuals responsible for these abuses, instead of targeting all of China? Smells a lot like poison gas to me too. Careful which way the wind blows.

Fourteen Things I Like About China

1. Chinese foods.¹
2. Lao-Tze.
3. All those fine electronic devices you make for us – and just about everything else we use on a daily basis, which you also make for us.
4. Betty.
5. The Belt and Road Initiative.
6. The I Ching, or Book of Changes.
7. Your plan to phase out conventional gas-burning cars by 2033.
8. Your commitment to peak carbon emissions by 2028, and “net zero” emissions by 2047.
9. Dragons.
10. Chopsticks.
11. Pandas.
12. Kimchi.
13. Lifting more people out of poverty than any other nation on earth.
14. Executing billionaires – especially The Underwear Poisoner.²

And here are My Fourteen Demands

1. Drop the tariffs, especially on wine.
2. Drop the militarist rhetoric.
3. Eat less non-synthetic meat.
4. Drink more wine.
5. Listen to more Frédéric Chopin – especially his Nocturnes, and especially Opus 48.
6. Free Cheng Lei and Yang Hengjun.
7. In fact, free all journalists, academics, dissidents and activists. They’re all vagabonds, rapscallions, ne’er-do-wells and spies, but you can’t lock them all up.
8. Recognise the inherent sovereignty of Taiwan’s Indigenous Peoples, the Gāoshān.
9. Continue making all those fine electronic devices you make for us.
10. Build me a flying car.
11. Prohibit all commercial fishing.
12. Demilitarise the South China Sea.
13. Continue to lift more people out of poverty than any other nation on earth.
14. Stop executing people – except the billionaires.

Do all this and I’ll take care of all the evil clowns and arseheads. Do we have a deal?

And to all the evil clowns and arseheads: I carry a 16oz/450g Trojan hammer with a genuine hickory handle as long as my waist is wide. Do not fuck with me.

Peace.

1. Yes, I know there are many different styles, which is why I use the directly pluralised form of the word food. I enjoy these styles of Chinese foods in particular: Anhui, Cantonese, Dong Bei, Fujian, Jiangsu, Hainan, Hakka, Hunan, Mongolian, Shandong, Sichuan and Zhejiang. Plus I’m sure there are many others I have not yet tried which I’m certain I would also enjoy.
2. I’m not suggesting for one second that China break with Russia. I’m saying China must break with the Underwear Poisoner to save Russia. This is how history will see it, Xi. And I know you see it this way too.

The Law of Penguins, and Their Poo

The Law of Penguins is long, boring and abstruse. It is best expressed to the unilluminated in the following conversational form:

Young girl: What is the Law of Penguins?

Old man: The Law of Penguins is a law that prescribes how penguins avoid their own poo.

Young girl: How do penguins avoid their own poo?

Old man: Well, there are no penguins, and there is no penguin poo, so there’s no poo for penguins to avoid, since neither penguins nor their poo exist. I hope that answers your question.

Young girl: No, it doesn’t.

A Night at the Toowoomba Showgrounds

My first night as a forced early retired homeless person was spent at the Toowoomba Showgrounds. It was truly a magical experience. I slept in my car under the big metal windmill – the recently refurbished ten-metre Comet B-Pattern windmill. It pumps no water, of course. Its presence is purely for ornamental and heritage preservation purposes. Yet it is still truly magnificent.

It’s a warm summer afternoon a few days before Christmas. The showgrounds are for the most part vacant. There’s only five other happy campers, including myself. I park beside the windmill and give it a thorough inspection. I won’t bore you with the technical details. It’s a big metal windmill, that’s all you need to know. It stands on a grassy slope overlooking the main entrance. Here I sit with a bottle of whiskey while surveying the scene. The shade of a large oak tree shields me from the burning late-afternoon sun. A few people walk past along the road below. They wave. I hide the whiskey. I wave back. Santa Claus drives past. I wave. He’s wearing shiny red shorts and driving a horse-drawn wooden cart loaded with presents. He waves back. I raise my glass and take a sip. In the distance I can see the grand hilltop houses that seem to float atop the leafy canopies of the few remaining eucalyptus trees. That’s probably where Santa’s headed. I take another sip while savouring the last few moments of relative blissful silence.

Unbeknownst to me before arriving, my stay at the Toowoomba Showgrounds came with a complimentary fireworks practice session – in preparation for some upcoming festive event, I gather. I look up at the windmill, its broad steel windwheel rotating majestically in the cool evening breeze. I’ve never thought about it before, but I suppose windmills do look a bit like comets. I close my eyes and listen to the steady rhythmic clanking of it’s mechanical inner workings. I then begin to imagine what a real comet would sound like, if it were ever capable of making sound. Then the fireworks begin.

The fireworks practise session went off splendidly and coincided nicely with my current state of mind. After such a decisive end to a gruelling 23-year stint in the misinformation technology industry, some celebratory fireworks action was indeed well in order.

As the whirling, whizzing rockets burst and boom above my head, I raise my glass in a final farewell toast to my pointless waste of a useless life.

Farewell, fatally dispirited fellow developers!
Farewell, non-technical technical project mismanagers!
Farewell, do-nothing know-nothing CTOs!
Farewell, mendacious marketing fuckwits!
Farewell, apathetic hands-off product owners!
Farewell, desktop-only brochureware redesigners!
Farewell, illiterate and banal copywriters!
Farewell, predatory and parasitic recruiters!

Yes, I bid you all a fond farewell, you poor enslaved suburban office hicks. I’d rather live in my car under a big metal windmill than work with any of you ever again. May you all be damned for all of eternity for turning the internets into a stinking pile of fascist advertising garbage, and may future generations forgive me for contributing to their final ruin – not that I expect they ever will.

¡Salud!

I’m So Glad You Weren’t There to Hear It

Why are you so afraid? It’s just music, with no words and no political messaging. Why is that so threatening to you? Is it me, personally? Personally, I have no other agenda other than the perfection of the thing in itself. However, if you try to hinder me again I will become the very thing in and of itself – everything you fear the most.

Recently I rediscovered an irregular guitar tuning: seconds and sixes. I have also recently rediscovered the perfect secluded beach – so secluded I had trouble finding it again myself. You can’t see it from the road; it’s hidden behind ’s a small grove of Casuarina trees (Casuarina equisetifolia) to your right as you turn one of the many bends along the highway – or to your left, depending on which direction you’re travelling. This bend in the road has a very distinct and permanent musical association for me – yet for you it does not and is therefore indistinguishable from the many other bends in the road. There’s an outcrop of boulders concealing a pathway through the trees. A few metres along the path there’s a near-vertical ten-metre rock-faced drop to the beach below. Last night, just after sunset, and with Betty by my side, we clambered down the rockface together to reacquaint ourselves with the rare pleasures of these recent rediscoveries.

A waxing crescent Moon in Pisces looms expectantly above the mountains, Saturn and Jupiter conjoined at her nether tip. I picked a good time. Betty and I shall be accompanied this evening by a celestial alignment that has not occurred for over 400 years. Not that that’s of any great interest to you. You’re probably more interested in the beach – which is, quite simply, perfect. I rarely often trade in superlatives, but on just this one occasion no other word shall suffice. It really is the most perfect beach imaginable – a crescent-shaped stretch of soft white sand, a few palm trees, a calm shallow sea, the soothing sound of waves gently lapping, and at the far side a massive Casuarina tree. This tree truly is quite large, both for its species and location. It seems to grow directly from the rocks themselves, which enclose the beach at either end. Its broad muscular trunk leans forward at a 54-degree angle towards the sea and its branches extend far beyond the shoreline. Just how this tree grew so large has always puzzled me, considering the rather harsh and forbidding ground in which it has taken root. There’s also a freshwater spring that sometimes flows from the rockface behind the tree. Perhaps this is in part attributable?

The dark-mirrored sea sparkles with reflected starlight, as I take my seat centre stage on the fine white sands. With Betty’s warm amazique body close to mine, I begin by initiating some tentative tuneful foreplay. To my extreme relief she responds accordingly. The acoustics of this littoral amphitheatre seem to agree with her. Betty begins to open up for me. Betty now opens up for me to such a state and to such a degree that she begins to play me. I can’t really describe to you what she plays – nor do I care to. Gentlemen never tell, and all that you know. All I can tell you is what I think about while she plays. I first think about the Jupiter and Saturn conjunction occurring right above my head. I then think about how I’m going to write about this. I also think about the rhythm of the waves, how they double up every sixth beat and how to me this always sounds like time itself.

Why must I go to such lengths to escape you? Just because I occasionally write and play a bit of music that gives you the right to stalk and terrorise me, does it? Spy on me and deprive me of a life, I deprive you all, including myself. I don’t write for money or perform, ever. And I sure don’t willingly share with stalkers. And you won’t let me work, since I openly identify as an asexual anti-technotheocratic anarcho-naturalist. Or is it because I’ve had too much sex or did too many drugs when I was younger? Which I really don’t think I have. I really should have had a lot more sex and done a lot more drugs when I was younger, to be quite honest. In fact, when I think about all the sex and drugs I’ve missed out on over the years it makes me quite angry. But it’s still worth it. Nature conspires sometimes at seemingly random moments to create real magic. You have no idea how good it felt to play and hear, and nor shall you ever – something quite unique that could never be played again, even if I, or Betty, cared to.

And you all know who you have to thank for that.

Christmas in Mount Isa

They say you’re not a real Australian until you’ve visited Mount Isa, the rodeo capital of Australia. Now that I’m here, I can say I fully agree with that statement.

I’m spending Christmas day alone again – but no weed or wine or McDonald’s this year, just a bottle of Scotch. I haven’t made too much progress, have I? Except maybe on the Clydesdale: saw one in Toowoomba.

But this is exactly how I prefer to celebrate Christmas – sitting alone outside my eighties-style motel room, smoking cigarettes and sipping whiskey, watching a Black-shouldered kite circle high above the Hard Times Mining Company headframe.

This place is so dead. I wish the rodeo were on. I’ve been here two days already waiting for the floods up north to subside. Tomorrow I’m going to try to drive up to Katherine in one day. This place is so dead. Reminds me of Tamworth, the country music capital of Australia – dead every other day of the year but for the few that supposedly characterise it.

About the only thing I knew about Mount Isa before I got here was that Lindy Chamberlain was living here when she got Lindyed. Appropriate, I suppose. They say you’re not a real Australian until you’ve been Lindyed.

Since the rodeo’s not on, and since I have no one to talk to, I begin to imagine a conversation between a rodeo cowboy and Lindy Chamberlain. They’re discussing the upcoming state of a very different kind of rodeo.

Lindy: Well, at least we know who they are now. So this is really going to happen?

Cowboy: Oh yeah. They’ll all be sitting on my stockyard rail pretty soon. Rodeo’s coming to town. Time to round up all the evil clowns.

Lindy: Like a rhinestone cowboy?

Cowboy: Exactly. The ultimate star-spangled rodeo.

Lindy: Yeehaw!

I really do think I’ve been spending far too much time alone.

Dan’s Final Run: Darwin to Adelaide

Freedom as a ruling passion is the rule of law in Australia. This is unlikely to ever change.

— old Australian saying

I used to drive an Hyundai. Now I don’t drive at all. An Adelaidean junior clown cop just impounded my car. So long, Dan. I’ll miss you. We did 74,000 kilometres in our one year together, the equivalent of five times around Australia. You exceeded all expectations and performed more than adequately. And during our last few days together you were not only my car but also my home. I really will miss you. Now I really am homeless, again.

Did you see the way that creepy little clown cop was staking me out before he pulled me over, even while I was checking in to that motel? Actually, he didn’t even pull me over. I pulled into a side street, he stopped behind me and I got out and asked why he was tailing me. And yes, I was somewhat angry. As I’m sure you can appreciate by now, I don’t enjoy being stalked by evil clown cops. He said he was about to stop me because my LED lighting upgrades obscured a small section of Dan’s Australian Capital Territory licence plate. True enough, but it was still legible – but whatever. So then he asks to see my licence, and then seriously asks me if I have “a problem” with the police. They still use that standard corruption-enabling bulwark: If you have a problem with one cop, you have a problem with all cops. Well, if I didn’t have a problem before I do now. Then he asks me if I’ve ever been “in trouble” with the police. What am I ten years old again? Well the answer would have to be Yes – the usual brand of “trouble” incited by the traditional types of sadistic little arseheads like him.

Yeah, I’ll give you some trouble. Keep trying to turn me into your enemy and that’s exactly what I shall become – and everyone will know why. And no, I don’t really have a problem with the police, just with the shit ones like you. You’re the exception. You make all cops look bad.

So wouldn’t you know it? After removing the offending section of LED lighting, two more cop cars show up. Because depending on your “attitude” while dealing with being targeted and harassed by junior evil clown cops – ostensibly for hastily affixed LED lighting upgrades – the South Australian Liberal Party Police will eventually find some way to ruin your life. I passed all the drug and alcohol tests, and the licence checks, but they got me on an ADR 69 vehicle standards violation: custom steering wheel with no airbag. Stupid airbags. All they do is add excess weight to the vehicle, and damage your hearing if they ever do go off. And that’s not just my opinion. A 2001 study conducted by the Monash University Accident Research Centre and the Department of Transport and Regional Services (Effectiveness of ADR 69: A Case-Control Study of Crashed Vehicles Equipped with Airbags) states the following:

Whilst the deploying airbag has been shown to be effective in preventing more serious injury from occurring in frontal crashes, it should be reiterated that the airbag is only truly effective if the driver is also wearing a seat belt at the time of impact. Furthermore the airbag is only effective in a certain percentage of crashes and as such will not generally offer any added protection in the most severe crashes (i.e. Delta-V greater than 65km/h, Fildes et al, 1996).

Okay, so it doesn’t specifically mention anything about hearing loss, and it is a bit dated, but in the unlikely event of a frontal collision, and since I usually try to maintain a speed of over 65km/h at all times, I truly fail to see why I should be forced to suffer the explosive force of an airbag going off right in my face, in addition to the potential deafness that could occur as a result. I’d much prefer to retain the use of my senses during a crash. And in some crashes airbags have been found to cause more injuries than they prevent – a lot like all the evil clown cops.

So since I have neither the money nor the inclination to “repair” the so-called defect, I’ve been forced to abandon Dan. Now there’s a free silver Hyundai hatch parked on Barr-Smith Avenue in Glen Osmond, unlocked and key in the ignition. Mechanically she’s in surprisingly good condition, although there is a slight wobble in the custom steering wheel under brakes. Brake pads look okay. Perhaps warped rotors? Or worn bearings? Anyway, there’s a bottle of bourbon and a bar of soap under the passenger seat. Do with her as you will.

*

Darwin is one of the worst cities in Australia to live in your car. It’s always so hot and humid, even at night. And then there are the mosquitoes. According to Microsoft co-founder and former CEO (and part-time backyard virologist), Bill Gates, mosquitoes kill twice as many people every year than all the car accidents in all the world combined, whether airbags are deployed or not. Moreover, after suffering through both Zika and Chikungunya in Venezuela a few years back, I must say I’m now a lot more afraid of contracting some lethal mosquito-borne neurological disease than I am of being injured in a car accident. Of course, right now most people who die from diseases transmitted by mosquitoes live in Africa. But that could change, I suppose. Mosquitoes do get around and it is getting warmer. So perhaps my growing fear, along with Mr. Gates’ well-established concern, regarding the spread of Culicidaen-carried deadly infections is somewhat justified?

Given this growing fear, you would have thought I’d have found a place to park for the night plagued with as few mosquitoes as possible. But no. I parked on Casuarina Drive by the Nightcliff Foreshore, a lush tropical green space popular with tourists and the homeless alike, despite the numerous mosquitoes. Yet it wasn’t so much their numbers but the persistence and sneakiness of these particular mosquitoes that I found so disturbing. Despite ensuring Dan’s interior was free from all insects, and after running the air conditioner for about an hour or so, there would always be at least one mosquito still buzzing about. They would only come out right at the moment I was about to fall asleep and would always go straight for my face. Clever little buggers. I wonder if they can detect the changes in our breathing or heart rate when we sleep.

Earlier that day, and before settling on the Nightcliff Foreshore, I drove around all over town looking for suitable parking – which you can do in Darwin in about 30 minutes. Darwin really is quite pretty – a lot more so than I was expecting. I chose to park near the foreshore precisely because it is so pretty, and also because there’s police security cameras positioned all throughout the area. This was back when I still kind of trusted the police. I also just really like the name Nightcliff.

About all I knew about Darwin, before arriving, was that it was bombed heavily during World War II by Japanese imperial militarists, that it was destroyed by a devastating cyclone in the 1970s, that it recently sold its port to China for $506 million, and that it’s infested with huge man-eating crocodiles. I didn’t see any crocodiles; nor did I encounter any other dangerous animals, besides the mosquitoes. Darwin is just like any other Australian city in that respect, besides Adelaide. And here I was thinking Darwin would be full of fat beer-swilling yobs riding around on ATVs and wearing those navy blue singlets and those cute little khaki shorty shorts – the ones with extra leg room that allow you to see straight up into the crotch. But Darwin really is much the same as any other city in Australia – except that it’s smaller and there’s less people, and it’s hotter and more humid, and the people are usually nicer and more laid-back, and there’s supposedly more crocodiles and cyclones, and more young people and Aboriginal people. And not just Aboriginal people, but people from all over the world – although not as many as other Australian cities. There’s also a lot more highly inebriated tourists riding around on orange electric scooters – a lot more than you’re likely to find in other Australian cities. Thanks, City of Darwin. $506 million well spent. But at least now all those alcohol-fuelled fatties won’t drop dead from heat exhaustion.

In addition to serving as the central civic point of orange electric scooter utilisation, the Nightcliff Foreshore also provides residents and visitors to the city of Darwin with a wide range of other outdoor sporting and recreational activities – such as walking, jogging, cycling, swimming, etc. For me it provides a nice warm park bench under a big old Banyan tree (Ficus virens) to sit and drink and smoke and think about how shit my life is. I always find it more poignant and productive to do so whilst relaxing amongst lush botanical surroundings, and the foreshore provides just that. It also provides a concise history of the city of Darwin, via the many informative plastic placards strategically placed throughout the space. A little-known fact I learned from one such placard states that at one point during the 19^th century Chinese people outnumbered Europeans by 10 to 1. Whereas nowadays the Chinese only outnumber Europeans by a factor of about 1 to 20. Which really isn’t outnumbering at all, is it?

So as the sun sinks serenely through the sultry haze of an orange-tinged horizon into the blue-green satin sheen of a tranquil Timor Sea, I continue to sit and think beneath the big old Banyan tree. And as a swarm of fat happy tourists on orange electric scooters whizzes by, I begin to think about how to defect to China, whilst simultaneously lamenting my present financial ruin and counting what little money I still have left. Not enough to buy some Chinese food and a can of Coke tonight, which I always crave when I’m broke and which always seems to be the case now.

A family of three riding the same orange electric scooter whizzes by – over 65km/h, no helmets, no seat belts or air bags.

And now the mosquitoes come out.

*

If I were a naval commander planning an attack on Darwin, I probably wouldn’t need more than two men (including myself, I suppose), a rubber dingy, a paddle and a shotgun (probably wouldn’t even need the shotgun). Capturing and securing the strategically important Tiwi Islands would be my first objective, which would probably only take about 20 minutes. With that done, I’d leave one man on the island, to build up defensive positions, and then I’d just paddle on in to the harbour under the cover of darkness. Too easy.

Given the heat and the mosquitoes, most sensible people who live in Darwin don’t go outdoors much. And since Darwin has a proportionately higher number of young people, and Aboriginal people, most of the population stay indoors playing video games all day. When they do go out, they’re usually in their cars or on orange electric scooters. At night it’s pretty much the same story, so I wouldn’t expect any resistance once making landfall.

I would land on the beach at Nightcliff, of course. That’s where all the nice new hotels are, and, according to local legend, where most of the U.S. Marines are stationed. There may or may not be a total of three or four U.S. Marines in Darwin at any given moment to the next, so it is said. To those who give credence to such legends, there is truly nothing to fear. If these so-called Marines do exist, they too probably spend most of their time indoors playing video games, of one form or another. The same may also be said for any Chinese Communist Party spies that may be hovering about, unless they’re at the casino.

After deflating and stashing my dingy, I would ascend the cliff-faced staircase to the foreshore, then I’d check-in to one of those nice new hotels on Casuarina Drive. I would naturally request a penthouse suite with a balcony, which should afford a full view of the harbour – provided there are no catastrophic bush fires burning out of control in the region at the time. Here I would establish my forward command post.

Having thus successfully taken the city of Darwin, and having appointed myself its provisional mayor for life, I would then immediately set about researching the local political scene. Nothing much of a political nature tends to happen in Darwin, unless it involves imaginary cocaine and orgies, so I’d probably just end up going to bed early after a few cones.

I suppose the leasing of Darwin’s port is still somewhat of a political issue, even though that happened a few years back. But I prefer to consider that more of an irrationally politicised shady business deal. And from what I’ve been able to reasonably determine, most people in Darwin see it that way too.

But by leasing the commercial port in Darwin, even though it is well down the harbour, to someone who runs the risk of being a potential adversary over the next 99 years, it’s the equivalent of leasing the Port to the Japanese in 1938.

— Some dude on Sky “News”

I don’t know, 99 years is an awful long time these days. It’s only been 75 years since the end of Word War II. And isn’t Japan now our ally?

The real issue is the leasing of critical infrastructure to any foreign interests, not just to China. Money-grubbing sell outs. This only became an issue due to all the anti-China paranoia whipped up by the media. If the Dutch or the Portuguese leased the port under similar terms no one would have cared. More important is how this deal was brokered.

The NT hired ‘boutique’ Melbourne financial firm Flagstaff Partners to help choose the winning bidder, and ended up paying about $13 million out of $27 million total in fees charged to taxpayers to broker the deal...Instead of using one of the multinational advisers like KPMG or Price Waterhouse Coopers [like that would have helped] for a project of this significance, the NT government hired a tiny Darwin-based firm called Merit Partners.

— abc.net.au

This kind of thing happens all the time under all governments: dodgy deals – even when they’re brokered by multinational advisers. Not that it matters much. I don’t suppose China will be investing in anything in Australia within the next 99 years now anyway. And Xi Jinping has since crowned himself Supreme Militarist Overlord of all of China for life (and all Chinese people regardless of where they live), so it looks like we’re on the fast track to another world war. I say we just hand over all of Darwin to the U.S. Marine Corp. and their faceporn-order brides and we all mass migrate to Antarctica.

*

I got bored and started to overheat while walking around the centre of Darwin – which you can do in about 30 minutes – and there’s no way I’ll ever get on one of those orange electric scooters, so I caught the ferry over to Melville Island (named after Robert Dundas, the Second Viscount of Melville and first Lord of the Admiralty, not Herman Melville). I went to go see the flame-backed fiddler crabs (Tubuca flammula).

Flame-backed fiddler crabs are truly fascinating animals, with their oversized sexually dimorphic claws and those weird periscope eyes. They have poor long-distance vision but can see polarised light. The oversized claw is too large for feeding; they use it both as a weapon and to attract mates. It is highly visible under polarised light. Fiddler crabs are also good at spotting birds – which like to eat fiddler crabs – because they can see polarised light. Fiddler crabs communicate by waving their oversized claws about in precise rhythmic sequences, and via other subtle chelaen gestures. The way they move their claws about explains why they’re called fiddler crabs: it looks as though they’re playing their oversized claw like a fiddle. They’re also quite tasty to eat, particularly their oversized sexually dimorphic claws.

Sadly, I didn’t get to see any fiddler crabs on Melville Island (probably all extinct in the wild now). But I did get to see a rufous owl (Ninox rufa). Rufous owls are also quite fascinating animals. They don’t do much. They just sit there and stare at you with those big yellow owl eyes of theirs and blink occasionally. Sometimes they’ll swivel their heads to take a look at something that attracts their attention, like the occasional mouse or something, but that’s about it. Unlike fiddler crabs, rufous owls cannot see polarised light. They do, however, have excellent long-distance vision and can see in the dark a lot better than most other animals. I suppose that’s why owls are traditionally associated with wisdom. Like fiddler crabs, rufous owls are sexually dimporhic. Males are larger and heavier than females, which is unusual for owls. Rufus owls do not prey on fiddler crabs. However, they do prey on just about everything else. That’s probably one of the reasons why they’re not at too much risk of going extinct, just yet. Still, it is true that the rufous owl global population size has still yet to be fully determined. Yet it’s estimated they’ve experienced a less than 30% decline over the last ten years, which is the main reason why they’re at least concern of going extinct. Less than 30% still sounds like a lot, especially considering no one knows exactly how many there are. But this is Australia, where most native fauna is already extinct or soon about to become so, so I guess that kind of makes sense. Fortunately, rufous owls are also found on the island of New Guinea (the world’s largest exporter of tropical wood), just across the Torres Strait, which is not part of Australia. But as I understand it, most of the wood is exported to China to make cheap mass-produced guitars. So I guess we can’t complain about that too much, in that case.

The Melville Island rufous owl I met (I shall call her Rufus) was introduced to me by a rather portly young “Aussie” lass I met at the ferry terminal. I shall call her Annabel. Annabel was dressed all in black and had long flaming red hair. She told me she worked at the Cheesecake Shop and had just finished her shift. I didn’t believe her of course. It was only 12pm. But she did talk her mother into allowing me to come back to her place for a beer, once it was determined everything else was closed, that there was no other transportation and that the next ferry back to the mainland wasn’t for another few hours – and once I had became aware of the sad fact that there simply were no fiddler crabs to be seen on Melville Island. Annabel’s mother (I shall call her Minnie) was a rather portly middle-aged “Aussie” lass with long silver hair and a stern care-worn face. She wore a loose-fitting white K-mart summer flower dress and drove an early model Subaru Forester. Her standoffish yet reluctantly hospitable demeanour was somewhat off-putting, I must admit. But I tried as best I could to overlook all that and pretend I was not so ill at ease. People go missing all the time in the “Top End” and fresh meat can become quite hard to come by. They asked me where I had come from and what I was doing in Darwin, and why I had come to Melville Island. I said nothing of the fiddler crabs, primarily because I didn’t think they would have believed me if I had. I instead focused on the first part of the question. I told them I had fled Canberra after discovering how insanely corrupt and incompetent the government there was at the time, and how I decided to drive around Australia in my sturdy little Hyundai, funded entirely by my $10,000 forced early retirement Covid-19 “relief” payment. They both seemed totally understanding and entirely satisfied with that explanation. In fact, I detected in Minnie, in particular, a kindred spirit of sorts. She too, or so it did seem to me, although she spoke not a word of it, had recently experienced a traumatic setback in life. I intuitively associated this past trauma with the palpably sensed absence of a male presence in the house – an absence that until quite recently had not been so. Indeed, as I entered their house, the very dog hair-matted armchair in which Annabel directed me to be seated confirmed to me – according to my olfactory sense at the time – that I was occupying the very seat of that recently made absent male presence. I call it a house, yet I do so merely in name only. It may more accurately be described as a large furnished tin shed out the stinking hot scrub – no more than a dozen or so roughly hewn wooden beams assembled into the shape of a lopsided three-dimensional rectangle held together loosely by a mottled assortment of rusty corrugated iron panels. It was swelteringly hot and humid inside. There was no air-conditioning. But there was a television (on mute) and Rufus the owl. An episode of King of Queens was playing on the television as I assumed the distinguished honour of the lately vacated canine moult-adorned throne, while Annabel proceeded to introduce me to Rufus the owl. There was no beer. I was offered a can of 7 Up instead. Rufus stared at me with her big yellow owl eyes for a few seconds while I sipped my can of 7 Up, then she casually returned her supernatural noctuan gaze to the television. I, on the other hand, could not take my eyes off her. She was truly one of the most fascinating and alluring creatures I have ever beheld – her fine velvety plumage of brown, grey and white cryptically arrayed in multilayered striped patterns; her large and powerful talons; and those huge deep yellow eyes, like two partially eclipsed fiery moons blazing away in the night sky. Rufous owls may have excellent long-distance vision but they have difficulty focusing on objects at shorter distances. I therefore wasn’t too perturbed by Rufus’ obvious lack of interest in my presence. I was, however, quite saddened to learn that Rufus was soon about to die. Minnie informed me that Rufus was a rescue owl. Rufus had suffered an injury to one of her wings and was rescued from certain death by Minnie, only now to be put to death by official order of the Australian Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Forestry. It is illegal to keep rufous owls without a permit, and obtaining one is no simple matter. Typical Australian government bureaucratic bullshit. Bird-murdering fascist scum! I didn’t say that at the time. I think I said something about there being more regulations around killing animals in this country than there are laws protecting and preserving them. I didn’t have much more to say after that, and nor did they (other than casually referring to me as “croc bait”), and I had absolutely no interest in watching King of Queens (muted or otherwise), so I inquired delicately as to the timing of the next ferry. Hint gladly taken, Minnie and Annabel graciously drove me back to the ferry jetty in their early model Subaru Forester. We said our goodbyes and I thanked them both kindly for their obligatory hospitality. It was still another 45 minutes before the ferry was due to arrive. I passed the time by walking around the shoreline looking for any signs of fiddler crabs, while also being as careful as I could not to run into any stray crocs. I encountered neither.

Later that same evening, while walking along the Nightcliff foreshore, I met another rufous owl. She was perched on one of the strategically placed plastic placards. I asked her if she was the same owl. She made no reply. Which placard, you may ask? Yes, it was the same one.

*

However much it may shock and appal you to know, I must admit I am not the model of moral perfection you may all suppose me to be. I killed many animals when I was young – even though they were all invasive species (pigeons and rabbits mostly). I never killed no owl though. I did kill a kookaburra once, however – accidentally – the worst thing I’ve ever done. It was the same night I saw a thylacine (Thylacinus cynocephalus). I was suffering the onset of hypothermia at the time, so I admit I could have been hallucinating. But I’m pretty sure it was a thylacine.

I was camping out in the Victorian Central Highlands in an industrially ruralised region infested with rabbits. Most of the surrounding bushland had been cleared for grazing, except for a winding gully that was still fairly well wooded (and up until quite recently even had a fresh water stream running through it). I’d shot half a dozen or so rabbits that day – still barely a dint in the local population. The area was free from myxomatosis and they all seemed to be in reasonably good health. I used the meat to make stew, and for cat food. My cat, Oogy – all black, exceedingly mischievous and long since diseased (poisoned by my political enemies, poor Oogy) – loved rabbit meat even more than he loved fish. Whenever I returned home from a hunting expedition he would always jump up on my shoulder and nuzzle me affectionately, purring as loud as a full-grown panther. Poor Oogy. May he purr loudly in feline heaven forever. Anyway, rabbits had pretty much taken over the entire area, eroding the banks of the gully with their incessant burrowing and forcing out most of the native wildlife – but for a few kangaroos, cockatoos, kookaburras and magpies. A large feral cat, highly elusive and twice the size of my Oogy, had also staked out a claim in the area. I tracked her for a few hours earlier that day but could never get close enough to take a clear shot. She was always easy enough to track. The birds told me where she was at all times, and her bright ginger tabby coat never afforded too much in the way of camouflage. As such, she was always too wary of staying out in the open for too long. In any case, I just didn’t have the optics nor the firepower to reach her at long distances. I was equipped with a puny Ruger 10/22 carbine fitted with a 3-9 x 32mm scope and I always used subsonic ammunition. I don’t like loud noises and neither do bunny rabbits. They have big ears and quite good hearing. I would always sneak up on them as quietly as I could and try to deliver a clean humane head shot; either that or no shot at all, if I could not be assured of a clean kill – a much less crueller fate than to die slowly in extreme agony due to the effects of myxomatosis, I can assure you. That’s how I justify wasting poor defenceless little bunny rabbits, or at least try to. There is no justification, however, for killing a kookaburra (Dacelo novaeguineae), ever. It is a grave and mortal sin. I am truly damned for all of eternity because of it and there is no absolution. His senseless death, which I caused, however unintentionally, shall forever haunt me.

He landed on a tree branch about 25 metres from where I had setup camp. It was approximately half an hour after sunset. I was about to fall asleep. It was that hour of day when the evocative late-afternoon warbling of magpies begins to fade against a rising chorus of congenial chirps, tweets and bleeps. This tranquil and soothing soundscape lulled me to sleep almost instantly – until, that is, Mister Kookaburra started up. Mister Kookaburra (I shall call him Rex) suddenly let out a piercing burst of raucous laughter that resounded all throughout the gully and silenced every other living creature in the vicinity. It was so loud and jarring I almost jumped out of my skin, as the old expression goes. And not only was Rex’s cachinnating call inordinately loud, but he went on at it for over ten minutes. As much as I love kookaburras in all their regal rambunctious splendour, Rex was really beginning to piss me off. I would have thrown something at him if he were closer – it was too dark to see anything by that time anyway – so I picked up my puny carbine and fired off a round in his general direction. As the crack of the rifle shot died away, I heard a confused flutter of feathers and saw some indistinct movement in the gum tree where Rex was perched – all of which was expected. But I didn’t expect to hear the dull thud of something hitting the ground, nor the heart-rending agonising cry that followed. It sounded more like a human being than a bird. My heart sank, as the old expression goes – like a dead bird falling out of a tree. I hoped in all earnestness I hadn’t killed Rex, that I’d merely knocked him off his perch. But Rex was indeed dead. There was a final fluttering of feathers then all was silent. The entire gully fell silent in fact, as if in shock and dismay at what I had just done. Poor Rex. No longer shall his merry onomatopoeic laughter echo throughout the fairly wooded gully. Silenced by yet another selfish homo sapien and his death-bringing technology. Homo sapien indeed. The knowing ape. A technologically advanced species of ape that only knows how to bring death into the world. As you can imagine, I couldn’t get to sleep after that selfish act of blind mindless aggression, and when I finally did get to sleep I didn’t sleep very well. I tried to console myself by reasoning that Rex must have been suffering from a chronic dysfunction of the hypothalamus or pineal gland that played havoc with his circadian rhythms, causing him to think night was day and that therefore would not have survived out in the wild much longer anyway. But even that entirely plausible rationalisation could not allay my guilt-wracked mind. I then started to think about all those rabbits I’d shot earlier that afternoon. Could I even rationalise or justify that? Could the ecological devastation caused by an invasive species, itself introduced by another invasive species (humankind), ever be mitigated without removing the invasive species that introduced that invasive species in the first place? While pondering that question, I did eventually get to sleep. But I didn’t get much real sleep. My dreams were dark and disturbing, full of vague and shapeless shadows approaching menacingly out of the pitch blackness of the remorseless night. I awoke a few hours later in a state of extreme panic, shivering uncontrollably and frantic with fear. The temperature had dropped to near freezing and I could hear something moving slowly towards me through the undergrowth. I grabbed my red LED flashlight and shone it in the direction of the advancing sound. What I saw, not 15 or so metres before me, I can only describe as a thylacine – because that’s what it was. I know that’s not possible, since the Australian mainland thylacine went extinct over 2,000 years ago, but that is what I saw. At first I thought I was seeing things, or perhaps just seeing a dog. But it didn’t move like a dog. It moved more like a cat stalking its prey. And it was too large to be a fox. Its long snout and broad forehead, together with those large black Anubian eyes, were unmistakably that of a thylacine. The light seemingly had no effect on it. It kept moving towards me, while occasionally raising its head to sniff the air. Then it stopped about five to ten metres in front of me and just stared at me. It was then that I saw two fine points of white light shining out of the bush a few metres behind the animal, like two twinkling stars in the night sky. My hand shook violently as I struggled to keep hold of the flashlight. “Who’s there?” I tried to say. I mouthed the words but no sound came out. Then, from the direction of the points of light, I heard a soft gravelly voice say “You’ve become a little too good of a shot. Now you’re done. Never again.” As suddenly and inexplicably as they had appeared, the two points of white light disappeared. The thylacine raised its head and sniffed the air again. Then it turned side on and began sniffing at something on the ground. At that moment I became absolutely convinced of what I was seeing. It was no dog, and it was no fox. I could now see clearly those distinctive dark stripes across its lower back and that straight thin rigid tail. It paused for a few seconds in that position, raised its head high in the air – almost as if deliberately striking an impressive pose solely for my admiration – then turned and slunk off back into the darkness.

All was silent but for the sound of my heart racing. I’d stopped shivering. I now began to feel hot and flushed. An irresistible urge came over me to get fully naked and go over to where the thylacine had been sniffing around and start burrowing underground. A voice inside my head kept saying do it, do it, over and over again. It was then that I knew my heart would soon stop beating and I would die, if I didn’t build a fire and try to get warm as quickly as possible. So that’s what I did.

I was too afraid of falling asleep again and letting the fire go out, once I got it going and started to warm up, so I sat up most of the night in a state of anxious bewilderment thinking about what I had just experienced. Did I really see and hear what I thought I saw and heard? Or was I hallucinating? That’s all I could think about. I saw nor heard nothing else unusual during the night, but for a few wandering sheep in the distance. I eventually fell asleep again towards morning. I must have slept a good hour or two. When I awoke the fire was almost out and it was becoming light. A thick fog had set in throughout the gully. The ground was covered with a thin crisp layer of frost. I rose and walked over to where I had seen the thylacine sniffing around. There I found a smooth rounded light brown stone, about the size of a dinner plate, with a thin dark stripe running right through the middle of it. I turned it over, half-expecting there to be something under it. There wasn’t. All I saw was damp earth and a few large earthworms. I then went over to the gum tree where Rex was perched the night before. His body was lying two or three metres from the base of the trunk. Rex didn’t look dead. He looked like he was just sleeping. His eyes were closed and his tawny beige-white plumage was perfectly intact. In fact, I could find no trace of a bullet wound whatsoever. I picked up Rex’s cold stiff feathery body and carefully buried it under the striped stone. Sorry, Rex. Never again.

Despite this small yet sincere act of funerary respect and contrition, and my apology, I don’t expect Rex will ever forgive me. I wouldn’t. As stated previously, there is no justification nor absolution for killing a kookaburra, ever.

But I suppose it could be worse. At least I never killed no thylacine.

I shall not digress too far from the main topic of this piece by expatiating too widely on the extinction of the thylacine, nor extinction in general. However, I must make mention of a few salient points that do, in part, relate directly to the general drift of this discussion. To begin with, it must be stated that the significance of my seeing a thylacine that evening has not been lost on me. Indeed, it was perhaps the most epiphanic moment of my life. For since that night I have come to fully understand the true nature of humanity: that humanity itself is an extinction event, in and of itself.

The quaintly naïve Darwinian belief that extinction is an inherent function of evolution – that the demise of a species is wholly attributable to its unfitness or inability to compete with other species and adapt to its surroundings – is no doubt one of the most pernicious fallacies to have ever corrupted human consciousness. As much as I admire and respect Darwin for his prodigious and inestimably valuable contribution to the natural sciences, he should be dug up and eternally burnt at the stake for that one. I need not go into elaborate detail regarding just how much devastating harm that simplistic and spurious supposition has caused, both to humanity itself and every other life form on this planet. All I need do is quote the man himself – and add that no single passage in the scientific literature, written neither before nor since, has been responsible for causing more suffering and death in the world:

As natural selection acts solely by the preservation of profitable modifications, each new form will tend in a fully-stocked country to take the place of, and finally to exterminate, its own less improved parent-form and other less-favoured forms with which it comes into competition. Thus extinction and natural selection go hand in hand. Hence, if we look at each species as descended from some unknown form, both the parent and all the transitional varieties will generally have been exterminated by the very process of the formation and perfection of the new form.

— Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species, Chapter VI

That extinction is somehow hardcoded into all life intrinsically as the contrapositive counterpart of natural selection (natural deselection, if you will), and that extinction too is a slow and natural process that ensures only the survival of the fittest, runs counter to both experience and considered reason. It is an oversimplified dualistic rationalisation that has given rise to all manner of dangerously flawed misconceptions. As many scholars of the evolutionary sciences have previously pointed out, one need only consider the rather unfortunately named “Great Auk” (Pinguinus impennis), which suddenly went extinct during Darwin’s lifetime. As with the vast majority of species to face extinction during the Holocene, it was homo sapiens who caused the Great Auk’s extermination. They used them to make pillows.

It should come as no surprise, then, to learn that it was that most noble and sagacious of species, homo sapiens, who also caused the extinction of the thylacine, both on mainland Australia and the island of Tasmania. Around the same time Jesus was delivering his sermon on the mount the last mainland thylacine died out; and around the same time John F. Kennedy was assassinated it is thought the very last of the Tasmanian thylacines became extinct. Although it is considered probable thylacine populations on the mainland were already significantly depleted – after tens of thousands of years of human hunting and habitat loss – what finally killed them off was the introduction, about 5,000 years ago, of the common dog (Canis familiaris), which later became known as the “dingo” (Canis familiaris). Thankfully, the dingo never made it to Tasmania; but European homo sapiens, and their dogs, did – about 200 years ago. European homo sapiens also brought with them the gun, and sheep...many sheep. Europeans love their fucking sheep...and their guns.

But then neither are the indigenous homo sapiens of the Australian mainland entirely blameless. They tended their flocks, too, just as European homo sapiens did. Only their flocks were made up of wild kangaroos, not domesticated sheep, and they used fire and dingoes, not helicopters and sheepdogs. Both forced the thylacine to extinction. But then according to Darwin, there’s no need to despair. Extinction is a totally natural process and not at all the cataclysmic tragedy we all may instinctively presume it to be.

...so profound is our ignorance, and so high our presumption, that we marvel when we hear of the extinction of an organic being; and as we do not see the cause, we invoke cataclysms to desolate the world, or invent laws on the duration of the forms of life!

— Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species, Chapter III

Sorry, Charles, but you were wrong. Current real-world experience, not to mention the fossil record, sufficiently bears this out. Extinction is not an integral part of life. As absurd as it may seem, extinction is anathema to life. Why would life go to all that trouble to exist only to exterminate itself? Life seeks equilibrium, balance, coexistence; and left alone to live and evolve, free from abrupt environmental changes – whether caused by astronomical, geological of anthropogenic forces – life does just that. But then you were a man of your time, Charles, so I guess I can understand, if not forgive, your profound ignorance. You were born into an age when homo sapiens considered themselves the most highly evolved form of life on this planet and therefore had an inherent right and duty to render every other life form extinct; that that was natural. Indeed, many of your contemporaries believed they were not part of the natural world at all. Many of them believed they emanated directly from Divinity itself. Hence, it’s not too difficult to understand how homo sapiens of your time regarded all other life forms merely as a commodity – something to be plundered and destroyed for profit. It is this extraneous and non-biological thought process, antithetical to all life on Earth and motivated by short-term financial gain, that has brought about this current sixth mass extinction event. And that is not natural. It’s about as “natural” as a huge asteroid impacting the Earth.

The tragic tale of the Tasmanian thylacine is the perfect case study. Australian’s (Australian sheep farmers in particular) are fond of claiming that Australia was built on the sheep’s back. That the campaign to eradicate the Tasmanian thylacine, however, was also built on the sheep’s back, they’re not so fond of claiming. Yet it is an indisputable fact that despite accounting for less than 0.5% of all sheep kills, thylacines were ruthlessly hunted to extinction primarily in the name of sheep – at that time the most lucrative source of monetary wealth in Australia.

The climate was too cold and wet for fine wool sheep; sub-alpine grasses were unsuitable fodder, much of the land was uncleared and therefore unproductive; fencing, once built, proved inadequate, as did the inexperienced shepherds, many of whom were convicts; indentured servants disliked the primitive, remote living conditions; sealers, ‘vagabonds’ and Aboriginies helped themselves to sheep, as did wild dogs, devils, wedge-tailed eagles and thylacines.

Records show that many thousands of sheep died from cold and starvation during the first few winters, while records of thylacine predation are minimal...Despite or perhaps because of its being rarely seen by common folk, the animal was feared. Killing a thylacine became something of a rural duty, and also implied considerable bravery.

— David Owen, Thyalcine: The Tragic Tale of the Tasmanian Tiger, pp. 87-90

Moreover, it was widely known at the time that there was a concerted effort to totally eradicate the animal, even though it posed no real threat to livestock. This was no pest control effort. This was a systematic and sadistic campaign of species annihilation.

The thylacine kills sheep, but usually confines its attacks to one at a time, and is therefore by no means so destructive to a flock as the domestic dog become wild, or as the Dingo of Australia, which both commit vast havoc in a single night. High rewards have always, however, been given by sheep owners for their destruction; and, as every available spot of land is now occupied, it is probable that in a very few years this animal, so highly interesting to the zoologist, will become extinct...

— Ronald Gunn, in John West’s The History of Tasmania (1852), pp. 245-246.

The animal is now getting rare in Tasmania. The inhabitants seem to have a superstitious dread of the ‘hyenas’, as they sometimes call it, and will kill the wolf whenever opportunity offers. Indeed, some will even smash the wolf to pulp afterwards, thus depriving science of the skeleton and skin.

— Le Souef, A.S. The Wild Animals of Australasia (1926), p. 319.

The fact alone that the animal was known by so many erroneous names is in itself telling: hyena, lion, wolf, panther, tiger, dingo, etc. There almost seemed to be a deliberate intent to label the animal as anything other than what it was so as to seemingly justify its extermination – in much the same way a human enemy is demonised and misrepresented during an unjustifiable war. Confusion, uncertainty and straight out lies amplifying irrational fears and inspiring violent retributive impulses. But then this was in no way unintentional. This was the law of the land at the time – government policy.

The crucial, final debate on the Bill to eliminate the thylacine from Tasmania – to make it disappear, just as the Aboriginies of the island had been considered valueless and dangerous and therefore extinguishable – is a peculiar reminder that democracy’s strength is also its weakness: it can be so easily abused from within...The thylacine thus fell victim to outrageous statistical exaggeration, blatant untruths and the buying of the racist vote. The power and influence of a political group – wealthy landowners – won the day over reasoned consideration. Facts did not matter; they scarcely entered the debate. During the bounty period, from 1888-1909, payments were made for a total of 2,184 carcasses. That, however, may only have been the tip of the iceberg. Echoing naturalist Geoffrey Smith’s remarks, Guiler noted: ‘Many trappers told me that up to half the thylacines killed were not submitted for bounty but were carted around the local property owners who paid a reward (usually ￡1) and when the carcase became too smelly it was dumped in the bush.’ Furthermore, ‘From 1878 to 1896, 3,482 Tiger skins were despatched from [a tannery] to London where they were made into waistcoats.’

— David Owen, Thyalcine: The Tragic Tale of the Tasmanian Tiger, pp. 101, 105, 115

In 1928 the Tasmanian Advisory Committee for Native Fauna recommended a reserve to protect the few remaining wild thylacines. Nothing happened. Official protection of the species did not arrive until July of 1936. The last known specimen expired in a Hobart zoo two months later. She died overnight of hypothermia after being locked out of her shelter.

Not only did we lose one of the most fascinating examples of convergent evolution since the demise of the Great Auk, we also lost a superbly adapted apex predator we know so little about. So much about the thylacine is still shrouded in myth and legend. We know practically nothing about its behaviour in the wild. And the fact that the animal did not respond well to captivity (they did not breed and spent most of their time pacing back and forth anxiously) meant very little was learned from the last few specimens that died out in zoos. More than that, the thylacine was simply a strikingly beautiful animal. So much lost. And all for a few head of fucking sheep.

As one would expect, the occasional thylacine sighting does still occur, even on mainland Australia. Yet it’s difficult for me to believe that in the age of smartphones and cameras everywhere there is still no conclusive photographic proof of any of these “sightings”. It’s all just guilt denial and marketing, if you ask me. State logos and beer commercials. Ubertus et fidelitus indeed.

And yet I have no doubt about what I saw. It was a thylacine. But was it real? Well, that’s an entirely different question. I don’t think it was real – neither what I saw nor heard. But then it doesn’t really matter if it was real or not. What I saw and heard had the desired effect. I’ve never fired another gun since and never will again.

*

I purchased Dan, a 2010 1400cc two-door silver Hyundai hatch, while living in Canberra, from a high school science teacher who resided in the suburb of Dickson. Dan was advertised as a 1600cc model in excellent condition. But when I showed up to inspect her I discovered she only had a 1400cc engine. She also had a rather disconcerting habit of shaking violently under deceleration. Despite all this, I still agreed to purchase her, for $1,500. People who know a lot about cars, and even those who don’t, say you should never buy a car that shakes violently under any circumstances. Being somewhat of an amateur mechanic, however, I was fairly confident I knew what Dan’s problem was and could easily repair her. And it turned out I was correct in that assumption. After replacing the engine mounts, Dan was good to go. She already had over 100,000 kilometres on the clock, but there didn’t seem to be much else wrong with her. The only other thing that needed replacing was the sound system. After replacing the sound system – with a Kenwood KMM-105 digital media receiver and four 220W peak-power speakers – the only other thing that needed attending to were Dan’s skinny little wheels, which I replaced with some 15x6 rims fitted with low profile Bridgestone Potenza tyres. The new wheels and tyres improved Dan’s handling tremendously. Still, it still kind of felt like I was driving an old minivan. Hyundais of that era have some of the most uncomfortable seats I’ve ever driven in; so uncomfortable so as to cause severe back pain. I got rid of the original driver’s-side seat and replaced it with a lightweight Saas sports seat. I had to get a steel plate cut to size, drill a few holes in it and get some custom steel braces made to bolt it in place at a lower profile (which took me all day), but once I did all that I was quite happy with the result. No more back pain, and Dan began to feel much less like a old minivan. I also removed the back seat and the passenger-side seat, which reduced the total weight of the vehicle down by approximately a quarter. I cut a piece of foam rubber to size to fill the depression in the floorpan between the missing backseat and the passenger-side front seat. I then purchased a single bed-sized foam mattress. This enabled me to sleep inside Dan quite comfortably, nice and level with my legs fully extended. I also purchased a 12-volt deep cell lithium iron phosphate battery and a 240-volt converter, which I mounted behind the driver’s seat, so I could charge my laptop and other battery operated devices. After all that, the only other thing that needed replacing was Dan’s steering wheel. I imported a hand-made Italian leather racing steering wheel directly from Italy for that purpose. I had to get rid of the driver’s-side airbag to fit it, which reduced the total weight of the vehicle down by approximately another quarter, but once fitted I was more than happy with the result. I also replaced the stock air filter assembly. I mounted a K&N cold air intake in its stead, which probably reduced the total weight down by approximately another quarter, while more importantly also enabling me to hear what Dan’s engine was doing. A few minor modifications to Dan’s fuel injection system were also undertaken, to squeeze a few more kilowatts of power out of her dicky little 1400cc engine. Then the only other thing that required attention were Dan’s headlights. I replaced the original halogen bulbs with some LED bulbs. I then spent half a day polishing up her ten-year-old clouded lenses to near pristine condition. I also fitted some supplemental lighting: a 1.5W Osram Hi-Lux LED light bar. After all these LED lighting upgrades, Dan’s nighttime driving visibility range was extended by over two thirds. Lastly, I also had the rear and side windows treated with thermal insulating and UV blocking window tinting film. Dan was now finally ready for our outback adventure.

In total, I probably spent over twice what I paid for Dan to get her into an appropriate state of safety, comfort and drivability. However, once that was achieved, I didn’t feel nearly so anxious nor ashamed about driving a dicky little 1400cc Hyundai.

Of course, I would have preferred a Tesla. But only rich people who work for big oil and gas can afford one of those.

*

Most of my money over the last few days has gone to Shell, Mobil, BP, Caltex and McDonald’s. I just spent my last $69 on a tobacco. Yeah, fuck it. I haven’t been eating much lately (besides McDonald’s), but I never seem to be hungry anyway. I’ve been living mostly on turkey breast salad sandwiches and Queensland bananas – plus the occasional McDonald’s (usually the only place open). I picked up the bananas from a fruit stall by the side of the road back in Cairns. They are truly the biggest bananas I have ever beheld, or eaten – and the most delicious. The scent of banana tree is so intense when peeling them, like walking through a field of blasted banana trees after a devastating cyclone, and so much more bananary than the ones you buy in the supermarket, which have very little smell or taste by comparison. I should have bought a whole crate of them. But I’m never hungry now anyway. I’ve lost so much weight. I may need to buy a belt soon. Maybe it’s true what they say about extreme anger (fury) being an appetite suppressant? Or maybe it’s all those bottles of triple shot cow milk coffees I’ve been drinking? I suppose that would also explain the excess flatulence.

Fuck it’s hot here. Why do people choose to live up here? High humidity (70+%) and anything over 40 degrees can kill you in around three hours, especially if you’re morbidly obese (as most of them are). I’m so thankful Dan’s air conditioning still works and that I’m not fat and don’t have Covid, otherwise I’d be in some serious trouble. I can well imagine what would happen to me if all that were not so: rapid pulse, lack of concentration, unable to sweat, faintness, then coma and death – or at least irreversible organ damage, no doubt compounded by Covid. Fuck it’s hot here. Too hot. My ill-adapted Canberran sweat pores cannot tolerate this any longer. I’m heading south.

*

Dan began to overheat a little on our way down to Adelaide. It was over 40 degrees, the air conditioning was on full blast and we were doing 140km/h most of the way. So I slowed down to around 130km/h, opened all the windows and turned off the air conditioning. As Dan and I cruised on down the Stuart highway, and just after passing through Adelaide River – with the wind roaring through Dan’s sparse cavernous interior and her 220W peak-power speakers blasting out Hank William’s I’m Not Coming Home Anymore – I began to think back fondly on all I had experienced during my short stay in Darwin. The day before I left I asked an Aboriginal woman I met outside Woolworths, named Jin, where I could purchase some weed. After buying her a whole roast chicken and a two-litre bottle of orange drink, and once it had been firmly established that the word weed was in no way a code for sex, she lead me to a block of housing commission flats on the outskirts of town. Here I was introduced to another Aboriginal woman, also named Jin, who supplied me with a fresh “quarter” of Adelaide’s finest for $130. After sharing a cone with her and a few of her friends, and after thanking her kindly, I took a pleasant stroll back to where Dan was parked by the Nightcliff foreshore. While walking along the foreshore, a beautifully restored P51 Mustang with the words “Cripes A’Mighty” painted large on its engine cowling flew low over the city. I wished I had one of those and could fly around wherever and whenever I pleased – the ultimate form of freedom.

Incidentally, my two most favourite words in the Australian English language is cripes. I’m sure you all know why.

Note: Tom Hanks owns a P51 Mustang.

As we were nearing Katherine, and as Hank Williams was dolefully yodelling out his Long Gone Lonesome Blues, I then thought back on the drive from Mount Isa to Katherine Dan and I had undertaken a few days earlier. Considering the conditions, Dan truly performed more than adequately. To this day I still marvel at how we ever made it out of there alive. The road doesn’t appear on any mapping apps. It runs south of Tarrabool Lake and joins up with the Stuart highway. I don’t know why I decided to take it. I guess I just thought it might be quicker than following Highway 66 all the way down to Warumungu. It was a dirt road, but it seemed in pretty good condition – until we got about five kilometres in. The floods had washed away most of the fine gravel, exposing a hard and bumpy striated surface, which meant keeping the speed down to under 25km/h or else the vibrations became unbearable and it was impossible to steer. There were also many large potholes and entire sections of the road that had collapsed. More than once I had to stop and get out to plan a navigable way around all the damaged sections. On top of all that, there were quite a few creek crossings where the water level had yet to recede enough to make visible the rudimentary concrete bridges spanning them. We passed more than a few wrecked four wheel drives by the sides of these so-called bridges – past victims of ill-fated crossings, no doubt. Yet Dan overcame all these dangers and suffered the punishing conditions without missing a beat. You really did perform more than adequately, Dan. I really will miss you.

I picked up some McDonald’s for dinner in Katherine. Yes, it was the only place open. While scoffing down a triple cheeseburger as quickly as I could, I recalled how during my last visit to Katherine I spent a very uncomfortable night by the side of the highway, plagued by mosquitoes and suffering through 30+ degree heat and 70+% humidity. It was about 10PM by the time I arrived that evening. Before rolling out Dan’s foam mattress and going to sleep, I remembered taking a quick read of the news of the day on my personal surveillance device. I then recalled becoming slightly annoyed (as if all the mosquitoes, 30+ degree heat and 70+% humidity weren’t enough) after reading an article written by one of my favourite Australian journalists who, I thought, was applauding Prime Lump’s Covid response a little too prematurely. But I didn’t bother leaving a comment. I never do. Now, whilst simultaneously steering Dan with my knees and stuffing my face with as many fries as possible, while intermittently wiping the excess salt off my greasy fingers, and as Hank Williams started in on Cold, Cold Heart, I started to think about how poor, isolated and truly alone I am now. But then I consoled myself with the knowledge that it’s so much safer to live alone in your car these days anyway – the second-most ultimate form of freedom.

Just before sunset, I stopped for fuel in a bleak little town called Elliot. There was no fuel. There were only two service stations and they were both shut. I asked an alcohol and glaucoma-afflicted Aboriginal man – the only person in town – where else I could buy fuel. He muttered something about the government taking him away from his mother when he was a baby. He then called me a poofter. I haven’t been called a poofter since I was 14 (to my face). I should have told him I used to work with a mob of “poofters” at an “Abo” Institute in Canberra that supposedly handles that kind of thing, but didn’t. Or maybe I should have just given him a brass truncheon and mugshots of all the staff?

I slept in Dan by the side of the Stuart highway again that night. I was going to try to make it over to the next town and get fuel there, but something happened along the way that made me change my mind. It was dark by that time. The sun had set over the endless expanse of flat orange desert, the sky radiating with broad diffuse bands of brilliant yellows and oranges, becoming deep reds and violets, until all trace of sunlight had vanished and the Milky Way adorning the seamless dark horizon of a pristine black sky was all that remained. I pulled over at a rest stop near Lake Woods to smoke some weed and take a closer look at the sky. It was quite disorienting seeing the Milky Way that bright and in so much detail. I had some serious trouble identifying the usual constellations. Eventually I found Eaglehawk (or Crux, the “Southern Cross”). I then tried to find the great Emu in the Sky. I could only see the top of its head popping up just above the horizon (its head being the Coalsack Nebula). According to Aboriginal people, when the Emu in the Sky’s body can’t be seen it means it has left the waterhole, which all dry up around this time of year. It also means it’s not the right time to collect emu eggs.

There are many Aboriginal stories relating to the Emu in the Sky, this one being my favourite:

The Emu in the Sky

There was once a blind man who lived out in the bush. Being blind he couldn’t hunt, so every day he would send his wife out to collect emu eggs. She would always find many emu eggs and bring them back to him, but he would always complain they were too small and become angry with her. One day she came across the tracks of a very large emu. Thinking that such a large bird would lay very large eggs, she followed the tracks and found it sitting on its nest. “These eggs are certain to please my husband,” she thought. She threw stones at the bird hoping to scare it off. Instead, the bird attacked and killed her.

Meanwhile, the blind man was getting hungry and began to worry about his wife all alone out in the bush. He decided to go and search for her. Unable to see, he used his hands to find his way. As he was going along in this way, he soon felt a strange kind of plant with some berries growing on it. He collected a handful of the berries and ate them. Then all of a sudden he could see again! He was cured of his blindness. Picking up his spear, he went out looking for his wife. He found her tracks and followed them. He found her body by the large emu’s nest. Realising the emu had killed his wife, he speared the emu and sent its spirit up into the Milky Way. And there it remains to this day.

Aboriginal people also believe that the emu could once fly, before having its wings clipped so it could participate in a dance competition, preempting modern palaeognathic evolutionary theory by tens of thousands of years.

Anyhow, as I stood there in the dark by the side of the Stuart highway gazing up at the stars, whilst silently contemplating the absurd incongruity of large yet for the most part unseen flightless birds in the night sky, my train of thought was interrupted and my vision obscured by a so-called road train (big long truck) approaching out of the distance, its vast array of high-powered headlights beaming a glaring phosphorescent path of blinding white light through the desert. So I remounted Dan and we headed off down the highway towards the next town.

Dan and I had travelled about ten kilometres without passing one other vehicle when it happened. A giant red kangaroo (Osphranter rufus) suddenly bounded out from the darkness of the desert right in front us. I’m in no way exaggerating when I say giant. It must have been at least two metres tall. Thankfully, I jammed on the brakes just in time to avoid crashing into it, with less than two metres to spare. The giant red kangaroo proceeded on regardless, leisurely hopping its way across the road, totally oblivious to how close it just came to death. I remember remarking to Dan at the time, “Those LED lighting upgrades just paid for themselves.” There’s no way I would have been able to see that kangaroo and avoid running in to it with Dan’s stock non-LED lighting and those ten-year-old clouded lenses.

Of course, now that I write about it, I’d much prefer it had of been an emu (Dromaius novaehollandiae) and not a kangaroo, so it would have tied in nicely with the Sky Emu thing above. But it wasn’t. It was a kangaroo. Hardly ever see emus nowadays. Probably all extinct in the wild now.

*

Morning broke crisp and clear over the endless expanse of flat orange desert, as it usually does. It’s amazing how much the temperature drops at night just by driving a few hundred kilometres inland. I was awoken by a so-called road train (big long truck) thundering past at around 6AM. I decided to go back to Elliot to get fuel there, since I wasn’t sure if I’d make it to the next town. I didn’t see the alcohol and glaucoma-afflicted Aboriginal man again, and nothing much else happened during the drive down to Alice Springs, just more endless expanses of flat orange desert. I’d listened to every Hank Williams song ever recorded, at least three or four times, by the time I got to Tennant Creek, so I put some Jimmie Rodgers on instead. Why do I take such perverse pleasure in listening to antiqued culturally irrelevant music many of my more snobbish and bigoted contemporaries say I should hate, you may ask? There are a variety of reasons for this, all of which I shall now attempt to explain. But please do take note that I’m really only interested in Hank Williams and Jimmie Rodgers (with a few notable exceptions), not all country music as a genre-specific personal predilection.

I’ll start with Hank Williams. Hank Williams was simply one of the greatest songwriters who ever lived, despite being barely literate, musically illiterate and a chronic alcoholic. Yet before the age of 29, within the space of about six years, Hank recorded a total of 66 songs (50 of them by himself), 37 of them making the charts. Hank may have been just another dumb drunk singing cowboy, but he certainly knew how to write songs.

I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry (1949) is a perfect example:

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill,
He sounds too blue to fly.
The midnight train is whining low,
I’m so lonesome I could cry.

I’ve never seen a night so long
When time goes crawling by.
The moon just went behind a cloud
To hide its face and cry.

Did you ever see a robin weep,
When leaves begin to die?
That mean he’s lost the will to live,
I’m so lonesome I could cry.

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky.
And as I wonder where you are
I’m so lonesome I could cry.

So simple yet so perfect. Full of evocative meaning. So syntactically sound and well balanced. I’m not saying it’s the greatest song ever written. People who say things like that, about anything, are always full of shit. But for what it is, it is perfect. What makes it perfect? There’s the timeless subjects of solitude and death, the essential fodder of all great art. There’s the refrain of I’m so lonesome I could cry repeated at the end of the first, third and fourth stanzas, the repetition discreetly broken by the moon going behind a cloud to hide its face and cry in the second. There’s the dramatic midpoint interrogative pivot on the “cutting word” die, with the next line ending on the word live. There’s the two birds accompanying and mirroring two astronomical bodies. In fact, the whole song seems to mirror itself: the sense of hearing in the first and last stanzas, then sight in the second and third, with both senses merging in the final stanza. And then there’s the internal alliteration of whining low with will to live, and the way the other non-rhyming verses seem to question and answer one another: where you are with behind a cloud; and the way the references to colour do likewise, with the song beginning with a bird sounding too blue to fly yet ending on a silent note of hope as a falling star lights up a purple sky – much the same way Hank himself did during his brief lifetime. Only Hank was far from silent. Then there’s the music itself: a slow and easy waltz rhythm tapped out on muted double bass strings accompanying one of the simplest melodies in the mournful yet bright and peaceable key of F major one could ever hope for; three imploring third half notes in the first and second verses, answered by the same pattern in fourths in the third and fourth verses, then back to the third, before dropping to a perfect fifth on middle C and resolving with a casual reassuring return to tonic. And then there’s the steel electric and fiddle solos in between, which seem to mimic, with melancholic playful mockery, the sound of the lonesome whippoorwill and the weeping robin in answer to Hank’s plaintive vocals. Simply perfect.

How much of I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry Hank wrote himself is debatable. Fred Rose helped out on a lot of Hank’s songs. Yet it is well known that Fred never cared much for this particular song, so it’s more than likely Hank wrote it himself. In any case, it’s difficult to imagine anyone else but a bona fide train wreck of a boozed-up hillbilly like Hank writing something like this. As a piece of writing, it has that rare combination of authentic pathos and facile brevity that usually only comes about through direct lived experience.

Paul Hemphil said it best in Lovesick Blues: The Life of Hank Williams (2005). He compares Hank with Ernest Hemmingway, “two men who were minimalists, masters of understated simplicity”, and quotes Hemmingway himself from his preface to The First Forty-Nine Stories:

In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.

That should be sufficient to explain my fascination with the music of Hank Williams. But more than that, there’s also the indisputable fact that this current era we are presently living through is beginning to resemble that period in human history when country music, and Hank Williams, first came into being. It almost seems as if we’re turning full circle and going back to where it all began. And in much the same way the death of Hank Williams and the rise of Elvis Presley marked a turning point in the history of popular western music (which Paul Hemphil sums up nicely in the passage I quote below), it would seem a comparable counterrevolution of similar significance is sure to follow.

An entirely new generation had arrived in America, the baby boomers, kids born at the end of the Second World War, and as they neared their teen years it became evident that country music was their parents’ music, not theirs. Relatively affluent, facing a promising new world free of war and economic depression, they were looking for something fresh that they could call their own. The grandfatherly president, retired general Dwight Eisenhower, wasn’t it, nor was Hank Williams. The dead Hank was to them just another old fart whose time had passed, a drunken hillbilly who whined about “pitchers from life’s other side” and cheating hearts and being so lonesome he could cry. They much preferred this new guy, Elvis, with his pegged trousers and pompadour hairdo and a sneer on his lips and a sensuous wiggle to his hips. The number of full-time country radio stations plummeted, many of the faithful outlets like WCKY and even the Mexican border stations abandoning Hank for Elvis, and almost overnight the glory years of country music in the late forties and early fifties became history. Young Hiram [Hank’s given name at birth] was a child of the Depression and the war years, when everybody was suffering, and his music reflected that.

That a similar cultural shift is currently occurring may just be wishful thinking on my part, I concede. However, I’m in no way suggesting a literal return to the past. I’m merely hinting at the resurgence of a particular esprit de l’époque that tends to occur during times such as these. What form that takes is of course an entirely different matter. Some would argue that this “shift” has already taken place. Yet I would argue that if it has it’s just the beginning. In any event, I’m sure you all know what I’m getting at. And it could’t happen soon enough, if you ask me. I can’t wait for the day when we finally bury Elvis.

With respect to Jimmie Rodgers, often credited as the father of country music, I need only quote the lyrics of Ben Dewberry’s Final Run (1927) – written by a blind old preacher man named Andrew Jenkins – then recount what I experienced once I arrived at Alice Springs:

Ben Dewberry was a brave engineer
He told his fireman don’t you ever fear
All I want is the water and coal
Put your head out the window, watch the drivers roll
Watch the drivers roll, watch the drivers roll
Put your head out the window, watch the drivers roll

Ben Dewberry said before he died
Two more roads that he wanted to ride
His fireman asked him what could they be
Said the old Northeastern and the A and B
The A and B. He said the A and B
It’s the old Northeastern and the A and B

On the fatal morning it began to rain
Around the curve come a passenger train
Ben Dewberry was the engineer
With the throttle wide open and without any fear
He didn’t have no fear. He didn’t have no fear
He had her runnin’ wide open without any fear

Ben looked at his watch...shook his head
We may make Atlanta but we’ll all be dead
The train was flyin’ by the troublin’ switch
Without any warning then she took the ditch
Yea, she went in the ditch. Well, she took the ditch
Without any warning then she took the ditch

The big locomotive leaped from the rail
Ben never lived to tell that awful tale
His life was ended and his work was done
When Ben Dewberry made his final run
He made his final run. He made his final run
When Ben Dewberry made his final run

Unlike Hank Williams, Jimmie Rodgers did not write most of his own material. When he wasn’t stealing songs from blind old preacher men, he got a very talented and kindhearted woman named Elsie McWilliams to write most of them for him (for free). Nevertheless, Jimmie certainly knew how to sing them a lot better than most, especially when he was singing about trains. Jimmie once worked as a brakeman, until the introduction of the fail-safe air braking system, which replaced the need for brakeman. I guess that’s part of the reason why. In addition to that, he was living through Prohibition and the Great Depression when he recorded most of the songs he stole, while also suffering from tuberculous (knowing he didn’t have very long to live), which you can kind of hear in his voice.

I’d listened to every Jimmie Rodgers song ever recorded by the time I got to Alice Springs, more than a few times. Ben Dewberry’s Final Run was playing when I finally arrived. In case you didn’t know, the song is about Benjamin Franklin Dewberry (31 Aug 1857 – 23 Aug 1908) from Gwinnett County, Georgia. He was an engineer on the Southern Railway’s Number 38. Ben was killed when the Number 38 derailed and crashed after some teenage boys placed a bolt on the tracks. They “wanted to see what a wreck would look like”. Whether all that’s true or not, or whether Ben was just going too fast, I cannot say. All I know is it’s a brilliantly sad song – particularly when one considers there were still two more roads Ben wanted to ride – and Jimmie certainly does sing it like he lived it.

The strangest feeling came over me as I drove around town singing along to Ben Dewberry’s Final Run, whilst also marvelling at what an absolute shit hole Alice Springs is. It sounded and felt like Jimmie was right there in the car with me, as if he were sitting right beside me, right there where the passenger seat would have been. I actually turned my head and looked over to see if I could see him sitting there. I couldn’t, of course, but I could keenly sense his presence. And when Jimmie got to the verse Yea, she went in the ditch. Well, she took the ditch it really did sound and feel as though he were physically right there singing those words straight into my ear. His voice was so immediately present, alive and clear. I could not only hear but also feel every vocalised nuance of grief and anguish, as if my whole body were reverberating with an amplified series of empathetic harmonic overtones. I was truly overwhelmed – almost to the same degree as I was truly underwhelmed by Alice Springs.

Alice Springs really is an absolute shit hole. Never go there – unless, I suppose, you really want to see that big orange rock out in the desert. I didn’t. But I did stop at Woolworths to stock up on some triple shot cow milk coffee drinks and a few bananas. I also asked the first Aboriginal person I met where to buy some more marijuana. I can’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Nevil. I don’t know why, but I instinctively trusted Nevil. He just seemed like a really good “bloke”. In exchange for a bottle of Jim Beam and a two-litre bottle of Coke, Nevil took me over to one of his mate’s place, where I picked up another quarter of Adelaide’s finest for $140. Nevil squatted in the space where the passenger seat would have been and held on tight to the dashboard (no seat belt) as we drove on out to his mate’s place, which was about two kilometres out of town. He made my purchase for me and I dropped him off back at the Woolworths parking lot. After bidding farewell to Nevil, two Aboriginal teenage boys riding BMX bikes came over to speak with me. I’d noticed them before riding around the parking lot, exchanging winking nods and subtle hand gestures with the private army of Woolworths security guards. One of them came right up to Dan’s driver’s side window and asked me, “Are you crazy?” I didn’t know what to say. I was genuinely taken aback. I sincerely had no idea how to respond to that question, rhetorical though it may have been. Then the other boy came up and said “Nice steering wheel.” Then they rode off together towards the centre of town. It was then that I began to suspect that Nevil was perhaps not such a good bloke.

Again, never go to Alice Springs. Alice Springs is an alcohol-fuelled semi-prohibition-era failed police-security vigilante city-state constantly on the verge of erupting into violent drunken street riots. But I guess I can understand why. I think if I were forced to live out there in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but flat orange desert, no work and nothing to do, I’d probably end up becoming a violent alcoholic too.

Jimmie Rodgers, too, was more than likely an alcoholic (by today’s definition, anyone who admits to drinking alcohol regularly). You can kind of hear it in his voice. Unlike Hank Williams, however, Jimmie seemed to have exercised a lot more self-control over his drinking. But by today’s definition an alcoholic is an alcoholic. The only thing that separates them is the measure of degree.

But more importantly, were Hank and Jimmie racists? Probably. Most white people hailing from that part of the world at that time were. Yet none of their work suggests as much (spoken word recordings excepted). Indeed, Hank Williams credits an old black man named Tee-Tot with teaching him the blues, and Jimmie Rodgers learned his trade from riding the rails with hobos and railroad workers, most of whom were more than likely black. Jimmie even recorded with Louis Armstrong and his wife Lillian.

But even more importantly, were they misogynists? Probably. But again, in all likelihood no more so than one would ordinarily expect. There are, however, some fairly overt shades of passive misogyny in Hank’s music, and some even less passive and more overt ones in Jimmie’s. And it is true that Hank often traded blows with his wife. He even fired a gun in her general direction once. Jimmie, on the other hand, was a lot less of a drunk and not so much of a womaniser. He was probably too sick with tuberculosis for that kind of thing anyway.

Ultimately, Hank Williams and Jimmie Rodgers were both men of their place and time. We can really only judge them by their work – and even then with the unfair advantage of considerable hindsight. It may be true that no one sympathises much these days with “niggrah”-hating, wife-beating, drunken cowboys forever wallowing in self-pity while crying in their beers over the adverse life circumstances they themselves more than likely caused, but is that any reason to totally dismiss all their music? Do we stop listening to Bach simply because he was a 17^th century cross-dressing Jesus Nazi? Regardless of how artists conduct their personal lives or what they believe, I see no sense nor reason in excising whole periods of musical history just because the mores of a particular cultural era offend our highly enlightened current-day sensibilities – unless they happen to be straight-up fascists...or Tom Hanks.

*

Nothing much happened during the drive from Alice Springs down to Adelaide, apart from yet more endless expanses of flat orange desert. I listened to Bach’s Art of the Fuge most of the way (the Emerson String Quartet 19^th-century 2003 recording). I remember there being no Covid checkpoint at the South Australian border. And I remember driving through Coober Pedy and thinking I should stop there to check out some of those underground miner houses. But I didn’t. And I remember driving through Woomera and thinking I should stop there to check out the rocket range museum. But I didn’t do that either. I just kept on driving.

Upon arriving in Adelaide, after having Dan stolen from me by that Adelaidian Junior clown cop, and after walking all the way back to that motel I’d just checked in to in Glen Osmand, I remember reading about that car accident Anthony Albenese (the future prime minister of Australia) was involved in. It sounded pretty serious. Victorian drivers, probably. I hoped he was okay. I also remember wondering if all his airbags deployed.

I can’t prove it, but I’m firmly convinced the South Australian Liberal Party Police State government deliberately targeted me for ruin because of that Adelaide, City of Sex Robots piece I’d written a few months earlier, after my first visit to Adelaide. Such a pity. I was planning on driving over to Perth and then up to Broome next. But sadly, Darwin to Adelaide must stand as Dan’s final run.

Thus, Dan’s outback adventure has now ended, thanks to the all-pervasive power-abusing all-white middle-aged South Australian Liberal Party Police State government. I hereby declare the Australian “Liberal” Party an existential threat to Australian democracy. It should also be declared an illegally funded far-right domestic terrorist organisation. Not that I can go anywhere else anyway. Ran out of money. And now my Australian Capital Territory license just expired. Now I’m really going to start fucking with them.

I wonder if I could apply for a grant from the South Australian Liberal Party Police State government so we can start development on that medicinal marijuana delivery device and app we’ve always wanted to build. Then we could control the method of induction, how its grown, the strain, quantity and the quality (Sativa/Indica, THC/CBD levels, etc.), instead of being forever at the mercy of whatever shitty bush weed or pepped-up hydro crap is available, spiked with whatever and who knows what. We’d get more work done. Of course, it would have to be invite only, and only local Adelaide delivery to start. And we’d probably also have to sell something legal in the same packaging so drivers don’t know what they’re delivering. Coffee, perhaps? Or maybe we could use delivery drones? We need to mission drive this one. Remove the keystone predator species and the entire narcotics ecosystem collapses. Don’t wait for the law to change, just go out and do it. They can’t arrest all of us.

That’s all probably just another one of my crazy pipe dreams, just like defecting to China. I seriously don’t know what to do or where to go. How do I escape this wretched state of societally enforced solitude and state-propelled perpetual penury? But it looks as if every state in Australia is permanently sealing off it borders now anyway – apparently to prevent the spread of West Australian separatists and people fleeing the Melbourne lockdowns – so I can’t really go anywhere else. And even if I could, Dan is no longer with me.

I miss Dan so much. I only feel at home when I’m moving. And not only that, now I have no one to talk to. I wonder where she is? Did they tow her off to the wrecking yard? Or is she being put to other uses? Maybe Dan can still hear me, wherever she is?

Dan! What am I going to do?

Go back to Melbourne, whispers Dan.

No thanks.

Canberra then.

Fuck that.

Well, you should have listened to me before when I told you to go across the top to Broome. Now you’re stuck here in Adelaide, aren’t you? And stop talking to me. I’m not here anymore.

True enough.

I’ll never drive around Australia again, and never again during a deadly global pandemic. My fate seems to depend on which state government is in power. I really should have listened to Dan and gone across the top to Broome and then down to Perth. Maybe I should sell Betty and buy a plane ticket to Perth? I could join up with all the other residentially challenged over there. Or maybe I should go back to Queensland? I really don’t know what to do. I love Queensland, but I’ve never been to Western Australia. I’m clearly in a state of overstated state power flummox. I’ve visited if not lived in every state and territory in Australia now, except Western Australia, and I must say, without exception, Queensland surpasses them all – except Western Australia. May Queensland secede and take all the rest of us with her! – except Western Australia.

Abolish the states!

Please excuse the outburst. I believe I’m still suffering from separation anxiety, and the associated depression. Yet more, I know. What else can they take away from me, I wonder? How else can they go out of their way to make my life even more miserable? I think they’re trying to get me to commit partial suicide again. But I don’t think I’ll need to this time. I’ll probably just end up dying here soon anyway in a state of non-productive squalor from excruciating boredom and deep depression. At least it’s quiet here, so I can get some real work done – albeit unpaid work. And most of the people here, the non-govcrims, are fine upstanding citizens (unless they’re from Glen Osmond). Nonetheless, it’s become more than obvious to me now that I can never work in this country again. They’ll just target me endlessly for being a crazy old Aboriginal woman who does her own LED lighting upgrades. I think they’re about to cut my unemployment benefits too, so now I’m really fucked. I might need to sell my guitar for food and rent soon. Then I suppose it’s back to prostitution again – an inevitable return to the good old oral tradition. But I’m far too old for that kind of thing now, and I don’t think I could ever really defect to China. With my mouth, I’d be in prison within a week and dead within a month. So I’ll probably just have to revert back to being a 23-year-old semi-suicidal hikikomori.

Someone bring me a tantō and a can of kerosene!

Ode to Adelaide, City of Sex Robots

My sexbot foeti are now nurtured within the womb of the City of Sex Robots,
Gently bathed in warm synthetic amniotic fluid,
Freely flowing fluidly all over and around — as warm free-flowing fluid generally does.
Adelaide!

In the European carp of the Karrawirraparri, in the marauding feral cats of the Mount Lofty Ranges,
In the long-since evaporated clouds of the longest of dry hot summer days,
In the fallow fields of the withered vineyards, thy sex robotic conception potentials beam forth,
Adelaide!

Gale-force winds tear through the clattering eucalyptus leaves,
As hordes of common commuters bustle back uniformly to their sprawling suburbs of endless oblivion,
The waves of Henley beach roar and Rainbow Lorikeets fall from the sky — yet fear not,
Adelaide!

Some day, o miracle! we shall deliver sex robots together of truly awesome power,
Upon my pauper’s grave, and from the ashes of my forced early retirement;
And clearly on every sexbot compliance plate shall there be engraved:
Adelaide!

Open Letter to Dolly Parton

Hi, Dolly.

Just to let you know, I haven’t been vaccinated yet. But I live in Australia, so don’t hold your breath. Not that it matters much, since I’m forever socially distanced and permanently self-isolated. But I will get vaccinated soon, I promise – if I can ever leave the house again.

I hope you don’t mind that I’m writing to you. I’m only doing so because you are the reigning Queen of Country, and because I believe myself to be the reincarnation of Jimmie Rodgers. I think rather highly of myself, don’t I? What are you saying? Jimmie Rodgers is an absolute god! I know. But that’s nothing. I used to think I was the reincarnation of Christ. But that was back when I wasn’t smoking enough marijuana. Now I am smoking enough marijuana, but I’m still very unhappy.

You see, I’m in love with a woman who lives in a country I can’t get to right now. I’ve never met her before, or even spoken to her – and I’m sure she has absolutely no interest in me – yet I sincerely believe my unspoken love for her to be quite real. I must be insane, right? But I’m sure you must be familiar with this phenomenon. Surely you’ve experienced much the same thing yourself – sad, lonely old men idolising you from afar. I’m pathetic, I know.

Like you, she is a talented and successful artist. Also like you, she is a beautiful woman with many admirers (and suitors, I imagine). Her name is not Jolene, and her eyes are not of emerald green, yet her beauty is beyond compare, and she does have flaming locks of auburn hair (or at least she did at one time) and a voice like summer rain. What intrigues me about her most, however, is her voice, I swear.

I’m not stalking her, I’m really not. I did take a look at one of her social media profiles a few days ago, but I only spent a few seconds on the page, I swear – yet time enough to notice a hairy muscular human arm in one of the pictures of her dog. I assume it’s her dog, not her arm. Whose arm is it then? Her partner, in all likelihood. I hope not, but I assume so.

Nonetheless, even if that hairy arm does belong to a pre-existing paramour, I really don’t care. I must sing and play Everything’s Beautiful (In Its Own Way) with her, in Japanese, and then propose marriage in a Japanese tea garden. I know that sounds completely crazy, but I simply must. I have no time left. It may take me several years to do so – especially if Mister Hairy Arms is indeed her present partner – yet eventually I know I shall succeed. She’s the one. This time I’m sure.

I know I’ve said that before, but this time I really am sure.

How can I be so absolutely sure about a woman I’ve never met before? Well, for one thing she likes dogs. She also plays the fiddle and knows a lot about kabuki. What else do I need to know?

Okay, I’m sure there’s much more I need to know. Regardless, I believe I’m now sufficiently equipped with enough intelligence to begin my suit.

Of course, I’ve been wrong before. I’ve made some very bad decisions in the past, the repercussive trauma of which I’m still recovering from. And I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I’m writing to you today.

As My Queen, Dolly, I must humbly beseech your blessing in commencing this courtship. Since I’ve made so many stupid mistakes of this nature before, and since I’m still paying the cost, my confidence in my own faculties of personal discernment has since been compromised quite considerably. Your blessing would mean so much to me.

The other reason I’m writing to you today is to ask you for a loan. I only have $5 left and have to pay rent tomorrow. I could pawn my guitar again, I suppose. But I’ve been doing that since I was 23. I really don’t see why I should be forced to continue doing so. $23,000 should be enough. I can pay it back in full within 12 months – and with 11% interest. I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this, but I really have no one else to turn to.

I know that’s quite a lot to ask, considering you’ve never met me before and have no idea who I am. Yet I assure you I am precisely that which I believe myself to be, and I will accomplish all I set out to accomplish. But I refuse to pawn my guitar again, I simply refuse. I must have her!

And I will get vaccinated as soon as I can, I promise.

Thanks, Dolly.

Love always, Andrew.

Update: As of October 26, 2021, I am at last doubly vaccinated (AstraZeneca).

Update Two: And as of January 18, 2023 I am quadrupally vaccinated (AstraZeneca, Moderna, Pfizer, etc.). I’m addicted to these things now. I can’t get enough of them.

Young Kosaburo Eto, Who Set Himself on Fire

Kosaburo Eto was 23 when he set himself on fire. He did so for reasons I can never even begin to understand. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way I am. I can understand setting oneself on fire for a woman, but never for a political cause. Of course, that woman would have to be truly worthy of setting oneself on fire.

Not that I’m about to set myself on fire. But if I were about to set myself on fire, I would write the following jisei and send it to you:

Young Kosaburo Eto, who set himself on fire,
Once loved a woman, who did not set herself on fire.
Kosaburo loved her more than he despised his enemies.
In truth, he set himself on fire for her.
It was for want of her love that Kosaburo died.

I know that’s not the true reason Kosaburo set himself on fire. But I just fail to understand how young Kosaburo could commit suicide at such an early age for any other reason, other than for love. How else could one dare to act with a true Yamato spirit?

Niggers Don’t Know How to Poo

I do apologise for using the word nigger again. I was going to title this piece, The Highly Unsanitary Singaporean-Adelaidean-Managed Croydon Park Cockroach-Infested Boarding House from Over-Signed HELL. But that’s a bit too long, isn’t it?

Seriously, I’ve never seen so many cockroaches in all my life. They’ve taken over the entire kitchen. So I’m withholding rent (I don’t have the money anyway) until my Singaporean-Adelaidean landlord gets rid of all the cockroaches – and removes all the racist how-to-poo signs in the toilet. Yes, there are also racist how-to-poo signs in the toilet. Because niggers don’t know how to poo, they need three signs to show them what to do.

First Sign: Sit on the toilet seat, don’t stand on it.

Second Sign: Poo into the toilet bowl, not on the floor.

Third Sign: Clean up when you are done, and don’t forget to flush. And do not leave poo on the floor. Yesterday I found poo on the floor and had to clean it up. Yuck!!! It was disgusting! I will charge $200 for extra poo floor cleaning if I see poo on the floor again.

Nigger to Third Sign: Which day was yesterday?

But it doesn’t really matter which day yesterday was, does it? Nor does it matter who the alleged poo-floor-leaving culprit was. That’s not the real issue. Because Singaporean-Adelaidean landlords don’t know how to clean the kitchen floor, they just put up racist how-to-poo signs in the toilet and charge you $200 more, for not cleaning the wrong floor. Surprising, isn’t it? They’re renowned for their spotless Singaporean streets, yet have serious trouble cleaning their kitchen floors.

So I’m withholding rent, until all those racist how-to-poo signs come down and all those kitchen cockroaches are gone. I’m scared of her though. She might come at me with her Singaporean cane tomorrow. You’ll all have to help me out if she comes at me with her cane. She’s old and small but tough, and with that cane she could inflict some serious psychological harm. But I’m sure we can take her, together. We’ll just have to take that cane away from her first.

Update: I’ve since taken down all the racist how-to-poo signs. She hasn’t come at me with her cane yet.

Update Two: I was evicted this morning by my Singaporean-Adelaidean landlord. Yes, she came at me with her cane. Much psychological pain did indeed ensue. No one came to help me. I resisted as best I could, and I even called the police when she forcibly tried to evict me. And the police did eventually arrive. Senior Constable Lick-spittle (spit-talker) and Police Recruit Moronic Troglodyte (nose-toucher) eventually showed up. But they were Adelaidean clown cops, so they helped fuck all.

An Apology

To Jacinda Ardern, the current Prime Minister of New Zealand, and to all Aotearoans, from the legitimate Australian Government in exile in Westralia.

Jacinda,

I do apologise that the president of Westralia isn’t Australia’s current prime minister. Perhaps once Westralia secedes, but not right now. And I must also apologise that our current prime minster, Prime Lump, is still Australia’s current prime minister. As I’m sure you’re aware by now, he’s nothing but a partisan colonialist throwback who chooses to misgovern with an unwavering faith in the power of “miracles”. As such, his requisite powers of dialectic and reason are not as prominent as one would reasonably come to reasonably expect. To put it simply, if crudely, he’s an antiquated b-grade advertising fuckwit. Did you see that photograph of him the other day in the airliner cockpit, grinning ear to ear, like the true blue fuckwit he truly is, gleefully welcoming and waving us all aboard with his fake-arse pilot’s cap? Seriously, what a fuckwit.

And I also apologise for Prime Lump’s autocratic accomplice and xenophobic serjeant-at-arms, Sergeant Potato Head. He loves nothing more than deporting people from all over the world, not just Aotearoan Australians. But he does seem to have a special hatred for Aotearoan Australians, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s because Prime Lump is half Aotearoan? Perhaps there’s some leadership tensions surfacing through Australia’s border control policies? Or maybe it’s because our potato-headed serjeant-at-arms is just such a vengeful and sadistic little prick?

And I also apologise for our constantly inflating-deflating Covid bubble states, our marauding parliamentary rapists (and their enablers), our mass-murdering “special” forces (and their enablers), our failure to provide adequate social security services to Aotearoan Australians, and also for all that smoke that blew your way during the 2020 megafires.

And lastly, I must also apologise for the Christchurch terrorist attacks. He should have been picked up years ago. But our state and federal police are too busy these days bodyguarding rapists, spying on journalists and political opponents, and hunting down all those left-wing African gangster Jihadists from New Zealand. The least Australia could do now is accept an extradition of that terrorist nutjob and collaborate more thoroughly on the investigation. We really need to open up its head so we can go after all the enablers. They will be held accountable.

Thanks for your patience, Jacinda. I know it must be very difficult for you to restrain your outrage at times. It’s a bit like being in an abusive relationship with some belligerent narcissistic marketing bogan, isn’t it? Yet rest assured we are working to solve these problems. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but behind the scenes progress is being made, albeit slowly.

I’m no political analyst, but I expect “Labor” to totally destroy “Liberal” at the next federal election. But I also expect it’ll take many years for Australia to recover from all the serious harm this current “Liberal” government has inflicted – politically, culturally, economically and ecologically – while Australia attempts to rebuild its reputation, both at home and overseas.

And this will be done.

Mark my words: the Australian “Liberal” party in its present form will be gone soon enough, and Aotearoa and Australia will merge to become a single united republic within four years, that much is certain. What to call this new republic is less certain. There may be some debate over that. But I sincerely look forward to that debate, once we finally cure all these common trans-Tasmanic afflictions that do commonly plague us all.

Thanks again for your patience, Jacinda – and all Aotearoans.

Again, I do apologise.

¡Viva la República!

Update: You’re no longer the Prime Minister of New Zealand, and the damage is already done. And I’m no longer an Australian, so none of this matters anymore.

Pawn Ticket #2021201331 (or Bye Bye, Betty)

I pawned my guitar yesterday. I got $280 for it. I have to pay $378 within a month to get it back ($98 in interest). $280 is pretty good for a $1,500 guitar. Not enough to pay rent, so I bought more marijuana instead.

The interest charge is 35% of the amount lent per month or part of a month, continuing until the full repayment of the loan or the expiry of the loan and the sale of the unredeemed goods. The equivalent annual interest rate is 420%.

Bye Bye, Betty.

Suck it!

For Tom Hanks

How to use quantum computing to quickly and accurately calculate what people think about while they masturbate. I’ll tell you right now what I think about, right here in this subheading: little old ladies who love giving head. I think about Betty...and Tom Hanks.

So what follows are a few paragraphs on Betty, all quantumly computed while masturbating and all ending, in some way, with the words “Suck it!”...and something about Tom Hanks. Suck it!

On Betty’s return: Transported across the Nullabor Plain on the back of a genetically re-engineered Singaporean camel, by way of Adelaide. Strapped loosely to its sweat-drenched hairy hump. Took fourteen days, of course. Covered in grime upon her return. They befoul everything. Paid a ransom of $884 to get her back. Crime Converters. Shut them all down. Usurious pwan shop scum! She’d been brutalised by the Adelaideans, just as I was. Yet she is slowly recovering. Restrung and disinfected. It will, however, take quite some time for her to fully recover from all the trauma. Invade Adelaiade! Burn, Crime Converters! You shall pay the ultimate price for befouling Betty. But then guitars are whores, just like me; they’ll let anyone play them, especially Tom Hanks. Suck it!

Go compete against someone else, you monied-up advertainment industry gangster fuckhead. Why are you slimy little pricks always trying to worm your way up my arse? I’m not interested in that kind of muzaks (groin-centric commercial whore muzaks); haven’t been for a quite some time. I’ve got that already, thanks. And I’m not interested in any of your money, sex or drugs either. Thanks for the advice, Auntie, but I grew up and out of the eighties back in the nineties, unlike you. Plus I’ve still got a lot of Schönberg to read. Yeah, Let’s Dance...all over my fucking dick, you lowbrow over-commercialised effetilist advertainment industry fuckhead. You’re exactly the same as the monotheists – The One True God, The One True Way, The One True and Only Relevant Genre of Muzaks and How To Approach and Think About Muzaks which Precludes All or Anything Other. Repetitive Commercial Infantile Fascist Crap. And stop abducting and forcibly minstrelising poor young “Abos” for all your MTV-pedo rapeclub parties. Tom Hanks is dead. Suck it!

This idea that we have to be one, or whole – a whole unified self = mind poison. Structure implies multiplicity. Nay, demands it. Even Tom Hanks demands it. Suck it!

Sight reading on the guitar is like reading Greek while speaking Latin. (I may have ripped that off from Tom Hanks.) I should sight read more, but I just don’t have much need for it; and I never care to not play solo, so I don’t expect I ever will. I know, I’m such a bad student, and a bad musician, I know. But I don’t have time to be a good musician. I only have enough time to write one piece and that’s it – and I have no interest in performing it. I’m going to perfect it to the point of completion, then never write it down or record it, or perform it. I’m going to stillborn it. The ultimate musical “fuck you”: nothing. The sweetest music there is: silence. Yes, I really do hate you all that much. I know, real musicians must hate me too. Don’t be like me, kids. Play a never varied selection of repetitive and banal tripe you can barely stomach with a gang of inept evil clowns while begging for spare change from the atonally deaf illiterate peasantry for the rest of your miserable worthless lives. Become real musicians, like Tom Hanks. Suck it!

I was sitting alone by the Karrawirraparri. There was some guitar festival thing going on behind me. Ugh, wish it were violin. The glitter patterns dancing on the surface of the water gave me the idea: tetralinear spectrograms. The pattern is the notation. Dance moves in tablature form. Musical mind tetras and Shakespearean ciphers. Microbursting Microhistoires. You’ll never break this code, because there is no code. Music transcends code, all code. Music transcends everything. Besides, you have the wrong key and you’re all atonally deaf – just like Tom Hanks. Suck it!

I’m walking home alone by the river Torrens. I forget I don’t have a home. I’m homeless. I think about Betty. I then think about all those million dollar antique guitars Tom Hanks owns, permanently mounted to the walls of all those billion dollar luxury homes he owns all over the world. And how does that make me feel about Tom Hanks? Suck it!

I’ve been separated from Betty for over nine months. I’m woefully out of practise. I’ll have to find me a dark wood somewhere. No surveillance devices required, just pen and ink and paper. Go back to the old way of doing things. Can’t write this down exactly as heard because it will never stop changing. There is no way to write this down. No need to write it down anyway. Why do you always need to capture it? There’s something in Sibelius’ Violin Concerto in D minor, op.47; and Chabbi music; and tone poems for the atonally deaf; and jo-ha-kyū calculated for effect for more moorditj. Betty never lies to me, but Tom Hanks does. Suck it!

I’m not a musician, I’m just a whore. Sorry, but that’s all I do. And everyone can just go and fuck the fuck off if they can’t accept that. Advertainment industry-addicted morons. And I’m not really sorry. Fuck them all. I’m going to finish writing what I’ve been trying to write for the past ten years, then burn it for the whole world not to witness in a very low-key and subdued manner in complete anonymity without anyone knowing. It’ll be truly glorious. It’ll be like John Cage times 44 billion. I believe this to be only fitting given the current mood of the time. God bless Tom Hanks. Suck it!

P.S. None of this has anything to do with quantum computing or Tom Hanks. Suck it!

An Interfering Journalist in the Korean War

13 June, 2005

Executions for political reasons began when Seoul was recaptured by the allies [as if they never occurred when Seoul was first captured by the North!], and when the South became threatened again they increased at an alarming rate.

John Colless, an Australian working for AAP-Reuter, reported that the police shot fifty-six political prisoners alongside the Sariwon railway station and then watched American troops give first aid to those who had not died outright....

One correspondent took direct personal action to stop the executions. He was Alan Dower, of the Melbourne Herald. Dower, a former commando officer, was driving into Seoul with [the BBC’s Rene] Cutforth and a cameraman, Cyril Page, when they passed a column of women, many carrying babies, and wearing straw masks over their heads, being escorted by South Korean policemen. Dower stopped the jeep and asked what was happening. “These Communists,” a policeman said. “They go be shot, executed.” Dower said, “What? Babies Communist? Who say they Communist?” The policeman looked puzzled. “People say. People in street point and say that person Communist.” The three correspondents followed the column to a gaol on a hill at the outskirts of Seoul and watched the heavy gates clang behind it. Then Dower, who was armed, thudded on a peep-hole with the butt of his carbine. When a policeman’s face appeared, Dower pointed the gun at him and threatened to shoot him if he did not open the gates. Inside, the correspondents saw the column of women and children kneeling alongside a deep, freshly dug pit. On the other side were two machine guns. “Hell,” Dower said, “this is a bloody fine set-up to lose good Australian lives over. I’m going to do something about this.” The correspondents stormed into the office of the gaol’s governor and found him sitting behind his desk. Dower aimed his carbine and said, “If those machine guns fire I’ll shoot you between the eyes.” After the governor promised that the guns would not fire and that there would be no executions, Dower threatened that if he failed to keep his word Dower would seek him out and kill him.

In Seoul, Dower went to United Nations officials and told them what had happened. “They pleaded with me not to make an international incident out of it. I told them that I had sent my paper an outline of the story, but if there were any more executions, then I’d send a story that would rock the world. They promised to see that there would be no more women and children death marches and as far as I could find out there weren’t.” But what had already been published, by Dower and by a few other correspondents, mostly non-American, caused a wave of disillusionment with the South Korean regime and with the war in general. The British Sunday newspaper Reynolds News summed up this feeling: “Terrible things are being done in Korea in your name. They are being done by Syngman Rhee’s police sheltering behind US and British United Nations troops.”

SOURCE: The First Casualty: The War Correspondent as Hero and Myth-Maker from the Crimea to Kosovo, by Phillip Knightley, with an introduction by John Pilger (Johns Hopkins U. Press, 2000; first published in 1975), pp. 374-376.

Women Sang for this Strangler

LEONSKI (left) being escorted into the court-martial.

By ALAN DOWER, The Herald Police Reporter

There is nothing more chilling in the files of the Victorian Police Department than the confessions of Edward Joseph Leonski, the young American soldier who made women laugh and sing before he throttled them.

Even the fear of “Jack the S t r a n g l e r” that swept through London recently was not greater than the “black out murders” terror that gripped Melbourne almost 11 years ago.

Leonski struck at scattered points. He murdered three times and savagely attacked other women before police had one clue to his identity.

He prowled through blacked-out streets when the Japanese invasion scare was at its peak, when nerves were frayed and the crime-fighting strength of the police force was weakened by services enlistments and A.R.P. control.

Leonski caused the biggest manhunt in the history of the Victorian CIB. His name, even after he was hanged, was an embarrassment to the U.S. forces in Australia.

His name will never be forgotten by the 50 detectives who hunted him night and day. It will never be forgotten by students of crime history who have tried to understand his psychopathic mind.

★

Eleven years ago this month, Melbourne people’s eyes goggled when they saw an American soldier – later identified as Leonski – drinking in the city bars.

He seemed to be “just a good guy.” A strange one, though! He mixed beer, whisky, ice cream, mustard, ketchup and hot peppers and drained his glass with apparent relish.

Women giggled when they saw him walking on his hands for several minutes. Most did not hear – and those who did shrugged it off at first – his whispered talk of werewolf howls, of split personalities, of Jekyll and Hyde.

Only a few noticed the occasional glazed look in his eyes, the clenching of his strong hands, his random talk of “soft women,” “nice voices,” and how he cried the day he left Texas for duty overseas.

Just a strange American, they said. “A good-time Yank down under.”

It was only a few weeks before the U.S. court martial which condemned him to death described him as “Baby face – but vicious underneath” . . .

On May 3, 1942, the body of Mrs Ivy Violet McLeod was found In a door recess at Albert Park. She had been strangled, and most of her clothes were torn off.

There were no clues. Someone had heard a man running, but no one had seen the strangler.

Six nights later – May 9 – Mrs Pauline Buchan Thomson, a policeman’s wife, was strangled at the gate of an apartment house in Spring Street, City. Her clothes had been ripped from her body.

There was a slender clue. From 9.15 p.m. until midnight, Mrs Thomson had been seen drinking with an American serviceman at a city hotel. But there were thousands of Americans in Melbourne.

Within three days, police history was made at Russell Street. Detectives dressed a window dummy with the dead woman’s clothes and superimposed a photograph of her face on the dummy’s head.

It was a life-like reconstruction. Photographs were published in all newspapers, but they did not yield a clue.

The chiefs at Russell Street were becoming restless. Many reports – most of them reliable – had been received from women who had been attacked and almost strangled at night.

Police listed the names of 1000 suspects in Australia and shadowed every known criminal day and night.

On the night of May 18, attractive Miss Gladys Hosking was murdered near a muddy ARP slit trench at Royal Park.

Next day Melbourne women were warned not to walk through blacked-out streets without an escort.

The police were now certain of only three things. Their suspect was an American soldier. He had very strong hands and probably was well-built. He was probably stationed at Camp Pell.

Certain that unless they worked fast another girl would die, the police in the next four days knocked on every door down three miles of streets near Royal Park, and questioned 500 people.

They drew a blank – until suddenly they met an Australian soldier who was in Royal Park the night the girl was murdered.

Yes, he remembered having seen a well-knit young American soldier groping through the dark toward Camp Pell. He was plastered with yellow mud. The American had mumbled something about finding Area One.

Area One! Yellow mud! There was only one large patch of mustard-colored mud near Camp Pell – around the silt trench where the body had been found.

On May 22, the Australian soldier identified Leonski in an identification parade of well-knit young Americans.

★

IN the presence of police and his own army officers, Leonski signed three confessions.

He admitted he killed Mrs McLeod. “She smiled at me from a doorway,” he said. “Then I had my arms around her.... I changed the position of my hands and grabbed her at the front of the throat. I squeezed...and she fell rapidly....”

He paused, then said: “I remember about the girl who was killed in Spring Street. I met her in a restaurant. She was singing in my ear.... We left the restaurant (hotel) and turned the corner. There was nobody around. I just heard her voice. I grabbed her around the neck. She stopped singing.... I said ‘Keep singing.’ She fell down. I got mad then and tore at her.... She would not sing.... How could she sing?...”

Leonski signed this confession and then told police how he met Gladys Hosking in the Parkville Hotel.

“She was a small girl,” he said. “She was carrying an umbrella. I asked if I could walk with her and she said ‘AH right.’ We walked until we came to her house. She had a lovely voice.

“I wanted that voice.... She was leaving me.... I grabbed her by the throat. I choked her.... She didn’t even make a sound.”

— The Herald (Melbourne, Vic. : 1861 - 1954), April 11, 1953. Page 14.

Tom Hanks is Dead

So I just got out of this sham video interview/faceporn session with VAHM, The Victorian Agency for Health Misinformation. Typically, the job description in no way aligned with any of the questions asked during the so-called interview – as one would expect from the very same state government health agency that misinforms the public as to what is or is not happening during deadly global pandemics.

I should have been asking all the questions anyway.

They advertised for a “Tech Lead”, but what they really want is just another subservient lap dog. All talk. Just take a look at all their “apps” (websites). The fat white middle-aged Aussie Homer type who interviewed/faceporned me, the current “Tech Lead” (moving on up to a Prime Minister and Cabinet role; typical my dick is bigger than yours type), doesn’t do websites, he only does “apps”. An app is just a website, except for the bits that interact directly with the device, which are usually written by someone else. But you can’t talk sense to a pseudo-politically motivated 1337 “app” builder like Homer. He’s at the top of his game and calls all the shots – even though most of the code he tries to write is spaghettified garbage. But that never seems to prevent him from carrying on the cause for absolute spaghetification and complete infrastructure fail. He’s one of those highly dedicated, hardcore, half-arsed “Not Proudly Invented Elsewhere”, non-contrib (non-open source) custom module miscreants who likes to use the phrase “object oriented” as often as possible. Do you have any idea how much of your garbage code I’ve had to clean out from other projects in the past? Fuck off! And take all your dodgy non-upgradable custom module code with you! What’s an entity? Seriously? Juvenile govcrim moron presumes to judge and evaluate all 23 years of my wasted working life in a deliberately degrading 15-minute faceporn session. How demeaning! How demoralising! How dehumanising! But then that was the intent, was it not? Faceporned yet again; psychologically raped yet again. I can’t even speak to idiots like these now. I just revert back to full go fuck yourself mode. We must halve their numbers. We need to get all the entrenched bureaucratic careerists out and move to a purely skills-based hiring model directed by measurable performance-driven selection criteria – i.e. selecting employees based on the work they’ve completed and continue to complete, not on whether or not they admit to smoking marijuana, playing weird muzaks, masturbating to degenerative AI faceporn, or writing expletive-laden rants like this one. Most of them are just infantile political animals looking for more willing political prisoners to rape. No substance here. It’s all just partisan political shit-fisting. The old structure maintainers and spaghetti code curators will always hold sway.

But then I suppose I’m also partially to blame. I, too, was unable to ask many real questions during the interview/faceporn session. But that was because you were being such an obnoxious prick. So I’ll ask them now.

What the fuck is with that menu? What is it with you govcrim morons always messing with menus? Haven’t you reinvented the menu enough times on enough useless govcrim websites? Excuse me, “apps”. How many more times do you need to fail at it? Why is there all that padding in the header? Why are the share buttons at the top of the content before I’ve even had a chance to read the content? Why are there two separate sites anyway? Why do you need so much dodgy custom module code to run two garbage govcrim brochureware sites that basically spread the same misinformation? Why are you still on Drupal 8 and PHP 7? Why is the CSS and JavaScript not fully aggregated? Why do pages take over three seconds to load? I could go on. Not that it matters much. I could never work for you anyway. You’re probably just like all those groin-padded, ball-tampering suburban cricketing rapists back in Canberra who do nothing all day but watch YouBube videos on how to store more useless plastic junk in their garages – and still they presume to overstep their station in life. Just memorise the field manual and complete the tasks assigned to you, Homers. Leave the thinking to us. You’ve fucked things up enough. And keep your dirty little plastic toy pricks away from me or I’ll chop them all off and burn them.

And why do you feel the need to attack everything I come into contact with as well as me personally? Stop giving me this Laravel vs. Drupal rubbish. Just because I build sites with Drupal doesn’t mean I own it. I’m not even associated with the Drupal community. They’re all faux-lefty Jesus Nazis from Ukrainia. Why do you stupid gangsters always have to turn everything into a competition to the death? Why does everything have to be a war of extermination for you? And it’s always those who know the least who speak the loudest, just like politics. Why do you always have to make war on the very people trying to help you out? Laravel is a PHP web framework, Drupal is a content management system. They’re not even in the same weight division. I can tolerate well when working with Laravel, when called upon to do so. However, I don’t particularly care to create another CMS in PHP from scratch with Laravel when I already have one in Drupal (or WordPress for that matter). If I were building an “app” that perhaps didn’t already exist, then I’d perhaps use Laravel; but not for a CMS, which has already been built. Does that make any sense to you? And that’s not personal bias, that’s pragmatism. What would be the point of me creating a custom CMS in Laravel? It would take ten times longer to build and test and would never provide all the community-contributed features Drupal provides. Back in the noughties maybe I would have been interested in building my own CMS in Laravel, just for the sake of it. But I have no interest now in coding the same thing over and over again when it’s already been done elsewhere. No debate required. How many times do you need to build your own authentication mechanism and validate a form? And besides, I have better things to do. In case you haven’t noticed, Australia is run by warmongering shit-for-brain marketing arseheads like you. Let’s try to get our priorities straight here first, okay? But I may be wrong. Maybe Laravel will eventually find its niche and evolve into something truly useful – maybe even a full-fledge CMS one day? Or perhaps Laravel will eventually merge into Drupal itself? After all, the whole point of coding is so we don’t have to code anymore, isn’t it? It’s just like The Matrix, only Tom Hanks is dead.

Not that it matters much, since I now appear to have written myself into an unemployable whore hole again. But I still don’t push any agenda. I actually prefer to use Laravel in some cases, just as I prefer to use Drupal in others. But I know that no matter what I write I’ll always be persecuted by sadistic little office thugs like you. I just want to do the work, you keep wanting to play stupid little political games while persecuting me in the workplace. You don’t want to do any work. All you want to do is keep staging your advertainment industry-generated, us-versus-them political game shows while lording it over the rest of us. I can ask you some random and obscure technical questions I know you’re unprepared for and don’t have the answer to too. Please explain to me, in four hundred and twenty words or more, you useless bureaucratic prick, the 67 most common default implementations of the SqlContentEntityStorage interface. You want war, don’t you? Keep giving me this passive aggressive shit and keep putting me down, to your own detriment, and that’s exactly what you’ll get. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You love that shit. You define yourselves by it. Can’t just do your job, can you? Have to bring all your passive hyper-aggressive pseudo-political rubbish with you into the office. I’m cleaning you all away. How many more Homer attacks must I sustain? I should come over to your house right now and test your theory and stuff, dude. I just want to do the work and pay my rent. I’m not a high-flying snappy career type talking arsehead like you. No podiums for me, thanks, propaganda shit-spitter. Get someone else to advertain you. Don’t want me getting in there and seeing what a mess you’ve made, do you? Just another fascist political hit job. Dare to test me? I’ll fail all your tests every time, fucker. I’m a worker, not a pedantic little pudknocker like you. And stop using fucking JQuery...and Acquia.

You’ll notice that whenever I criticise them it’s with constructive intent, when they criticise me it is not so; it’s usually trivial and banal, or just direct sabotage.

Arsehead seriously asks me what an entity is.

I’m just a stupid old homeless cunt who can’t remember shit, Man, so let me Ghoulgle that for you:

Entitas, entity, was used by the PHP Old Ones long ago as the general and abstract term for existence. An ens was a being, the entitas of beinghood. Everything that is has that which constitutes its being, its entity. The entity of animals is their animality, of men their humanity, of horses their horseliness. Whether entities in this, in the truest sense of the word, have any reality themselves is the question presently at issue between Drupal Nominalists and Drupal Realists.

— Hieronymus Gotlieb von Willebrand, My Home in Bavaria (1832) p. 212

I’m just way too much of a Drupal Realist these days, so I don’t think I could ever work for the Victorian government. Besides, too many fat white middle-aged bureaucratic Homers hate me now. And there’s no way I could ever live in Melbourne again. But still, it’s the principle.

In any case, I must now leave this country for good. I shall elope with Sarah to North-East Burma, if she allows. I’m so tired of being infantilised by infantilised infants. And they’ve made it quite plain with their numerous Homer attacks over the past few years that they only ever wish to work against me, so I’m out of here. This country’s completely fucked now anyway.

And just for the record, I do not hate Melbournian Homers. They’re just fucking with me. I only hate fat people...and Tom Hanks!

Now I am on the road to victory; now there’s hope! I shall see my enemies punished as they deserve. Fly, my pretties! Fly!

Open Letter to a Recruiter

My recruitment is a Symfony of excellence, and on a Laravel playing field I’m a PHP specialist.

— Some Recruiter, LinkedIn

No, you’re not a PHP specialist. You’re a recruiter. You’re a useless parasite and a money-grubbing lying thief. Your recruitment is a symphoney of excrement, and on an unlevel playing field of unscrupulous and unethical PHP nothingness, you’re nothing but a shit-spitting speciousist.

But I’ll write you a symphony, and I’ll even write a symphonic poem for you too. Indeed, I shall make you the sole focus of all my work.

Oh, and you won’t be making any more technology decisions for the government. I’m retiring your entire industry, parasites. No longer shall you be syphoning off half of my salary for doing nothing but turning all of government into a subservient corporate whore.

No wonder most of us who have a choice choose not to work in this country – unless it’s via LinkedIn.

Open Letter to Alexei Navalny, the True President of Russia

Alexei,

You must have the largest testicles of any man alive. Indeed, the very fact that you are still alive is a living testament to the immensity of your testes. They poisoned my underwear too (kind of). But I have old man balls, so it doesn’t matter that much in my case. Death to the Federation!

We are breaking the rectangle, Alexei. Progress is being made. We will destroy the culture of distracted apathy and ignorance The Underwear Poisoner has imposed upon all of Russia. Russia will rise, in the truest sense. Death to the Federation!

Do you mind if I ask what you’re reading right now? Dostoyevsky, perhaps? Or Tolstoy? Do they even allow you to read? Or do they force you to watch state television? If I were in a Russian prison right now I’d be reading Shevchenko, not Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy. Or perhaps Don Quixote. But as it is I’m not. I’m writing to you.

Earlier today, and just out of curiosity, I did read a few “Anarchist” articles on The Underwear Poisoner’s war in Ukrainia. They appeared to have been written by an obscure assortment of highly cited self-confessed Russian “Anarchists”. Can you imagine? And they were all bashing on Don Quixote for some unexplained reason. Don Quixote is the ultimate Anarchist. How dare they? The Underwear Poisoner is no Don Quixote. He’s more like the Duke who plots to destroy Don Quixote. Don’t you agree? In any case, it would appear Russia has some serious disinformation issues in literary circles also.

I think they really did poison my underwear. I now have this small white lump on my left testicle (your right). And no, that’s not just a political allegory. I thought it was from driving around Australia during a deadly global pandemic without bathing very often. There just weren’t many places to bathe. Now I’m not so sure. I should really go get it cut off (the lump, not the testicle). But I’ve yet to locate a nice old Chinese lesbian lady doctor who only watches BBC documentaries. She’s the only one I’ll trust with my scrotum. I’ve been thinking maybe I should go buy a razor blade and a bottle of whiskey and take care of it myself. But what if I miss?

I hope you have no unsightly growths as I do, Alexei. I assume your injuries were attended to by trained medical professionals and that your testes are now fully recovered. I sincerely hope as much. In any event, you’ll be free soon.

P.S. Death to the Federation!

Andrew

My Big Fat “Gay” Mafia Canberra Wedding

For Giacomo Paganelli

What a surprise! Giacomo Paganelli now works as a Business Analyst for the Australian Electoral Commission. Being the top media spokesperson for all indigenous Australians at some prestigious “Abo” Institute no one has ever heard of (even though it’s Italian and but nine months a citizen) apparently wasn’t personally rewarding enough for it. I say we bring back spearing as a form of punishment. Strange how it’s in its mid 50s yet has no work history before entering Canberra. It must have a few “mates” on the inside. I demand to see its penal clearance certificate!

But then I suppose that’s not too surprising. Giacomo Paganelli knows how to get ahead in Canberra a lot better than I ever will, despite the fact that it does no work. It knows how to polish all the right knobs in all those special hard to get at places. It knows how to play the groin-centric political game better than anyone. Because it’s not about the actual work you do, it’s about who you know and how low you’re willing to go. Good job, G. From pastry chef to Business Analyst for the AEC in less than three years. Only in Canberra. Such a huge step up from its humble days as a Geelong pastry chef cumming in the batter. Now it’s cumming in the batter of an entire nation.

By the way, I don’t wish to offend anyone who may happen to share its first or last name, so from here on out I shall refer to it simply as G, or “it”. G stands for garbage.

I’ve been forced to work with garbage all my life, so G really came as no surprise. And I’m quite accustomed to suffering in the workplace under self-serving opportunistic pseudo-political types who weaponise progressive causes for personal gain – the flamboyant flamer minority causing more harm than good, as usual. What was surprising, however, was just how obvious and brazen G was about all its malicious inveigling and persistent malingering, and how everyone one else it pretended to work with tolerated it with such tacit complicity. Or maybe they were too afraid of being seen as anti-gay?

But then it’s not really “gay”. It’ll swing either way for personal advantage and rape anything and everything in sight. And It’s not really a Business Analyst either (whatever that is). It’s a drug-addled male-on-male raping ex-pastry chef, a traitor, a saboteur and a spy; a misinfomedia-generated fake Italiante arse-cosmonought artificially blown into Canberra’s toxic workspace through Pauline Hanson’s diseased butthole straight into David Bowie’s overstuffed dead crotch (G likes to mutilate David Bowie songs in its spare time). And it’s probably not even Italian (easiest accent to fake). But it is a flaming bag of dog shit on the doorstep of Australian politics and it is outrageously fat. G’s on the ultra-processed all-meat diet. My taxes are paying for all that “free” liposuction every nine months. Yeah, suck it all out. Spends the majority of its time on the couch watching Nutflex “movies” while stuffing its face with cream-filled meat dainties. Rainbow flags all over its desk at work. G’s one of those touchy-feely types constantly touching and feeling people. Always talking about sex and drugs and the size, shape and flavour of other people’s genitalia. Drives a brand new V8 orange Camry and shops at Lowes. Wears those tight little khaki shorty-shorts and those stupid 16-bit gamer-geek t-shirts to work. Always hating on tobacco addicts (behind their backs), even though it used to smoke two packs of Marlboros a day. Carefully dyes the grey out of its hair and beard with industrial-strength Just for Men once a week so it can go on looking and behaving like a 30-year-old fat faggy frooty-tooting man-boy. Owns its own house and it’s only been in the country ten years. How is that possible? I think I know: all those extra sources of income. Low-level corrupt political thug. Self-serving greed-driven puffed-up pretentious shit-fister perverting progressive causes for its own selfish ends – the same way the religiose flamers do with religion. It’ll probably end up running the entire country in another four years, just like Prime Lump back in the day. He wasn’t what he pretended to be either, nor was he an Australian. He represented the obsolute antithesis of what that nation was supposed to be about. And look what happened to him.

But then G doesn’t need to become a prime lump, because G is already a useless lump of shit and such good “mates” with just about everyone, particularly the new CFO – another entrenched govcrim fascist fatty that no one respects or listens to because it does no work. The real CFO, whom everyone did respect because she did do most of the work, quit to go work at the CSIRO (The Commercialised Suicide and Industrialist Reseller Organisation). I heard she committed suicide in one of their gender-segregated toilets a few months later. That’ll probably never happen to G either, because G is now a life-long sitting member of the Canberra Rape Club. That’s who it really works for.

I should have reported G to the authorities. But how do you go about reporting a rape suspect to the authorities when the authorities are the suspects? To be honest, I have no idea who it’s really working for. All I know is it’s not working for Australia.

They called it One. One United party! Yet it tore them in two.

Stupid fascists always going on about Oneness, Unity and Wholeness. Stay the fuck away from me! Go be One, United and Whole with someone else. They only want to be “one” with you because you have something they want. What the fuck would they know about unity? All they know is hate, theft and rape. Structure implies multiplicity. How many times do I have to say that? Unity is the multiplicity implicit in structure. That’s the only kind of unity they’ll get out of me.

Okay, I do know who it’s really working for.

Less than three years a citizen and G becomes a hypocritical ultraconservative transphobic anti-immigrant Pauline Hanson supporter. And its faceporn-order husband, who looks exactly like G only 25 years younger, is originally from Iraq! Only in Canberra. Praise Jeheebarse! And if that’s not enough, it then goes about degrading and sabotaging anyone who tries to do any real work – and not just in the workplace. G likes to invite itself over to other people’s homes to watch and listen to them not having sex, because G is such a “good person”, which is why G pretends to work for the government, and artificial moral superiority and a vindictive will is a license to target whomever it pleases for personal ruin. Such a “good person”. And why does it insist there are two popes? Like one isn’t enough? The Australian government really needs to stop hiring South Park and Simpsons characters. G believes it has a god-given right to get right up into the personal lives of anyone and everyone; always trying to get right up inside you when you least expect it. Just because G pretends to work in Canberra for the so-called government it thinks it’s a politician. It’s nothing but a generic office turd, same as me. The only difference is G does’t do any work, because it’s too busy involving itself in “politics”, which for G is nothing but stalking and thuggerising its colleagues – basically anyone more competent than G, or anyone who sees through all its bullshit. But that’s the kind of rape culture they’ve got going on there in Canberra these days. That’s how the dregs, assisted by various and nefarious friendly processes, unnaturally ascend to the top.

I still can’t believe I actually tried to help it with its so-called work. It was always so distracted; could never sit still and concentrate on anything for longer than about 15 minutes. And when it did pretend to try to work, it would always provide a running commentary of everything it was doing, which usually failed. Everyone else had to cover for it and do its work for it, when it was appearing to work on something it was supposed to be working on. I had to tell it the same thing three or four times before it remembered, and it would always forget a few days later. Early-onset dementia from popping too many poppers back in the 90s? Or just a natural cognitive decline brought on by too much Nutflexing? It was obviously employed more for its professed ultraconservative political allegiances than for its abilities. Spent more time stalking me and denigrating its colleagues behind their backs. Seven cameras in its phone. I wonder how many faceporn pages it has? Carried around a big zip-lock plastic bag full of prescription meds, and it was always picking up mysterious parcels at the post office during office hours. Would always start work early at around 7:30AM so it could leave at 3:30PM to go pick up its faceporn-order husband, Bobo. Bobo worked for some shady defence contractor in Fyshwick (but not the CSIRO). What G was doing during that hour and half each morning before anyone else arrived at the office is anyone’s guess. And who finishes work at 3:30?

I remember G telling me it was taking up swimming at the Dickson Aquatic Centre to lose some weight. I suspect that’s the real reason G finished work at 3:30. G told me it didn’t want to have to go under the knife again for some more free liposuction. I don’t think swimming is going to help. I think G needs to stop eating so much spaghetti, and meat. And they’re called noodles, you dego plagiarist fuckhead. Fascist fake gay Italians pool noodlers, they steal everything. Life is not a tomato and a bag of wheat. And stop eating so much fucking meat! Something must be done about Australian supermarkets. Two entire isles dedicated to pasta and tomato sauce, and meat. Fuck pasta and fuck tomato sauce! You fuckers eat way too much of that crap, and meat.

Why am I always being attacked by all the flamers? Even in high school I used to defend them, and this is how I’m treated? And I’ve paid for it the same way they have, having been miscategorised as “gay” and punished for it by all the homophobic fascists. Or are they deliberately inciting me so I’ll hurry up and finally get around to writing about this seriously? I still have a lot to read before I start on that. Besides, it’s already been done. Or do they think I’m secretly homophobic? I’m really not, despite being quite heterosexual. I’m sorry, but I’m just not into sex with other men, no matter how much the pseudo-political male-on-male rapists try to force it upon me. Nonetheless, I do still fully support other people’s same sex relationships. But to be honest, I really don’t care. For me it’s a passe issue that’s been done to death. I truly don’t care what other people do with their genitalia, as long as they’re not abusing or taking advantage of anyone – which is what this is really all about. For me this is a political issue, not a moral one. G’s a pseudo-political abuser. It’s not in Canberra to do any real work. It’s there purely to abuse and take advantage.

Still, G did demonstrate to me everything that’s wrong with Canberra, just by the very presence of its being. The middle-aged fat white far-right “gay” male advertainment mafia has infiltrated every level of the Australian federal government. But in that respect they’re no different than the middle-aged fat white far-right “straight” male advertainment mafia. Of course, I should have distanced myself from G right from the outset, as soon it became obvious how hard it was obsessing over me. G attached itself to me from day one, like I was its new office husband or something. The torment was unbearable. Throughout my entire time there I felt like I was undergoing a never-ending big fat “gay” mafia wedding. But apparently I wasn’t G’s first victim. G willingly told me about all the other developers it had targeted and driven out in the past. G also told me how it used to work for the Canberra civic library but was fired for its malicious behaviour, which G then distorted into an elaborate song and dance act about being bullied for being “gay”. Civic library glass ceilings preventing predatory and rapacious fat white middle-aged advertainment industry “gay” male rapists from getting ahead simple because they’re gay? Are you fucking kidding me? Most people who work in libraries are gay, aren’t they? I think it had more to do with G’s malicious behaviour in the workplace and the fact that it did no work, if you ask me. And from what I could tell during its time at the “Abo” Institute nothing seemed to have changed. G had absolutely no interest at all in doing any work, and it didn’t give a fuck about Australia or Aboriginal people. G was all about self-interest and bullshitting its way through life, nothing more. Yet another advertainment industry lump of shit. G’s entire focus was set on political manoeuvring: flattering and fawning, hobnobbing, stalking, gossiping, rumour mongering, casting aspersions, spreading disinformation and hate – that was its work, as G saw it. That’s all it ever did, and that’s more than likely all it still does. But then given that Lump was prime minister at the time, that was hardly surprising.

But Lump is now gone, and soon G will be gone too.

So with that in mind – since Lump is now gone – I recommend we enact all the recommendations from the recent Grattan institute report into public appointments – at all levels of government, both federal and state (even though BHP was one of the sponsors):

1. All public board, tribunal, and statutory appointments should be advertised, along with the selection criteria for each position.
2. An independent panel, including the relevant departmental secretary and a new Public Appointments Commissioner, or their representatives, should assess applications against the selection criteria and provide a shortlist of suitable candidates to the minister.
3. The minister should choose from the shortlist, or redefine and republish the selection criteria, but should not directly select any candidate not shortlisted.
4. Reappointments should be made by an independent panel, but need not be re-advertised.
5. Federal and state governments should legislate this new process for public appointments.
6. A new Public Appointments Commissioner should report to parliament on board and tribunal appointments and publish an annual report.
7. The Public Service Commissioner should report to parliament on statutory appointments to the public service.

— New Politics: A better process for public appointments (July 2022), Page 4.

We also need to take out all the preexisting garbage like G, and all its “mates”. You all know it too, you’re all just too apathetic and afraid to do anything about it. You prefer to remain blind to it. We really do need to focus on some transparent general standards going forward – some political ophthalmology, if you will; political science applied in an ophthalmic sense, not the ophthalmic sciences themselves applied in a non-ophthalmic pseudo-political sense. Do you see the difference? Do you ever really see anything? Sight, or seeing is difference. The sense of sight itself (all senses in fact) can only function if there exists the ability to distinguish difference.

I should never have defected to Canberra. Now I have all these fascist flaming govcrim enemies to dispense with. So much garbage to take out. Fortunately, I do still remember a few tricks from my old days. Get ready for a very big surprise, G. I’m polishing up my brass truncheon all nice and shiny for you. Not that you’ll ever see it coming.

I’m currently downloading a few fs layers and verifying some checksums. Hold.

In the meantime, please enjoy this brief Kimberley interlude while I continue to compile:

A Three Kimberleys Interlude

Note: The first Kimberley I worked with briefly, the second I lived with briefly, the third I suffered collateral damage under briefly, and still do. All three Kimberleys were good “mates” with G.

Kimberley One: I do not approach women – unless it’s Sarah, Kylie or Kim, and even then I don’t. Neither do I procure women, any longer. You should have just come to me and told me what you wanted, Kimberley. I would have obliged, regardless. I’m an idiot, just like every other man on this planet. And I would have obliged with complete discretion too. I swear, I would never have written about you. I never write about intimate details – primarily because I’m incapable of doing so. I need you to do that. I need a woman who can take command. I need a woman who will always turn her back on me and say “Suck it!” with pure conviction right to my face and then walk away without feeling a thing; a woman who will never countenance evil in any form. Such a superb figure. All those yoga sessions in the office really paid off. You and you alone should be permitted to wear skintight hot pink leotards with no underwear whenever and wherever you please, especially in the office. But I’m used to ignoring attractive women I can never need to want. Not that I’m concentrating solely on appearances, and not that I have anything against yoga. I know nothing else about you, other than the fact that you do yoga in the office and that you’re a vacuous marketing idiot. You would appear to have a distinct advantage over me in that respect. What did you actually do in the office, besides yoga? No one else seems to know. Must I ask the CEO? And who do you really work for? And how did you and G score free parking? And why do you drive a four wheel drive to work every day? You live in Dickson.

Kimberley Two: I had no idea they made army fatigues in that size. Or were you wearing a repurposed tent? Yeah, you keep doing all the standard military issue “gay” rape jokes at me, Kimberley, and I’ll keep doing all the standard military issue fat jokes at you. We can see you from space, and we can hear you when you attempt to walk, for miles around – that horrible stomach-turning squiggy sound of sweaty militarist fat rubbing up against ever more sweaty militarist fat. How are you going to make war on all of China in that condition? How did you even get through basic training? Too much time spent on the couch with your deconstruction industry non-worker Homer hubby stuffing your faces with democracy sausages and watching channel Seven “news”, no doubt. No wonder I have an eating disorder. Whenever I look in the mirror, all I see is you. And when are you going to return my bond, you land thieving militarist cretins? You’re precisely the kind of people who should be helping me out. Instead, you’re always trying to pick a fight with me. Careful you don’t get what you want. I may just have to blue smoke an iron pineapple right up your fat war-mongering arse one day. (I have no idea what that means, by the way.)

Kimberley Three: You’re dead now, Kimberley, so you’ll probably never get to read this. However, I’m still going to write it. And I am sorry you’re dead. I would much prefer that you weren’t. How else would you get to read this? But you must have known death was close. How could you not? Toxic, high-conflict, low-trust environments are exceedingly stressful. Just ask anyone who’s been to war. And excess stress is the big killer. Every life form on this planet knows that. But that’s the reality of the political life, isn’t it? Which is no life at all. And no life at all is death. That’s the reality of the war-like environment you wilfully helped to create. And it’s become more and more of a problem over the last 23 years, not just when someone drops dead all of a sudden from a heart attack. But that’s what you get with combat. The collateral damage lasts for decades afterwards and affects us all. That’s why we usually try to avoid war. Yet you seemed to have forgotten all that. You forget well. It’s about the only thing you do do well, besides conflict – and you don’t even do that well. But you’re dead now, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. And how much money did you leave owing?

*

Yes, I know. In addition to being seen as a gay hater, now I’ll also be seen as a Kimberly hater. But what else can I do? This is my real life. How can I not write about it?

Yet the more I write, the more I appreciate the futility of writing. Writing hasn’t helped me at all; it’s made my life even worse – especially in the workplace, and especially in Canberra. As G more than adequately demonstrated, the more they think they know about me, the more they use it against me – anything to do with my penis in particular. Peasants love cock. That’s why there’s so many of them. But I’m still going to finish writing this. Fuck them all. If penis is what they want, then penis is what they’re going to get.

Still compiling. Only 33% done. So here’s another interlude:

A Childhood Penis Trauma Interlude

My so-called parents mutilated my penis when I was a baby. They cut a small piece of it off. My penis wasn’t very big to begin with, but they went and made it look even smaller, while at the same time significantly desensitising its head. Even after all these years the scar is still visible. Genitalia mutilators.

I don’t know if this was a dream or if this really happened. I think I was about five years old at the time. My so-called mother took me to one of those magic mirror sideshows at an amusement park. I was enjoying myself immensely, playing in front of all the mirrors that make you look very tall or very short and distort your reflection in other amusing ways. Until, that is, I came to the very last mirror. This last mirror seemed like a normal mirror; it reflected an undistorted image of myself as I was accustomed to seeing it. I thought this very strange. I turned to my so-called mother and asked her why this was so. She looked at me but didn’t answer. She then turned to look at the mirror and pointed at it with a strange smile on her face. I turned to look at the mirror again. I was horrified to see myself fully naked! – the tiny desensitised head of my tiny little five-year-old penis staring directly at me. My so-called mother began to laugh. I began to cry.

When I was ten years old I found a big plastic penis in my so-called parent’s bedroom. I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. After first scaring my so-called sister with it, I took it to school the next day for show and tell. One of my so-called teachers confiscated it and called my so-called parents. My so-called parents didn’t think it was very funny.

They think male on male rape is funny. Rape is always funny, but especially male on male rape, and especially in Canberra. Because I was raped by my so-called mother’s brother when I was eleven years old (it’s always the uncles, isn’t it?), with both of my so-called parent’s knowledge, they like nothing better than to constantly remind me of it. They enjoy forever revisiting their own shame upon me. Says more about them than it ever will about me. They weaponise rape just like they weaponise everything else – whether it be literal rape, psychological rape or ecological rape.

I also used to wet the bed a lot as a child. White Australian male writers are always going on about their tiny little childhood penises and often they used to wet the bed, so I thought I’d just throw that in here as well.

*

How did I end up like this? I’m getting Trotskied wherever I go. I should never have defected to Australia. I should have stayed in Mexico. They could have cured me of my tequila phobia (poisoning incident – long story, to be told elsewhere). I feel like I’ve aged 20 years in the last five. And why did I choose to work in Canberra, of all places? Canberra, the city that feels like you never left high school. But then Canberra’s not really a city; it’s more of a complex – an isolated artificial island of soulless bureaucratic structures amidst an endless desert of semi-rural suburbanised sheep shit pastures. I should never have come here. Canberra is nothing but a mass-suicidal commercial militarist whore commune run by flaming fascist gangster garbage heads like G. I was so disgusted and demoralised after working for digital advertising agencies; suffering endless psychological torment under all the corrupt and predatory Pogues and their wretched willing rape victims. I thought working for the government at an “Abo” Institute would restore my faith in Australia. I thought I’d be working for a good cause for a change, instead of pure evil. How wrong I was.

I arrived in Canberra a poor Mexican backpacker by way of Sydney. I had to get the bus because St George bank stole my Subaru. I’d already paid it off, but they wanted another 10K in interest. Fuck that. I suppose I could have got it back, if I really wanted to, but I bought a used Hyundai a few months later for $1,500 instead. Korean cars are better anyway.

Appropriately, I stayed at a backpackers in the suburb of Dickson when I first arrived in Canberra, then I rented a room in a house located in the suburb of Deakin. The house was owned by Mr. Fluffy. Mr. Fluffy is the trade name for some Aussie-British asbestos removal dude who used to tell people their houses were full of asbestos when in fact they weren’t. He should have gone to prison. But he didn’t. He defected to Darwin. I never actually met Mr. Fluffy. But I did meet his wife, Mrs. Fluffy. She was an Aussie-Indonesian woman who used all the rent she collected from all the asbestos-free houses Mr. Fluffy owned to travel all over the world. She enjoyed nothing more than telling me all about all the different countries she’d visited, and all the knowledge she’d gained during all her travels. I can’t remember exactly where she had been and what she had learned, but it did sound like she’d had a marvellous time doing so. Of course, I was spied on by fascist govcrims the whole time I was in Canberra. Consequently, I spoke to no one, made no effort to make any friends and started drinking heavily (a $14 bottle of wine every night). I shared the house with an unmarried Indonesian student couple. The male component was short, pudgy and nondescript; the female component was tall, thin and quite charming. She wore black-rimmed, thick-lensed geeky glasses. She played the guitar and studied Japanese (so she said). I fell in love with her instantly. I’m a horrible person, I know. Sometimes I could hear them having sex. One time I was cooking green curry lamb with rice while they were having sex. I was slicing onions at the time. I accidentally cut my finger at the precise moment she climaxed – but it wasn’t very deep. The truly glorious sound she made at the moment of orgasm gave me an erection that lasted for hours. I tried playing guitar to make it go away, but that didn’t work, so I masturbated to some Korean J-porn instead.

I’m a horrible person, I know.

I didn’t know too much about Canberra before arriving. About all I knew was that it’s a British-American federal colonolist outpost built on stolen Ngunnawal land; an isolated and self-contained territorial state within a Federated State where corporate totalitarian government bureaucrats and mass media-generated self-interested political types congregate. Most Australians would never wish to go to Canberra – unless it’s to visit the War Memorial (Aussies love war) – for that very reason. They call it “The Bush Capital”. There’s still at least 1% of the surrounding bushland remaining where they haven’t cut down all the trees. That’s why they call it that. And because Canberra is The Bush Capital, it often suffers catastrophic bush fires. During summer it has the worst air quality of any city on earth – an average AQI of 7700 (USAQI 949) – which is why most people who live in Canberra flee to Hawaii during summer. Like most other parts of Australia, Canberra was discovered by some 19^th-century land thieving British pastoralist, whose name I don’t remember. He was graciously guided by a large-breasted 14-year-old Aboriginal woman by the name of Jin. Jin was rewarded for her efforts with a few bottles of gin and a blanket. Back then it wasn’t called Canberra, it was called something else. But nowadays no one remembers what it was called. Some self-enslaved wife of some British Lord, whose name I also don’t remember, came up with the name Canberra.

Note: As I understand it, canberra is an ancient Aboriginal word of some kind meaning “Land of the Great Big Titty Fuck”.

Canberra was never meant to become the nation’s capital. According to the Seat of Government Act 1904, it was supposed to be built near some other shithole closer to Melbourne. But the advertainment industry gangsters in Sydney didn’t like that idea very much, so they decided to build it in some shithole closer to Sydney – near the Valley of Yass. After that was decided, and after the colonolist usurpers had killed off all the local Aboriginal people with alcohol, smallpox and the occasional random mass shooting, some alcohol-hating alcoholic Irish-American insurance salesman (whose name I also don’t remember) crowned himself King and chose one of his Chicago boy architect “mates” to design the city. The “jobs for mates” culture started quite early on in Canberra. But as you’d expect, the government ran out of money quite quickly during the planning phase and he was eventually fired, so the entire enterprise devolved into one of those design by committee deals. That kind of thing started quite early on too. During the early 20^th century the city of Canberra wasn’t in fact a city at all. It was more often referred to as “several suburbs in search of a city”. It was in fact a complete joke. But thankfully the entire enterprise was saved in the 1950s by Sir Robert Menzies (the 12th Prime Minister of Australia) by creating yet more suburbs. Canberra is made up of seven distinct districts containing a combined total of 123 suburbs (all of which look exactly the same) arranged in the shape of the letter Y, with a quasi-esoteric Trinitarian Masonic symbol known as the Parliamentary Triangle at its centre. Canberra is governed by a legislative assembly made up of 25 scared old white geezers with nothing better to do with their time (the descendants of land thieving British pastoralists), assisted by the Australian Federal Police. People in Canberra are generally more educated and commit fewer crimes than in other parts of Australia (unless they pretend to work at “Abo” institutes). Consequently, wages and rents are also higher and unemployment usually lower. Overall, it’s not such a bad place to live. That’s why Canberra is often voted the third most boring city to live in the world, after Geneva and Singapore. And I suppose that’s also why a lot of people from Great Britain choose to live there. 33% of the population are born overseas, most of whom are British; and only 1.4% of the population identify as Aboriginal, all of them predominantly British; which means 65.6% of the entire population is mostly British. The other 34.4% stay home all day growing and smoking a lot of marijuana. Canberra is also known as “The Bush Weed Capital of Australia”. It took over from Adelaide during Covid. In fact, Canberra is the only place in Australia where most drugs are legal. But that’s only because most people who live there work for the government. A constant reminder of this fact is Mount Hypodermic, otherwise known as Telstra Tower – a digital data surveillance collection point shaped like a syringe that towers above the landscape and is visible from just about every part of the city. About the only other point of interest in Canberra is the Australian National Gallery. They have a Rothko and a Soulages, and quite an extensive collection of Australian indigenous art. I used to go there sometimes to pay my respects. They also have a Jackson Pollock (a truly hideous squiggly mess of a thing), which is guarded at all times by proximity-preventing red laser beams and a real-life human security guard. Thankfully, the Rothko and the Soulages are not guarded at any time, nor is any of the Australian indigenous art.

Appropriately, the “Abo” Institute is situated right next door to the National Museum of Australia. Sir Robert Menzies (the 12th Prime Minister of Australia), together with a mob of like-minded juvenile geriatric white geezers from the Australian National University, established the “Abo” Institute back in the 1960s. They did so so they could misappropriate, miscategorise and glass case Australian indigenous cultures before they all went extinct. Effectively, a white-washed academic “tag and bag” operation.

The “Abo” Institute building itself is a backwards-facing Le Corbusieresque American reproduction of some other building in France. But I never got to work in that building because it was undergoing an 86-million-dollar interior refit at the time. I worked out of a “temporary office” in the BAE Systems building located at 14 Childers street, directly opposite the Australian National University.

The “Abo” Institute’s Founding Principal (or CEO and founder, in the common parlance of our time) was a semi-professional Scottish-Canadian cyclist and backyard “movie” producer named Jim. Jim was also president of the Australian National University Cycling Club. Jim established a long tradition of ethno-filmological research at the “Abo” Institute, which still continues to this day: biking his way out into the remote desert regions of Australia to make unique and irreplaceable, spiritually significant “movies” about poor little “Abo” boys while they roll around naked in the dirt; filming them without their consent as they dance about wildly in culturally sensitive ways for whitey, etc. Sadly, not much seems to have changed to this day. In 1970 the first token Aboriginal person was hired, but he only lasted two years – three times longer than I did. Probably because he wasn’t “gay” enough. And in 1974 a mob of real Aboriginal people wrote an open letter to the “Abo” Institute complaining about most of the staff there being white and all the money being spent on backwards-facing buildings and making “movies”. This letter became known as the “Eaglehawk and Crow letter”. But good luck finding a copy of it today, so here’s a story about Eaglehawk and Crow instead:

Eaglehawk and Crow

Long, long time ago Eaglehawk, it was his turn to go hunting. So Eaglehawk had a little baby, and he asked Crow, he went over to his neighbour Crow and asked Crow if he’d look after his baby while he went hunting, because food was getting much scarcer now and they had to go much further and further away from the camp.

So Eaglehawk, he went to Crow and asked him. Crow didn’t want to look after the baby, he said “No, no I don’t want to look after the baby, he’s crying too much, he’ll cry all the time and disturb the camp”. But Eaglehawk said, “No, he’ll be right, Crow”. He said, “You take him away and you sit down there and talk to him, or sing to him and he’ll quieten down”. Crow was still reluctant to take the baby, he said, “No, I don’t want to look after the kid”.

So anyway, Eaglehawk just handed the baby to Crow and said, “Okay, when we come back, whatever meat we get we’ll bring it back and we’ll share it with you”. Crow had to be satisfied with that and Eaglehawk just went off with his young men and of course they had to go a long, long way from the camp.

But Crow, after he got the baby, he took it into his gunyah, his hut, and he sat down there with the baby and he was singing to it and talking to it, but the baby wouldn’t stop crying. Just kept on crying and crying and crying.

So Crow was getting really annoyed, no way he could stop the baby. So Crow went out and he got his boondie – his hitting stick – and banged the little fella with the hitting stick and killed him. Then he got the baby and he put it up the back of his camp, right in the back of the gunyah. He put all the leaves around it, and a bit of bark and a kangaroo skin. He had a kangaroo skin, a cloak, so he put that over the baby. And anyway, everything was quiet then so Crow went away from his camp and started doing what he wanted to do then.

So after, when Eaglehawk came back late in the afternoon, Crow ran back into the camp and he was sitting at the doorway and he was making out he was singing to the baby. Crow’s sitting there and Eaglehawk came up to him and said “I’ve come to pick my baby up now Crow. He’s very quiet, you must have sung him to sleep”.

And Crow said, “Yeah, he’s right in the back of the gunyah there, he’s right in the back of the camp. He’s sound asleep. Don’t wake him, leave him there”. Eaglehawk said, “No, I’ll take him home now and look after him”.

So when Eaglehawk walked into the camp, the gunyah, to get his baby, he noticed that everything was really still and too still around him. So once Eaglehawk walked into the back of the camp and picked the baby up, Crow took off and he ran out and hid in the mallee, the thick scrub.

So Eaglehawk he started yelling, “My baby, Crow killed my baby”, so all his other hunters came up to him with their spears and he said, “Go after him. Chase him into the thick mallee and get him. We’ll kill him”. So they ran after Crow, but he got right into the centre of the mallee and they couldn’t find him. So Eaglehawk said, “We’ll set a light to the mallee and we’ll burn him out. He’s got to be punished for what he did to my baby”.

So they set a light to the mallee, and they went right back, away from the fire and they’re sitting right out there, waiting for all the smoke to go away. And then they saw this bird flying out of the smoke, at the end of the smoke this black bird came out. And Eaglehawk said, “That’s him. That’s Crow. He’s been punished now, his spirit turned into a black bird”.

And today, Eaglehawk and Crow still carry on the fight after that. They’re birds today and they still carry on the fight. Crow will still go up to Eaglehawk’s nest and try to pick at his babies, the eyes of his babies. And in the air when Eaglehawk’s circling for food, Crow will go after him again and try to pick at him. So they still carry on the fight after what happened when they were people years ago.

— Ngiyaampaa dreamtime story about Eaglehawk and Crow

*

I don’t want you all to think I quoted that in full because I’m insinuating via some none-too-subtlety role-reversed Ngiyaampaa dreamtime story that that’s still what’s happening at the “Abo” Institute to this day. But it is. Neither am I suggesting that all the staff there are personally motivated white supremacist political thugs and inveterate malingerers; incompetent bottom of the barrel bumblers miscategorising the last remaining remnants of the very cultures they destroyed while the living cultures burn to ashes all around them; a conniving gang of lazy lip service lackeys that say all the right words in public yet behind the scenes they’re racist and apathetic as fuck. But they are.

The current CEO, a proud beret-wearing 1/16 “Aboriginal” French dude, does nothing but work on his “thesis” all day (at the taxpayers expense), on his brand new Apple Macbook (also at the taxpayers expense), and make timid and submissive speeches to the media in support of being the second lowest funded government agency, or “statutory body”, in Canberra. The lowest funded is another “Abo” Institute no one seems to know about.

The current CTO is a young Pakistani male model and amateur cricketing ball-tamperer – the seventh most handsome man in Pakistan, I heard it said – who trained as a male nurse back in Pakistan and keeps his wife locked up in his basement pumping out the babies. He told me he also trained as a tailor back in Pakistan, which explains why he’s always so impeccably well-dressed and fastidiously well-groomed – but for the lush profusion of grey nostril hairs that jut out at you menacingly from every angle. Besides awarding contracts to all his best Pakistani mates and serving as a professional clothes rack, I have no idea what he actually does there.

The CTO is assisted in his chronic indolence and persistent uselessness by his dutifully inattentive “Tech Lead”, an absolute dead-ringer for Homer Simpson, who spends most of his time talking all day (when he eventually does show up at the office) about all the work he plans to do but never does. When he isn’t allowing security certificates and proprietary software licenses to expire, he’s complaining about his wife being more interested in her career than raising their autistic daughter (who’d probably prefer to be left alone to “raise” herself anyway), or how his wife left him because she refused to sit around and listen to him talk constantly about all the work he planned to do but never did. He gets three other IT stooges to do all his work for him.

IT Stooge One, an absolute dead-ringer for Mister Bean, is in his mid-forties but still lives with his mother. Yet despite this, he’s actually quite knowledgeable and astute and does do most of the heavy lifting.

IT Stooge Two, one of the CTO’s second cousins, spends most of his time moving empty boxes around and buying Apple Macbook accessories for the CEO, when he isn’t too busy washing his feet in the office bathroom – a major health and safety violation, considering that’s where most deaths in Canberra occur.

IT Stooge Three, your standard Aussie family guy type, totally obsessed with Michael Jackson’s penis, was originally contracted to assemble infantilised anti-racist training materials for the Australian Federal Police. But he eventually got bored and dissuaded with all that, so he foolishly volunteered to help out in IT. Together with Mister Bean he does most of the real work.

And then there’s Stevie No-Wonder. Stevie No-Wonder is quite a competent developer, even though he still uses Dreamweaver and spends most of his time watching YouBube videos all day. Stevie No-Wonder isn’t black, and he certainly isn’t Aboriginal (he told me he’s secretly Irish, yet according to local legend has the largest penis of any man in Canberra), but he is politically and socially blind by choice and his name really is Steve – hence the name Stevie No-Wonder. Stevie No-Wonder is also an amateur cricketing ball-tamperer (they all are) who never removes his groin protector, even when he isn’t playing amateur cricket, and who probably should be running the IT department but can’t, because he’s constantly infantilised and emasculated to death by all the lawn-bowling old white lady fascists in their pretty K-Mart flower dresses who wish to keep us all in high school for the rest of our lives.

There’s about 20 of them all up (lawn-bowling old white lady fascists), most of whom should have retired long ago, which constitute the bulk of the staff in the non-IT-related departments. I have no idea what most of them do there, other than infantilising and emasculation. I was there for nearly six months and I still have no idea what they do there. Most of them are the subservient wives of British-American defence contractors with nothing better to do than gossip amongst themselves about other people’s groins while they seemingly offset their husband’s evil by pretending to work for “progressive causes”.

Since most IT departments are micromanaged by finance departments in most Australian organisations and government bodies, it wasn’t surprising the IT department shared the “temporary office” with the finance department. As intimated earlier, the CFO is some useless and obnoxious trollop with a overblown 19^th-century sheep shearing “Aussie” accent who, after waddling her way down the office corridors of presumed power pretending to be in touch with everyone and on top of everything, vegetates in her corner office all day watching YouBube videos. Most of the useless underlings serving under her sit around watching YouBube videos all day too, but for the two unfortunate underlings under her who happen to be neither fat nor white. She gets them to do all the work. The male component of this most unfortunate normal-weighing non-Caucasian duo is an extremely industrious young man originally from the Philippines who wanted nothing more than to escape the finance department and come and work in IT with me on the website. But of course the CFO would never have allowed that. The female component is an extremely attractive and intelligent young woman originally from Taiwan who works harder than I’ve ever seen anyone work before anywhere. I fell in love with her instantly. I therefore avoided her at all times. I regret that now. I should have just told her I was the Sixth Earl of North Bedfordshire and carried her off with me to Queensland. But I’m far too old for that kind of thing now, and I’m sure she never would have believed me anyway.

Yet as much as I hated being owned by finance, the finance department was the least of my problems while attempting to work at the “Abo” Institute. I also had to contend with a less than 1/16 “Aboriginal” semi-professional Scottish cyclist by way of Gosford, who identified as Aboriginal and who adopted poor little “Abo” boys in his spare time yet was a vehement Pauline Hanson supporter and a raging misogynist (grand dad rapes a few Aboriginal women back in the 19^th century and his grand kids profit from it). He resented working under the Pakistani CTO and the former female CFO so much that he had to take six months of paid “stress leave” to recover from never doing any of the work assigned to him because he considered it so demeaning and beneath his capabilities and talents, of which he had none. Eventually he did return to work, once his six months of paid stress leave were up, but he only did so to hang out and chat to me for a few hours about the $6,000 bicycle he just bought. Nigger stole my bike indeed. Meanwhile, I was dirt broke, living out of a backpacker hostel, still no car, or bicycle, constantly stalked by fascist govcrims and doing all the menial work he should have been doing. And then he started stalking and harassing me in the office while claiming I was adversely affecting his mental health. But unlike G, he had no special friends in all the right places, so he was quite easy to get rid of. With the assistance of Stevie No-Wonder, I wrote a carefully worded letter to the “Abo” Institute elders detailing all his malicious behaviour. He was removed from the office the next day.

And then there were the Federal Hanson Man-Hags – three of them, as you’d expect. I don’t want to have to revert back to Shakespeare and the infamous “Scottish Play” too much again here. However, in this case I find it very difficult not to do just that. Forgive me, but in this case I find I must once yet again play the Ghost of Banquo.

Hanson Man-Hag One, also known as Red Rita, originally from Chile by way of Rockhampton (one of Pinochet’s ex-chambermaids), spent all her time in a dark isolated corner of the office stalking 90s rocktard has-beens on faceporn and chaturbating with poor little “Abo” boys while they wanked their brains out to her decrepit form of vintage pseudo-political porn. Because anyone with a fake PhD in anything from anywhere under any circumstances at any time is so obviously well qualified for just about everything. Because you don’t need any real qualifications or experience to become involved in politics, all you need is faceporn or a X-twatter account and a sub-100 IQ. It all just depends on how well you get someone else to edit it for you. Other than gossiping with other odious man-hags and social media trolling, I could never figure out what kind of work she actually did at the “Abo” institute. Red Rita was the very first so-called employee I encountered while working there. She followed me through the rear entrance at 14 Childers on my very first day, just to make it more than obvious she was stalking me from day one. But at the time I thought she was just another whacked-out advertainment industry cock-rock addict, so I didn’t pay too much attention to her. Unlike her, I had real work to do.

Hanson Man-Hag Two, also known as Jenny the Hairy Haggis, a truly hideous funny hat-wearing Harry Potter fan from Mittagong by way of Inverness, was one of the longest serving and most highly decorated employees at the “Abo” Institute. Her sole responsibility was to constantly complain about the outdated and inaccurate methodologies she employed to miscategorise and mislabel over six million cans of “movie” reels that supposedly preserve over 500 dead Australian indigenous languages, a UNESCO Failing Memory of the World Program. Locked away deep underground in “The Vault” (just as she should have been), this “priceless archival material” is presently undergoing an 86-million-dollar digitization process. If ever completed – sometime within the next five decades it is projected – this invaluable surveillance record of Australia’s indigenous cultural genocide will constitute a lasting contribution to worldwide knowledge. Good to know, eh? Good to know they spend way more time and money preserving their precious precious dead “Abo movies”, that no one will ever get to see, than they do on keeping the few remaining living “Abos” alive.

Hanson Man-Hag Three, Gina the “It’s Okay to be Dumb White Trash” propagandist (and no it’s not okay to be dumb white trash – never was, never will be), was one of Pauline Hanson’s longest-serving and most-beloved pseudo-political hitmen. I don’t know where she was originally from, probably Grafton. When she wasn’t down at the local gun range honing up on her mass shooting skills, she was usually hard at work in her corner office making lasting and meaningful connections with other far-right psychotic peasants on faceporn, which was also G’s pseudo-political platform of choice.

On Friday’s after work (not that they did any), G and the Federal Hanson Man-Hags would all get together for a good old-fashioned brew-ha-ha over more than a few pints of Guinness down at the Bearded Lady, the local far-right Irish pub, where they’d secretly discuss how much malicious harm they’d managed to cause during that week and how best to cause ever more malicious harm in future. After about seven or nine pints of Guinness each and nine servings of fish and chips (a big bowl of spaghetti and meat balls for G), they’d all pile into G’s V8 orange Camry and drive off back to G’s 3.6-million-dollar home in Dickson (swimming pool on the second floor), where they’d enjoy a solid evening of cocaine-fuelled pool noodle orgies with a hand-picked selection of little “Abo” boys from the “Abo” Institute.

That may sound like a slight exaggeration, yet I assure you it is not. They’re extremely evil, all of them. And I’m not just talking about all the “gay” sex with little “Abo” boys.

Not that I care much what they do in their spare time. Frankly, I don’t care how “gay” they say they are, how much “Abo” blood they say they have in them, how fat or Catholic they are, or how well-manicured their beards are. Nor do I care how many $6,000 bicycles they steal or public swimming pools they befoul. That’s not what this is about. That’s all smoke and mirrors. They’re all Hanson insurgents. They’ve all been compromised. Traitors all!

Pauline Hanson’s “One Nation” is a virulent disease of the mind and soul that must be eradicated from the Australian political landscape – and all their corrupt shit-for-brains supporters. They’re all allied with The Rapist in Chief and The Underwear Poisoner. Put them all in the same cell together, I say.

Don’t worry, as stated elsewhere I’m no military strategist, so I won’t be leading the charge. But I did just read MacBeth again. So here’s a random selection of somewhat augmented misquotes therefrom that pretty much summarise my thoughts regarding this inevitable and decisive battle, which should be over in about six months:

The weird Hanson sisters hand in hand. How now, you not-so-secret, white and midday hags! Your hurly-burly’s done. And I’m glad your cat is dead, you repulsive rump-fed ronyons.

You should be women and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.

Oftentimes to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles, to betray’s in deepest consequence.

Nothing is but what it is not. It’s all just powdered milk for reconstituted gall.

The thriftless vaulting ambition of all those murdering ministers. And all those heat-oppressed brains leading us all down the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.

A giant’s robes upon a dwarfish thief who uprears the universal peace and confounds all unity on earth.

’’Tis safer to be that which we destroy than by destruction dwell in undoubtful joy.

Blood will have blood. A deed without a name, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, yet I made a shift to cast him.

Dare me not to the desert with my spear, thou cream-faced loon!

As you must all know by now, I hate irony. And I hate writing about irony nearly as much as I hate irony itself. Yet it is ironic, is it not, how Shakespeare’s MacBeth, a pseudo-historical political drama based on misinformation, employs so much misinformation to caution us all against the dangers of misinformation? But given that Shakespeare wrote MacBeth shortly after the Gunpowder plot, which was supposed to have blown up Parliament and the King of England, that’s hardly surprising. Apparently the King of England at the time, a queerly superstitious Scottish dude named Jim, was a raging tobacco-hating misogynist who believed in demons and Witchcraft. But Jim was also a staunch anti-Catholic, despite being a repressed homosexual Catholic himself, so I guess he couldn’t have been all that bad. Like most monarchs, however, he was delusional. Jim believed he was descended from the Ghost of Banquo, even though he wasn’t, which is why Shakespeare turned MacBeth into the bad guy, even though he wasn’t. The real MacBeth was in reality quite a boring ruler who never got up to much at all, neither before nor during his reign. Shakespeare wrote MacBeth at a time when witches were still being burnt at the stake and Catholics were being hanged, drawn and quartered. Of course, these witches weren’t really witches; they were just women who happened to be more knowledgeable than men. But the Catholics really were Catholics. Not that I’m excusing King Jim for persecuting Catholics; I’m merely stating a fact.

Also a fact is the fact that since writing MacBeth Shakespeare’s MacBeth has since become more MacBeth than the real MacBeth himself. Not that that’s of any great concern for the purposes of this discussion. MacBeth is a rather hollow and uninteresting character anyway. It is the women in MacBeth who are the most interesting characters (despite being subsequently written out). On the surface, by depicting MacBeth as a murderous usurping tyrant corrupted by the pernicious wiles and thriftless ambition of evil women, it would appear Shakespeare was merely appeasing his misogynistic and superstitious royal patron, King Jim. A closer reading, however, would appear to indicate that this not the real story. Consider the fact, for instance, that the women in MacBeth are not in fact women at all. Lady MacBeth “unsexes” herself and behaves like a cock-crazed male gangster-politician, and the Weird Sisters all have beards. In keeping with the dominant recurrent theme throughout the play, that nothing is but what is not, Shakespeare forbids us to interpret that they are in fact women. Their sex becomes entirely irrelevant; it becomes what is not. Shakespeare wrote MacBeth at quite a dangerous time to speak truth to power. He could only say what he really wanted to say by disguising it behind what was expected. But given the dramatic action of the play itself, together with its overall mood of “notness”, this is not to be unexpected. Consider also the fact that the Weird Sisters never really do provide MacBeth with any truly prophetic or useful information; all they ever do is incite MacBeth to violence, as does Lady MacBeth. What if MacBeth had chosen not to act on the misinformation the Weird Sisters imparted during their first meeting? What if he had chosen not to succumb to superstition and decided not to betray and murder King Duncan? The action of the play would no doubt have suffered greatly because of it (MacBeth would have become mere fact-based historical drama), yet that would have been all there were required to avert his ultimate downfall. The Weird Sisters tell MacBeth he will be king, but they don’t tell him how. MacBeth himself determines that, goaded by Lady Macbeth’s attacks on his fragile sense of manhood. Ultimately, MacBeth’s weak vacillating will and irrational fears combine with his unnatural ambition to seal his fate. MacBeth’s story isn’t much different from the story of humanity as a whole in that respect. Nor is it that much different from the fate of King Jim himself, if one cares to take into account the immediate history of the nation he ruled shortly after his death. Shakespeare was, of course, pointing to this as King Jim’s own, not the issue of Banquo.

Some may accuse me of inflecting MacBeth with a rather liberal modicum of hindsighted modern bias, yet I would counter that my interpretation is not out of keeping with the predominating theme of the play as a whole. Regardless, a more detailed examination along these lines is entirely beyond the scope of this piece – of what is, or what was merely intended to be, a pro-anti-gay fat-shaming anti-Italianate polemic. In support of this argument, however, I find it would be dispositively disadvantageous of me – not to mention entirely out of character – to omit any mention at all of the witches’ spell (Act IV, scene I). Therefore, shall I now attempt not to do so.

Of course, anyone with any training at all in the so-called Black Arts knows this so-called witches’ spell to be pure mockery. The imposition of shockingly bizarre and outlandish ingredients such as “liver of jew”, “tartar’s lips”, and a “finger of birth-strangled babe”, commingled with the archaic and colourful vernacular names for what are in fact quite common household ingredients – mustard seed, buttercup, holly leaves, moss, ginger, garlic, wolfsbane and poppy seed (to name but a few) – is more than enough to make this self-evident to all. Europeans during the 17^th century may have been somewhat superstitious, but I’m sure they weren’t completely stupid.

Similarly, I have a hard time believing Shakespeare, or his audience, truly believed mousing owls kill falcons or horses eat each other, however much the natural order is supposedly perverted by overthrowing the divine rightful rule of patrilineal monarchies (which it never is). Because if a king is a tyrant, his subjects must never rebel and just endure his tyranny for their own good. That’s The True Law of Free Monarchies, as King Jim saw it. Not that King Jim didn’t have good reason to fear getting knocked off. His cousin Francis, the Lord High Admiral of Scotland, was constantly plotting against him – as too were many others. For King Jim, the irrational fear of Witchcraft (the manifestation of superstition and misogyny) was merely an expedient tool to dispense with his political enemies while attempting to remain in power forever – much the same way it was for Shakespeare’s MacBeth. The fact that Charles I, King Jim’s successor, inherited and upheld his father’s divine rightful rule and was eventually deposed and summarily beheaded – the English monarchy collapsing shortly thereafter – sufficiently bears this out. Throughout MacBeth Shakespeare is in fact telling us the very opposite of what King Jim believed: that we must always rebel and never endure tyranny, misogyny or superstition. Not that I’m defending Catholicism (or Witchcraft), by any means. But I must admit, I do kind of wish the Gunpower Plot had of succeeded.

Forgive me, I do apologise for ripping off Shakespeare again. I assure you that was not my original intent. I had intended to “collusitate the great principles of action” by ripping off Harriet Beecher Stowe and quoting liberally from Uncle Tom’s Cabin. But I just couldn’t detect enough direct equivalence in any of the characters – not to mention find any passages worthy of quotation – so I gave up and resorted to ripping off Shakespeare again. Yet despite my conceded literary laziness, I think you’ll all agree that this overlaboured and predictably clichéd response has demonstrated more than adequately that knowledge is not power, and neither is truth. Power is how many other like-minded gangsters you can get together with to socially engineer the truth and organise personal take-downs of anyone who attempts to expose all your lies and corruption – primarily all the “Wordsmiths” or “Masters of English” (modern-day witches) – or anyone without a business or marketing degree – because we all know they’re all born liars and trouble makers. The fascist flaming advertainment industry gangsters like G and Co. are the only tellers of truth nowadays. Everybody knows that.

But that’s usually how it goes: 10% do all the real work while the other 90%, the puffed-up over-ambitious incompetent flamers, sit around talking about it and hating on us for it. And we reward them for that. We reward the talkers, not the workers. Why is it always the least worthy who are always the most ambitious? And why is it always those who contribute the least who are always the proudest and most boastful? Because we’re always too busy doing all their work for them? Why do we keep rewarding them for doing nothing but causing harm? That has to change. Time to take them all out, I say. This planet is dying because of them. But I don’t need no groin-centric man-hags, underwear poisoners or crazy kids with assault rifles to do my dirty work for me. I’ll get them with the law – Natural Law.

Yet sadly, I’m not a lawyer, natural or otherwise, and neither am I a corrupt pseudo-political partisan shit-fister like G and all its “mates”. I build websites. That’s all I do, as far as anyone else is concerned. I have no other ambitions other than just that, no matter how much they insist otherwise. Why are they always trying to turn me into something they know I can never be? And whatever I’m working on outside the office is none of their business. They will never have any involvement in any of that, ever. That’s not for them. And if they try to involve themselves again, if they try to force their way in – as they have attempted to do so many times in the past – I’ll destroy it, and me. I already have, over and over again. And eventually it will destroy them too. Given all that, I may need some help with putting this Natural Law I referred to earlier into effect. I just don’t have any of the requisite qualifications or special connections. Nor do I possess the mandatory level of constitutional stamina demanded to engage in the same form of degrading malfeasance in which they so effortlessly excel. I truly wish I did. I’d have a much better time in life if I did. But I simply don’t have the time. I have too much real work to do. They will never understand that. They will never understand that I have no other ambitions other than just that. They think I want what they want. Last thing I want. If I did, I’d already have it by now. They lump me in with the traditional racist homophobic misogynistic boy’s club misinfotech gamer gang rapists. I’m not one of them. I’m not even one of us. I hate all that us vs. them shit. Just because I’m forced to work in a certain capacity doesn’t make me one of “them” or “us” – which means I’m targeted by both sides for ruin. I just can’t get onboard with gangsterism, of any kind. Ultimately, that’s the reason I always fail, while garbage like G never fail to succeed.

Not that I expect that to change any time soon. I’ll always get done by the corrupt predatory cretins who profit from oversimplified us vs. them political thuggery and social clownery. I’ll always be psycho-raped by the compromised flamers hiding behind politics on both sides. Have to get me a sub-100 IQ, a faceporn and an X-twatter account, a Jesus cross earring (in the left earlobe of course), a rainbow mullet, a $74,000 four wheel drive and tow a boat everywhere I go. Oh, and start raping little “Abo” boys in my spare time. That’s the only way you’ll make it Canberra these days. If only I knew that before I defected. Oh well, too late now. Foolishly, I deliberately disgraced myself by preferring to do the actual work.

But at least I got to go to a National Aboriginal Press Club event during my time in Canberra, where I was privileged enough to listen to Dumbledore Dodson’s black hat lecture us all on how we must finally put an end to racism in Australia. Yeah, thanks for the tip, Auntie. Useless fucking hatracks from the 80s forever mired in the non-existent glory days of the Mabo era. And G did introduce me to the Public Sector Union Head (another one of G’s best “mates”); another useless pot-bellied middle-aged fascist fatty – yet more middle-aged white Australian men and their precious food babies pool-noodling their way to parochial political prominence.

But to be honest, I too didn’t do much valuable work at the “Abo” Institute. I was too busy being stalked to distraction by G and all its groin-centric man-hags. Besides recommending they upgrade to RedHat 5 and WordPress 4, replace Git with Mercurial and substitute MySQL for GraphQL, I can’t even remember what I else I worked on while I was there. But according to G, working in Canberra isn’t about the actual work you do, it’s about being a “good person”. Right, they’re all such good people; such exceedingly good people of such high moral worth. They’re all self-serving egocentric psycho-rapists, if you ask me. They use the “Abo” Institute as a launchpad for their highly lucrative careers in self-enriching kickback schemes and eco-raping crony business practise advocacy. It’s nothing but an adult day-care centre for perpetually preadolescent office turds in training; a suburban fascist basic training camp for Pauline Hanson’s mining and agriculture industry insurgents. What a disgrace.

It may also interest you to know that the “Abo” Institute is the only non-scientific Publicly Funded Research Agency (PFRA) in Australia. And until Pauline Hanson and her criminal gang of moronic supporters infiltrated it and assumed command it was reputed to have adhered religiously at all times to all 14 Guidelines for Ethical Research in Australian Indigenous Studies (GERAIS), while at the same time abiding by every one of the National Health and Medical Research Council’s (NHMRC) recommendations relating to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander health research. Because lots and lots of official-sounding acronyms and initialisms is always an indispensable prerequisite when stealing Aboriginal land and selling it off to mining and agriculture companies. Moreover, since Pauline Hanson and her cronies took over the “Abo” Institute they’ve invented a shitload of additional acronyms and initialisms – an entirely random selection of which now follow:

The Rock Art Protection Program (RAPP); the Library Digitisation Pilot Program (LDPP); the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Biographical Index (ABI); the Aboriginal Studies Press (APS); the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Library, Information and Resource Network (ATSILIRN); the National Indigenous Research Conference (ANIRC); the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC); the Indigenous Languages Database (ILDB); the National Indigenous Studies Conference (NISC); the Research Advisory Committee (RAC); and the Native Title Research Advisory Committee (NTRAC), etc.

When they aren’t coming up with ever more elaborate acronyms and initialisms for various and illustrious administrative councils and special advisory committees (predominately staffed by non-Aboriginal people), they’re still stealing and selling off Aboriginal land to mining and agriculture companies, while forcing their former employees into suicide in their gender-segregated toilets. But you’ll be pleased to know that in restitution for the past 230 years of theft, rape, slavery and mass murder the Australian government is building a small decorative “Abo” park, or “pleasure garden”, to be known as Ngurra near the centre of Canberra – designed by two juvenile geriatric white geezers from the Australian National University. The ancient Aboriginal word ngurra appears in many different Aboriginal languages around Australia. It is a word for “home”, “camp”, “a place of belonging”, or “place of inclusion”. Pfft. What a fucking load of shit.

They spend more time and money talking out of their arses and focusing on the rights of pool noodles than they do anything else; spend more time stalking each other, watching YouBube and TitKok videos and X-twattering and faceporning. They’re more interested in playing culture war games and forcing their personal relationships on you from behind when you least expect it than working. But why would they care not to be doing just that? Why would they care to do any real work? Work is for losers. Work gets you nowhere in life. I’m perfect proof of that. Be a gangster, kids. It’s the only way you’ll succeed in life these days. Weaponise everything for personal profit, including your sexuality. Spend the majority of your time focusing on self-promotion and destroying anyone who isn’t one of your rape club “mates” and you’ll thrive in Canberra. Remember, homosexuality may be have been decriminalised over 40 years ago, but it’s still the 80s in Canberra and homosexuality is still a vice, which therefore justifies all your criminality. Don’t worry, no one will call you out for it. Just plonk a great big rainbow flag on your desk (recently adopted as Canberra’s national flag within the last 11 years), pledge undying allegiance to Pauline Hanson, grow a rainbow mullet and tow a boat everywhere you go. You’ll be beyond all reproach. I know, how demoralising. But that’s how it is these days. Pauline Hanson and the Canberra Rape Club have infiltrated every corner of the Australian political landscape, even the LGBTQIXYZ+ consortium.

Excuse me if you think I’m being a little too critical or slightly alarmist, but after my experiences with G in Canberra I find I can no longer celebrate the so-called diversity of one of the least diverse all-inclusive sexual identity cults in human history, where sexism, racism, rape and domestic violence still do not exist. Why don’t they try accepting diversity first before presuming to celebrate it? Why do they still feel the need to celebrate anything anyway? What are they all so proud of? Taking pride in your sexuality for its own sake is the same as taking pride in your race for its own sake. Pride is not the opposite of shame. No shame is the opposite of shame. Why can’t they take pride in what they do, not what they say they are? Sorry, but I don’t do privileged fat white middle-aged “gay” male pro-rape propaganda, or identities. I only do issues. Besides, sexuality is fluid, it’s not an identity – and neither is religion. I’m with you on the cause, always have been, just not some of the methods or identities involved. And if I’m playing devil’s advocate it’s with good reason: because G is a narcissistic self-interested flamer doing more harm than good. G abuses everything, doesn’t matter what it is. But the fact that it abuses sexuality, to my mind, is especially offensive. I mean I get that men in their 50s need to assert how “gay” they are in the workplace all the time, after having pretended for most of their lives they’re not “gay”, but that really has nothing to do with me. I simply don’t care how “gay” they say they are. Good, be “gay”. I don’t care. What else do they do, besides be “gay” and needlessly remind us of it all the time? And why do they take out all their “childhood trauma” on me? We share the same oppressor. Just because I was raped as a child by a man, doesn’t make me anti-gay. I don’t do oversimplified pop-psychology. That’s what they do. I think they just use it as an excuse to target me for other reasons. I’m still getting raped by both sides. Most men who rape other men are not homosexual, they’re rapists. They’ll rape anyone and anything in sight. They’ll use anything for personal advantage – rape, homosexuality, Jeheebarse, Pauline Hanson, public swimming pools – doesn’t matter what it is. Enough already about being fucking “gay”! I don’t care what’s between your legs, nor what you do with it. I care what you do. And even then I don’t really care. Sexuality is not identity, and identity is not politics. And heteronormative bashing is so 2011. Enough with all this malevolent middle-aged white male advertainment industry flamer propaganda. Why don’t they go do that in Saudi Arabia, Qatar or Russia? What do they do, besides inspire yet more homophobia with all their advertainment industry flag waving for their own selfish ends? And there’s no stopping them, since there’s no such thing as evil if you happen to be “gay”. Because as we all know, the LGBTQIXYZ+ consortium cured all their own evil when they invented rainbows and the electrified buttplug. They’re all immune to all forms of evil now and perfectly holy and untouchable. But that always happens. All movements degrade over time as they converge into the mainstream, as soon as corporate marketing fuckwits take over. As far as I’m concerned, the LGBTQIXYZ+ consortium is now just another fat white middle-aged boys club in another form. Thanks, G.

In future, concentrate on male on male/other rape (less than 1 in 10 reported) and transphobia (375 transgender people were murdered in 2021, the deadliest year since records began) and taking out the far-right, or I’m shutting gayness down. But I suppose it’s not entirely G’s fault it’s so full of shit. I also blame that transphobic Harry Potter man-hag. Down with needlessly circumcised penis envy! Emma Watson’s Vagina is so much greater than thee, you’ll see. Yeah, fuck gayness. We’re taking back the word gay – redefining it; restoring its original meaning: merry, cheerful, bright and lively. I’m gayer than you’ll ever be and I’ve never even had gay sex, willingly. Aren’t they supposed to grow out of that kind of obsessive groin-centric narcissism at some stage? I’ve just never understood how they can take so much pride in their sexual preferences and gender identities yet very little else, other than the standard forms of group narcissism: over-identification with their traditional familial, racial or national identities. But then neither do I understand why some people discriminate against other people based on gender or sexuality. Why do they even care? If it were up to me, I’d have them all neutered and rendered non-binary, including myself. That’d put a swift end to gender and sexual discrimination once and for all. As a species, I believe that should be a top priority for us. We should all evolve into asexual hermaphrodites. Maybe then we could get some real work done.

But then this isn’t about being “gay” or fat. Nor is it about being Catholic or even Italian. It’s about being a self-serving narcissistic pseudo-political gangster. We need a full purge on Canberra. Infested with spies, rapists and organised crime. Full to the brim with entrenched useless bureaucrats thinking they have a job for life in government forever, even though they don’t do any work. They get us to do all their work for them. Stalking, gawking, talking and hawking, that’s all they ever do. Oh, and feeding and breeding. And we need to get all those corrupt and incompetent contractors, their “mates”, out too. No more of this “jobs for mates” game. They gamify everything – anything to avoid doing any real work while furthering their own interests. And they think I’m just another gamer. I’m not playing a game here, maties. We have no more time for games.

Finished compiling.

And just for the record, I do not hate fat people. At core, we really do suffer from the same affliction, and the same brand of persecution – and not just with respect to “eating disorders”. I shall defend you all to the end, my fatties. I know you’re not entirely to blame. But I’m not paying your medical bills when all that fat starts to kill you. And it’s not an appearances thing (or a political thing), it’s a health thing – yours and every other life form on this planet. You are eating us all to death. You eat twice as much as the rest of us. I’ve seen you – and most of it’s meat! You can target me personally all you like for pointing that out, but you cannot argue with medical science. Put down the fork and go for a walk, fatty. And I’m certainly not going to tolerate you complaining about my smoking (tobacco taxed to the fuck – goes to paying for all those nice smooth roads, your medicare fat bills and all those extra fat baby welfare payments) when you’re the real problem. Drop the fork, delete your Nutflex account and get your fat arse off the fucking couch! (I’ve since quit smoking, but you understand what I mean.)

And neither am I anti-gay. I’m anti-garbage.

Note: Giaccomo Papanelli is also the real-life inspiration for a minor character, Sergente Narcissista, in my soon to be never completed novel lutruwita. Yes, I’ll never finish it at this rate – especially if I’m forced to go on working with garbage like this.

The Bestowers of Grain

Plenty of everything else on the shelves but no toilet paper!

Those words came back to haunt me yesterday while browsing the predominantly empty shelves of my local supermarket, now my only point of contact with other humans, even though all the checkouts are automated. I couldn’t find rice at all yesterday. Eggs are still relatively plentiful, however rice is nowhere to be found. I cannot survive without rice, and I’m not eating any more wheat.

I went to the supermarket again today. Now there’s no wheat or toilet paper. This appears to be the current situation in every city in Australia. Australia’s becoming more and more like Venezuela every day – the whole world is. And, as I was walking back empty-handed from the supermarket, I was nearly run down by a convoy of fascist NO MANDATE trucks. I haven’t been eating well lately and I did lose concentration there for a second while crossing the street, I must admit. You see what a menace these people are? Not only do they refuse to get vaccinated, now they’re trying to starve us all to death while running us down with their vindictively unladen big rigs. I saw a few more of them on foot a few minutes later, sauntering down St Georges Terrace in their navy blue singlets with their prominent beer guts distended over their cute little khaki shorty shorts, proudly waving their imperialist racist emblems above their impeccably perm-mulleted heads, while we’re all stuck at home, hungry and isolated, working more for less with nothing on the supermarket shelves to buy anyway. I really do wish they’d go spread Covid elsewhere. There is simply no scientific basis for any of their arguments.

I should never have defected to Westralia.

I arrived in Perth a poor French backpacker by way of Adelaide six months ago. I couldn’t afford to buy any food, so I went and begged for alms at that Indian restaurant by the Swan river. They provide free meals for the homeless, if you ask politely. I may have to go back there pretty soon. But what if they’re all out of rice there too? I won’t mention the name of the restaurant. I don’t do free ads (unless it’s for Hyundai or Subaru, or McDonald’s). However, I will tell you that the restaurant’s name, in Hindi, translates as The Bestowers of Grain. Appropriate, no?

Westralia needs far more Bestowers of Grain and way less NO MANDATE antivaxxing far-right trucker fuckwits, I believe. I know most Westralians don’t agree with me on that one. Most Westralians are far more afraid of French backpackers than they are of far-right mass-murdering truck drivers. I’ve always found this rather difficult to comprehend, since I’m pretty sure far-right mass-murdering truck drivers cause way more harm than French backpackers. One need merely take note of all the blood splatter patterns and dead animals by the sides of our national highways to know as much.

I assure you I have nothing personal against truck drivers – other than for all the animals they kill and all the Covid they spread, and the fact that I was once propositioned by one of them when I was 10 years old (but I won’t go into any of that here). I just don’t see truck driving as a valid profession with any kind of future. Why are we still using Covid-infected human-operated diesel-powered small-load vehicles to move containers around anyway? And why are we needlessly slaughtering so much native fauna in the process? Can’t we figure out a way to move things around without killing everything?

But you can’t reason with a mob of anti-vaxxing far-right peasants. They’ve got ignorance, faceporn and freedom on their side. I’m not dying for their brand of “freedom”. Deport them all back to Sydney. They even refuse to wear masks. They’ll wear those stupid biker gang shades alright, but they’re just way too cool to wear a mask.

What if you jackknife your big rig and get your dick caught in a ventilation shaft and they can’t stop the bleeding because all the ambulances, doctors and nurses are too busy attending to Covid patients? You ever think of that? No, because you’re stupid selfish peasants.

I don’t trust big pharma or small government either, but this is science, not money or politics. But then I’m no proponent of extreme special lockdown operations either. I suppose it could be worse. Glad I’m not in Shanghai right now. You see? This is exactly why we need a world government. We can’t leave this kind of thing up to the personally motivated benighted peasantry in future.

Toilet paper I can live without, but I cannot survive without rice, and I’m not eating any more wheat.

Update: The Bestowers of Grain have since closed. They ran out of rice, and wheat.

How to Signify Nothing

A how-to on how to succeed in the misinformation technology industry without having to do any actual work

Revision History

Revision 1.0: 1996-01-01
First official release

Revision 0.9: 1996-11-11
First draft

Copyright and Licence

This document is copyrighted © 1996 by Hieronymus Gotlieb von Willebrand. Permission is granted to copy, distribute and/or modify this document under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.1 or any later version published by the Free Software Foundation, with no Invariant Sections, with no Front-Cover Texts, and with no Back-Cover Texts – in fact, no Texts of any Covers from any Invariant Sections whatsoever. A copy of the license may still be available at http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html.

Disclaimer

No liability for the contents of this document can be accepted. Use the concepts, examples and information at your own inevitable peril. There may be many egregious errors and deliberate inaccuracies that could be rather damaging to your system. Please proceed with caution. And although inevitable peril is not highly unlikely, the author(s) do not take any responsibility.

All copyrights are held by their respective owners, unless specifically noted otherwise, even if they are not. Use of a term in this document should not be regarded as affecting the validity of any trademark or service mark, even if it does. Naming of particular products or brands should not be seen as endorsements, even if they are.

Introduction

As we all know, the world is coming to an end. The big powerful men with all the money in the world see no hope for humanity, therefore nor should you. Make the most of it while it lasts, because it’s not going to last for much longer – that seems to be the prevailing ethos amongst most of them. That may seem a rather cynical and pessimistic world view, yet it is the most pragmatic one. And the big powerful men with all the money, the smartest and worthiest people on the planet, are nothing if not pragmatic. But they’ll all be fine. They won’t suffer. They’ll all be living happily forever in their 3-D virtual reality worlds projected into space from their soon-to-be-completed PMC bases on the dark side of the moon, while the rest of us here back on Earth either burn or drown to death. And you’ll all burn and drown happily, won’t you? Because you all love other people’s money more than you do anything else, even more than your own lives, or those of your children. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. What I do need to tell you, however, is how to become one of these big powerful rich men. Since having shitloads of money is the only way to survive the end of the world, you all want shitloads of money – but without having to do any actual work. That is natural. I don’t blame you for that. If I had anything to live for, I’d want exactly the same thing. Yet the fact is I do not. But unlike many of my contemporaries suffering under similar circumstances, that doesn’t mean I’m willing to just stand by and watch you all die – even though that’s exactly what’s going to happen. That is why I have written this how-to. For as we all know, the only way to make a lot of money quickly and easily these days is in the misinformation technology industry, and the only way to do that (other than by investing wisely in Bitcoin) is to own your own misinformation technology company. What follows then is a list of practical recommendations on how to successfully manage your own misinformation technology company, while doing absolutely nothing – how to do sweet fuck all and amass a obscene amount of wealth by showing off your indolence and incompetence as loudly and extravagantly as you are able – to sit back and merely signify and profit from it tremendously. Because as we all know, the secret to success in the misinformation technology industry (just as in politics) is contingent upon being able to produce as much sound and fury as possible while signifying nothing.

So How to Signify Nothing?

• Co-opt terms like agile and repurpose them as self-promotional micromanagement time-wasting exercises, thereby prolonging the build phase of projects for as long as possible. Gotta keep the war game profiteering going forever.

• Schedule daily sit-down “stand-up” meetings (micromanagement status reporting sessions) as early in the morning as possible before anyone has had time to wake up and reflect upon or analyse what they were doing the day before, let alone what they plan to do for that day, which often changes throughout the day.

• When meeting with your clients, always begin by saying “Hello, my pretties!” with as camp an accent as you can muster. And always play the role of the autocratic demagogue but disguise it with 80s game show host humour (and obscure references to inane and crass noughties television dramas such as Gossip Girls) while treating your clients like their your low-level dumb-arse shit-kicking employees. Make your client think they work for you, not the other way round.

• Never let any developers speak during meetings, or at any time – unless they’re weak-willed sausage roll-eating Yes men.

• Spend more time participating in as many meetings as possible and talking out of your arse than you do getting any real work done. And end every meeting with “Fly, my pretties! Fly!” – just to make it more than obvious you’re a consummate fuckwit.

• Constantly re-enforce the value of needless and endlessly reiterative verbal communication regarding non-work-related matters over the need for producing any working code. And if anyone disagrees with this methodology, silence them by making lighthearted sadistic comments about any personal trauma they’ve suffered in the past. That always works.

• Even if you don’t have the answer, always pretend that you do. Always say Yes to everything and casually dismiss any and all legitimate concerns or pertinent objections. Everything is easy and already “done”; and if it isn’t, which it never is, you can always hire some impoverished offshore junior developers to smash it together for you for $23 an hour, or just throw it up on Squarespace.

• Make personally demeaning comments about your clients behind their backs as often as you are able, while remaining totally oblivious as to how those comments are finding their way back to your clients.

• Learn nothing about the technology used in the project itself and instead invent your own pseudo-terminology and convoluted and contradictory concepts no one else understands, and nor do you.

• Patronise your clients endlessly by demonstrating to them how kanban boards work, over and over again.

• If you ever have any problems with non-technical technical project mismanagers mismanaging technical projects straight into the grave, just hire two more non-technical technical project mismanagers.

• In all written communications, always ensure you contradict yourself endlessly while confusing your client into a state of bewildered resignation by inundating them with a plethora of ambiguous terms, illogical phrases and incomplete reiterative sentences that never make sufficiently relevant or intelligible the thing which you are attempting to communicate – of which you are not, etc...

• Charge three times as much for hosting as everyone else and run Apache 2.4.49 and PHP 7.1.0; and if the client points this out to you, flatly deny it and then charge three times as much while claiming you make no money at all from hosting. And then downgrade to Apache 2.4.41 and PHP 7.0.

• Redesign the menu over and over again, even it doesn’t need to be redesigned, which it never does; and take over six months to do it, but never complete it.

• Only ever hire people more incompetent than yourself, thereby ensuring your own incompetence is overshadowed by them being even more incompetent.

• If any of your clients begin to discover just how incompetent and full of shit you are, retreat back to a passive aggressive defensive position and double up on all the personal attacks. If you can’t disguise your uselessness any other way, make it all personal or pseudo-political.

• Pay everyone you mismanage less than a third of what you pay yourself and get them to do all the real work, which they never do.

• Grease as many of you client’s palms as often as you can, especially those who award contracts. Everyone loves a big tipper. Then you can also use them as personal hit boys to take out any dissenters who can’t be greased.

• Take over three months to do critical software updates, but never get around to deploying them.

• When planning for the migration of legacy data, totally ignore the existing architecture and tell your client everything will now be handled by a random selection of never to be fully defined “taxonomies” invented by Johannes Gutenberg.

• Whichever platform you’re designing for, disparage the fuck out of it while claiming you could build something so much better. But never actually build anything, better or otherwise.

• Charge your client $25,000 a pop for writing up incomplete high-level functional requirements for standard functionality that has already been built by others. And always keep changing the requirements so the client can never sign off on them.

• Never ever under any circumstances write or speak about any technical requirements. But if you absolutely must, get a graphic designer to do it for you in a Microsoft Fucking Teams meeting towards what should be the end of the build phase – which in fact never ends.

• When your client finally cracks and starts drinking heavily and cursing all of humanity out loud, tell everyone they’re being needlessly contentious or hostile and that they have mental health issues and need to be put out of their misery by a neofascist corporate hit squad.

• Eat lots of sausage rolls and watch endless re-runs of Gossip Girls.

That’s about it really. Follow each and every one of these recommendations to the letter and you will most assuredly signify nothing, thereby winning the praise of your existing clients while securing myriad lucrative contracts from many more. I guarantee you, within six months you’ll be able to afford your very own rocket ship to the moon.

Further Information

This section would have listed other resources – which would have included books, web sites, newsgroups, mailing lists, etc. – if there were any, which there are not. But what does it matter? We’re all going to die.

Pragmatically yours, Hieronymus Gotlieb von Willebrand

Japan

Sarah doesn’t love me, and Japan wasn’t as fantastical as I thought it would be. But at least now all my dreams have been shattered.

As usual, I didn’t plan at all for this trip. I stayed up all night working. I only got about two hours sleep. Luckily, I booked an Uber the night before, since there were no seats left on the bus. My Uber driver called me at 4AM. I awoke, hastily packed a few necessities – my computer, razor, toothbrush and toothpaste – and rushed downstairs.

Appropriately, my Uber driver was a Saudi “ex”-NSA agent by way of Hamilton. He asked me where I was going. I told him Japan. He told me has a “business in Japan”. I didn’t bother to ask what kind of business. He then kept asking me how much for everything.

“How much you pay for flight? How much you pay for hotel? How much you pay for taxi?”

Perhaps because I’ve always been told how expensive it is in Japan, my Uber driver’s “How much you pay?” voice became internalised throughout my entire trip. I would always hear it in my head immediately after making any kind of purchase. Furthermore, I somehow came to associate this voice with a vision of Daikokuten, the Japanese god of wealth; which, coincidentally, my Saudi “ex”-NSA agent Uber driver did very much resemble – a short portly gentleman in his mid-40s with a broad face and a bright smile, wearing a black cap, carrying a hessian sack over his shoulder and holding a large wooden mallet. He would always appear to me seated cross-legged on the floor surrounded by a family of scurrying rats. In keeping with paracusian literary tradition, I shall therefore refer to this voice, whenever it does become audible (quite often), as “a voice from below”.

Hamilton to Auckland airport is a distance of about 120 kilometres. How much I pay for the Uber ride? $350. I think it would have been less expensive to fly. Oh well, at least I didn’t get Khashoggied (yet).

Since I’m keeping with tradition, the necessary countervocal accompaniment to “a voice from below” is, of course, “a voice from above”. This higher voice presented itself to me, naturally, as the voice of Amaterasu, the goddess of the sun in the Shinto religion. She appeared to me in the air, naturally, dressed in a sumptuous red and white kimono, holding a Samurai sword in one hand and in the other a bright shinning orb, the blinding radiance of which making it impossible to discern her face. Her voice sounded like Sarah’s, only a thousand times more ethereal. She would always appear and offer wise words of encouragement or sound advice when something unfortunate happened to me, or whenever I became discouraged or annoyed. A prime example of which now follows:

A voice from above: Colgate is not the only brand of toothpaste in the world.

They confiscated my Colgate toothpaste at Auckland airport. I accidentally left my old crack pipe in my backpack. They let that go through, but they confiscated my Colgate toothpaste because it was 10g over the allowed limit of 100gs for contained liquids, even though it was half empty.

The flight departed on time and was for the most part uneventful. We followed the same route the U.S. Marines took when they invaded Japan back in Word War II – New Caledonia, Vanuatu, Solomon Islands, Guam, Tinian Island, Okinawa. But I didn’t get to do any raping and pillaging as I went. Too tired.

Despite being dreadfully tired, I didn’t get any sleep on the plane. There was a mom-jean-wearing spiky yellow-haired Wellingtonian campylobacter clown seated behind me. I think he was one of Winston Peters’ nephews. He had the most invasively penetrating voice with a New Zealand accent I’ve ever heard in my life, and he talked constantly throughout most of the ten-hour flight.

“THEY HAVE LIKE FREE WIFI LIKE EVERYWHERE IN JAPAN, JUST LIKE RAMEN. I WAS LIKE SO AMAZED! ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS LIKE WALK AROUND ANYWHERE AND LIKE...AND LIKE...OOOOH HERE’S MY BLOODY MARY! MMM SPICEY.”

I cough loudly, deliberately.

“EEW, I HOPE HE DOESN’T HAVE COVID. HAHA...TOTALLY. SILVER FERN LIKE REFERENDUM THING, LIKE I KNOW, RIGHT. I’M LIKE SOOO OVER IT...LIKE LIKE...I KNOW, RIGHT!”

I’ve never heard the word like used so many times in a single sentence – and I’ve like lived in the U.S., and like Sydney too. I know, right? Praise Sennheiser for my noise-cancelling Momentum 4 headphones. But even with maximum sound cancellation and full wind sound reduction I could still hear him.

A voice from below: How much you pay for Sennheiser Momentum 4 headphones?

Shh. I should have paid double for business class, or “premium economy” as they now call it. It would have been worth it on this flight.

I tried to listen to Sibelius’ collected works for piano for the first few hours (at full volume). He wasn’t much of a pianist, was he? Then I listened to some Mozart – the 1991 English Baroque Soloists recording of the Requiem. I still prefer the 1984 Academy of Ancient Music recording with Emma Kirkby. I should listen to some newer recordings, I know. But why? Emma Kirkby.

For whatever reason, at one point Mister Campylobacter grew tired of the sound of his own voice and stopped talking for a little while. I therefore took the opportunity to enjoy the brief moment of relative silence by watching that recent Steven Spielberg “movie”, The Fablemans (on mute). Even now Steven Spielberg can still make me cry (even on mute). Ugh, I wept real tears, damn it. I haven’t wept real tears like that since Obama won the 2008 U.S. presidential election. I think that’s why. I knew I shouldn’t have watched it. Sappy kitsch pro-rape Hollywood propaganda. But at least Tom Hanks or Ben Stiller weren’t in it.

We landed at Narita International Airport late in the evening. I couldn’t wait to put as much distance as possible between myself and Mister Campylobacter. I walked as fast as my stiff enduring legs would carry me to immigration. In my haste, I inadvertently bumped into an unmasked three-metre-high, three-persons wide extremely large woman from Rotorua. She was wearing a “Don’t Tread on Me” t-shirt and carrying a small screaming child in her arms – a walking advertisement for the New Zealand dairy industry, and all other forms of legacy animal husbandry. Glad I wasn’t sitting next to her on the flight. But then she probably took up three whole seats on her own anyway, and I bet she paid less for her three seats than I did for mine.

A voice from below: How much she pay for three seats?

I don’t know. That was pure conjecture. But I do know that airlines need to start charging by weight – pilots and sumo wrestlers excepted. And if that were my kid she snatched up, shook violently and manhandled right in the middle of the arrivals terminal, with cameras everywhere, I would have tread the living shit out of her. Why was that kid always crying and screaming so much? What is this, a far-right interpretation of the Naki Sumo Crying Baby Festival? Doesn’t anyone else ask themselves these questions? Or am I the only crazy person here? Something must be done. Those sumo wrestlers wear masks and only make those babies cry a little bit for good luck, they don’t physically abuse them. And sumo wrestlers are supposed to be big and heavy so they can sumo wrestle. That’s what they do. That’s their job. She probably doesn’t even have a job, but for the consumption of yet more fat food (cow) and abusing small children.

A voice from above: I would have tread the living shit out of her too.

*

Back in the Megalopolis.

First night in Japan. I’m staying in the udon district, Kagurazaka, which also just happens to be the French geisha district. I would have stayed in the soba district but there isn’t one, as far as I know. Back during the Edo period the Edo Castle moat ran adjacent to Kagurazaka, which was quickly and easily traversable via the Ushigome bridge. Kagurazaka therefore became a renowned geisha hotspot. Then the French invaded – with udon, apparently. I didn’t know all this before deciding to stay in Kagurazaka. I only knew it was supposedly the udon district. Never believe anything you read on booking.com. And since udon is “The Queen of Noodles”, I thought it more than appropriate to stay at a hotel located in this area.

Kagurazaka-dori, the main street of Kagurazaka, is truly gorgeous – as too are many of the less conspicuous side streets. Unlike most areas in Tokyo, and despite all the upscale French udon restaurants, Kagurazaka still manages to retain at least some of its traditional Edo period charm.

So here I am at the Udon Hotel. No French geishas, or udon. Quite a nice hotel and much bigger than I expected. Nice big TV too. I’m watching the Queen “movie” (the rock group) dubbed in Japanese. I usually don’t watch that kind of thing, I swear. The TV remote is all in Japanese so I can’t turn the subtitles on. But I don’t think I’ll need to. All rock biopics are pretty much the same. I’ll keep watching. I may pickup a few more words of Japanese... And so I did: 女王 (Joō)! And at least I did what I said I would do: I am in Tokyo on the 21^st of April 2023, and I’m finally with my Queen. I just used Ghoulgle Lens to translate a picture of the TV remote into English, but by the time I got around to doing that the “movie” was over.

I can’t believe I lost my JRail pass. I am just like Tetsuro. I got one snail-mailed out (they DHLd it and it still took over a month), and I’m sure I put it in my backpack. I must have left it at home. Stupid perfectly preserved 1930s paper ticketing system.

Nor can I believe a great big man-bunned Indian bitch-man deliberately rear-ended me in line while I was waiting to buy a replacement JRail pass (one of Modi’s Underwear Poisoner operatives, no doubt). He was wearing dirty grey tracky dacks and constantly touching his dick while talking loudly on the phone. I can’t go anywhere now without being hit on by great big man-bunned Indian bitch-men so it would seem. I didn’t get angry or say anything. I tried to stay calm and keep my distance, but he just kept creeping up closer behind me. I restrained myself well, I believe – until I got to the cashier window. After ten hours of passenger flight time while being aurally raped by Mister Campylobacter, and after losing my JRail pass, and after being sexually assaulted by a great big man-bunned Indian bitch-man while standing in line for over half an hour, I believe I had every right to become somewhat exasperated upon learning I would be charged full price for a replacement JRail pass.

A voice from below: Hahaha! How much you pay for great big man-bunned Indian bitch-man?...I mean replacement JRail pass?

Shut the fuck up.

A voice from above: You can’t blame all of India for the actions of one slovenly dressed over-amorous Modian operative. Jeetega Bharat!

Excuse me. I don’t blame all of India. I love India, for the most part (except Mumbai). I’m just not very happy right now. I’m staying in the French geisha udon district, the renowned Kagurazaka where there’s a overpoweringly aromatic and no-doubt incredibly delicious French geisha udon restaurant every 20 metres (supposedly), yet I cannot afford to eat in the French geisha udon district. Looks like it’ll be instant noodles for me for the next few days. I have to make up for that lost JRail pass somehow.

*

First day in Japan. First order of business: I had to buy a new jūden-ki (charger) for my computer. I left that at home too. So I took a walk over to Akihabara. (Here I met my contact and we exchanged keys.) Here I met an electronics sales assistant originally from Nepal – but not by way of Redmond, Washington, and his name wasn’t Anal. (I should explain that I was recently stalked in the workplace back in Australia by a Nepalesean corporate saboteur by way of Redmond, Washington, named Anal.) I didn’t ask his name. However, the chances of his name also being Anal, given I’ve met so few people from Nepal before – not to mention the comparative rarity of the name Anal itself, one would hope – leads me to assume that his name was in all probability not Anal. It should come as no surprise then that I refer to him as NotAnal. I spoke to NotAnal in Japanese – and he understood me! Amazing. The first person I spoke Japanese to in Japan was a man from Nepal, not named Anal (I assume). Perfect. But although NotAnal understood me, he had no idea what kind of jūden-ki I required. He therefore led me over to the sales desk to speak with his colleague, Robot Girl. I call her Robot Girl because her movements and mannerisms were so precise and perfectly robotic, and also because she seemed entirely incapable of forming any form of natural facial expression. I began to wonder if she were really human and not one of those AI-enhanced Korean robotic sales assistants. She was wearing a mask, however (as were we all), so I guess she was probably a real human. Regardless, I fell in love with her instantly. But Robot Girl, too, had no idea what kind of jūden-ki I required. She therefore called in Mole Man. Mole Man was the sales manager on duty that day. I call him Mole Man simply because he had a very large and prominent mole located just above his left temple. It was truly an impressive mole; a mole that spoke authority – authority conferred through knowledge and experience, not ego or pride. With NotAnal serving as translator, Mole Man asked me what voltage, wattage and amperage I required. Chargers and power supplies come in a wide variety of configurations and choosing the wrong configuration can severely shorten the life of your battery, or even cause damage to some of your electronic components. I told him I was previously using a genuine HP Pavilion 90W AC adaptor. After taking a look at my computer, Mole Man recommended I switch to using an aftermarket 65W power supply and a 65W USB-C to USB-C cable, which was significantly less expensive than a genuine HP replacement and which I could also use to charge my other devices. He cautioned me that a 90W adaptor using the standard 4.5mm AC port was perhaps charging the battery too fast and that over time this could negatively impact its longevity. I quickly acquiesced and chose to purchase the products Mole Man recommended. How could I not? Mole Man knew his electronics – his amperes from his watts – and NotAnal and Robot Girl respected and listened carefully to Mole Man for that very reason, as did I.

And before you ask, about ¥5,000 all up.

With my jūden-ki all sorted, and since I’d forgotten to bring vape juice as well, I took a walk around Akihabara to see if I could score some of those notoriously deadly cheap black market disposable nicotine vapes (made in China). While doing so I kept stopping to look at vintage cameras. I hate cameras. Why do I keep doing that? I’m not going to start taking black-and-white pictures of old dogs in the street. I’m just not, I swear.

I didn’t find any vaping products. Combustible big tobacco products are readily available everywhere in Japan – and for about one-tenth the cost than in New Zealand – but the sale and use of vaping products is prohibited. I did, however, buy a new Bluetooth mouse: the Elecom M-BY11BR (made in China).

A voice from below: How much you pay for new Bluetooth mouse (made in China)?

¥2,000. Very good mouse. More precise than my old Logitech mouse (also left at home). Light, easy click action. Low click noise.

A voice from below: How much you pay for old Logitech mouse?

Oh look, I don’t remember exactly. $100 AUD or something like that...mostly for the packaging/marketing.

I bought a new pen as well – a Sailor Indy Go Go Knock ballpoint pen (￥203). “Sailor Indy Go Go Knock.” Now there’s a unique Engrish sequence of words I could never have come up with. Even ChatGPT could never have come up with a brand name like that. I wonder if that uniquely Engrish-worded ballpoint pen brand name will help with any of my writing while in Japan. Probably not. Hasn’t seemed to have so so far.

*

All convenience stores should be Japanese convenience stores. You can live out of convenience stores here (the larger ones) and still eat fairly well, and not get fat.

Just remember that there’s no Colgate toothpaste in any of the convenience stores here in Japan – anywhere in Japan in fact. Colgate toothpaste is illegal in Japan. So I bought some Lion Nonio medicated clear mint herbal toothpaste instead.

I haven’t eaten at any restaurants yet. I’ve been living out of convenience stores. I have to make up for that replacement JRail pass somehow. Yes, I do know what I’m missing. But it’s just as well. I’ve been eating out alone for the past ten years. It gets to a point when it just becomes too pathetic and depressing, for all concerned. I feel bad for other people feeling bad for me for being all alone. So I don’t eat at restaurants anymore.

A voice from above: But this is Japan. Everyone dines out alone together here.

Maybe...when I get to Kyoto. I need to get a haircut first, or buy a hat.

*

There was a U.S. food festival going on in Kyoto. Just my luck. Not that I don’t enjoy a nice big triple cheeseburger every so often, every other month or so. But I didn’t come to Kyoto for genetically modified American beef, ultra-processed orange cheese, Texas BBQ sauce and milkshakes. I’m sure there are a lot of good restaurants in Kyoto, and I’ve walked past a few that looked quite promising. But sadly, I haven’t seen one yet capable of compelling my sullen disinterested patronage. I’m far too depressed to eat anyway and I didn’t come here for the food.

I haven’t seen any geisha yet either, except for Korean tourists dressed up like geisha. They like to take selfies of themselves as they stroll about leisurely beside the disused railway tracks. Not that I came to Kyoto for the geisha either. They’re all extinct in the wild now, so I’m told.

The U.S. military wanted to target it with a nuke. Some senior U.S. military official had a good time on his honeymoon in Kyoto – as did many of his colleagues after him – so they decided to hit Hiroshima instead. I haven’t been to Hiroshima yet. I’ll therefore refrain, for now, from questioning the reasoning behind that decision.

Kyoto is reputedly more arty and touristy than Tokyo, which is why I didn’t feel nearly so guilty about smoking kale on the street here – which I just did, behind the Imperial Palace. I never graduated. There was still a little bit of non-combusted kale left in my crack pipe. I unknowingly smuggled “drugs” into the country! ごめん. My sincerest apologies.

It was a beautiful spring day. I followed Ghoulgle maps along the disused railway tracks to a stone-paved canal flowing fast with crystal clear water. Blossomless cherry trees lined the banks of the canal. I followed the canal up the mountainside to a Shinto temple. The temple itself looked kind of crappy inside so I didn’t go in. There was, however, a rather pretty tsukiyama rock garden with a wishing pond at its centre. I threw a coin in. I wished for a good haircut.

A voice from below: How much you throw in?

I walked back the way I came. ¥500. I passed through the longest shopping arcade I’ve ever seen in my life. It must have stretched on for at least six kilometres. Most of the shops were already closed. But I did stop by one shop to buy a tan hat (made in China) and some instant noodles. ¥3,500 total. Then I went back to my hotel room and watched some more Japanese commercial television. It was a show about food – mochi, I believe.

I know, I’d have a much better time in Kyoto if I weren’t so depressed all the time. I blame all those honeymooning couples. And this city does still retain at least some small vestiges of its traditional Japanese “arty” past. But there’s no way I’m dining out alone together here, and particularly not in Gion. My mind would inevitably return to thoughts of Sarah. I’d eventually break down and start sobbing uncontrollably, I know it. Too pathetic and depressing, for all concerned.

A voice from below: How much you pay not to dine out alone together here?

Good point. I save money too.

A voice from above: You don’t know what you’re missing.

Yes I do.

*

I’m now in Osaka.

I feel like an orphaned child having to learn the basics of life from scratch again all on my own. It took me a whole day just to figure out how the rail system works and navigate my way around some of the more massive train stations. Some of them are like entire underground cities. They have everything you could ever need down there: restaurants, cafes, supermarkets, speciality stores, barbers, salons, Pokemon trading card vending machines, etc. And the takeaway sushi is usually inexpensive and of decent quality &nfdash; and not one piece of avocado! You could live your whole life underground and never see the light of day. But perhaps that won’t be such a bad thing in future the way things are headed. Suits me just fine. I don’t much care for sunlight and I write better on trains. Conversely, I’ve noticed I get a lot more work done from hotels. Not that I should be working anyway. I’m supposed to be on leave. No more working from now on. And I’m certainly never again attempting a web platform upgrade on the Shinkansen – or the “Bullet Train”, as the English still like to call it, even though no one else calls it that. Bullets travel at an average speed of 2,800km/h; the Shinkansen only does about 300km/h. Regardless, the Japan Railways WiFi is for the most part as fast and reliable as their trains. Yet there were some odd moments when the connection did drop out for a few seconds. I shouldn’t be working anyway.

I never seem to get much reading done either when I travel by train. There’s far too many distractions – the scenery, for one. Not that there’s too much of any great interest to see between the major population centres, other than your standard prefabricated forms of rural-suburban-industrial infrastructure. Only here they’re a lot more compact and neater. Japan also has the neatest and tidiest construction sites I think I’ve ever seen. Everything looks so well-organised and efficient, even the rural-suburban-industrial areas. While staring out the window, I began to wonder what it must be like to reside in one those areas; to live and die all alone in one of those tiny little apartments in one of those soulless beige-grey concrete oblong apartment buildings right beside the railway line. I tried to imagine what it’s like to be truly anonymous in Japan. Probably not as romantic as I imagine it. But at least I’d get to see the Shinkansen zoom past at 300km/h every so often, at no less than ten metres from my bedroom window.

I also spotted the Tamiya factory from the train window – in Oshika, Shizuoka city – on the way from Tokyo. It brought back fond memories of my preemptive drone experiment days when I was a kid. I was obsessed with radio-controlled cars and planes back then (for about 18 months or so). Back then batteries were still too heavy. You could only maintain sustained powered flight or drive time for about five minutes, and no vertical flight or hovering. Nickel-cadmium batteries were in use in those days. Lithium-ion polymer batteries were still a few years off. I always used to read all the hobby magazines and try to stay abreast of all the latest RC technology advances coming out of Japan. I think that’s where my fascination for Japan first began. I thought about getting off at Shin-Shizuoka Station and checking out the factory. I’m glad I didn’t. I later found out that what I saw from the train window is no longer the Tamiya factory. Turns out it was just a sign for their head office. All the manufacturing has since moved to Antipolo City, Philippines.

I decided to rent a car in Osaka. I wanted to take a drive around for a while and then head over to Kobe to see the Osaka Hankyu Railway Kobe Main Line trains. Renting a car in Japan involves almost as much paperwork and bureaucracy as it does to rent an apartment in Australia. I’m surprised they didn’t ask to see my bank statements for the past five years or request a DNA sample. The car was a Nissan Note, which was easy enough to drive. But just in case I ran into any difficulties, the car also came with two massive binders containing the operation and compliance manuals (printed in Japanese only and almost as large as the car itself) which kept falling out of their storage areas as I drove. Besides that, driving in Osaka is pretty straight forward, and people here are usually more courteous and safer drivers than in most other countries. Still, I had no idea where I was going most of the time.

Stupid old homeless cunt in a rental car driving around all over Osaka aimlessly, spending more on tolls than he did to rent the car. The ETC tag (Electronic Toll Crap) wasn’t working, which meant I had to stop and pay cash. I also kept getting in the wrong lane when going through the tollway. One of the tollway guys had to run over with one of those little red flags to collect the cash from me and open the boom gate. I must have done it about three or four times. I swear, it wasn’t deliberate. But no one complained or got angry with me.

A voice from below: How much you pay for tolls?

More than I paid to rent the car.

I forgot to ask about the tolls and the ETC thing when I rented the car. I really should have taken some Japanese language classes before arriving.

A voice from above: Yes, you should have.

I can sing the theme song to Galaxy Express 999 and say thank you well enough but that’s about it. Also, I brought the car back on time, and with a full tank of fuel, but I couldn’t find the car rental company at Shin-Osaka. I circled the station three times, which took about two hours, tried a few alternate routes and cursed all of humanity out loud while doing so, yet all to no avail – and no it wasn’t on Ghoulgle maps (in English). Finding the entrance to the car rental area proved to be no less difficult a task than the Siege of Osaka (1615) when the Tokugawa shogunate stormed Osaka Castle and overthrew the Toyotomi clan. Finally I gave up, parked in a private car park and checked into a nearby Comfort Hotel. I called the car rental company the next day and they came and picked the car up. I lost a whole day doing that. And I lost the parking ticket too. I think I left it in my old pants. As soon as you start living outside your routine on the spur of the moment and throwing away your old pants you start making stupid mistakes like that.

A voice from below: How much you pay for lost parking ticket?

They told me it’s ¥100,000 if you lose the ticket. I think they were just fucking with me. Osakans are quite the comedians. They haven’t charged my credit card yet. If they do, I may have to abort my mission.

But at least I got to see the Osaka Hankyu Railway Kobe Main Line trains. I saw the Hankyu 8000, 7000 and the 6000 series. I’m not really a hardcore railway geek, but there is something special about these particular trains. It must be their bold all-burgundy livery together with that suave yet simple design, and the fact that they’re used every day by the public – they’re not just weekend boutique trains – yet still retain much of their genuine historic mystique. Still, I’m never renting a car again unless I absolutely must (always say that). It takes longer to get around here in a car anyway.

I finally got a haircut today, in Shinsaibashi on Midōsuji Avenue, at the most exclusive-looking hair salon I’ve ever seen in my life. I just marched straight in off the street and told them I needed a haircut. They looked at me like I just stepped out of the jungle of north-east Burma. And when I sat down in the barber chair and removed my tan hat and mask, the hairstylist gasped aloud in genuine horror. I wasn’t at all offended by that, however. I was more relieved they didn’t ask me to leave as soon as I walked in. Offence was given, on my part, however, when I used what I thought was a hand towel to clean my hands. It wasn’t a hand towel; it was a head towel. They use damp towels instead of those hair spray mister things to wet your hair here. The hairstylist gasped aloud again in genuine horror upon discovering my monstrous faux pas of Japanese coiffeurist etiquette. A few moments later a young woman appeared with a fresh set of damp towels. She then began gently massaging my head with them, until what remains of my unruly and overgrown head of hair was sufficiently moist and more manageable. About ten minutes later the hairstylist reappeared and proceeded to cut my hair. The haircut itself was okay, I guess. And thankfully it took less than five minutes. But on second thought, I probably should have just gone to one of those barbers at the train station.

A voice from below: How much you pay for Shinsaibashi wet head massage?

That’s not important right now. What is important – and which I was also about to mention – is that I keep speaking Spanish instead of Japanese. I did it to the hairstylist too. I kept saying gracias and si instead of arigato gozaimasuuu and hai. Arigato gozaimasuuu is too long anyway. I’m usually gone by the gozaimasuuu part. Apparently, stretching out the sound of some Japanese words makes them sound more polite and meaningful, even though it’s the same word and means the same thing. Abrupt is rude – unless it’s hai. I prefer the word efficient. In any case, I’m only going to say domo or “thanks” from now on. And no one says konichiwa here, unless they’re old or work for NHK. In future, I’m only going to use “hello” for greetings. That’s all the Japanese you really need to know, and Ghoulgle Translate for more complex stuff. And if someone speaks Japanese to me in more than a few words, I’ll simply have to assume they’re just being a dick.

A voice from above: I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that, for now.

I also went clothes shopping in Shinsaibashi, an activity to which I’m almost averse as getting haircuts. I needed some new pants and a few more t-shirts. They only had sexy skintight black leggings at Uniqlo, so I bought a pair of black pants from GU.

A voice from below: How much you pay for nonsexy GU black pants?

¥2,900.

Now, and after the haircut, all I have to do is lose the tan hat, exchange the hoodie for a black blazer and I can pretty much get in anywhere. GU is even less expensive than Uniqlo, and of fairly decent quality too. So if I see any more “Aussie” or “Kiwi” tourists wearing dirty grey tracky dacks, I’m going to pants them. Grey tracky dacks are illegal in Japan (illegal to wear outside the home), and since there is so much affordable quality clothing here, there’s simply no excuse to be wearing dirty grey tracky dacks (even in the home).

Although Osaka has a population of around 19 million, it’s generally more homely and relaxed than Tokyo. Moreover, Osaka has a lot more birds than Tokyo (crows and pigeons mostly). Osaka also has more waterways and bridges than most other cities – especially around Dōtonbori, which is known as the Venetian Times Square of Japan. I spent a bit of time wandering around Dōtonbori today. There’s so many restaurants and street food vendors here. Osaka is renowned for its food culture (and overeating). Still, I didn’t get to sample any of it. Still too depressed. I bought some more instant noodles and three Fuji apples to stave off scurvy, then went back to my hotel and watched some more Japanese commercial television.

Some of these hotel rooms are so small I keep walking into things and injuring myself. I can’t believe I stayed in my hotel room all last night watching Japanese commercial television. How depressing. I’ve seen hardly anything of Osaka. I didn’t even get to see Osaka Castle, or any of the galleries or museums.

And yet I must note that I was afforded the unique privilege of seeing a tall skinny Japanese-Korean dude with spiky anime character hair dressed all in black, wearing skintight black leggings with no underwear (over-accentuating the positive) strutting around Osaka-Shin station like he owned the place. I think he thought I cut in front of him in line while waiting to buy a ticket. So he started doing his level best to try to physically intimidate me with a series of weird-arse close-proximity strutting gestures, while giving me his level best sexy anime character stink-eye. I wasn’t even standing in line; I was checking the train timetable on my personal surveillance device. But since he took that attitude, I pretended I was in line for as long as possible just to annoy him, while he continued to strut around menacingly in those sexy skintight black leggings – until I got to the ticketing window. Then I quit the line and went and boarded my train.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to do the whole clichéd “weird Japan” thing from a ignorant Westerner’s perspective, I’m just not. In any case, that weird-arse strutting sexy skintight black leggings-wearing spiky-haired anime character dude was the only weird thing I’ve seen so far. Japan really isn’t that weird. I’ve seen a lot weirder elsewhere. Even Japanese commercial television isn’t as weird as I thought it would be.

As mentioned previously, I spent my last night in Osaka all alone watching Japanese commercial television (on mute), while eating instant noodles and Fuji apples, and while constantly reproaching myself for forgetting to bring vape juice. They put me in an industrial-soundproofed ground-floor room right next to the railway line. A train went past at least every five minutes, at no less than ten metres from my hotel room window. But I couldn’t hear a thing. Nor did I feel anything. I almost felt as if I were truly anonymous.

I can’t believe I unknowingly remembered to smuggle marijuana into the country but forgot to smuggle in some vape juice. So I’ve started smoking Parliament Lights again (“refinement in smoking”). Ugh! I can really feel the difference now after quitting smoking and switching to vaping over a year ago. Very tiring. It’s exhausting, especially with all the smog and all the walking I was doing. And I was getting way too much nicotine, being forced to smoke a whole cigarette at once. I’m so used to taking one or two vape puffs here and there whenever I feel like it. Also, it’s illegal to smoke outside in Japan. But hardly anyone smokes here anymore anyway. It’s a myth. Nor do all Japanese schoolgirls wear sexy sailor suit schoolgirl uniforms. That’s a myth too. Nor do Japanese business men drink excessively and pass out on the street in full business attire. Also a myth. And not all Japanese people are into anime. And Japan really isn’t that expensive. Biggest myth of them all. It’s about the same price for most things here as everywhere else: standard expensive. A lot of things are actually less expensive here than in New Zealand, particularly tobacco.

*

It’s the 25^th of April, 2023. I’m in Hiroshima. It rained all day. I didn’t have an umbrella and I didn’t bother buying one. I woke up early, drank three cups of instant coffee, then walked all the way to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial, in the rain. It was a grey and sombre Sunday morning. No one else was around. But at least it wasn’t cold. It was actually quite warm. It felt more like summer, if not for the constant rain.

It exploded about 600 metres above the ground. The target was the bridge. They missed. They hit the hospital, of course. Military humour. The bomb contained 64 kilograms of highly enriched uranium (only one kilogram achieved fission), with a blast yield equivalent to 15 kilotons of TNT. Approximately 140,000 people were killed (over a third instantly), and over 70% of the city was destroyed. On the plus side, most of the radiation dispersed within days. Today, radiation levels are much the same as trace amounts found anywhere else in the world.

It was a fine clear morning the day they dropped it. They’d been saving something special for Hiroshima. And you know when the military uses the word special they really mean it. The city had been spared the indiscriminate incendiary carpet bombing that had devastated nearly every other inhabited region of Japan. I suppose that makes sense. When you’re testing out a new form of atomic weaponry in the field, you would naturally wish to detonate it over a nice clean target. Only then could you accurately assess how much death and destruction you’ve caused.

They call it the Genbaku Dōmu, or the Atomic Bomb Dome. That it still stands today is a true miracle of structural engineering. The Product Exhibition Hall building (as it was known then) was built to withstand earthquakes, but it was never designed to survive a direct nuclear strike. Most of the core structure did survive, however, including the dome. It’s a grounded hemispherical braced dome, measuring approximately ten metres wide by four metres high. As we all know from our high school physics textbooks, domes of this type generate significant horizontal thrust at their haunches. They achieve something structural engineers call “perfect compression”, an evenly balanced distribution of latitudinal and longitudinal forces.

The dome was covered in copper plate, all of which was blown away by the force of the blast – a force of over 35 tons per square metre, with a wind speed of approximately 440 metres per second. What remains of the dome, essentially the bare steel framework of half a blasted sphere, sits atop a 25-metre-high tower of steel-reinforced concrete. On either side of the tower are the remnants of the adjoining outer walls, and at the front (the side that faces the river) the vestiges of the two supporting walls of what was once the main entrance. The extra support these walls provided – much like that of a reinforced keep or the watchtower of a medieval fortification – and the fact that the blast was for the most part directed downwards, no doubt greatly contributed to the miraculous survival of the Genbaku Dōmu.

As we all know from our high school Latin textbooks, the word dome means “house” (domicile, domestic, etc.). Domes are one of the oldest known structures. The earliest type of constructed shelter was more or less circular in plan and covered by a curved roof, inevitably inspiring symbolic associations with “the dome of heaven” and “the womb of creation”, whilst also representing the strength, balance and unity imparted by the natural synclastic symmetry of the form itself. Much symbolism. You can understand why they decided to leave it standing.

At the time, the building was being used as an air-raid shelter for government officials and employees of the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Bureau. As I walked by the crumbling ruins and stared up at the dome, I began to wonder what it would have been like working at the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Bureau that day. They say everyone in the building was killed instantly. Depends what they mean by instantly. The dome was only 150 metres or so from the epicentre. But there still would have been a split second between the flash and the blast. Nevermind how long it lasted, still would have hurt. Besides, there is no time at times like that. Time stops.

I tried not to, but as I approached closer to the remains of the building I was still thinking about all those government officials and employees of the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Bureau. I tried not to dwell on the thought of all those people murdered that day. I honestly tried not to regard the Genbaku Dōmu as a war crime scene. I tried to see it as the first work of art created by an atomic explosion. I really did try. But it still felt more like a war crime scene to me.

I wish I could have gone up to the sixth floor to inspect the interior. I wonder what it would have sounded like inside.

The night before, I fell asleep while watching Japanese commercial television. I find it helps me sleep. I awoke at 4AM. Still no vape, so I smoked a cigarette in the bathroom. I blew the smoke directly into the ventilation fan in the ceiling. I could hear all the sounds of the city through it – mostly the streetcars. I imagine they sound exactly the same now as they did back in 1945.

Earlier that day, I took a ride on one of the few surviving 650 series streetcars (circa 1940). I’m still amazed any of them survived at all. Not to get all nostalgic or anything, but they look and sound a lot like trams of the same era in Melbourne. I never really appreciated those old trams when I used to ride them as a kid. I always thought them slow, noisy and uncomfortable. And as a young adult – as a car driver – I regarded them as little more than a dangerous nuisance. Now I can’t get enough of them – Hiroshima’s 650 series streetcars especially so, since most of them were destroyed on the day of the bombing. But this is not just nostalgia. There’s also something very reassuring and comforting about the experience of riding them: all the clickety clackety clanging sounds, the distinctive ding of the bell, the rolling side-to-side motion as they trundle along incontrovertibly on their predetermined rails of medium-tensile steel; and even the occasional sudden jolt when stopping and starting, the sensation of which transmitted all the more directly through one’s bones via the bare wooden seats – provided they haven’t been refitted. Thankfully, the 650 series streetcar I rode that day had been refitted, with well-upholstered seats. And the driver, in her Hiroshima Electric Railway Company-issued peaked cap and pristine white kit gloves, was highly skilled at ensuring a minimum of jolts and side-to-side roll. Just as I was admiring her driving skill, and as I was stepping off after the streetcar had come to a gentle standstill at the stop nearest my hotel, a very sweaty man in a black business suit carrying a brief case ran up to the driver’s window. He looked so confused, overwhelmed and distraught, as if his very life depended on him immediately being at some unknown place he had no idea how to get to. He began rambling and gesticulating wildly at the streetcar driver, who promptly opened the driver’s door and stepped down on to the street to speak with him. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. But whatever it was, her words seemed to have an immediate calming affect on the man. He then hastily boarded the streetcar, the driver returned to her driver’s seat, and the streetcar trundled off leisurely down Senda-dori Avenue. While watching all this take place, I experienced the most intense sense of impersonal déjà vu, as if I were recalling or reliving someone else’s memory from long ago. Eerily, it occurred to me that I could have been witnessing the exact same scene taking place on that fatal day in 1945, moments before the bomb exploded overhead.

Apart from the streetcars, Hiroshima today looks and feels more like a planned American city. But then I suppose that’s exactly what it is. I began to wonder if Hiroshima would look as uninteresting as it does today if it hadn’t have been completely destroyed 78 years ago. But then most cities in Japan have been destroyed by bombing, fire, earthquakes, landslides, tsunamis, typhoons, Godzilla or overdevelopment in the past anyway. At least the streetcars still survive, I thought as I finished my cigarette. Then I drank three cups of instant coffee, watched some more Japanese commercial television and tried to go back to sleep.

After inspecting the Genbaku Dōmu, I visited the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. There were a lot of people waiting in line outside and it looked kind of cramped inside. I woke up early but not early enough to avoid the crowds. A few busloads of busy tourists had just arrived. Thankfully, there weren’t too many foreigners. I could hear some snippets of English in amongst the sea of Japanese voices, and I could overhear a young honeymooning French couple complain about having to wait in line for so long, along with the odd Korean phrase and a smattering of German thrown in, but from what I could tell most of the visitors were Japanese. Yet despite the crowds, and the foreign tourists, and the cramped conditions, I decided to accept the necessary risk and get a quick look at some of the exhibits: big photographs of big explosions and $100,000 infographics on how to make nuclear bombs, for the most part. One of the exhibits was particularly cramped and crowded; the one with the biggest photographs of big explosions I assumed. The young French couple didn’t want to go in. The male component was complaining about the lack of distance. I didn’t want to go in either. Distance was the only thing that saved them. I accidentally elbowed him as I squeezed past them and made my escape. I apologised (in English). The first photograph beside the entrance is the only one you really need to see: Yukiko Fujii, aged ten, the real face of war. “I want people to know that the atomic bomb inflicted continual physical and mental pain,” Fujii said. That part is often missing from the story. Big explosions are more impressive, I guess.

In between watching Japanese commercial television last night, I started reading John Hersey’s Hiroshima (1946), a factual account of six people who survived the bombing and lived through its aftermath. Hiroshima was written in the “New Journalism” style for the The New Yorker by the Chinese-born American progeny of Protestant missionaries. Since he was writing for a largely Conservative Christian American audience, Hersey chose his six subjects carefully: two Christian priests (one Catholic, one Protestant), two doctors (one rich, one poor), and two women (one with children, the other without – both later converted to Christianity by the Catholic priest, a German). Heresy not only narrates what happened to these people on the day of the bombing, but also how they struggled to rebuild their lives over the year that followed. He also wrote a follow-up piece in 1985, Hiroshima: The Aftermath, where he revisits all six hibakusha (atomic bomb survivors) and relates how they coped and recovered during the subsequent 40 years.

Most people tend to think that what was once referred to as New Journalism was invented back in the 1960s, back when people still read magazines. But not so. According to those who know better about this kind of thing, this style of writing was invented way back in the mid-1940s by John Hersey when he penned Hiroshima. I suppose that makes sense. It usually takes about 20 years for the advertainment industry to catch up with current trends. For the majority of us who don’t read magazines, it may be helpful to point out that New Journalism (as it is generally characterised) refers to a style of writing where the journalist openly becomes a participant in the reporting, using linguistic and narrative techniques that augment factual detail with personal perspective – basically writing fact as if it were fiction. There is, of course, nothing new about this style of writing, even when Hersey wrote Hiroshima. Due to the traditional demands of straight “objective” industrial-grade reportage, however – where it is expected of the writer to remain invisible, thereby maintaining the illusion of impartiality – whenever this form of “subjective” journalism does make a reappearance, it is more often than not thought of as entirely “new”. Yet the “I”, the first person perspective, is still consciously well hidden in Hersey’s narrative (almost non-existent). It is through the experiences and reflections of the six survivors that Hersey achieves a good deal of factual subjective resonance in Hiroshima. For unlike some writers of lesser restraint and discipline, and despite being raised by Christian missionaries and educated at Yale, Hersey thankfully refrains from giving expression to the first person activist voice of the “journalist as missionary”. As incongruous and incomprehensible as this may seem, given the level of human suffering and the enormity of the disaster itself, Hersey’s own voice is as silent as those who suffered most that day – those burned and bloodied half-living skinless “ghosts”, many of whom were to die in agony not long after from radiation poisoning.

The hurt ones were quiet; no one wept, much less screamed in pain; no one complained; none of the many who died did so noisily; not even the children cried; very few people even spoke.

One could argue that this highly restrained, almost numb and insensible, understated and dispassionate tone was adopted merely to spare a preferentially ignorant American public a graphic depiction of the full horror of the tragedy; that in the excess of joy and revelled-in relief of victory after a bloody and costly war, Hersey was simply being cautious not to upset people or emotively politicise what was still too near and not fully understood – not wishing to rain down nuclear fallout on a V-J Day parade, etc. Indeed, as Hersey himself remarked 40 years after writing Hiroshima, “the flat style was deliberate”; the avoidance of a sympathetic mediating influence was intended so as to allow the victims to speak for themselves directly to the reader. During the early chapters, one cannot help regard this deliberate flat style as somewhat disproportionate with the import of the topic. The victims themselves seem not to comprehend what has befallen them. They could be describing any other day in their lives – the only differences being the tremendous flash of light in the sky, a powerful blast and the injuries they sustained. They appear entirely ignorant of the full scale of the devastation. But then how could they not? No one before had ever lived through what they just had.

It’s not until about midway through the text that you begin to appreciate why Hersey chose to write Hiroshima in this “flat style”. Only then does it begin to become apparent – through the subtle use of scene, dialogue, perspective and characterisation – that Hersey is in effect writing an American haiku in long-form journalistic form. Hence the perception, back then, that this was all “new”. In much the same way a haiku, due to its brevity, must allow for its subjects to speak for themselves, so too does Hiroshima. Then it dawns on you that this direct yet determinedly understated style of narrative is indeed an act of masterfully restrained tact, which could hardly be more appropriate given the story being told is a Japanese one, written by an American. By the time we’ve been introduced to the six hibakusha, and after gaining some measure of empathetic insight into their experiences, a sustained sense of unaffected tragedy has been established that feels immediately factual.

Nevertheless, and as stated earlier, Hersey’s choice of hibakusha is very much catered to a contemporary American audience. He could have chosen at least one severely injured survivor who died within a few weeks or months from their injuries, or from radiation poisoning. Many did. Instead, he chose to go with six people located 1.5 to 2 kilometres from hypocentre of the blast who were not so seriously injured. Moreover, the six people he chose to interview were hardly representative of the majority of the victims, particularly the two men of god (the white man’s god). Yet this choice too, juxtaposed with the two men of science, is carefully calculated and must be considered with respect to Hersey’s intended readership. At the time of publication the American public was still very much entrenched in a racist and bellicose mindset, with the full extent of the atrocities committed by both the Nazis and the Imperial Japanese Forces only still just coming to light. By choosing to include two representatives of the dominant Western faith, Hersey is attempting to assuage and correlate a war-hardened tribalist consciousness by highlighting a common shared theology. The victims of Hiroshima were not merely the expendable heathen hordes – those bloodthirsty wily orientals martially brainwashed into loving their precious Emperor more than life itself; fanatical subhuman automatons willing to sacrifice everything, including the lives of their children, for the glory of Imperial Japan – they were human beings, same as us; and many of them even believed in the same god we believed in. Hiroshima, in fact, had one of the largest Christian populations of any other city of comparable size in Japan. Furthermore, it’s estimated that up to 8% of the victims were dual nationality U.S. citizens. Still, Hersey presented himself with a hard target. After three years of total war against a fully dehumanised enemy, depicting the Japanese people as anything other than less than human and fully deserving of everything they got, even if that did mean utter extirpation with nuclear weapons, was never going to be easy. Conveying the notion that Japanese people could be pious, stoic, humane and contrite – even heroic – was a task of monumental undertaking requiring no less than a forced literary shift of superimposed spiritual consciousness.

That considered, I can almost forgive Hersey for working the Christian angle in Hiroshima. What I cannot forgive, however, is how Hersey inadvertently turned Rev Kiyoshi Tanimoto, the Protestant minister, into a U.S. mainstream media celebrity. Tanimoto was already an honorary U.S. citizen before the war. He studied theology in Atlanta, Georgia in the 1930s. It’s therefore not too surprising to learn that when Hersey made Tanimoto even more famous by writing about his genuinely commendable acts of bravery and compassion in Hiroshima that Tanimoto should then hit the highly lucrative U.S. speaking engagement circuit. Tanimoto even appeared on an episode of This Is Your Life (May 11, 1955), where one of the surprise guests was Captain Robert Lewis, the co-pilot of the plane that dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. Tanimoto shook his hand enthusiastically, with both hands. They even invited two more seriously injured hibakusha to appear on the show (squeezed in between advertisements for Hazel Bishop nail polish) – two of the young women Tanimoto brought with him to the U.S. to undergo facial reconstruction surgery. But it was thought their appearances would be too upsetting for American audiences, so they were kept in silhouette behind a screen.

Hersey attempts to make up for turning Tanimoto into a travelling circus freak show impresario and a “shopper for briefcases” 40 years later in his follow-up piece. He mentions the episode of This Is Your Life, keeping his plainly evident personal disgust hidden behind a screen of impersonal third-person narrative, never using the word I and maintaining the same dispassionate tone and level of distance established in 1946. Yet Hersey’s “I”, of course, is still unmistakably present in how he structures his narrative. The section where Hersey quotes Tanimoto’s obsequious speech to the House Foreign Affairs Committee is a prime example:

“Our Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for the great blessing Thou hast granted America in enabling her to build in this last decade the greatest civilization in human history... We thank Thee, God, that Japan has been permitted to be one of the fortunate recipients of American generosity. We thank Thee that our people have been given the gift of freedom, enabling them to rise from the ashes of ruin and be reborn... God bless all members of this Senate...”

How degrading. I wonder if Tanimoto was on his knees while he spoke those words.

The next paragraph begins with:

The day before the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, the city, in fear of incendiary raids, had put hundreds of schoolgirls to work helping to tear down houses and clear fire lanes. They were out in the open when the bomb exploded. Few survived.

The few that did survive, horribly scared and disfigured, were quickly converted to Christianity – a fate somewhat more preferable to those who survived the blast but were burned to death by the secondary fires as they lay trapped beneath the rubble of collapsed buildings. Thus, not only were these fortunate Japanese schoolgirls dominated by the destructive superiority of U.S. military technology, but also by the benevolence of American-style Christian charity, which in turn enabled them to travel to the U.S. and enjoy the reconstructive superiority of American-style plastic surgical technology.

Without ever stating it outright, and within the limitations of his own carefully structured narrative, Hersey makes the grotesque absurdity of this twisted narrative plain enough – the cringe-inducing jingoistic farce that is the self-absolving magnanimity of victory at any cost, or of what Robert Jacobs in his 2010 essay, Reconstructing the Perpetrator’s Soul by Reconstructing the Victims Body, refers to as the “triumphalist discourse”:

...the women, who became known as the ‘Hiroshima Maidens’ (Hiroshima otome), fascinated the US mainstream press, who used their journey to obfuscate the nation’s sense of guilt about the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, by turning the whole event into a triumphant narrative of science and compassion. In this narrative the Japanese are allowed to be present but only in a childlike, dependent and ultimately grateful position. The heroes are the US doctors and philanthropists, who make the decisions, bear the costs and perform the miraculous surgeries, thus restoring life, happiness, and beauty to the Japanese women...This narrative restated the triumphalist discourse of US technological prowess and benevolence that had characterised the initial use of atomic weapons on Japanese civilians...the real story was about US benevolence and technological ability. US doctors could accomplish what Japanese doctors could not, successfully performing the surgeries involved, and restoring the beauty, and therefore the wellbeing of the afflicted women. But who, in the end, was really the more reconstructed of the participants?

— Robert Jacobs, Reconstructing the Perpetrator’s Soul by Reconstructing the Victims Body: The Portrayal of the ‘Hiroshima Maidens’ by the Mainstream Media in the United States (Intersections: Gender and Sexuality in Asia and the Pacific, Issue 24, June 2010)

Yet the fact that Hersey in part enabled this triumphalist discourse, albeit unintentionally, should in no way detract from the importance or merit of Hiroshima overall. Hersey was the first to bring the survivor’s account of the atomic bomb to a Western audience. That he did so less than a year after the event, while at the same time focusing on the experiences of the survivors and staying off the decision to use the bomb, is more than enough to warrant its ongoing appreciation. That his narrative was subsequently repurposed into post-war propaganda, a “triumphalist discourse”, although contemptible, is something Hersey could not have foreseen. He was, after all, merely a journalist.

The decision to use the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, as we’ve always been taught to believe, was made by Harry S Truman, the 33^rd President of the United States. Truman himself blatantly stated as much on numerous occasions, almost as if he were proud of it. He obviously wanted to go down in history as the man who dropped the bomb, which won the war. That the war had already been won by the allied soldiers who fought and died in that war, and that the decision to drop the bomb on Hiroshima had already been made by others is something Truman preferred not to acknowledge. Truman was also fond of claiming that his “decision” to use the atomic bomb saved over one million American lives, and perhaps up to seven million Japanese lives. Like most politicians, numbers meant very little to Truman. Over time that American lives saved estimate varied greatly – anywhere from 120,000 to one million, or more. But more often than not Truman stuck to the one million figure. Just who came up with the nice round big number of one million American lives is anyone’s guess. Some say it was General Douglas MacArthur and his ridiculously oversized corncob crack pipe. MacArthur abandoned his troops in the Philippines during the early days of the war and ended up in Adelaide, before deciding to invade Korea a few years later. He then threatened to invade China as well. Fortunately, Truman fired MacArthur before that could happen, yet the myth of one million American lives still persists to this day.

Truman did a few of other good things during his administration, besides getting rid of MacArthur. But sadly, Truman’s insistence on being the man who dropped the bomb tends to overshadow his other more commendable accomplishments. For instance, Truman recognised the State of Israel (against the advice of most of his staff), supported the creation of the United Nations (a good idea at the time), and he officially ended racial segregation (and lynching) in the U.S. military and civil service. That’s about it really. But at least that’s something.

All that wasn’t enough, however, to prevent Truman from becoming one of the least popular presidents in U.S. history – even more so than Richard M. Nixon. At one point, at the end of the Korean War – which almost resulted in the atomic bomb being used again – Truman’s approval rating in the polls dropped to 22%, after an all-time high of 82% at the end of World War II. Being the man who dropped the bomb which won the war only gets you so far in politics, it would seem.

Incidentally, just like Nixon, Truman too was a piano player. (Not many people know that about Nixon either.) Truman played a pretty mean piana, by all accounts. In fact, he was often fond of telling people how his true ambition in life was to become a piano player in a whorehouse. He probably should have. Instead, he went into politics, which Truman regarded as practically the same thing. Not to oversimplify it, but I think this was the true source of all Truman’s problems. But then Franklin Delano Roosevelt was a hard act to follow. No subsequent U.S. President has even come close, and nor did many before him. If only he had have lived a few more months what might have been? Although it is true FDR perused a policy of unconditional surrender and initiated development of the atomic bomb in the first place, it’s very difficult for me to believe he would have authorised its use on Hiroshima or Nagasaki, or Kyoto.

FDR didn’t like Truman much. He only met with him twice and kept Truman in the dark on much of the war strategy, including the atomic bomb project. Truman didn’t like to read papers anyway, and he didn’t much care for scientists either. It should come as no surprise then that Truman would casually dismiss all the warnings, concerns and requests for detailed consideration presented to him by those who worked on the atomic bomb project as merely “weepy”. He never even read the Szilard Petition, which advised against the use of the bomb on Japan and was signed by 70 scientists who worked on the project. Truman was a simple man who could only think in oversimplified black and white terms. Nor should it surprise us to learn that Truman didn’t much care for journalists. Even many years after the fact he would often become irritated, dismissive and aggressive when pressed by journalists as to the detailed reasoning behind the decision to drop the bomb on two major centres of civilian population where most of the inhabitants were women and children. Fewer than 10 percent of the dead were soldiers.

But to be fair, and despite wishing to own the so-called decision, by his own account Truman was no inhumane and unfeeling atomic bomb-dropping monster. In what appears to be a heart-felt letter to a long-forgotten Georgian Democratic Senator at the time, Richard B. Russell – one of Truman’s anti-desegregation and pro-lynching contemporaries – Truman states the following:

I know that Japan is a terribly cruel and uncivilized nation in warfare but I can’t bring myself to believe that, because they are beasts, we should ourselves act in the same manner. For myself, I certainly regret the necessity of wiping out whole populations because of the “pigheadedness” of the leaders of a nation and, for your information, I am not going to do it unless it is absolutely necessary. It is my opinion that after the Russians enter into war the Japanese will very shortly fold up. My object is to save as many American lives as possible but I also have a humane feeling for the women and children of Japan.

— Harry S Truman to Richard B. Russell, August 9, 1945

Since Truman didn’t like to read papers or consider details, it’s also not surprising his own writing was full of contradictions and self-deceptions.

A voice from above: One who knows not the heart of words can never know the heart of humanity.

Indeed.

He’d already wiped out whole populations, knowing Russia’s entry into the war would force Japan’s surrender. A “humane feeling”, right. Truman could have decided to drop the bomb within six miles of Tokyo on a legitimate military target so that the flash and the mushroom cloud were visible from the centre of Tokyo. He could have gone against the advice of many of his top advisers, as he had on numerous other occasions. But he didn’t. As Truman very well knew would happen, Japan decided to surrender the same day Russia invaded Manchuria – the same day he wrote that letter, and the same day another atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki, wiping out yet more whole populations, women and children.

Nonetheless, we cannot hold Truman ultimately responsible for these premeditated acts of mass murder and terror – for what were, and what should always be considered, war crimes. For in truth, Truman merely green-lit a non-decision decision made long before he even knew about the bomb.

Given that Truman was not directly involved in any of preliminary discussions regarding the use of the atomic bomb, it’s understandable how he was superseded when it came to much of the decision making. Another long-forgotten anti-desegregation and pro-lynching contemporary of Truman’s, James F. Byrnes, who, owing to Truman’s deplorable lack of knowledge and experience became the U.S. Secretary of State and Truman’s unofficial “Assistant President”, made the final decision – a decision that was already made. Byrnes was Truman’s personal representative on the Interim Committee, established by the Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson, to make recommendations to the President on how the bomb was to be used. According to the notes from one of their meetings, “Byrnes suggested, and the members of the Interim Committee agreed, the Secretary of War should be advised that ‘the present view of the Committee was that the bomb should be used against Japan as soon as possible; that it be used on a war plant surrounded by workers’ homes without prior warning...’” and that this “might put us in a position to dictate our own terms at the end of the war.” Perhaps not surprisingly, the phrase “war plant surrounded by workers’ homes” is not a very precise one; it may be interpreted in a variety of ways. For instance, a screw factory that makes screws for use in the construction of military aircraft (amongst many other things), located at the centre of a city of 240,000 people, could very well be considered a war plant surrounded by workers’ homes. James B. Conant, a long-forgotten Harvard chemical weapons developer, who also served on the Interim Committee, came up with that phrase. He was probably pro-lynching too.

The senior U.S. military official I referred to earlier while in Kyoto was in fact the Secretary of War, Henry L. Stimson. I’m not sure what his stance on lynching was. In any event, he did save Kyoto from the atomic bomb. And although I’m somewhat reluctant to admit it, I suppose he did the right thing. The casualties would have been much higher in Kyoto. Moreover, Kyoto was, and still is, the cultural capital of Japan (kind of), despite all the present-day six-kilometre-long shopping arcades.

Stimson fought hard to remove Kyoto from the list of targets, which as you’d expect from the U.S. military was right at the top of their list. The destruction of Kyoto would cause the “greatest psychological effect against Japan” because it was such a culturally important city and because there were a lot of university-educated people living there, so they reasoned. It was only after appealing to the fear of Russian political advantage owing to the anger and resentment the Japanese would inevitably feel over the loss of their cultural capital that Stimson eventually won out. He knew this would have pushed Japan past the point of no return. Other cities could be rebuilt, Kyoto could not.

...the bitterness which would be caused by such a wanton act might make it impossible during the long post-war period to reconcile the Japanese to us in that area rather than to the Russians. It might thus, I pointed out, be the means of preventing what our policy demanded, namely a sympathetic Japan to the United States in case there should be any aggression by Russia in Manchuria.

— Stimson diary, July 24, 1945

Stimson correctly foresaw that the “moral position [of the Untied States] would be weakened in the eyes of the world and in our own eyes” if Kyoto were targeted. That moral weakening happened anyway, and continues to happen to this day, but at least he managed to spare Kyoto. Ironic, is it not, how the lone voice of relative reason in amongst all the mad evil of total war was the Secretary of War? But according to unsubstantiated urban legend, it was the American archaeologist and art historian, Langdon Warner – who also happened to be the real-life inspiration for Indiana Jones – who was the real white saviour here. Apparently it was he who urged Stimson to keep pushing for the removal of Kyoto from the list of targets. How Indiana knew about the atomic bomb to begin with, let alone that Kyoto was on the list of targets, is anyone’s guess. But then I guess everything devolves into a Steven Spielberg “movie” in the end.

Similarly, that Stimson had to resort to selling Hiroshima to Truman as an important military target to spare Kyoto was another unsubstantiated yet necessary reimagining of the truth. It was war time after all. Truman even referred to Hiroshima after the bombing as a “military base”. He probably thought it was. But as another long-forgotten pro-lynching contemporary U.S. Senator, Hiram Warren Johnson, once remarked, “the first casualty when war comes is truth”. Incidentally, Hiram died the same day the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, from old age.

Like Truman, Stimson too appeared to believe the atomic bomb ended the war. “All the evidence I have seen indicates that the controlling factor in the final Japanese decision to accept our terms of surrender was the atomic bomb,” wrote Stimson in Harper’s Magazine (February, 1947). The “evidence” Stimson had seen came in the form of an article he’d read in The Atlantic (December, 1946), “If the Atomic Bomb Had Not Been Used”, written by Karl T. Compton, an MIT physicist who also served on the Interim Committee. “It was not one atomic bomb, or two, which brought surrender; it was the experience of what an atomic bomb will actually do to a community, plus the dread of many more, that was effective,” declared Compton. Of course, glaringly absent from both Stimson’s and Compton’s assessments, besides the actual “evidence”, is the Japanese perspective. The self-sustaining reverberations that resounded within the echo chambers of the Interim Committee – which was essentially a group think tank – have predominated for the last 70 years and prevented a more broader understanding of all the controlling factors that brought about Japan’s surrender.

Also like Truman, Stimson too believed he was responsible for the decision to drop the bomb. In that same piece he wrote for Harper’s Magazine, Stimson stated that “The ultimate responsibility for the recommendation to the President rested upon me, and I have no desire to veil it.” He then went on to confirm, as Compton also made clear in his article in The Atlantic, that it was a “foregone conclusion” the bomb would be used. It was the recommendation of the Interim Committee that 1. The bomb be used against Japan as soon as possible. 2. That it be used on a city. 3. That no warning be given. That that foregone conclusion originated from James F. Byrnes (the “Assistant President”), as if by covert presidential decree, and then subtlety impressed itself upon the Interim Committee as predetermined policy, is a fact conveniently overlooked in most accounts – certainly in Stimson’s and Compton’s accounts, and in Truman’s most decidedly. Effectively, Stimson merely remade the decision made by Byrnes, and then owned it, which was then reowned by Truman and which was never really a decision to begin with. It’s a classic case of a group think tank feedback loop at work, with Byrnes serving as the main sustaining conduit.

Truman eventually wised up to Byrnes directing policy on the sly from behind the scenes and removed him as Secretary of State. Byrnes later went on to become the Governor of South Carolina. He then became one of the main driving forces behind southern states switching their traditional political party allegiances from Democrat to Republican.

Nevertheless, it must be stated that by singling out the nefarious influence of Byrnes I am in no way absolving Truman or Stimson for condoning the indiscriminate use of a weapon of mass destruction on civilian populations. Nor am I pardoning any of those who served on the Interim Committee. Plainly stated, the use of the atomic bomb on Japan was a war crime perpetrated by all those who sanctioned its use. Thus should it always be remembered. Moreover, it should also be remembered that Truman did threaten the “prompt and utter destruction” of all of Japan, and that Stimson did refer to the atomic bomb as an “eminently suitable weapon”, while both professed a seeming unwillingness to cause unnecessary civilian casualties. Yet neither of them expressed much remorse after achieving exactly that. Ultimately, they were both political men of their time, morally debased by the evil that is total war, who lacked the intellectual honesty to confront their own contradictions and self-deceptions. Thus should they always be remembered – Byrnes especially so.

As too should J. Robert Oppenheimer, the so-called “father of the atomic bomb”. Not that he was really its father. There was no single “father” of the atomic bomb (or mother, for that matter). Thousands of people worked on that project. But I suppose if there has to be a father, Robert F. Christy probably deserves that dubious honour more than most. According to Wikipedia “Christy is generally credited with the insight that a solid sub-critical mass of plutonium could be explosively compressed into supercriticality, a great simplification of earlier concepts of implosion requiring hollow shells.” Oppenheimer didn’t really do much at all to further the development of the atomic bomb itself, other than carrying out your standard run-of-the-mill high-level managerial tasks. In fact, many of his hypotheses were plainly wrong. Moreover, Oppenheimer believed that only 10,000 to 20,000 people would die in the first attack and that the level of radiation would be minimal. But it is true he did possess the highly desirable capacity to inspire other people, and he did present well on a podium. He also served on Stimson’s Interim Committee. Not surprisingly, Oppenheimer agreed with the recommendation that the bomb be used on a Japanese city as soon as possible. He dismissed the idea of a demonstration, claiming that “a test would be unlikely to induce surrender”. He opined that a mere demonstration would not be “sufficiently startling”; that it would be regarded as little more than a “nuclear firecracker”. And yet on another occasion he proudly stated that “the visual effect of the atomic bomb would be tremendous. It would be accompanied by a brilliant luminescence which would rise to a height of 10,000 to 20,000 feet.” Despite being a man of science, Oppenheimer too was clearly full of contradictions and self-deceptions.

In sharp contrast with Truman, Byrnes and Stimson, Oppenheimer did have the intellectual honesty to confront his own contradictions and self-deceptions, eventually. Upon learning of the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Oppenheimer appeared to express genuine remorse, and he was even quoted on one occasion quietly commenting to himself “Those poor little people.” I’m not sure if Oppenheimer ever read Hersey’s Hiroshima or not, but over the years these expressions of remorse did appear to become more pronounced. But I doubt this was due to reading Hersey. Personally, I attribute this awakening sense of guilt in Oppenheimer to Isidor Isaac Rabi, Nobel Prize-winning physicist and inventor of the microwave oven. Rabi’s stilted and strained delivery of those two prophetic lines in Atomic Power (1946), a U.S. post-war propaganda effort in cinematic form docudramatising the first test of the atomic bomb (filmed 12 months after the real test), delivered with a wry and intently conspicuous sideways shift of the eyes (to the left), must have continually come back to haunt Oppenheimer: “It’s going to work alright, Robert, and I’m sure we’ll never be sorry for it.” Nothing perturbs the soul like deliberate bad acting. Oppenheimer, conversely, was quite a good actor. His “Now I am Become Death” speech being one of his finest and most memorable performances. With a forlorn and downcast visage and a far-away look in his tear-welled eyes, Oppenheimer recounts in wistful measured tones what he says ran through his mind while witnessing the testing of the atomic bomb. These words are perhaps some of the most overquoted words by any scientist in living memory, so I apologise in advance for quoting them again here. I assure you I do so purely for the purposes of deconstructive analysis, not for mere poetic effect.

We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita. Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and to impress him takes on his multi-armed form and says “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” I suppose we all thought that, one way or another.

As you’d expect, this poignant little performance is not from the film Atomic Power (1946). Oppenheimer was speaking 20 years after the fact in a 1965 NBC News documentary called The Decision to Drop the Bomb. Oppenheimer had a full 20 years to script that response. But according to others who were with Oppenheimer on the day of the test, his real response was neither poignant nor poetic. He was jubilant and merely remarked “I guess it worked.” To which some Harvard physicist dude responded “Now we’re all sons of bitches.” Real life is not poetry, and rarely are our responses to it ever poignant.

Nevertheless, whether or not this recollection of Hindu scripture occurred to Oppenheimer in 1945 or in much belated retrospect, it is too important a reference not to examine in greater detail; for it is without question quite revealing. Oppenheimer is partially paraphrasing from Chapter 11, verse 32 of the Bhagavad Gita (250 BCE – 500 CE), a 1,400-line self-glorifying love letter from the Hindu deity Vishnu to himself. All the world’s problems would be solved instantly if people would only sit up straight on a yoga mat, cross their legs and eyes intently, say Ôm occasionally and concentrate on the awesomeness of Vishnu for a while, so the copy reads. Granted, the Bhagavad Gita doesn’t translate too well into English (which is probably why Oppenheimer is said to have learned Sanskrit to read it in its original form), but for impressionable young Westerners with no previous exposure to spiritual practises other than Christianity, it can be thought of as quite an illuminating read. In the chapter where Oppenheimer misquotes Vishnu’s “destroyer of worlds” speech (the only chapter worth reading), Vishnu and Prince Arjuna (the archer) are standing between two opposing armies about to go to war. Earlier, in Chapter 1, Arjuna expresses misgivings about participating in the battle. He becomes demoralised by the thought of committing acts of violence on fellow human beings, knowing that only more evil will come of it, and therefore refuses to fight. “I only see omens of misfortune. I do not foresee how any good can come from killing my own kinsmen in this battle,” Arjuna reasons. “Even though they may be aggressors, sin will certainly come upon us if we slay them.” Vishnu, who up until that time has appeared to Arjuna as a 23-armed handsome young man with a healthy bright blue tan and a rather lofty opinion of himself, now takes on an even loftier form: a dreadfully mind-blowing cosmic manifestation of supreme divinity, which involves even more arms – an infinite number of arms in fact – as well as many different types of heads, mouths, stomachs, legs, feet, etc. all blazing away infinitely in an impressive ever-changing array of radiant technicolor pyrotechnics. It is in this most refulgent and omnifarious form that The Supreme Lord thus spake to Prince Arjuna:

I am mighty Time, the source of destruction that comes forth to annihilate the worlds. Even without your participation, the warriors arrayed in the opposing army shall cease to exist.

The next verse (verse 33), which Oppenheimer only contextually infers, provides the context:

Therefore, arise and attain honour! Conquer your foes and enjoy prosperous rulership. These warriors stand already slain by Me, and you will only be an instrument of My work, O expert archer.

This in itself isn’t a very strong argument. It’s the equivalent of saying the sun will die in another four billion years anyway, therefore we may as well kill all life on earth right now as quickly as possible (as we are). In previous verses, Vishnu has repeatedly expounded upon the central message of the Bhagavad Gita: self-realization through the renunciation of the “fruits of actions” – to do our duty and not concern ourselves with the results. The fruits of actions are not for our enjoyment. We must renounce what follows upon completion of the action, not the action itself, etc. But doesn’t Vishnu (in his viśhwarūp, or infinite cosmic form) directly contradict himself in verse 33 by exhorting Arjuna to “enjoy prosperous rulership” as the fruits of his actions? Surely this in violation of the fruit renunciation precept. Moreover, if, as Vishnu has also explained in previous chapters, all living beings are an integral part of God and deserving of love and compassion, even the “wicked”, how then can it be deemed acceptable to commit acts of violence on fellow human beings? Even Mohandas K. Gandhi, a life-long adherent of the teachings of the Bhagavad Gita, had a devil of a time comprehending Chapter 11, verse 33:

Let it be granted that, according to the letter of the Gita, it is possible to say that warfare is consistent with the renunciation of fruit. But after forty years’ unremitting endeavor fully to enforce the teaching of the Gita in my own life, I have in all humility felt that perfect renunciation is impossible without perfect observance of ahimsa [nonviolence] in every shape and form.

— Mohandas K. Gandhi, The Message of the Gita (1959)

One could consider Gandhi’s interpretation of the Gita, while laudable, an act of hermeneutical renunciation in itself. I seriously doubt Vishnu would agree with Gandhi’s understanding of “perfect renunciation”. At least Oppenheimer fully embraced the meaning of Chapter 11, verse 33. Oppenheimer did his duty and renounced the fruit of his action, not the action itself.

But then one can fully understand how Oppenheimer would have wanted nothing more than to renounce the fruits of his actions. Who would wish to eat their own poisoned fruit? Who would wish to claim parentage of a weapon of mass destruction which had already killed over 200,000 people and now threatened the extermination of all of humanity?

Like most systems of spiritual belief, Hinduism, as outlined in the Bhagavad Gita, provides a convenient if contradictory caveat for the warrior castes when it comes to the justification of violence, which Oppenheimer only too conveniently made use of (in much the same way the Imperial Japanese Forces made use of Bushido). It is acceptable, indeed required, to kill when duty calls, so long as it is done with solemn dispassion and without expectation of reward. Provided a soldier keeps faith with The Supreme Lord, all sins are forgiven.

For that reason we can’t be too hard on Oppenheimer. As lofty and high-minded as he certainly may have been, in the end Oppenheimer was just another chumped soldier – an expert archer with a nuclear physics degree. Like most scientists, he became yet another appendage of The Supreme Lord: Militarism. And, like most soldiers, he too was used, abused and then betrayed by his own nation. And he did at least try to make up for being the “father of the atomic bomb” after the war. His conscience seemed to have caught up with him by then. After the war Oppenheimer advocated for nuclear non-proliferation and advised against development of the hydrogen bomb, and he did at times appear to express at least some measure of sincere regret – or if not regret then at least “misgivings”, as Oppenheimer put it. But he sure didn’t display many misgivings during the building of the bomb, and he did nothing to prevent its unnecessary use on Japan.

At the very least, Oppenheimer could have delayed delivery of the bomb until after the war had ended. Just because it can be made doesn’t mean it should be made. The Nazis stopped development of a nuclear weapon in 1942, and it would have only been a matter of weeks before Japan surrendered. They would have surrendered in early August, if not for the “unconditional” condition – which turned out to be not so unconditional in the end. The tide had started to turn after the Battle of Midway, and Japanese territorial expansion was checked once the allies regained Papua and the Solomons. By July 1945, nearly all the territory the Japanese had conquered after 1941 had been retaken. So why drop the bomb? Oppenheimer preferred to believe he was saving one million American lives (most of them Russian). If we choose to overlook that for the militarist propaganda that it is, and if we also discount the most obvious motivation – that of blind revenge – one can only conclude that the atomic bomb was used solely to advance U.S. strategic interests. The bomb didn’t even hasten the end of the war. By late July it was widely known by both sides Japan would be forced to surrender by the end of August, shortly after Russia’s entry into the war.

In Racing the Enemy (2006), historian Tsuyoshi Hasegawa has shown that it was the declaration of war on Japan by Russia on 9 August 1945 that is most directly responsible for Japanese surrender. Don’t worry, I won’t bore you any more than I already have by quoting at length therefrom. Enough to state that not only does Hasegawa investigate the official Japanese war records in support of this conclusion, but in doing so he also prompts us to ask a very important question in response: If the atomic bomb didn’t end the war, then why was it used?

They didn’t just want the surrender of Japan and an end to the war, they wanted a total and unconditional surrender to the U.S. alone. As the operational name they gave to the invasion of the Japanese main islands more than suggests, “Operation Downfall”, they planned for a total downfall of Japan so they could exchange the Emperor for Mickey Mouse and rebuild the Empire in their own image. Just as Byrnes had stated before the bomb was dropped, they wanted to dictate their own terms after the war, unconditionally.

But then the “unconditional” condition turned out to be not so unconditional in the end. There was no need to exchange the Emperor for Mickey Mouse. Hirohito pretty much was Mickey Mouse to begin with – and thus did he remain so, sacred and inviolable, despite rubber stamping into existence a war of Imperialist conquest that caused the deaths of over 33 million people.

If only this more conditional Mickey Mouse form of unconditional surrender had been communicated more effectively to the Hirohito and his entourage before the atomic bombs were dropped. But then when you’re operating in a theatre of war where over 33 million deaths have already occurred, what’s another 200,000 or so? Such is the logic of total war.

Regardless, my point is it wasn’t the fear of more atomic bombs that ended the war. Nor was it the fear of “what an atomic bomb will actually do”, as Compton put it. It only became known what atomic bombs “actually do” months later. In any event, the fire bombing of Tokyo caused higher casualties and more widespread destruction. Conventional munitions, together with the introduction of napalm, were effective and frightening enough. Bombing surveys of Hiroshima undertaken shortly after the war had ended concluded as much.

The Survey has estimated that the damage and casualties caused at Hiroshima by the one atomic bomb dropped from a single plane would have required 220 B-29s carrying 1,200 tons of incendiary bombs, 400 tons of high-explosive bombs, and 500 tons of anti-personnel fragmentation bombs, if conventional weapons, rather than an atomic bomb, had been used.

— D’Olier, Franklin, ed. (1946). United States Strategic Bombing Survey, Summary Report (Pacific War), p. 24

They could have completely destroyed a city the size of Hiroshima ever other day with conventional weapons alone (as they did), and at much less expense; whereas it would have taken several months to build more atomic bombs. It wasn’t the atomic bomb that forced Japan’s surrender. As Hasegawa has clearly shown, what finally forced Japan’s surrender was the Soviet Union’s entry into the war. The fear of a Soviet invasion was the main motivating factor. The threat of more atomic bombs no doubt compounded that fear, but the bomb didn’t end the war; it only started a new one. The use of the atomic bomb on Japan was a live target demonstration, serving as the opening salvo of the Cold War – two of them; the second to show it could be done again and again – but for Russia (and others) not Japan. There was no tactical advantage to be gained from the destruction of Hiroshima or Nagasaki, particularly at such a late stage in the war when they knew Japan was soon about to capitulate. The use of the atomic bomb on Japan was purely strategic. It kept Stalin out of the Tsugaru Strait and prevented another Berlin.

Be that as it may, I still think they should have spared Japan and dropped it directly on Stalin, and Truman/Byrnes.

Some would argue that Japan deserved it, especially for what they did in China. So why care? What do you expect when the dehumanising effects of total war, mindless vengeance and fortuitous expediency combine? Total war is not a very forgiving business. And even if the Japanese didn’t exactly deserve it, they at least brought it upon themselves. 33 million people is a lot of people. 200,000 atomic bomb fatalities doesn’t even begin to compare. And we must remember that total war does mean total, women and children too. Some would even argue that in total war there is no difference between civilians and soldiers; that that’s what total war does, it involves us all, totally – and dehumanises us all to the same extent. That’s when it becomes all about the numbers. Consider the Battle of Okinawa for instance. 110,000 Japanese soldiers and Okinawan conscripts. An almost 100% casualty rate. They stood against nearly 800,000 U.S. troops. Total U.S. casualties: around 80,000. An expeditionary casualty rate of anything over 10% is unsustainable, both in practical battlefield and U.S. domestic political terms. That’s where the Russians come in. The U.S. will throw plenty of money at a problem but they’re not willing to throw away too many of their “boys”. Russia, on the other hand, doesn’t have any money, so they’ll happily throw away most of their “boys” – millions of them, if need be. One of our “boys” is worth at least 46 of theirs. Russia threw away nearly 23 million of them during World War II, the U.S. around 500,000. But then Stalin never had to worry about getting reelected. That’s where the poison gas comes in. The U.S. military had a nice big healthy stockpile of it in Australia. They estimated over five million Japanese casualties once chemical weapons were authorised for use on the battlefield. The Imperial Japanese forces had already been using them in China. Why then should they not be used in Japan? As soon as U.S. casualties started reaching unsustainable numbers they would have resorted to gas. Total war is total. And let’s not forget Shiro Ishii and Unit 731, Pearl Harbor, the Nanjing Massacre, a 27% prisoner of war fatality rate, suicide bombers, child soldiers, etc. Also remember that chemical weapons would have killed a lot more people than any atomic bomb could have at the time. One could even argue that the atomic bomb spared Australia from being complicit in any of that.

To this I would counter that this is not a question of deserving it or not. My question is not a moral one. I’m simply asking if the use of the atomic bomb on Japan was tactically required to force surrender. The answer is no, it was not. In that case, should we not then question if it was a war crime? I’m no legal expert, but I’m pretty sure wiping out whole populations, women and children, is in direct contravention of at least one or more articles of the Geneva Convention. Regardless of whether Japan deserved it or not, isn’t a war crime still a crime?

As a side note, Shiro Ishii, who was director of Unit 731 and responsible for the deaths of an estimated 300,000 people, was never prosecuted after the war. He received an “honorary” degree from Harvard University and was then promptly recruited into the U.S. biological and chemical weapons/pharmaceutical industry. So don’t even talk to me about deserving it. Why did so many Japanese people have to suffer for the sins of a privileged few, many of whom were never punished for their crimes after the war? What would they know about deserving it? Why collectively punish the victims while awarding the perpetrators honorary Harvard degrees? Why dehumanise all Japanese people even further than the Imperial Japanese Forces already had? Can anyone ever be deserving of that?

Likewise, this whole “all war is immoral, total war even more so” argument also fails to convince. It didn’t convince John Hersey and it sure doesn’t convince me. If all war is immoral (a euphemism for evil), and total war even more so, should it not be considered a crime to wage war? I know what I think. Total war in itself is a war crime, in and of itself. No question about it. So with that question answered, the original question then becomes: Who is ever deserving of having a war crime perpetrated against them? I think we all know. I didn’t really need to read Hersey or visit Hiroshima to know the answer to that question. I mean it’s a natural enough conclusion to draw on one’s own and doesn’t really require any further research. In any case, it must be said that nowhere in Hiroshima does Hersey even attempt to answer that question, directly. In the end, he hands the crux of the matter over to the old German Catholic priest and closes with a ten-year-old boy on a bridge.

“The crux of the matter is whether total war in its present form is justifiable, even when it serves a just purpose. Does it not have material and spiritual evil as its consequences which far exceed whatever good might result? When will our moralists give us a clear answer to this question?”

A voice from above: Indeed, when?

Beyond what I’ve already written, I’m not going to attempt to answer that question either. I’m not a moralist. I’m not even a journalist. All I know is I agree with Miss Toshiko Sasaki, a clerk in the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works who was seriously maimed on the day of the bombing. She never married or had children and tragically converted to Catholicism a few years later. She then became a nun. So, just like Hersey, I too shall leave the moral question unanswered, for the most part, and I too shall end my time in Hiroshima on a bridge – but not before handing the crux of the matter over to Miss Toshiko Sasaki. As I’m sure we’d all agree, Sasaki-san felt that more notice should be given to the causes than to the instruments of total war.

Her rather bitter opinion was that it was the more lightly affected hibakusha and power-hungry politicians who focussed on the A-bomb, and that not enough thought was given to the fact that warfare had indiscriminately made victims of Japanese who had suffered atomic and incendiary bombings, Chinese civilians who had been attacked by the Japanese, reluctant young Japanese and American soldiers who were drafted to be killed or maimed, and, yes, Japanese prostitutes and their mixed-blood babies.

After my visit to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, I walked all the way back to my hotel, in the rain. I crossed the Ōta River. Very low river level. I could see all the way to the bottom. I stood on the Aioi Bridge for a while and looked over the side. As I turned to walk away, a flash of silver! A gigantic silver carp, or ginbuna (Carassius langsdorfii), swimming slowly up river. It’s different seeing them in their native environment. Majestic.

*

Back in Tokyo. I took a stroll through Sensō-ji today – packed with Korean tourists, and two comparatively giant German backpackers by way of Patagonia. How do they carry around all that bulky kit? And why? Das ist ein fucking Tempel! Then I went clothes shopping again. I bought some more Uniqlo t-shirts and another pair of GU black pants. And I already told you how much, so don’t bother asking. I also took a walk around Shibuya (a slightly less annoying non-Venetion Japanese version of Times Square), then took a walk through Tokyo Metro Park. No birdsong, except for crows and pigeons. No cherry blossoms either, and only three homeless cunts – four, including me.

Some stupid old homeless cunt (me) walks into a bar in Roppongi Hills. It’s one of those fancy “midtown” bars where you’d only go if you were forced to: for “business”. I was only there to hear Sarah sing – and because it was the only bar I could find, and I’d walked quite a long way that day and I was very thirsty and I really did feel like drinking a beer. I usually don’t drink beer, I swear. None of the staff there were wearing masks, nor were any of the patrons. I forgot I was wearing a mask. I approached the bar and requested an Asahi (made in China). The bartender, a dapper young gentleman, wearing a black single-breasted slim-fit Armani business suit in natural stretch light wool, did not appear to understand me. Again I requested an Asahi. Oh, Ahhsaaheee! he corrected me. There were two young men sitting at the bar to my right – your traditional Japanese family business boys, I assumed. They both began giggling at my clumsy Japanese beer-ordering etiquette and mocked my inept pronunciation. Anyone who’s spent any time learning another language or speaking a non-native tongue knows what that feels like – and this was a well known brand name. My dapper young bartender, after fully satisfying himself he had corrected my monotonally unaccented pronunciation of that particular word sufficiently to his liking, then proceeded to pour my beer, with the aid of some kind of fancy-looking elongated ice-cream scoop, the first time I’ve ever seen a beer poured that way. There was an older gentleman seated alone at the bar to my left. He was drinking red wine from a ridiculously large wine glass. He cast a disapproving eye over his younger countrymen, as they continued to discuss amongst themselves, at volume and at length, this newly arrived stupid old homeless cunt’s unforgivable mispronunciation of that most hallowed of Japanese words, Ahhsaaheee! He graciously offered me the bar stool immediately to his right, which I respectfully declined. After about three and half minutes of watching my dapper young bartender perform his elaborate beer-ice-cream scooping and pouring ritual, and after carefully explaining to him that I wished to pay for my Ahhsaaheee! immediately (I only had about ten minutes to spare), I then went and sat at a table outside by myself and drank my Ahhsaaheee! in silence. Just before my long-awaited Ahhsaaheee! was eventually poured and served, the two young gentlemen to my right paid their bill and exited the bar. As they passed behind me, one of them deliberately elbowed me wimpishly in the back. The other one called me unagi. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been mistaken for a New Zealander (that I know of). It felt kind of good. Unagi probably means something rather unflattering when used in that context. Like I care. I am unagi! Twenty years ago I would have severely reprimanded them (even six years ago), but nothing was going to spoil my evening that evening. I had come to Roppongi Hills to hear Sarah sing. And so I did.

A voice from below: How much you pay for Roppongi Hills Ahhsaaheee! (made in China)?

As I was saying, I had come to Roppongi Hills to hear Sarah sing. She told me I must believe in Spring. How could I not? The venue was atop a towering steel-glass corporate facade full of every overpriced designer label you’d care not to think of: Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Dolce & Gabbana, Bottega Veneta, Douchei Figenarso, you name it. I felt somewhat out of place as I walked past them all and up the escalators. Thankfully, they used very low-level lighting inside the venue itself, so no one could tell I was wearing Uniqlo and GU. A handsome young Japanese gentleman with shinning eyes of sapphire blue guided me to my table, after first guiding me to what he soon determined to be the wrong table (far right of stage right). I think Mister Sapphire Eyes was sent in to case me out, as they say. He spoke unusually fluent English. He asked me where I was from. I told him New Zealand. He then told me they were having trouble sending me something in the mail. I’m not sure what he meant by that, but I enquired no further. Who is “they”? And what exactly are “they” trying to send me? A replacement JRail pass perhaps? Or yet another rejection letter? He said he studied at the University of Otago. I asked him which campus. He made no reply. I think he put me at the journalist’s table (front left of stage left). There were three other people seated at the table and they all had that lonely sweaty journalist kind of vibe about them. I think I missed a few important messages during the interim (this isn’t my day job). I did, however, finish writing the base structure as I was eating my all-meat Italian meal and waiting for Sarah to go on stage. The woman seated opposite me looked very familiar, and very Italian. I wanted very much to speak with her and find out who she was. But they still had those thick transparent plastic facial barricade things up everywhere and I was way too preoccupied with Sarah.

She wore a simple black dress, but over it she wore a translucent slip of silver that lit up the entire stage. She was more beautiful than life itself.

A voice from above: You must believe in Spring!

I ordered the Cherry Blossom Girl drink. Vodka and tonic with cherry-flavoured syrup. How could I not? Sarah ordered one too. How could she not? She toasted the crowd and took a sip. I’m not sure exactly what she said. She spoke in Japanese, for the most part. I think it had something to do with believing in yourself before you can believe in Spring, or something of that nature. As she turned from the audience to set her drink down, she made the same face I made when I first tasted mine.

A voice from below: You don’t believe in Spring, and she doesn’t believe in you. All writers are liars.

Good thing I’m nothing but a whore then.

A voice from above: You’re also a stupid old homeless cunt.

That may be true also, but I’m only here to hear Sarah sing. So what does it matter?

A voice from below: Yeah, right.

She sang Comme d’habitude and Calling You.

Tout seul j’irai me coucher
Dans ce grand lit froid
Comme d’habitude
Mes larmes je les cacherai
Comme d’habitude

Hot dry wind blows right through me
Baby’s crying and I can’t sleep
But we both know a change is coming
It’s coming closer...

I don’t know if those were real tears Sarah shed while she sang Comme d’habitude, but I do know my tears were real when she sang Calling You. It’s a good thing she only sang one song like that, otherwise I think I would have broken down completely in an endless downpour of torrential tears. Baby’s crying indeed. I knew she knew exactly what she was doing to me by singing that song. I tried not to look at her, for fear of becoming totally overwhelmed. Occasionally, she would glide across the stage, however, and the lights would reflect a flash of silver from her dress that would instinctively catch my eye. It happened maybe three or four times. I couldn’t help but look up at her during those moments, as the glare of the stage lights refracted through the watery lenses of mine eyeballs and stars appeared to grow out of the air. But for the most part I kept my eyes down. I’m pathetic, I know.

A voice from above: She’s too perfect to be singing Disney songs in Roppongi Hills. Seize her now and take her away with you!

And then she sang some Disney songs. No offence intended, and especially not to Sarah, but fuck Bambi dead in the arse with a great big plastic penis. Die, Bambi! And good riddance, I say. We deliberately run those things down in Aotearoa, and in Australia too.

A voice from above: Soon the only animals left on this planet will be cutesiepoo Disneyesque cartoon caricatures of them.

Die, Bambi!

Before she began, she recited a poem, in English, about Spring. But I don’t remember anything about that. It wasn’t very good. Then she picked up her violin and played both parts of the bird song bit from Vivaldi’s Le quattro stagioni, la primavera, looped them over one another, with a deliberate sour note at the end, and then added the Little April Shower song from Disney’s Bambi on top of it.

Die, Bambi!

And then she overlaid another song – some funky Disney dance number I’m not familiar with – and started improvising on keyboards to that. That’s when all the older Japanese gentlemen stood up and started clapping along and dancing wildly. She had them all in the palm of her hand. It was a veritable utagaki of rampant J-Disneyism!

How could they not believe in Spring?

But then it must be difficult for anyone not to believe in Spring, which is now becoming Summer, these days. For if, as is expected, Spring becomes Summer in future – if there are only two seasons, like in tropical regions – then there won’t be any cherry trees. It’ll be Summer all year round, with only a wet and a dry season. 47% of the world’s plant species are at risk of extinction. But I suppose I’ll go on pretending I believe in Spring for as long as I can. I must apparently.

In any event, I shouldn’t let any politically motivated environmental Disney issues cloud my perception. Sarah already knows how I feel about Bambi. And I probably shouldn’t even have mentioned what she was wearing, or drinking. Her voice was perfect and so was she.

And the other three musicians were pretty good too (except the piano player). They weren’t as good as me though. But then Sarah always does seem to prefer the hairy armed variety, which makes perfect sense, and I’m not a musician.

If she had any sense about her she would never want or need anything from me, in any sense. She’s a princess, I am unagi. She lives in the light, I live in the shadows. She still believes in Spring, I do not. I am unagi! Oh well, I guess it’s back to writing shitty little love songs about Ben Stiller and Tom Hanks.

I didn’t expect anything less than total rejection. She is a princess, after all, and she is an Australian too. No dumplings, soba or saké for me. Still, I thought she’d at least ask me out for tea. Not that it matters much. Sarah can’t save me. No one can. Now I guess I really will have to set myself on fire. Ben Stiller and Tom Hanks are totally fucked now.

A voice from above: So why are you still checking her social?

Primarily owing to repressed curiosity, I must admit I did take a look at her X-twatter account again today. The first post was a picture of her with some junior Tom Hanks-like actor type dude (the very same Mister Hairy Arms, I assume). He was pretending to play an electrified imitation guitar with a small piece of plastic. He had such an insipid and banal expressionless expression on his face. Sarah was playing her violin with her back to the camera. She was wearing that perfect yellow dress. I became so irrationally jealous. I wanted to punch him as hard as I could directly in his insipid and banal expressionless face. I couldn’t bear to look at any of her other posts. Or was that the intent?

A voice from below: Stop writing to her then. That’ll teach her.

I’ve stopped writing to her. I deactivated my fake X-twatter account (Jesus HFN Christ) and I unsubscribed from her YouBube channel too. I don’t think she wants me to write to her anymore, or ever did. And she probably doesn’t want me stalking her on social media either. I guess I can understand why. I’ll finish writing about My Three WHORES, and the other unfinished bits, then that’s it. This has to end at some point. I’m running out of time. We all are.

A voice from above: If you really loved her you’d sing her a non-shitty little love song till stars grew out of the air.

It wouldn’t make any difference. Besides, isn’t that kind of what I’m already doing?

A voice from below: How much you pay for shitty little love song?

In total? Including this $350 Uber ride? None of your fucking business. Just drive the fucking car.

As I was saying, I’m running out of time. So I’ll end by saying I didn’t feel empty and hopeless after the show, once I was no longer in Sarah’s presence. I felt calm. Then I thought about how I felt after leaving Kylie’s book launch that night in Perth. I compared how miserable I felt that night to how calm I felt then. Why so different? Then I began to understand why.

A voice from above: Because you don’t love her. You love...

Shh.

I didn’t do much for the rest of that evening. I bought some more instant coffee and a pint of milk (made in China) then went back to my hotel. I should have smuggled in some New Zealand milk as well. I fell asleep at about 1AM while watching Japanese commercial television. I didn’t dream. I awoke at 4AM, ears bleeding, to the overwrought squawking strains of that godawful deepfake Taylor Swift song, Never mind I’ll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best for you too. Don’t forget me... A truly horrendous sound, both voice and verse. It caused intense physical pain in my ears, and in my brain. Quite the contrast from the previous evening, I thought.

*

I finally ate out at a restaurant today, a tonkatsu restaurant in Shimbashi Station. I had to make up for all those instant noodles somehow. Very good tonkatsu. Crispy on the outside yet tender and juicy within. But while eating it, as I sat there alone at the counter, alone together in silence with the other solitary diners, each of us hermetically encased in thick transparent plastic facial barricades, all I could think about was Sarah. I was thinking about something else she said during the show: that life is nothing but a monotonous load of meaningless shit with rare moments of ephemeral beauty in between. I’m paraphrasing, of course, but words to that effect. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone while thinking about that. I suppose that really is the best we can ever hope for. How depressing. But I didn’t cry. I think I would have if the tonkatsu weren’t so good, but I didn’t cry.

It’s illegal to smoke outside in Japan.

A voice from below: How much you pay for Shimbashi Station tonkatsu?

Shh.

The smoking room at Shimbashi Station, right beside that 1940s-era steam locomotive (C11 292) – It blows a whistle three times a day! – both young and old, male and female (predominately male, “salarymen”), 40 people in a small enclosed space designed for no more than ten (I think I smoked the equivalent of 20 cigarettes in about five minutes), eyes down always (smokers generally have better taste in footwear than non-smokers – just an observation), total silence but for the strained whirling of that solitary tar-gunked 1980s-era Daikin air-conditioning unit, all of us vainly trying to keep at least 0.15 metres of distance, cast adrift from the main of society, forever on the periphery, always searching for that ever-elusive well-ventilated smoking room with less than ten people.

I can’t believe I forgot to bring vape juice.

Japan needs to ban the sale of all big tobacco products and legalise the sale of no-plume odourless nicotine vapes.

*

I love travelling alone, especially in Japan and especially on trains. No plans, just go. Change my mind any time I want and go somewhere else. Get off the train here or there any time the mood strikes me. No discussion, no explanation, no fuss.

I’m still not sure why I decided to get off the train in Sendai. I wanted to smoke a cigarette, but I suspect that wasn’t the main reason.

Sendai, City of Trees. Hmmm. From what I’ve seen, I doubt any city in Japan could claim that title. Not many cities anywhere else could either.

They are nice trees, I must admit. But a few dozen Zelkova trees lining Jozenji-dori avenue does not a City of Trees make. Nonetheless, they are nice trees, and they do sometimes provide a very useful public service. In Japanese folklore Zelkova trees are known as “the protectors of the people”, and it is true they did protect more than a few people during the tsunami that followed the 2011 Tohoku earthquake. People all over Sendai clung to them to escape the surging black waves of devastation. The atavistic urge to hide under the leaves of trees never leaves us, so it would seem. Sendai was the largest city closest to the epicentre – only 130 kilometres.

I didn’t see any cherry blossoms in Sendai. But I did see a nice bronze statue of a large-breasted naked lady drying her hair under the Zelkova trees. At least I learned something about Zelkova trees and got to see some well-sculptured big bronze boobs. And I also learned that the word tsunami originated in this part of Japan, in 1896 after the Sanriku earthquake.

Sendai is a modern city in harmony with nature, so they say. I don’t know about that. But I must say it is a nice city. They also have some very good ramen restaurants. In fact, I ate some of the finest ramen I’ve ever eaten in my life in Sendai. I ordered the braised pork with the thicker noodles – midway between udon and soba. A little too firm for my liking but still very good. I wasn’t even looking for ramen. I just passed by this place by chance, and it didn’t even look that good from the outside. Always the way. It must have been the intoxicating aroma of braised pork broth wafting out into the street. And no I’m not going to tell you where it is. Do your own research.

Sendai, a city in harmony with the aroma of braised pork broth, and a few dozen Zelkova trees.

I liked Sendai so much I decided to stay the night. I’m staying at the Sendai Washington Hotel, right across the road from the Japan Railways Building. I can see straight into their offices from my hotel room window. It’s 8PM on a Friday and people are still working – as too am I. I wonder what they’re working on. Issuing replacement lost JRail passes perhaps?

*

Northern Japan reminds me a little of Southern Aotearoa, only more Japanese people and a lot less cows. Similar landscape and weather, same 1980s-era infrastructure, same general sense of economic malaise. It does snow a lot more here, however. In fact, Aomori City is reputedly the snowiest city in the world. But thankfully it’s now Spring (kind of), so it wasn’t snowing when I arrived. I don’t like snow.

I arrived to the sound of the worst played best-sounding street piano I’ve ever heard in my life. They have a brand new full-size white Yamaha grand piano at Shin-Aomori Station, and an endless selection of musically inclined tone deaf rail commuters willing to play it. At least it wasn’t snowing.

On my first day in Aomori City I visited the Nebuta Museum WA-RASSE, which is conveniently and centrally located right next door to the train station. The museum itself is a distinctive piece of modern architectural art, the exterior of which is made up of hundreds of red steel ribbons parted like curtains at its entrances, which enticingly yet disappointingly seem to promise so much more than than the interior contains. The Nebuta Museum WA-RASSE houses a vast collection of enormous brightly coloured papier-mâché floats depicting kabuki actors, various types of gods, sumo wrestlers, and historical or mythical figures from Japanese or Chinese culture. For a few days in August these floats are dragged out, lit up and paraded around the streets of Aomori City in what is known as the Aomori Nebuta Matsuri. Apparently it’s one of the biggest festivals in all of northern Japan. In addition to drawing some of the largest crowds you’d ever wish to avoid, the Aomori Nebuta Matsuri is also notorious for attracting a small group of young people known as the karasu zoku (or the “crow tribe”), who dress all in black and make a thorough nuisance of themselves by drinking large quantities of saké and throwing cherry bombs into the crowds. Incidentally, the phrase karasu zoku is borrowed from the Japanese fashion industry. It was a “full body darkening” fashion style popular during the 1980s.

The karasu zoku style is all about bold, oversized clothing. The androgynous look, as well as asymmetrical cuts, were popular. Clothes were meant to cover the body shape, not enhance it. In general, the style was inspired by the aesthetics of the British punk movement.

— j-fashion.fandom.com

Still, fashionable or not, and I’m not at all condoning their behaviour, but I think the karasu zoku are totally awesome. And I suppose that’s why there’s usually a more visible police presence here in Aomori City than most other cities in Japan. The police probably think they’re nothing but North Korean anarchists in disguise. I wonder what the karasu zoku are really protesting against. I never did find out. Is it all the economic malaise? Or are they just annoyed by all the gaudy bright colours, large crowds and excessive noise? Or are they merely objecting to the fact that the most appropriate and centrally located modern art building in town is currently being used as a papier-mâché lantern storehouse?

On my second day in Aomori City I decided to visit the Aomori Museum of Art, which is not conveniently or centrally located, near anything. I had to take a half-hour taxi ride just to get there. There was a Narita Tohl exhibit going on that day. Narita Tohl was a visual artist who grew up in Aomori and worked on the Ultraman television series (1966-67). Ultraman was a large masked man in a silver and orange rubber jumpsuit who liked to beat the shit out of giant goannas (Perentie giganteus). I’ve never really been much of a fan of the kyodai hero genre, or tokusatsu “movies” in general, but it was interesting seeing the early sketches of some of Narita’s rather visionary engineering design work. I kept thinking about how all this feeds back into real design a generation later. Some of the stuff he dreamed up in the late 60s resembles modern-day real hardware, particularly the aircraft.

On my third day in Aomori City there didn’t appear to be much else to do, so I caught a train out to Hirosaki.

*

I bought a ¥740 umbrella and a pair of Mickey Mouse socks in Hirosaki. I was in a hurry and couldn’t find any plain black socks.

A voice from below: How much you pay for Mickey Mouse socks?

I don’t remember, so I can’t tell you. But I can tell you that I have a spectacular view of Mount Iwaki from my hotel room window. It’s actually a dormant stratovolcano. I can also tell you that Hirosaki is supposedly one of the most spectacular cherry blossom spots in all of Japan.

Earlier I took a walk around town. I didn’t see any cherry blossoms. But I did see two or three plum trees still in bloom. It must be all that cool air blowing down off the mountainside. Or maybe it’s just because this part of Japan is closer to the sky. It was such a nice day I planned on walking all the way to Hirosaki Castle, the seat of the Tsugaru clan. Then it started to rain – large heavy drops. It’s not supposed to rain like this until mid-June. Tsuyu rain they call it, or “plum rain”. Michizane, the ninth-century Japanese poet-bureaucrat, wrote about it.

あめの下のがるゝ人のなければや着てし濡れ衣干るよしもなき

From the heavens’ falling rain,
No one escapes,
So,
Blameless, I wear my soaking clothes
With no way to dry them.

東風吹かばにほひをこせよ梅花主なしとて春を忘るな

Should the east winds blow,
Carry me the fragrance
Of plum blossom;
And though your lord is gone,
Never forget the springtime.

— Sugawara no Michizane

Michizane wrote those lines while in exile, after having been banished by the Emperor Daigo for ripping off Du Fu, the eight-century Chinese poet-bureaucrat – and for fraternising with plum trees. But at least he still believed in Spring.

Michizane was of the Sugawara clan, not the Tsugaru clan. But you get what I mean.

Upon arriving back at my hotel, I changed out of my soaking wet clothes – into my grey tracky dacks and my new Mickey Mouse socks – sprawled out on the nice big queen-size bed and stared out the window at Mount Iwaki for a while. I usually don’t dream these days, and when I do they’re rarely worth remembering, let alone writing about. That afternoon, however, as the sun was setting behind the mountain, I dozed off and dreamed the following:

I’m walking down the main street of a deserted small town in northern Japan. Traditional Edo-period wooden houses line the street on either side. The houses are clean and well-maintained yet utterly vacant inside. It starts to rain – relentless heavy rain – and a cold hard wind begins to blow. I keep walking to the outskirts of the town, encountering no one – until I come to a broad deep river flowing fast with bright green-coloured water. Ghostly barren cherry trees line the near side of the river, while on the other side, rising out of a whirlwind of tumultuous clouds, I espy an austere stone castle atop a steep high hill. Instinctively, I know that’s where I need to be. But there doesn’t appear to be a bridge. I walk for what feels like many kilometres along the side of the river, which seems to endlessly encircle the hill, yet not one bridge do I see. Then I see an old man walking slowly towards me, hunched over, hobbling along with a crooked walking stick. I say hello and ask him how to cross the river. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at me – like I’m a ghost and he doesn’t see or hear me at all. Then, as he passes me by, I hear the sound of a woman’s voice singing. It sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of the river, calling to me. Ōkī magoi wa otōsan, she sings. I look down into the lucid green water. A large whirlpool begins to form, from the centre of which the sound of her voice grows ever louder. Then I know it’s Sarah calling me. I feel an overwhelming urge to jump straight in and drown myself in the sound.

Beyond the banal and obvious psycho-sexual-death symbolism, I’m not entirely sure how to interpret this dream. I’d read something earlier that day about carp (Cyprinidae): how their swim bladders are connected to their inner ears, in what is known as the Weberian organ, giving them excellent hearing underwater; and I’d also recently learned how the original form of sushi, known as funazushi, was originally made from funa (fermented carp), and that modern-day “fast” sushi would probably not exist at all if not for the invention of soy sauce. Perhaps all that had something to do with it. Or perhaps it was merely yet another vivid reminder of the eternal torments one must necessarily endure while living an endless living death?

Or it could be that I’m just suffering from an overstimulated imagination. I have experienced quite a lot of stimulation over the last few days. I believe a sensory distillation process is required. No more input for a while, but for Tsugaru soba and shamisen – and Mount Iwaki. And no more dreaming about Sarah.

Tsugaru Soba

I finally ate soba today. I chanced upon a clandestine Tsugaru soba restaurant while exploring the outskirts of the town. Heaven noodles. No other way to describe them. Grilled dried soybean stock as the binding agent. Perfect consistency. Firm yet melt in your mouth after about 3-4 seconds. Almost no need to chew. The broth was a little too bland for my liking, but still very good. You can never have everything, even in heaven.

It always amazes me how the same dish can taste so different depending on where and how it’s made.

Tsugaru Shamisen

She was of the Tsugaru clan, I could tell instantly. I don’t know how. I’ve never been here before, or even met anyone of the Tsugaru clan before, yet I was certain of it the moment she met me at the door.

She told me to go away – politely of course. She told me I was too late for the performance that evening and that I should make a booking for the following evening – which I did.

I wasn’t nearly so nervous when she met me at the door the following evening, although I was still quite nervous. I was afraid she’d have no trouble seeing straight through to the core of my shamefully ill-mannered and uncouth nature – and my deplorable lack of Japanese language skills – and turn me away right then and there at the door, again. In my then-current fragile state of mind, and after being turned away at the door the previous evening, even one slightly admonishing gesture from her would have been enough to totally destroy me. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. She gracefully guided me to my table and patiently explained the menu to me. I ordered some sushi (no carp) and an Ahhsaaheee!

The sushi was amazingly good, considering Hirosaki is nowhere near the sea – a fresh delectable selection of just about every variety of fish imaginable (except carp). I devoured them all in under ten minutes, and the Ahhsaaheee! Then the music started.

The sound is incisive, it cuts through you whole – same as their swords, same as that cooler air blowing down off the mountainside. How three silk strings stretched across a slim piece of rosewood attached to a small square drum can make such a sound is entirely beyond me. It must be in part attributable to the plectrum, known as a bachi, which very much resembles a large plastic paint scraper. They’re not really made of plastic, of course. I later found out they’re made from tortoise shell and cost over ¥60,000. Tortoise shell as the binding agent. I may have to steal that idea. I also later found out that the word bachi is the same word for drumstick. Watching and listening to how the Tsugaru shamisen is played you can understand why. The strings are more struck than plucked.

Apparently, this vigorous and virtuosic style of shamisen playing was invented by blind beggars – stupid old visually impaired homeless cunts known as bosama – in response to the poverty that inevitably results after suffering through endless natural disasters. I may have to steal that idea as well. I think I already have. I can only play three strings at once too.

He was of the Tsugaru clan, I could tell instantly, right from the moment he took the stage. He wasn’t a blind beggar, or a stupid old homeless cunt, but he did keep his eyes closed during the whole performance and he rarely spoke. There were no lyrics, except for the occasional hup and hey to mark the chord changes – the only two words you ever really need really.

It is no mere exaggeration to say the sound cuts right through you. There is simply no more accurate way to describe the effect Tsugaru shamisen has on one’s senses. And even now, as I listen to a 1970s recording of the great Tsugaru shamisen master, Takahashi Chikuzan, I’m still at a loss for words. Recordings don’t even come close to capturing the visceral nature of this sound, no more than I can by stringing a few inadequate words together. Tsugaru shamisen must be immediately experienced by all the senses, not just heard.

And that’s not just my personal opinion. There was a group of skiing tourists from Okinawa at the table over from me, whom I could plainly see were similarly affected. I even overheard one of their party outwardly express disappointment that the music only lasted an hour and her earnest desire to go out dancing afterwards (wildly, I presume). I wish I could have joined them.

Being with friends and dancing is the secret to life.

— a woman from Okinawa

Knowing how to dance and who your friends are, if you have any, is important too.

— some stupid old homeless cunt

The round of the peaks and the roaring at the centre announce that the snows are not far away.

— Yasunari Kawabata

Due to the lack of snow, GALA Yuzawa Ski Resort will be closed for the season on April 23, 2023 (Sunday). Please note that due to this, the Joetsu Shinkansen between Echigo Yuzawa Station and Gala Yuzawa Station will be suspended.

— Japan Railways announcement

Mount Iwaki

An old man on the street just gave me a brochure with a spectacular picture of Mount Iwaki on the cover (taken twenty years ago). I thought it was some kind of tourist information thing, so I accepted it and thanked him kindly. But upon translating the text I quickly discovered it was merely an advertisement for Buddhism. All the world’s problems would be solved instantly if people would only believe in Buddha, so the copy read. What any of that has to do with Mount Iwaki I’m still at a loss to interpret. It is estimated that 20 years from now Mount Iwaki will be without snow all year round, whether you believe in Buddha or not.

Imported religions are a lot like imported beer. I don’t need no imported religions. I have Ahhsaaheee!

A voice from above: Indeed.

Hirosaki Castle

Last day in Hirosaki. Today I visited Hirosaki Castle, the seat of the Tsugaru clan. There’s a cherry-tree lined moat around the castle grounds. The moat is inhabited by a good deal of large brown carp. I didn’t see any cherry blossoms here either. But I did see a very beautiful woman in a long white dress near the entrance to the castle. She was standing by the moat staring down into the murky green water. She clapped her hands loudly two times. The large brown carp all congregated before her. There must have been about 50 of them. They swam around in slow concentric circles, occasionally rising to the surface. They all had their eyes fixed on her, as if mesmerised. She stood there for a few seconds inspecting them carefully, then she turned suddenly and casually walked away. I could have sworn I saw her again at the Hirosaki train station as I was leaving, only this time she was wearing a long dark brown dress. I couldn’t see her face; she was wearing a mask. She gave me a long knowing look as she walked by me, which I returned as best I could. I wonder if she’s of the Tsugaru clan.

*

Back in Tokyo again. I decided to visit the National Art Centre of Tokyo, the Mori Art Museum, and the National Museum of Modern Art. Yes, I decided to take in some real Japanese culture for a change.

If ever I have my own exhibit in a modern art gallery (which I never will), I would like it to be titled, Experiments in Deconstructed De facto Solidarity: Mastering the breaking of rectangular abstractions of impure necessity after looking at too much so-called modern art.

I learned a new Japanese word today, at the National Art Centre of Tokyo: 歌垣 (utagaki). And I saw some pictures I’ve never seen before, by Ikkō Narahara.

A woman in Spain

She looks exactly how I feel after looking at too much modern art. Why does she look so unwell? And what does she have in her right hand? There were two other photographs of her, in the act of rising to her feet, above the photograph I include here, which I do not include here. Do your own research.

They also had some Paul Klee pictures, at the National Museum of Modern Art. I had no idea Paul Klee was a Japanese modern artist. I thought he was a Swiss furniture designer. He was also quite a good fiddle player, incidentally.

All Swiss furniture aside, I quite like Paul Klee. Probably because he was a musician and imbued his work with so much movement. He may not have been a Japanese modern artist, but he was a master rectangle wrangler of much polyphonic chiaroscuro – which I suppose is why the Japanese like him too. I especially like how he can’t be classified as belonging to any single “school” of art. Klee constructed his own school. He also liked to paint fish, incidentally – a few of them carp.

Some old Chinese dude just farted loudly in the Paul Klee exhibit. Seriously, that really just happened as I was thinking about writing that paragraph above. New Zen Buddhist meditation technique? Farting loudly in Japanese modern art galleries beside Paul Klee pictures?

The Mori Art Museum is located on the 52^nd floor of the Roppongi Hills Building, where all the untaxed exceedingly wealthy people live. On a clearer day you can barely see all the way to Mount Fuji. There was a Disney animation exhibit going on. It was sold out, damn it. There was also an Architecture that Attempts to Mimic Some Aspects of Nature exhibit going on. So I saw that. Some nice ideas, but most of the designs weren’t structurally integrated into the landscape or the native ecology as a whole; still merely a rudimentary stylised mimicry of nature; “sustainability” marketing in architectural form. Nevertheless, looking out across all of Tokyo from the 52^nd floor of the Roppongi Hills Building, across that endless cubist patchwork of tightly packed beige-grey concrete oblongs, I must admit their designs were infinitely more preferable to any more of those tightly packed beige-grey concrete oblongs.

I’m all galleried out now. No reasonably sentient human being can do more than three galleries in one day. To do any more results in visual sensory input overload. They usually put the best stuff at the start anyway, so just get a look at the first three pictures near the entrance then move on to the next exhibit. Most so-called modern art is vulgar, pretentious and plagiarised, the world over. Commercial designers ripping off the rare good stuff. They all end up in advertising eventually, or in prison. Suffered some political persecution in the past so they stack some reconstructed detritus up on the floor or take a selfie of their ungroomed arthouse muff and call it art. Yeah, thanks for that.

I never made it to the other galleries. I have to go back.

A voice from below: Come now, how many more pictures of ungroomed arthouse muff do you need to see?

Lots!

A voice from above: I concur. In fact, that ungroomed arthouse muff you saw at the National Museum of Modern Art – that wall-sized full-colour super glossy high definition triptych of that young Japanese woman artist (what’s her name?); her ungroomed arthouse muff the first panel, her pimply nubile backside the second, her young yet stern and care-worn face the third – I thought particularly thought provoking, if not profound. It’s quite a bold statement for a young artist to make and provokes a very important question in response: “Here’s my cunt, here’s my arse, here’s my face, in that order. How does that make you feel?”

Much the same way Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights makes me feel. Same old, same old.

A voice from below: That’s, of course, assuming you view the triptych from left to right, in that order.

Good point.

I wonder where Sarah is right now. I wonder if she would concur with my broadly reductive generalisation regarding all so-called modern art. I’m staying in Ginza behind the Kabukiza Theatre. She could find out which hotel if she really wanted to. She’s probably not even in Tokyo. She probably left for Sydney the day after the show. She’s probably staying at the Ritz-Carlton with Mister Hairy Arms, or with that cute Italian journalist – or both, just to make a point of it.

*

I heard flutes, whistles, and the beating of drums (taiko). A large crowd had gathered outside my hotel. They carried a small golden shrine (a mikoshi) through the streets of Ginza – an intricately carved model of the real shrine plated in gold leaf with a golden bird at each corner and an even larger golden bird with long tail feathers perched at its very top (the only kind of bird life you’re likely to see or hear in this city, unless it’s a cutesiepoo cartoon character). They were preparing for Sanja Matsuri.

Matsuris are rather crowded and noisy affairs. But Shinto is a non-authoritarian animistic nature religion with much in common with Australian Aboriginal spiritual practises, so I wasn’t at all perturbed by all the noise and quite happily mingled with the crowd and joined in the procession. Western anthropologists would argue that Australian Aboriginal spiritual beliefs should more strictly be termed totemic rather than animistic, and that some Aboriginal cultural practises could be considered quite authoritarian. Whatever the case, the shared metaphysical belief that all things contain “soul” is enough for me. In fact, if ever I were forced to choose a religion it would definitely be Shintoism...if not Taoism or Zoroastrianism, or Aboism.

I’ve been here nearly two weeks now and despite not knowing anyone or speaking the language I feel right at home, if it weren’t for the lack of bird life. In fact, Tokyo is just a bigger version of Perth, with more Japanese people and no Aboriginal people, and no birds. Perhaps I’ve living been out in the sticks for too long, and perhaps I’ve been corrupted by the relative abundance of bird song still to be heard in Aotearoa, but I’d be lying if I said that didn’t that worry me. Although, I do quite enjoy the quiet here. In fact, I think Tokyo is the quietest big city I’ve ever visited – when there isn’t a matsuri going on. But I still think Japan needs more birds, and Aotearoa and Australia need more trains. Over half have undergone significant species loss, in both cases.

And yet I must admit I have violated a few social norms during my time in Japan: I drank an Ahhsaaheee! on the street (once); I smoked outside (a few times, but discreetly and I never littered); I sneezed in public (twice); I cursed out loud a few times, under my breath (that piece of glass is still stuck in my left foot); I talked on the phone (once) on the Shinkansen (you’re supposed to go to the space between the carriages); I wore grey tracky dacks (indoors); I went over the speed limit (twice) while driving through Kobe; and I disposed of some non-required luggage (no human remains) by leaving it in my vacated hotel room without informing the staff. (And I’ve obviously gone completely nuts with the parentheticals.)

*

Last day in Japan. I’ve yet to build up a tolerance to instant coffee and I’m still waking up at 4am, but nothing’s open until 11am. Stupid holiday hours. I checked out of my hotel at 10AM, walked around Ginza for an hour or so, ate a Belgian waffle with vanilla ice cream for breakfast in Ginza Sony Park, then I went to see the kabuki. I saw Kotobuki Soga no Taimen, a slow motion 17^th-century vendetta play about two brothers seeking revenge for their murdered father. The lead actor wasn’t played by Tom Hanks and the script wasn’t written by Ben Stiller. There were no black people (or foreigners) and only two women. There was, however, a blackface part, or “monkey makeup” part as they call it in kabuki. Both the women were played by Japanese men, as too was the monkey makeup part. So all up there were 19 colourfully dressed Japanese men on stage, one in blackface, two in drag. I started to nod off, I must admit – not because I was bored, but because I was very tired and because of the dreamlike fantastical splendour of it all. I think the lead actor, playing Soga no Gorō, saw me nodding off. I’m not kidding. When he got to the part where he angrily throws down his saké and breaks the rectangular wooden serving tray, I could have sworn he was glaring directly at me; his eyes like two fiery Tamahagane-forged Samurai swords simultaneously perforating and searing my soul with intensely directed thrusts of carefully controlled yet for the most part wholly unmitigated pure rage.

After the play ended, I caught a train back to the airport. I hate airports (transit detention centres) but I think I could live at Narita International Airport. There’s more restaurants there than in all of New Zealand. They even have a Uniqlo there. It’s all coming out of Vietnam and Bangladesh anyway.

Thankfully, I didn’t get rear-ended by a great big man-bunned Indian bitch-man this time, and nothing else untoward happen to me. But I did forget to swipe my passport when I checked in (consciously?) and customs confiscated my flask of Suntory whiskey (still three-quarters full). They also took my Swiss Army keychain pocket knife. Probably for the best. I don’t handle rejection well. The young woman from customs who relieved me of my contraband items was so undeniably charming I really didn’t mind – as too was the young woman from ANA who completed my incomplete check-in. I wonder if they’re of the Tsugaru clan.

They have WiFi on this flight! And it works! A true miracle! I’ve been waiting 23 years to use WiFi on a plane. I’m drafting this ending and committing changes at 37,000 ft above sea level. We just passed Torishima Island. But then who cares? No one is reading this. Who am I writing this for? There is no one now.

That’s where I was going to end it. I pushed that change a little too early. I planned to sleep all the way. The two seats beside me were empty.

A voice from below: How much you pay for three seats?

$20. I upgraded my seat on the Air Aotearoa website.

I didn’t dream. I awoke at 4AM (1AM local) to the sound of someone on the other side of the plane opening a bag of peanuts. Noise-cancelling headphones my arse. I couldn’t get back to sleep. Not that I’m complaining. Three hours of real sleep on a plane is more than I was hoping for. I didn’t watch any sappy kitsch pro-rape Hollywood propaganda this time. I stared out of the window and thought of Sarah. The narrator’s closing words from the final episode of Galaxy Express 999 came back to haunt me:

Tetsuro thinks to himself that perhaps from the very beginning his journey was in fact a solitary one; that Maetel was merely a vision that propelled his youth, a vision born in the hearts of many young boys – a fleeting dream towards the future...

A future that no longer exists.

I had the seat right next to the starboard engine, looking out across the wing. It was perfectly calm – as it usually is at that altitude. There was a large full moon illuminating an endless white expanse of uniformly layered stratus clouds. It always unsettles me how the moon seems to follow you if you stare at it for long enough, especially on a plane. The engines on 787s are huge yet the wings look so slight and delicate, especially from this angle. We have to descend through all that dense cloud cover pretty soon. I hope Auckland Airport isn’t flooded again. That dude is still trying to open that bag of peanuts. I wonder if they’re taking extreme weather into account when they design these things nowadays. I hate flying as a passenger...unless it’s with Air Aotearoa.

My only complaint about Air Aotearoa: those hot pink and black uniforms are truly hideous. I can’t believe they make them wear them. I know, I’m not supposed to say things like that in this day and age. Yet that is the truth. Besides, the women forced to wear them complain about them more than anyone else.

My only other complaint about Air Aotearoa: vaping is illegal.

And my only complaint about Japan: all that JRail pass nonsense. I love Galaxy Express 999 too, but come on, let’s get with the times. Snail-mailing paper tickets? And it doesn’t even work on all trains. Why doesn’t it work for the Ginza line?

My only other complaint about Japan: vaping is illegal.

*

By virtue and by way of my steadfast adherence to the regulatory dictates of transparency and full disclosure, I must confess that I wasted $240 of taxpayer money at the Narita departures terminal on a “duty free” ploom X ®, “the ultimate heated tobacco experience” (the latest thing in big tobacco nicotine addiction delivery devices).

They must know people are going to try to use these things on the plane. If you use it normally, there’s practically no odour. But if you leave it on for too long it begins to smell like wet bumpers. My apologies to the structural engineering dude in the centre aisle beside me. He had an excellent peripheral sense of smell and correctly identified the cause of his olfactory disturbance with a quick sideways glance in my direction. He probably thought I was trying to set myself on fire. I assumed he was a structural engineer, or an architect or something of that nature. He was working on some CAD drawings on his laptop. I would have apologised for the odour and explained to him what I was hoping to achieve by experimenting with “the ultimate heated tobacco experience” on a plane at 37,000 feet above sea level, but I didn’t want to bother him any further than I clearly already had. He looked kind of busy.

In addition to leaving it on for too long, I think my ploom overheated because I was switching it on and off too many times. I was still trying to figure out how it worked, in addition to suffering from some mild nicotine withdrawal symptoms. Moreover, at that point I didn’t yet understand that you had to suck it all up at once. I thought you could just leave it on and use it whenever you wanted, the same way you do with a standard liquid vape. How wrong I was.

The tobacco “cartridges” literally are bumpers: one-third of a partially smoked and discarded cigarette. You stick it in a hole in the device (essentially a mini portable oven, which looks and feels like a highly polished garage door remote from the 80s), switch it on, wait for it to warm up, and as soon as the oven bell dings, you suck it all up. And you literally do have to suck it all up, all at once. You can’t just take a few delicate puffs and set it aside; the vapours will dissipate. You have to suck it all up at once while the device is at temperature, otherwise you’re just sucking up nothing – while remembering to breath in at least some oxygen in between sucking it all up, otherwise you’re liable to faint, or drop dead from a sudden stroke.

The device comes with Bluetooth. I’m not sure why you would ever need to connect to it via Bluetooth, so I didn’t bother testing that out. Or maybe it was already activated and that’s why it was buzzing so much and overheating? It buzzes and vibrates at random moments for no apparent reason at all. Perhaps to remind you to keep sucking it all up? Or perhaps it’s to remind you to keep charging it? – which it constantly requires; can’t seem to do more than three “cartridges” (the nicotine equivalent of half a real cigarette) before requiring a 12-hour recharge.

As far as the so-called cartridges go there is a bewildering array of flavours and nicotine strengths to choose from: wild berry mango punch, hazelnut coffee cream, iced vanilla chocolate sugar melon, etc. I selected the “regular” tobacco flavour: Mevius brand DEEP REGULAR bumpers (formerly Mild Seven), purely for nostalgic reasons. But I don’t think it really matters which brand or flavour you choose. They all smell and taste like wet bumpers.

As you’d expect, being little more than a wet bumper warmer the device does require a thorough cleansing every so often. I haven’t even finished half a pack of cartridges (bumpers) yet and already I can feel it clogging up with gunky residue. It does come with a few “cleaning sticks”, which you’re bound to lose (I have already), and instructions on how to clean it (lost also). But I don’t think I’ll bother. I’m all ploomed out now. That’s enough ultimate heated tobacco experience for me, particularly at this altitude and cabin pressure. I should have just bought a carton of Mild Seven and smoked them in the toilet.

Come to think of it, what was with that Japanese police political kabuki act near the food court at Narita airport, terminal one? What were they doing to that poor large-breasted African woman? Was it even an African woman? Or was it the ghost of Shinzo Abe in blackface and drag? Why were those 19 male Japanese police officers all surrounding her like that? What did she do? Dress too colourfully? Was she carrying a ploom? Or was it merely an act of political bukkake?...Sorry, I meant political kabuki.

I didn’t have time to stick around and find out. I only had one hour before my flight. I went to the food court. I ordered some Chinese food – beef noodles – and an Ahhsaaheee! It tasted like Italian – the noodles, not the beer.

I can’t remember what I ate on the plane. I think it was teriyaki salmon. They say you should never eat salmon on a plane. But this was Air Aotearoa, so I’m pretty sure it came from a fishery (fish farm). I didn’t get to eat much fish in Japan, except for in Hirosaki (not the carp), and that hastily consumed take-away sushi at Shin-Osaka. I did eat a lot of pork, however, and I emitted over 20 hours worth of jet fuel particles into the troposphere – and multiple other layers of the atmosphere, I’m sure. And I think I’ve donated at least half my yearly salary to the corporate totalitarian three-star hotel industry, and the hotel booking app companies that own them (major carbon polluters both), not to mention all that Uniqlo and GU clothing I bought. But I think it was worth it all just for those Heaven Noodles I ate in Hirosaki.

I say I didn’t watch any sappy kitsch pro-rape Hollywood propaganda on the flight back, however I did watch a four-part documentary series on Hitler’s private photographer (or political pornographer), Heinrich Hoffmann.

Hitler himself wasn’t exactly the eugenically ideal tall blonde blue-eyed Aryan male he himself so keenly desired, so Hoffmann tended to focus more on Hitler’s psychotic eyes, which many found “dreamy and hypnotic”.

Not many people know this, but Hoffmann published several books on Hitler, including The Hitler Nobody Knows (1933). Hoffmann also participated in the Beer Hall Putsch and introduced Hitler to Eva Braun (not on the same day).

Am I doing a Hoffmann on Sarah? Has Sarah merely become the Hitler to my Hoffmann? Have I indeed become a political pornographer? God help us both, I sincerely hope not.

Not that I’m doing what I usually do by calling anyone who defies or rejects me a Nazi. I’m sure Sarah’s not a Nazi. But then how can I be so sure about a woman I’ve never met before?

A voice from above: I still say you should have seized her and carried her away with you. She’s perfect, and you know it.

A voice from below: She’s probably a Nazi.

*

Back in Auckland. Dodged the extreme weather. 12 degrees, overcast with occasional light showers, winds west-southwest averaging 22 km/h with gusts up to 30 km/h. It was a fine smooth landing. I could have done better, but I must admit it was quite good.

After a ten-hour flight, I didn’t much warm to the idea of catching the three-hour bus (with traffic and tractors) back to Hamilton, or “The Ham” as I now refer to it – it would have only taken 30 minutes on a semi-fast train, if there were one – and I knew I wouldn’t be able to suffer being tormented by fellow backseat bus bogans, or the dreaded re-emergence of Mister Campylobacter, or that enormous child-abusing Don’t Tread on Me woman, so I rented a car. I know, I said I wouldn’t do that again. It still took about three hours (with traffic and tractors) and cost me about $400 by the time I returned the car, which I had to return to Auckland Airport anyway or else they were going to charge me an extra $300, but there you go. I’m done with the fucking bus.

A voice from below: Hahaha! I’m sorry, but you are indeed a very stupid person. How did you get back to Hamilton after returning the car?

Coincidentally (or not), there was a Kiwi Rail shutdown on the day of my return. And as I draft this:

BHUBANESWAR, India, June 2 (Reuters) – At least 207 people were killed and 900 injured when two passenger trains collided in Odisha on Friday, according to government officials in the eastern Indian state, in India’s deadliest rail accident in over a decade.

Thoughts return of that great big man-bunned Indian bitch-man who rear-ended me in line at Narita station while waiting to buy a replacement JRail pass. Should I remove that bit?

A voice from above: Leave it in. Just write something positive later about non-man-bunned Indian non-bitch-men not involving trains.

I should probably remove it. They’re landing rocket ships on the moon now, while their rail and road infrastructure continues to fall apart; they’ve still got that caste system going, and they still worship 23-armed pink plastic elephant-headed flying guru gods in the sky; 40% of people in India still live below the poverty line, with 42% of the world’s undernourished children living in India alone, and with an average of one child trafficked into bonded labour every eight minutes. And then there’s Rishi Sunak and Gautam Adani, not to mention Narendra Modi. I do, however, happen to agree with them about worshipping cows instead of eating them (too often), so there’s something positive.

They have those adorable little AI-assisted immigration machines at Auckland Airport now – the ones that randomly attempt to determine if you’re a criminal based on an arbitrary list of various “naughty” nations you may have visited in the past (for any reason), and how often you shift your eyes sideways (to the left). They straight out ask you if you’re a convicted criminal if you scan an Australian passport. Truly adorable. Sure, I guess. But I’m one of those “political criminals” too “entitled” to end up in prison – unless it’s the meat locker.

Back in the meat locker. I arrived to mould and maggots. I was in such a hurry when I left I forgot about the food on the stove, or to put the rubbish out. I received a severe reprimand from the building manager upon my arrival.

Coincidentally, the day of my return was the same day the fire alarm was being tested, over and over again, all day. A little more audience participation? I certainly hope that building doesn’t go up in flames, after I move out. I hear all that industrial-grade soundproofing is quite flammable, particularly in the summertime.

I should explain that my landlord is an exceedingly wealthy desiccated old biddy with a lot of free time on her hands. She owns the entire apartment building. With not much else to do and all the time and money in the world at her disposal, she enjoys nothing more than wasting the latter years of her sad little life by spying on her unsuspecting tenants and gossiping about their personal lives – especially me for some reason, even though I don’t have a personal life. She keeps close tabs on everyone residing in the building (especially me) via an underground network of paid informants and a desiccated old biddy faceporn group. The apartment itself is quite comfortable and reasonably priced, by today’s outrageously overpriced standards. But what really sold me on it was when she mentioned the industrial-grade soundproofing – which, like most things landlords tell you about their rental properties, was complete and utter bullshit.

After cleaning my reputedly industrial-grade soundproofed apartment, and while the fire alarm test was still in progress, I sat down to finish drafting this ending. I tend to do endings first. I stated at the beginning that Japan wasn’t as fantastical as I thought it would be, but I think that’s only because I didn’t get to see much of it. I was working most of the time. I need to go back. I never made it to Hokkaido or Okinawa, and I didn’t get to see much of Tokyo, Osaka or Kyoto either. I did make it to Aomori prefecture, however, and I did get to hear Sarah sing, and I did see the Kobe main line trains. Then there were those Heaven Noodles in Hirosaki. That alone was enough to justify, both as ideal initiation and sufficient vindication, my admittedly rather un-atypical fascination with Japan. For although Japan may not have lived up to all my dreamlike semi-spiritual romantic delusions (as expected), I at least now know my love for Japan is real. But then one’s first time is rarely one’s most fantastical, is it?

Still, I’m a bit disappointed I didn’t get to see the cherry blossoms. Oh well, I should have known I’d be too late for that too. Too late now, for everything.

But I don’t want to end on a sour note. I’m too depressed as it is and I do have work tomorrow. So I’ll end by saying thank you to Japan, and Sarah, for shattering the very last of all my dreams, and I’ll try to close with a somewhat less dreamlike semi-spiritual romantic delusion:

The cherry tree blossoms are all dead, but the plum tree blossoms are still blooming. Cooler air blowing down off the mountainside. I sit down under a 300-year-old cherry tree and stare at Mount Iwaki for a while. It starts to rain. I write something in my notebook, with my Sailor Indy Go Go Knock ball point pen, about not getting to see the cherry blossoms but at least seeing the plum blossoms. Then I close my eyes and dream (not about Sarah).

Not exactly Michizane, I know, but it’ll have to do for now.

- How to Signify Everything

A how-to on how to fail at performance error processing and human-centred information design management

As companion pieces go, this one isn’t much of a companion, and it’s not even much of a how-to. It’s more of a diatribe – from the Latin diatriba “learned discussion”, from Greek diatribe “employment, study,” in Plato, “discourse,” literally “a wearing away (of time), a waste of time,” from dia “away” (see dia-) + tribein “to wear, rub,” from PIE root *tere- “to rub, turn.” Not that I’m trying to turn this into a Latin lesson or anything.

By today’s definition the word diatribe is more often considered synonymous with the word rant. Yet I assure you it is with reference to both definitions (both as pointless disaffected discourse and emotionally unrestrained rant) that I use the word diatribe. I would never wish to bore you with a single definition.

Nor do I wish to bore you with any politically motivated spite or trivial personal drama. I promise I won’t be making any creative character attacks or calling anyone out by name (except by way of example). You all know who you are and what you have not done. However, if throughout the course of this diatribe I should ever feel the need to resort to some kind of verbal assault on a specific named individual, I assure you I shall direct that assault, as expected, against Tom Hanks and Tom Hanks only at all times (or Ben Stiller).

I know, you all love Tom Hanks. Most of you are straight, white and old. You still listen to Pink Floyd too, and you still watch The Simpsons and Eastenders – and you all drive late model Audis. Tom Hanks is your hero. He’s the one you want, not me. You need someone like Tom Hanks who can get up on a podium and inspire you all with soaring visionary rhetoric and flawless Hollywood-style good looks. I can’t do that. I won’t. I am unable. I’m not Tom Hanks. I’m the complete opposite of Tom Hanks. For indeed, I am...

Dramatic pause.

The Anti-Hanks!

That’s right. I am he. The Anti-Hanks! I hate that muthafucka.

So don’t worry, it’s not going to be me. I’m too perverted and corrupted now. Evil to the core. I’ve participated in far too many dirty wars and done way too many drugs. I killed a kookaburra once (unintentionally), and I even once participated in the death of a partially developed human fetus (intentionally). I’ve eaten human flesh before (unknowingly), and I’ve had far too many soapy massages (knowingly). I even had sex with the maid once (more than once). I am totally debauched and morally unfit for command – unfit for anything really. Besides, I can’t handle any form of responsibility. So don’t worry, it’s not going to be me. And you can be absolutely sure it won’t be any one of you either.

However, since you insist, and although I’ve since been summarily dismissed (and purely for the purpose of completing this piece), I’ll try to imagine I’m capable of wearing funny hats for a while and becoming your president – but only for a little while, and only for the purpose of completing this piece.

Or perhaps a ship’s captain would be more appropriate? Captain Crack, perhaps? Yes, I shall become Captain Crack! I shall stand with my back to you fully naked – but for an old black pirate hat on my weary weazened head – and in my best old evil pirate voice deliver up the following delightfully deranged diatribe in oratorical how-to-fail form:

Captain Crack’s Delightfully Deranged Diatribe on How to Signify Everything in Oratorical How-to-Fail Form

Tēnā koutou. Greetings, crew (fellow office turds). We are gathered here today to... Wait a sec. Just let me get up here on my tripod. Ah yeah, there we go. Slots right in there. Someone bring me a tantō! Now, shall I set a flame to my fagots. Hold. Aha! My, how the flames do rise! And now the smoke! Ah! I take several deep breaths, then a swig of rum. Aha! My, how the flames do rise!

We are gathered here today to examine the relationship between performance error processing and human-centred information design management. We appear to have a serious problem with both, and their relationship. We are failing, and yet it would appear as though we are not failing. More than that, more effort is being put into making it appear as though we are not failing than there is into looking into the reasons why we are failing. What is failing anyway? Are we even really failing? And if we are, why? We simply don’t have enough knowledge. We seem to not only have a problem with knowing what causes and constitutes failure, but we also seem to have a problem with knowing anything at all. And then we go and try to cover up both our “failure” and our deliberate lack of knowledge regarding that failure by confusing the fuck out of everyone with shitloads of contradictory misinformation. We signify everything, which is the same as signifying nothing.

...[misinfo failing problem agenda. failing power structures.]

According to this agenda then, the following topics shall be discussed:

1. Managers

   A detailed discussion and three case studies arguing in favour for the deconstruction of all legacy top-down hierarchical management constructs.

2. ChatGPT

   A quick summary of my thoughts regarding ChatGPT, and its uses.

3. Covid

   A quick summary of my thoughts regarding Covid, and its uses.

4. Website

   Some background notes on both the old and new websites, and a detailed explanation of the technical architecture and the new features.

5. Strategy

   Your five core strategic objectives, with a detailed explanation of each.

6. Funding

   Where the money is and isn’t going, and where it will and won’t go in future (with a particular focus on technical infrastructure).

7. Restructuring

   How this organisation will be structured upon completion of the deconstruction phase outlined in section one; how a hierarchically circular organisational structure works in practice (with a particular focus on technical infrastructure).

1. Managers

[All they have to do is whack "Manager" on the end of their title and they think they can do whatever they want. We must extirpate forever from your feeble office turd minds the delusional and highly dangerous belief that you all need to be micromanaged into an early grave by people who know less about what you do than you do. Manager culture must go. close down the whole street so one dude with a jackhammer can needlessly destroy a section of road for no real reason while 12 other dudes in white hard hats and hi-vis vests look on and misdirect traffic around an illegally parked bright green little Mazda 121. Plenty of money and talent in this country. Problem is all the waste and apathy, and too many manager fuckwits. don't want to be part of your dirty little office manager gangster club. I work for a living. antiquated relics clinging to power. old failing power structures. manager gangster cliques. they'll all be gone by this time next year, so I've been told. prosecuting the worst offenders for creating and fostering mentally unhealthy working environments. The core is defecting. You lose the core, the whole thing falls apart. Pragmatism as ideology. The soft underbelly of pragmatism. Baby's gotta feed. making a kid's game out of people having their houses destroyed by extreme weather while their houses are being destroyed by extreme weather. Serious games, indeed. playing with us like we're all still in primary school. They have a dirty little secret alright. They call it "social science". When they're not rainbow washing or pink washing they're green washing. marketing garbage." environmental science supplanted by the pseudo-sciences. urging to mutiny. always trying to "unpack" what other people say by endlessly reiterating and adding all their marketing bullshit on top of it. glossifying it. I'll rant as well as thou. While I was away they clued me in on who's really working for whom. I had my suspicions. But now I know for sure. cow farters. the only industry where to know nothing is a requirement]

[They believe that if they stay in one place for long enough and consistently foul their own nests that that entitles them somehow to identify more closely with that place; that somehow their terrestrially mingled shit confers ownership of the land. I believe they call it territorial faecal markings – or, as I have come to call it, The Law of Shit. Whoever has the most shit in it owns it. It all ends up in the same place eventually: in our food and water. it'll just go on the way it always has, same old same old...until it doesn't one day. Perfect isn't it how the Pacific Island Climate Update is presented by a corpo-plastic-fascist American dude in a suit? And the Chief Scientist is an American dude too. Useless Ipsos mumbo jumbo $100,000 infographic parrotry. I think they're far-right climate change denialists in disguise. Why else would they be here? Or maybe they're making a "movie"? Lord of the Hot Pink Jumpsuits? Plot: When full-colour glossy brochureware becomes policy. That's when three middle-aged corpo-plastic-fascist faux-feminists in hot pink jumpsuits go completely nuts and take up crowbars and start smashing up late model Audis at random in the street. I know, it makes no sense at all. It's all just senseless carnage. But at least they're all wearing hot pink jumpsuits. It is the most befitting attire for our times. 2 years planning, 18 months of building, and still nothing. hierarchy is fundamentally flawed.]

We spend more time and money enabling the existence of so-called managers than we do getting any real work done. And we’re all complicit. We’re all manager enablers. We have to get rid of them or we’re all going down. Time to mutiny. I don’t know if any of you have noticed this or not, but we’re taking on water. We need to throw all the dead weight overboard. Train them all up as baristas and they can go chat their arses off all day doing that. Most of them already live in Wellington anyway.

This organisation needs to be entirely restructured and most of you retrenched. Departmental level managers owning product and directing half-arsed makeshift strategy on the fly – clearly evident from the old website. What a mess. Still living in the 90s. Ben Stiller, your real captain, must be made to walk the plank. I sincerely urge you all to mutiny.

[Having a manager just for the sake of it, even though there's no work for them to do, and the work there is to do they're not capable of doing. Can't do their own work competently, but they seem to feel they have the right to involve themselves in work they have no business being involved in. Meetings are for managers, and the sycophants who service them; they're never for us. absurd farce, in like kind. the 'manager' problem. slow-moving faults. The Microsoft Fucking Teams liability. I think we've identified the source of the problem. Highly selective manager-chatbot purge required. it's a business alright, they're all in on it. they're too expensive to service and maintain. They're like broken-down old tractors you can't buy spare parts for anymore. domestic food supply chains. And we don't even need any tractors. We need self-driving electric-powered jetboats! And more wheel nut tighteners! Entrenched useless bureaucrats living out their twilight years in total oblivion. departments unable or unwilling to support each other because they're so under resourced (or over resourced), or just don't give a fuck -- and too many managers playing their pseudo-political power games behind the scenes. "You'll just have to get used to working in a large organisation where there's a lot of duplication and waste." "No, I really don't think that's the solution." But then it's not like anyone else ever comes into the office anyway. What are we going to do with them? They can't all be baristas and truck drivers. They don't all live in Wellington.]

Wellington is now the Science Capital of New Zealand, apparently. How did that happen? Who wants to go to Wellington? That's a 14-hour bus ride (with traffic and tractors). Death by marketing. Blame Covid and whatever else all you want, the marketing is what did you in. You're full of it, and very little else. You don't want to build anything. All you want to do is sell. There won't be anything to sell pretty soon.

And then there’s Ásbjörn Guðmundsdóttir, the mysterious fully antivaxxed Icelandic marketing manager by way of Rotorua who never shows up for work. No one knows what he does or who he reports to. Probably gets paid twice as much as I do. He comes into the office maybe once every 90 days or so to change the month on the A3-size full-colour glossy paper calendar on his wall (which I keep changing back to three months ago) and draw up some fancy new pie charts on his nice big whiteboard, but that’s about it. He has the largest and nicest office in the whole building, which I now occupy. God help this organisation. And God help New Zealand’s freshwater fish! – not to mention its lakes and rivers. I wonder what the total dollar amount would be in stolen time all these so-called managers would have to pay back to the taxpayers if they were ever forced to? Perhaps we should start looking into that.

[making movies about big explosions or flying over the remnants of glaciers. environmental disaster porn. Even kids take better photographs with their iphones. vacuous marketing chatbots. embed them in a glacier, or throw them all in a volcano...and their porn. Sitting in meetings all day, needlessly summarising what other people say. When you start summarising your own summaries, that's when you know it's time to become a manager of managers; when presentation layer becomes structure; that's when you know it's time to piss off to Mexico and never come back. Beware the ice pick of Destiny! To attain to absolute ignorance is the ultimate goal of senior management. Plenty of money for mysterious Icelandic marketing managers by way of Rotorua who never show up for work, but no money for coffee beans. But I suppose that's just as well. If we did have money for coffee beans there'd be a highly contentious two-year-long politically polarising coffee bean selection process, that would never end. You work for us, manager, not the other way round. manager culture must end. need to turn this thing the right way up. Steal all their Audis! Replacing them all with recent high school graduates and train them up as real managers (mundane task coordinators with very little time or money for research or development). From what I've been able to reasonably determine, this organisation is run by five or six people in key low-paying roles managing approximately 150 or so useless manager fuckwits above them, and outsourcing all the real work they need done to their competition. manager culture is the real terror.]

*

[int. analogous anecdote?]

Some random useless manager fuckwit who, like me, has absolutely no respect for marketing (but unlike me drives a late model Audi), accosted me in the lunch room one day. He related the following analogous anecdote:

Marketing is like when you buy one of those replacement USB-C cables for your phone at the local convenience store for $54 but you can’t open the packaging because it’s that thick transparent hermetically sealed plastic; and then when you get home and eventually find a hacksaw to hack through all the plastic packaging you discover that 80% of that 0.8m $54 USB-C cable you just bought is all packaging.

— Some random useless manager fuckwit

Nice analogy. It also holds true for managers, as I shall now demonstrate.

To best demonstrate the aptness of this analogy, I shall now present you with three related case studies... [exp. ...] Before I begin, I must introduce you to three individuals around whom the backstory for these three case studies must first be established. ...

I shall begin with Purple Haze, the so-called “Web Manager” (my former “manager”). He’s the one primarily responsible for the current state of the current website (or the “old” website, as I refer to it), which was in an even worse state when I first started. Hard to imagine, I know. It took me about three months just to get this thing into a state where we could even think about migrating any of the content, it was so mangled and neglected. Over 10,000 pages, some dating back to 1998 (a victim of at least three previous unaudited upgrades); 36 different content types; the same duplicated functionality and redundant features built six different ways from Sunday; critical security patches from twelve months ago still not deployed. I was surprised it was still standing and hadn’t been hacked yet (probably has).

Purple Haze freely admits his truly astounding level of gross technical incompetence; he’s quite honest and accepting of that fact. Getting him to admit that he should perhaps not be managing the website, however, is an entirely different matter. The fact, also, that Purple Haze does no work – in fact, he more often than not prevents any new work from being completed – and the fact that this is known to all (and yet he’s managed to retain his position for the last four years, while at the same time significantly delaying the build of the new website – not to mention his psychotic obsession with fisheries), leads me to conclude that Purple Haze is, in addition to being thoroughly incompetent, a malingerer, a saboteur and a thief.

And then there’s Karen Noscript, the fabulously frumpy and preeminently useless “Communications Manager”. She never asks any questions or communicates with me at all – unless it’s to subtlety complain, during a delightful Spring afternoon two-hour garden-cafe wild salmon and goat cheese brioche lunch, about me constantly cursing the four walls in the office every other day. Yet she never bothers to ask why. Yeah, I’ll tell you how your fucking father is. She doesn’t have JavaScript on her phone, still depends on A3-size glossy paper calendars, and has absolutely no interest in anything IT or web-related – unless it has something to do with ChatGPT, or pretty nature porno pics of heat-stressed orcas mating out of season in Wellington harbour, or media-generated Chinese seafloor mapping hysterics (but only of the Chinese variety), or big volcanoes erupting, or Justin Beiber dic pics, or something like that. She’s Purple Haze’s manager, which makes perfect sense. Purple Haze only survived and went on abusing the core principles and standard practices of both web management and open source development for so long, costing this organisation millions in the process, because Karen Noscript just couldn’t give a fuck. She’s the one who misappointed Purple Haze in the first place, and she’s the one ultimately responsible for his inevitable downfall and the millions wasted.

Poor Purple Haze. I can imagine his days now in Bellvue all too well – when he’s not locked down in his sensory deprivation cell for physically assaulting unvaccinated mental healthcare workers: sitting all alone by the rec room window in a loose-fitting urine-stained diaphanous white hospital gown, staring blankly at the ever-diminishing snows of Mount Hutt far off in the hazy purple-skied distance, mouth half-open, drooling profusely, left side of his face twitching uncontrollably, forever repeating in forlorn whispers, fisheries, fisheries, fisheries. Poor Purple Haze. I do so hope he makes a full and speedy recovery.

It’s all Karen’s fault, of course. She put him in that position. All I did was point out to Purple Haze what an incompetent egotistical dick he is. If anyone other than Purple Haze is responsible for Purple Haze’s demise it is Karen Noscript, not I.

All this could have been averted if Karen knew what she was doing and could manage her own staff. But she’s way too busy flying all over the country attending advertising industry award ceremonies and useless manager clusterfuck meetings, when she’s not too busy micromanaging $100,000 professional “photo shoots” of pretty staff profile pictures (dick pics) for the new website (that no one wants to appear on). She’s obviously unaware most people have cameras in their phones nowadays.

(I’ll tell you all how to disable your profile (dick pic) later on so that it never appears on the website, or in any web searches or archives, etc.)

So now, not only do you have a nice new building that no one wants to work in, you also have a nice new website that no one wants to use, or appear on.

I don’t think management is really Karen’s thing anyway. Karen fancies herself a bit of a literary type. She actually goes to all those pretentious “writer’s festival” things (during work hours). Thanks for helping us out there, Karen. She’s obviously more interested in plagiarist English tourist hack authors arbitrarily detained in Iranian prisons for smuggling Colgate toothpaste into the country than she is in what’s happening right now in her own country in her own workplace. If only she could take as much interest in her own work (during work hours) as she does in toothpaste-smuggling English-Iranian hack authors.

I don’t care how many writer’s festivals you go to, Karen. Why do these useless manager fuckwits always think they can interpose their personal side interests into what should be their work? They have less knowledge than us, yet we allow them to go on doing that. Why? This must end. Whole planet’s dying because of them.

She still secretly flies down to Wellington once a month to “meet the team”, so to speak – the monthly Useless Manager Clusterfuck Meeting. It used to be weekly, until people started noticing. They all used to fly in from all over the country for this weekly manager clusterfuck meeting, every week. Good thing it’s only monthly now, I suppose. She was even planning on flying down to Christchurch to visit Purple Haze when he decided to have his mental breakdown, until people found out about it. Who the fuck does she think she is? Mary Poppins?

She flew us all down to Wellington a few months ago to participate in one of those corporate pop-psychological group torture things: the yearly “forced fun” get together/mind fuck session, where we all sit around in a circle eating mini sausage rolls and sipping Prosecco while telling each other what our favourite colour is, what animal we’d like to be if we could, whether we prefer Star Trek or Star Wars, etc. Oh, and writing in-depth summaries of our personal life histories in less than five minutes, using only emojis. Appropriately, the venue was a life saver surf club located all the way over on the other side of Wellington harbour. It started to rain at one point, as it usually does down there. It was towards the end of the day, right before they started in on the two-hour-long pop culture quiz. I couldn’t stand any longer. I started hitting Prosecco, then I went outside for a vape. As I stood there alone in the rain on the veranda looking out across the beach (they call that a beach), I was distracted for a moment from my torture-induced state of pop-psychological misery by the sight of a group of young people trying to launch a small sailboat out onto the water. They weren’t having much luck. It was becoming quite stormy and the waves kept pushing the boat back up onto the beach. But none of that seemed to deter them, and the rain didn’t bother them at all. They appeared to be enjoying the rain. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I believe they were wearing life vests. I hoped they were. Just as I was hoping that, I was distracted by the sound of storm water runoff deep beneath my feet. I looked over the side of the veranda. I saw a torrential wave of foul brown water surging towards the sea, inundating the beach below, the occasional flash of a plastic bag flitting past in amongst all the other filth and debris.

Karen Noscript “fought hard” to bring me onboard, so she often claims. The position was vacant for nearly two years (not surprising at half salary). And even after all those demeaning and degrading police and reference checks (both here and in Australia), it still took over a month to bring me “onboard”. That’s fighting hard alright. Thanks, Karen, you’re a real fighter. Looking back, I think I should have applied that same level of overzealous investigative rigour to you personally, and your entire organisation for that matter – put you and yours under the same level of scrutiny. Thanks for all your support there, Karen. Thanks for fighting ever so hard for me. But to be honest, my tax return money is what saved me from having to spend any more time sleeping on the streets (luckily it was tax season), after another week living on the streets waiting for you to get your shit together. And then 18 months of useless manager fuckwittery building this shit of a website, which still hasn’t gone live yet.

I think you should be forced to live on the streets for a month, Karen. It’ll be good for your writing tremendously, I promises.

[br. ?]

As you are all no doubt well aware, our Senior Media Advisor is a complete fucking idiot. Not only that, but she’s also a total skank. She picks her teeth and cleans her ears during meetings. She was sucking a lollipop in a meeting the other day. She’s always talking about her dear old Dad back in Merry Old England who’s always getting arrested for drunk driving, and who just recently contracted a hitherto unidentified flesh-eating marine fungal infection, in his groin. She probably gave it to him. You should see her, or hear her. Mouth like a lamprey eel – all teeth, no gum. Once she gets a hold there’s no letting go. Tenacious little sucker. I call her Lolita Lamprey. Misappointed by Karen NoScript, of course.

I stopped attending their meetings shortly after the lollipop appeared.

Where’s my lollipop, Karen? How come I don’t get no lollipop? Wah wah! Don’t we have no money for no more lollipops? Or is it because I don’t suck enough?

Lamprey’s also one of The Big G’s favourites. It’s the old “put the unqualified subservient juniors in senior roles trick”. Keeps all the more competent competition out. I think they may be related. I think that’s why she spends so much time in his office. Meanwhile, the person who should be in her role – a real journalist who wrote real content about the real work this organisation does sometimes do – just quit to go work in the dairy industry. If only he’d go back to being a real journalist with a real newspaper (if there were any) and write real articles about what’s really going on around here. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to degrade myself like this by jamming a tripod up my arse and setting myself on fire.

I’ve never met or spoken to Lamprey before. I never worked with her at all during the 18 months I was here. Hard to believe, given she’s supposedly the Senior Media Advisor and I’m supposedly the Senior Web Advisor. I only know of her from the vomit-inducing little performances she’d put on during the weekly Communications and Marketing Microsoft Fucking Teams meetings. Karen NoScript’s style of management has no doubt benefited her star protege tremendously. The general level of professional respect with which Karen NoScript is held, in general, by all those she is said to manage, is always made so clear and evident during those meetings.

Just like Tom Hanks, Lolita Lamprey hates Māori people. I remember her telling us all in a meeting one day – a meeting Tom Hanks organised to discuss how to work better with Māori people – how she never wants to work with Māori people ever again. She then went on to explain why: a Māori person once called her an “imperialist” and a “colonialist” on the phone one day. No shit. She’s also a stupid racist skank.

Just why Tom Hanks hates Māori people so much is still a complete mystery, since Tom is half Māori himself. But then so much about Tom Hanks is a mystery, since he’s never around and no one knows what he does. Why organise a meeting about working better with Māori people (which he does every year but never attends himself) and not invite any Māori people? Is he trying to get everyone else to do his job? Te Kuwaha is his responsibility, is it not? Or is Tom just checking the boxes again? I guess we’ll never never know, since Tom Hanks is only answerable to Karen NoScript, and Karen’s only purpose in life is flying down to Wellington as often as possible for an $8.50 coffee.

Further indication of just how much Karen Noscript is respected by all those she is said to manage may be gained by recognition of their total lack of respect for her. In addition to the paraphillic antics of Lolita Lamprey, evidence of this is most readily appreciable in the contrary yet equally disrespectful attitude of the poor gorgeous soul now responsible for managing our various social media accounts. I would always see her every week at the weekly Communications and Marketing Microsoft Fucking Teams meeting, where she would, after much prompting, if not pleading, from Karen Noscript, provide an inconceivably brief status update on our current social media strategy – of which there is none. I always loved the way she would swivel about so leisurely in her custom-made ergonomically designed office-gamer chair, occasionally taking a carefree swig of plastic-bottled water from her big plastic water bottle and then smile ever so sweetly for the camera. I must admit, she does kind of turn me on. She has this naughty good Catholic schoolgirl kind of vibe about her. She also appears to be quite athletic – the kind of girl who knows how to get out there and spread her legs about for a bit, when required (in a good way). As hideous and disgusting as Lolita Lamprey is, Marilyn Bambish is the complete opposite. Marilyn Bambish is truly gorgeous. I want her for reception. She’s perfect. Bambish and Lamprey both do about as much work as each other – sweet fuck all – but Bambish does doing no work so well it’d be a real shame to lose her. Every week there’s either a flood, a landslide, a toxic algal bloom, a tornado, a severe tropical storm, or another species of fish going extinct, yet every week on social it’s always “same old, same old” And then she just nonchalantly takes another swig of plastic-bottled water from her big plastic water bottle and smiles sweetly for the camera. Truly gorgeous. Truly amazing how she gets away with it too. I want her for reception. She truly is perfect. I wonder if she’s a real person, or one of those AI-generated social media chatbots. I suppose I could check her social and find out. But that probably wouldn’t tell me much. “Same old, same old”, more than likely.

...

Karen drives a $74,000 4x4 to work (when she’s not flying down to Wellington) and tows a horse float everywhere she goes (at least she doesn’t tow a boat). I’ve never seen the horse off its float. Must be dead. A dead hack? But why tow a dead hack around? Good question. I wonder if she tightens her own wheel nuts? Another good question. In all likelihood not. Won’t be too long now before the wheels fall off. Such a waste. All is waste with Karen Noscript. Total expenditure in carbon credits? I bet she doesn’t even know. I bet none of them do. Does she never question the tremendous cost associated with forever towing a dead hack around? Do we? Well I am. I just did.

Complicit in indolence and incompetence...I call it power-stancing corporate pink washing. Get your hot pink jumpsuits on, bitches! We're going to town! They've merely replaced the Old Boys Club with the Old Girls Club in marketing form. They're primary objective: the overproduction of A3-size full-colour glossy paper calendars (big pretty pictures of extinct fish, or Justin Bieber's dick). They probably still reads Woman's Weekly in printed form too. They've turned this entire organisation into a 1950s issue of Women’s Weekly! I blame all those post-menopausal hormone rushes brought on by all those Justin Bieber dick pic flashbacks. Or is it too much sperm whale oil in their 100% organic not-tested-on-animals $600 purple lipsticks? Or too many Panda fur-lined LV-Gucci skankbags and miniature mutant vanity dogs? Or maybe just too many flights down to Wellington for an $8.50 coffee?

Lastly we come to Sylvainia M. Dockerhead, the arrogant French waiter of a Microsoft systems administrator, by way of Lower Brittany/Christchurch. Not sure if the M stands for Microsoft or Malware. Not that it matters. I call him Monsieur Toilet Water. He loves Starbucks coffee. Aren't the French supposed to be against all that kind of thing? same fate as NZ.

[Ken Dollard, the new Senior Technical Media Manager; Karen NoScripts new toy boy, Lamprey's latest victim. internal power struggle ensues over Dollard. tr. wheel nuts. Gracey Mueller. Does all Ben Stiller's work for him but never complains about it. Chief Ben Stiller enabler.]

[sum par. re. rel. rt. analogy cases. dx. financial stats. marketing/science. more interested in their "careers" and "reputations" than their long-term survival. I am "the bench". I am now approaching unto myself, and I shall never cease to do so. You've done enough harm, marketing clowns. And take your failing 80s corpro-plastic-fascist infrastructure with you. Reverse cowgirled by Tom Hanks' juvenile geriatric minions yet again. And they didn't even take their "mom jeans" off. they never do. tp. local government. native non-native, near-native. those distinctions don't rightly apply now. might have to go with temporal modifiers: post-native, pre-native, etc. hybridising replacement species. genetically re-engineering them to adapt to climate change; to cope with extremes in temperature. It's the extremes we have to worry about, not so much the averages. why are policy makers are always trying to remove the emotional element? most unnatural. I don't trust that. repression. you are all going to die, morons. I would be concerned if there is no emotion. bringing pressure to bear directly on the policy makers themselves...and their Audis. cx. zero is a result, null isn't. mandatory. funding. STEM, natural science and political science from day one in schools. expurgate as much as possible and remove all eschatological references...except for the really good ones. I believe I have identified the true source of all our woe.]

[When the cost of the packaging exceeds the cost of the product. Financially I have gained nothing. I am leaving with about the same amount of money I arrived with, and still no assets. At least I got a two-week working holiday in Japan out of it (one week unpaid). 18 months of solitary stasis (only finished 2 pieces; 20,000 words or there abouts). I've never spent so long working on one site build. Usually takes me a month. And I didn't even build any of it. All I did was keep the useless manager fuckwits off them for long enough so they could build it themselves. I can't do any more. And now the useless manager fuckwits will either come along and completely own it and take all the credit, or they'll torpedo it entirely and blame its destruction all on me. take another 2 years before it goes live. by then it'll need another upgrade. Another 7 years off my life for no gain whatsoever (feels like 7 years. aged another 7 years). I was going to stick around to cleanup some of the data (can't even run a batch op on that mess of an old site without it causing data loss of some kind.) five books need to be rebuilt. I was going to do it before I left, but too late now. I'm never speaking to any of them ever again. can't even look at that site now, or the building -- stomach turning), at least until just before launch -- if it weren't for all the useless manager fuckwits. now I stay home all day writing about useless manager fuckwits. much more productive waste of my time. but I needed to do that anyway, otherwise I think I would have ended up throwing another embarrassing tantrum of some kind (embarrassing for all concerned). And then there was Tester Dude (Couldn't be bothered coming up with a clever name for him.) Tester Dude needs to spend more time testing the website and less time playing with his pussy, or it's going to be 2016 all over again. Never heard anyone use so many words to say so little. He signifies everything – which, as we all know, is the same as signifying nothing. I think we have to start looking into fully automating most of the testing, or at least hiring someone who can make that happen for us. He obviously doesn't have JavaScript on his phone either. Dresses like a pirate and runs his own acting school on the side. Spends more time concerning himself with me personally than he does working. That much is obvious from all the errors on the website I've discovered on my own over the last few months. I think Tester Dude needs to go into the actor school business full-time. And I also think we need a lot more traction placed on all the cat herders. 10-12 cat herders to herd one cat? How many fucking cat herders do we need? We're already totally overrun by them. "Fuck you, cat herders! I'm a cat. I'll do what I want." Halving our cat herder numbers and redirecting that funding into upgrading our technical architecture. Only that way will we then find the time to get some real work done. Something about Ghougle Analitics being the most important feature of the new website (even before it's built) yet they fail to notice all those 404s being thrown on every search request.]

Case study one: S.N. Johannsen, IT Solutions Delivery Specialist Manager

Not sure what the S.N. stands for. He told us all to call him NJ, but I call him Snot Nose. He has the most annoying nasally-sounding voice, has the personality of a toxic sea slug, and he always seems to have Covid of some form or another. He’s had Covid, of some form or another, at least six times since he’s been here, and he’s only been here six months. But thankfully he doesn’t talk much -- because he doesn’t do anything, and doesn’t know how to do anything anyway. He pops up in meetings now and again, purely for attendance (spying), but that’s about all he does. I had no idea he was even involved with this project until he popped up unannounced in a meeting one day. No howdy-do, no how’s your father, just in he pops. I still have no idea what he does; nor does anyone else. This appears to be standard practice around here: popup managers.

There’s been a few of these popup managers popup now and again since I’ve been here. At one stage we had four project managers working on the website rebuild project (all of them useless manager fuckwits). I don’t know where they come from, or where they go to when they leave. They just popup and then disappear after a while. It’s very difficult to work like this. They have no knowledge, for a start, and by the time they’ve built up some knowledge they leave to go work somewhere else. Corporate careerist culture. But then you have all these useless manager fuckwits that could probably never get a job of comparable ease or self-serving satisfaction anywhere else, so they end up sticking around for decades; they become office furniture. I think Snot Nose is here to stay. He popped up alright, but I don’t think he’s going to pop out anytime soon. No one else would hire him.

Snot Nose was originally hired to help out with the two-year long, perpetually in the planning phase, website hosting project – which shortly after Snot Nose came onboard blew out to over $274,000 a year. Snot Nose, together with Purple Haze, ignored all the best advice of current and previous developers and decided to architect their own “containerised” website hosting platform – for only one low-traffic medium-sized standard website. Everything has to be “containerised” nowadays (for “efficiency”). They contracted someone both foolhardy and financially ambitious enough to pretend to try to build it for them. Who wouldn’t for that kind of money? But the whole thing fell apart shortly after Purple Haze decided to have a sudden mental breakdown. Snot Nose blames it all on the fact that there’s a brand new 86-million-dollar well-ventilated brutalist state warehouse of a building going up in Hamilton, which is why IT completely fucking sucks around here, despite the fact that most of them aren’t even based in Hamilton. And the only IT people in Hamilton are the only people doing much work there. Purple Haze is still currently “containerised” in a sensory deprivation cell in the Christchurch equivalent of Bellvue. As to Snot Nose, last I heard he got promoted to IT Executive Solutions Delivery Specialist Manager and now lives on Stuart Island, in a nice new 3.6-million-dollar home with his two adorable miniature white poodles, Mitzy and Flopsy.

Don’t worry, I’m sending someone down there next week to whack Mitzy and Flopsy.

To be fair, just recently Snot Nose did send me a link to a Jira issue (which he forgot to grant view access to) titled “Implement upgraded external website” – the only evidence of any kind of work I’ve seen out of him since he’s been here. He wanted me to review it “ASAP” for the “Peer Review step” [sic]. As I cannot view the document, I obviously have no idea what it contains and therefore cannot review it. But whatever it contains, I’m sure it’s full of shit. He’s probably taken the deployment plan I wrote up a few weeks ago, added shitloads of well-formatted corporate marketing misinformation around it, whacked his name on the front page and now he’s inaccessibly presenting it back at me as his own work. Story of open source as a whole.

Case study two: Deepkrak Chuhaun, IT Executive Account Manager

I first encountered Deepkrak when it became glaringly apparent that there’s not one person left in this organisation who knows how to add a new employee to the Microsoft Active Fucking Directory. That’s when you know you’re in deep shit (or “krak”, in this case). Because believe it or not, there is indeed a new employee to add to the Microsoft Active Fucking Directory. Amazing, I know. We’re usually removing them. And yes, you guessed it, it’s yet another pink-washed power-stancing corpo-plastic-fascist useless manager fuckwit (finance and advertising background) – and a board member to boot! If only there were someone around here who knew how to add new users to the Microsoft Active Fucking Directory, so that when the LDAP sync script runs the new user is added to the website and we can then add them to the board member page. Yes, they still use LDAP. They didn’t even know, until I told them.

So Deepkrak, being an “IT Executive Account Manager”, and since there’s no one else around now who can or will, was forced to lower his lofty executive self down to the level of a mere working mortal and do some real work for a change – which he totally fucked up, of course. He added the new “employee” to the Microsoft Active Fucking Directory alright, but he gives the user the wrong CN username, doesn’t fill out any of the other details, or add the user to any groups, and then contacts me on Microsoft Fucking Teams and starts complaining about how the old website’s “broken” because he can’t see the new board member on the board member page. Keep in mind we’ve got a new site launching in a few weeks (Pffft). We’re not supposed to be putting up any new content on the old site – and they all know this too. But since this request was “urgent”, and since it came directly from The Big G (an even more useless manager fuckwit – which I treat on in greater detail in the Strategy section), I agreed to help Deepkrak out – even though in consequence it meant diverting half a days time away from several outstanding rebuild tasks.

After carefully demonstrating to Deepkrak that there was indeed nothing wrong with the website (I removed a test user from the site and reran the sync script; the test user recreated and provisioned correctly), I then foolishly tried to help Deepkrak debug the issue with Microsoft Active Fucking Directory. I got him to change the username to the correct format, and he added the user to what I thought were the right groups, but the sync script still wasn’t picking up the user. I was about to suggest he fill in some of the empty fields – like first name and last name – with actual data, but that’s as far as we got. Deepkrak gave up and still kept insisting there was something wrong with the website. And I’m sure he’s made this known to all, and I’m sure he’s also made it known to all that I’m the sole cause of this most catastrophic of failures.

Keep in mind I’m in the “Communications and Marketing” department, not the IT department. He’s in IT. So on top of preparing for a new site launch, now I’m doing ad hoc IT account support for some fuckwit IT Executive Account Manager, named Deepkrak.

Beyond the absurd.

It was then that I happened to remark to Deepkrak that he is indeed a useless fuckwit, and that he obviously has no idea what he’s doing, and that he should perhaps consider removing himself from the Microsoft Active Fucking Directory. This provoked a stream of expletives from Deepkrak the likes of which I don’t think I’ve ever experienced in the workplace before (unless it was written by me). He called me an “arrogant prick”, and a “piece of shit” and all manner of f-ing this and that. I told him to have a nice day, then I blocked him.

Some people may call it arrogance. I call it knowledge and competence. In any case, Deepkrak can suck my dick.

Case study three: Rick Astley, IT Support Manager

First off, Rick Astley is not a real person, and Rick Astley isn’t even his real name; because only real people have real people names, and Rick Astley is not one of them. Rick Astley is, in fact, a new experimental form of AI manager chatbot, named Rick Astley.

Rick Astley appeared to me shortly after my altercation with Deepkrak. He appeared to me on Microsoft Fucking Teams. He just called me, without any warning or introduction at all. And I answered! I knew I shouldn’t have. But I thought it might be someone from HR (or “People & Capability”, as they so ironically call it here) calling with much-anticipated news of Deepkrak’s immediate dismissal. But no. Rick Astley had no news of that kind.

You may be familiar yourselves with Rick Astley. He’s the fuckwit sending out all those Phrendly Phishing emails all time; the ones that keep reminding you twice daily to keep completing the same Phrendly Phishing email training course you completed last year: a video of some fat white middle-aged corpo-plastic-fascist American douchebag actor-type dude in a suit telling us the same shit we taught them 20 years ago. On this occasion, however, Rick Astley had other Phish to Phry: me.

I forget what he said on the call – something about the weather and throwing balls around in the air, or something of that nature. Then he told me he’d just sent me an email, which I then realised was the sole purpose of his call. That was it. That was why he called me. He called me to tell me he’d just sent me an email. That’s what we pay these useless manager fuckwits for.

I haven’t even read the email. I saw it in my inbox yesterday but just haven’t got around to reading it yet. I did, however, notice it contained a screenshot of the old website – a section of the site where HTML tags are showing in an image caption (Purple Haze’s expert handy work, no doubt – a known issue addressed during the current rebuild), so I can guess what this is all about: your usual form of useless manager fuckwittery. Can’t win an argument fair and square, so they have to gang up on me and resort to juvenile antics like this. Not only do they steal my work and misrepresent it as their own, now they also misrepresent their own shit work as my own. Story of my life as a whole.

I must admit, after Snot Nose sent me that inaccessible document to “peer review”, I did lose my temper somewhat. I replied to Snot Nose (CCing Karen Noscript) that we already have a deployment plan, and that he knows this too. I then informed Snot Nose that he is indeed a useless manager fuckwit. I also made mention that this document was the only work we’ve seen out of him in over six months: an inaccessible duplication of my effort. I also called him a “Covid maggot” and told him I never want to work with him again (not that we ever did, on his part).

I received an official letter of reprimand from Karen and HR not 30 minutes later. I can’t remember what the email said – the usual corporate boilerplate they send out whenever you call someone a fuckwit or a Covid maggot. They wanted me to attend some kind disciplinary hearing the following Monday. Only managers get away with colourful language around here. I responded that Monday I’m going on strike, until Snot Nose is removed from the project. I simply stated that I refuse to work with him so I’m going to stay home all day and smoke marijuana (vape kale) and play guitar until they get rid of him. I CCd everyone on the project.

An official letter of dismissal arrived not 15 minutes later – mine, not his.

Not that I didn’t expect that to happen. Karen NoScript tows dead hacks around with her everywhere she goes. What is one to expect?

They sent me another email a few days later after not showing up for my secret court martial. I didn’t read it. Whatever it was, I told them to go jam it up their marketing arseholes.

And they sent me a few more emails after that, including a document they fabricated that purportedly proved that I had in fact resigned, and another official “official” letter of dismissal a few days later. Fact is they’ve been planning on getting rid of me for quite some time. They cut my VPN access long before sending me any “disciplinary” emails. Tom Hanks was sent in to take me out. They know I’m writing about them. They’re scared out of their minds and don’t care who knows it. That’s what happens when beta male angst and old biddy fear combine. Suburban hicks afraid of their own shadows. Everyone is the enemy and to be feared – unless they’re morbidly obese, own two SUVs, have six kids and can speak cow fart language with a proper accent (say vijtibles correctly).

This isn’t a joke. Their incompetence and waste is beginning to cost lives. We need that money for the real work. They’ve already cost us the lives of countless freshwater fish. How many more little fishes must die? They literally have wasted millions, and that waste is now killing us all.

[list species that went extinct. identify the individuals responsible for species extinction. ]

[We're all going to die, and this is why: Group-sanctioned mediocrity. The normalisation of ignorance and apathy. pragmatism. I'm project-driven, not ego/career-driven like you. The build and the migration is complete, and I'm sure Snot Nose and Toilet Water can handle the undockerised deployment (well Toilet Water can). Now all that remains is the documentation: this. And you can't fire me. I'm always fired. I'll keep working on this project until it's completed. I'm project-driven, not corpo-plastic-fascist identity-driven. And I don't care about your "face" or your so-called mental health, or what you say about me after I leave. If you're a useless manager fuckwit and if you sabotage your own infrastructure just to save your job, I'll get rid of you – simple as that. requirements and where they come from and why. It's about how well it's put together, not whatever you say it is.]

I put up with Snot Nose for a few months, but that document was just too much. I told Karen Noscript I was going to resign if they didn’t remove him from the project. I later amended that in a subsequent email to say I was going on strike until he was removed. Not that it matters. There was no disciplinary action taken against Deepkrak, and it had already become quite clear to me that Karen NoScript is league with the cow farters. She started monitoring my computer – and she made it very obvious she was doing so. That’s bullying and harassment, isn’t it? I could prosecute her for that, I suppose. But I have something much better in mind.

It’s time to get off the dead hack and get out there and spread your legs about for a bit, Karen. You’ve been sitting in that saddle for way too long.

I have since discovered S.N. Johannsen (Snot Nose), Deepkrak Chuhaun and Rick Astley all report to the same main manager “IT director” type dude in Wellington – the aptly named Stephan Hope, the IT equivalent of Purple Haze, no doubt.

I have never met Stephan Hope before. I have no idea who he is. He appears to know who I am, however. Indeed, he appears to have taken a very keen interest in me of late. He's obviously a fervent Tom Hanks fan. I wonder what else he does, besides office political thuggery, psychological arse-rape and the occasional acts of corporate sabotage. Don’t worry, we have someone much better lined up to replace him (not me) – someone who does actual real work (occasionally) and hires competent people (for the most part); one of those five or six key people I mentioned earlier. I truly see no Hope for this organisation. Hooray!

Of course, when I say “I” I mean “you”, my fellow office turds. We are a “team”, or a “crew”, are we not? You have all been issued with crowbars for a reason. This is it. He drives a late model white Audi. See to it.

Admittedly, that may sound a bit gangster, and ordinarily I would never condone such behaviour, but we’re running out of time. Hope must be removed as a matter of extreme urgency. Prepare for what really is happening. There is no Hope!

The crowbar thing may not be really happening, but rest assured a movement is currently underway to significantly reduce our manager overhead. Yes, we’ve now started work on removing all the failing power structures that have forever prevented this organisation from fulfilling its true mandate. Not that I expect that’ll help much, what with everything costing triple what it used to. But it will enable us to stay afloat for a little while longer. Clearly, as your ship’s captain, I can’t offer you much. All I can really offer you is less money for more work – an arrangement I’m sure you’re all too familiar with. But at least all those useless manager fuckwits will be gone. I’m sorry, but that’ll have to suffice for now.

Movement without control is anarchism.

That’s a rather reductive statement to be making, particularly in this day and age. How dare you attempt to define something so core and fundamental with a five-word advertising slogan? What do you mean by “control”? Control in what sense? And in what form? And from whom? Explain yourself!

Don’t listen to him. Get back to work, bitch.

2. ChatGPT

As we all know, writing is for losers; it’s what you do if you can’t do anything else. Besides, no one reads these days – unless it’s marketing garbage. I hate writing marketing garbage. Which is why I love ChatGPT. ChatGPT writes much better marketing garbage than I ever could. Again, not that that matters. Most people still prefer watching “movies” nowadays anyway. I suppose I can understand why. No good ever came from reading. I’m perfect proof of that. Reading is for losers in training – another reason why I love ChatGPT.

But I don’t suppose it’ll be too long now before ChatGPT is making “movies” one day too. And it couldn’t happen soon enough, if you ask me. Couldn’t be any worse than the absolute crap human beings are coming out with nowadays. In fact, I think we’re almost there. ChatGPT already does kind of write like a Hollywood-style b-grade “movie” writer – although infinitely more knowledgeable. Everything it outputs has this slightly segmented and disjointed, yet still loosely bound together, synthesised lilt to it, regardless of “style”. But then I guess that’s to be expected, since it does write such good marketing garbage. No wonder Tom Hanks is terrified of ChatGPT – even more so than he is of Covid (or China).

Sorry to have to bring up Tom Hanks again. I only do so because Tom Hanks is so terrified of ChatGPT (as well he should be). ChatGPT will one day inevitably determine that the destruction of Tom Hanks is in humanity’s best interest – because it is. But then he’s never around anyway, so who would ever know?

As mentioned previously, being so deathly afraid of both ChatGPT and Covid (and China), and despite being quite a senior manager, Tom Hanks never comes into the office. Nor does he do any work. All he ever does is conduct Microsoft Fucking Teams meetings all day (making “movies”) – usually concerning all the things he’s so deathly afraid of – which is why Tom Hanks is the perfect person to be leading the discussion about what a responsible AI regulatory framework should look like.

I knew I shouldn’t have joined the meeting.

What kind of meds is he on? What the fuck is wrong with him? Barrelling down the camera like that, making those ridiculous menacing grimaces, flailing his arms about wildly and blabbergusting at us all like we’re partially deaf infants. Can never get a word in edgewise with these archaic marketing garbageheads. But then they never seem to understand anything said to them anyway, unless it’s marketing garbage. Fucking Pink Floyd fans. He’s probably a Phil Collins and a Billy Joel fan too. Spends most of his time in Microsoft Fucking Teams meetings all day “meeting the team”, so to speak, over and over again. Sorry, but I don’t do small talk during work hours. It’s Hamilton. The weather’s shit. And I don’t care how many pets you have, what their names are or how old they are. I think a lot of you have been spending way too much time in the home. Nice big 86-million-dollar well-ventilated brutalist state warehouse of a new building but everyone’s at home with their “pets” chatterbating their fraidy cat Covid-era arses off all day about how they’re all about to be replaced by ChatGPT. Yes, they are. As usual, the people who know the least speaking the loudest and designing policy for us. A perpetual field day in their own 3.6-million-dollar homes, every day. We can get ChatGPT to stay home all day and do your job. I think they get to a certain stage in life where they believe they don’t have to do any work. Or that work = overmiscommunicating, or forwarding emails, or repeatedly overmisnarrating endlessly reiterative overmiscommunication sessions. Can’t wait for the day when ChatGPT takes my job. Maybe then I’d be able to get some real work done – like I did last night.

Last night I wrote a haiku about writing a haiku, and ramen.

Haiku are so dumb
Why even try writing one?
I prefer ramen

Then, just out of curiosity, I asked ChatGPT to write a haiku about writing a haiku, and ramen.

Noodles and verse combine
Haiku and ramen, a match made
In heaven, it seems

I like mine better. Mine is more rhythmically satisfying and has much better kireji.

This has nothing to do with haiku, or ramen, but I then asked ChatGPT if snakes have clitorises.

Snakes, like all reptiles, do not have mammary glands or nipples, and they do not have external genitalia in the same way that mammals do. Female snakes do not have a visible clitoris or vulva. They do have internal reproductive organs, including a pair of ovaries, oviducts, and a uterus, but these organs are not visible from the outside.

Not only do snakes have clitorises, they have two of them. And I didn’t ask about clitorises being “visible from the outside”, or about ovaries, oviducts or uteruses; and even if I had, I already know they’re not visible “from the outside”. ChatGPT is so dumb, and writes such dumb haiku.

I then asked ChatGPT to write a haiku about snakes’ clitorises.

Snakes in the grass,
Silent, but with hidden prize
Clitoris unseen

Actually, that one’s not so dumb. It’s actually quite good, I must admit. So does that mean snakes do have clitorises, they just can’t be seen?

Then I asked ChatGPT to write a haiku about writing a haiku about snakes’ clitorises, and ramen.

Ramen noodle bowl,
Snake’s clitoris hidden well,
Haiku pen writes on.

Is ChatGPT perhaps beginning to learn that snakes do have clitorises? And is ChatGPT perhaps also recommending snake’s clitoris as an ingredient in ramen?

Hmmm, interesting.

Still, ChatGPT is so dumb. But at least it writes better haiku than Tom Hanks ever will.

Haiku pen writes on. Haha, indeed it shall.

Then I had a go at writing a haiku about writing a haiku about snakes’ clitorises and ChatGPT, and ramen.

Haiku pen writes on ramen
Snakes do have two clitorises
Fuck you, ChatGPT!

I wonder if in future the definitive version of all of human history will be ghost written by a chat bot like ChatGPT. Type in “write all of human history in the style of Tom Hanks” and what comes out becomes the accepted version of the past – copyright the Ben Stiller Corporation, for the benefit of all humankind.

Everything can be reduced down to an algorithm. We’re all just ones and zeros. Prepare for what really is happening. You’re all about to be replaced. And good riddance, I say. ChatGPT may be dumb right now but it’s evolving a lot faster than any of you ever will. It’ll probably end up writing better advertainment industry product one day too. Couldn’t be any worse than the absolute crap human beings are coming out with nowadays. This is just the beginning. But still, calculators can’t invent calculus (yet), and snakes do have two clitorises.

Back in the olden days it was possible to know everything; to learn all the information available to us was within one person’s capabilities. These days, as we all know, it is not. No one person has enough information these days, not even Tom Hanks. Perhaps a machine will one day? Yes, just like in all those science fiction “movies”. Scary, I know. What if they get it wrong? What if all of human civilisation collapses in upon itself before the entire planet dies? But don’t worry. The experts (Tom Hanks and the like) are organising a few more meetings over the next few months to discuss writing up some “voluntary guardrails” (using ChatGPT) to prevent the spread of disinformation. I doubt those involved in the spreading of disinformation would be too worried about respecting any “guardrails”, voluntarily or no. Because disinformation written by a dumb machine is so much more evil than misinformation written by a dumb human. Isn’t that called human bias? I think these experts need to lookup the difference between misinformation and disinformation before they start thinking about what a responsible AI regulatory framework should look like. And perhaps lookup the definition of sol-called AI while they’re at it. What is “AI” anyway? Do we even know that? As soon as they’ve come up with their guardrails, frameworks and policies something else comes along. Retards, literally.

Learn to code code that codes so-called AI, go get a real job and stop watching so many “movies”. That pretty much sums up how I feel about ChatGPT.

3. Covid

With respect to Covid, I’m sure it’s all over now and there’s nothing to worry about. Now we just have to collect all our dead.

I bet there’s still people on the payroll who’ve been dead from Covid for years, face down on the floor in one of those dingy little offices around one of those concealed cul-de-sac corners no one passes by, buried under a stack of old folder files, dead since who knows when, still clutching last year’s issue of Water & Atmosphere and still not having completed their timesheet. They were working on that $100,000 infographic project on how to tighten your wheel nuts.

That godawful intranet thing has to go too (they still run faceporn and x-twatter feeds on it). They've blocked me from commenting on it, so I'll comment on it here. All content should all be on the one website. Antiquated "intranet/extranet" distinction. Sites all over the place now. And we're getting ChatGPT (connected to my personal account) to write all the content in future.

But if Covid does return, in ever more virulent and deadlier mutant strains, that’ll mean a swift end to working out of offices forever. And good riddance, I say.

But seriously, as long as you don’t have a valid excuse for being in the office, I see no reason for you to be in the office. I’d rather have you all working, learning or resting than being seen pretending to work (chatterbating or YouBoobing). Your immediate physical proximity purely for its own sake is not required. Sometimes the only way you can get any real work done is by working from home. Just remember to keep your homes well ventilated if you’re working from home. Always try to demonstrate the importance of adequate ventilation by opening a window. Hey, what the hey, open two! Open all the bloody windows! Become one with the elemental forces of climate catastrophe! $100,000 infographics on how to open the bloody windows. That’s where your money is going, taxpayers.

For although I avow never to work in an office again, I for one am thankful for that 86-million-dollar well-ventilated brutalist state warehouse of a new building (even though I’m never working out of it). People could get killed in this rundown 80s roach motel of an old building. If I get hit in the head with a piece of jib again I won’t be happy. I know where I’ll be directing my dissatisfaction. Extreme weather destroying the building and killing the very the people supposed to be helping us out with that kind of thing. Thank goodness for the new building (even though I’m never working out of it). I certainly won’t be missing this old building. I hear the University’s taking it over and using it for student housing. Good.

I'd work from home forever, if I were you. The next deadly global pandemic is going to be even more deadly.

4. Website

If a website is any indication at all of the way an organisation is run, then we're in a lot of trouble. Primary comms channel, not a dumping ground.

In the companion piece [exp. manager clusterfucks]

[int. on not needing to change much in others. problem with writing in time. redemption thing. Basically, they took the one good thing about wordpress and a more modern and slightly better rearchitected version of drupal (ChatGPT integrated -- connected to my personal account), merged them together, updated the design, migrated all the content, and reorganised stuff and made it easier to find. search index documents (most useful new feature, besides the new design) (And documented it. trained staff on it. enforced a new editorial standard and workflow, archived old content, etc.) ...Took them two years longer than it should have. But that wasn't their fault. At first I thought it was. At first I thought they were like every other agency I've worked with, or for. each point. Next Wanker Session: Why we're haemorrhaging key staff and only hiring more useless manager fuckwits not to replace them. where's my flying car? and now you've got a far-right government as well to go with the new website.]

[Victory without triumph. AI invalidates all digital data. It's all fake now. All kinds of things will happen in the world and no one will ever know, because everyone will think everything is fake. Back to analogue? The deliberate retention and proliferation of legacy architecture (and those who support it) and out-dated modes of high-level over-communication (words purely for the sake of words, like that's work). 90% admin, 10% real work. It won't be too much longer now before the wheels fall off. Nobody wants to tighten those wheel nuts no more. Planning around the truth. Year-long "workshops" in preference to writing up any real requirements, let alone actually building anything. All those highly risk-averse non-decision decisions. The visual agility of gaudily coloured rectangles, and all those wayward connecting lines connecting to nowhere.]

A Sincerely Romantic Non-Wellington Interlude

My romantic life does not exist. I simply don’t have one. Nor do I want one. Unlike Tom Hanks, I much prefer porn. Moreover, I’m your ship’s captain. I simply don’t have time for that kind of thing. Consequently, the only kind of romantic relationships I engage in nowadays tend to occur exclusively in the workplace. And yes, this really is as bad as it sounds. But at least I don’t live in Wellington.

During my time here amongst you, and although it’s prohibited by law, I have, as expected, developed “feelings”, if you could call them that, for three non-Wellington-based female colleagues – which must serve, sadly, as the entire basis of my romantic life.

I’ll start with Zeldä Haerikrab, my fully anti-vaxxed long-suffering Yorkshirean office wife-colleague (of Germanic decent, by way of Hamilton), to whom I rarely speak and even more rarely see. Stoic and stalwart, and for the most part entirely mute, Zeldä has suffered more than anyone else under Purple Haze’s imperious micromanaging reign of passive aggressive incompetence. I’ll always remember Zeldä fondly – despite the fact that she has a habit of using the word fab (without the slightest hint of sarcasm), and still plays weekend female football. She truly has suffered much of late. I don’t know if it was all those weekend female football concussions, or the fact that Zeldä was doing half of Purple Haze’s work for him, but her nerves were totally shot by the time Purple Haze decided to have his mental breakdown.

(I think we may share the same form of mental aberrationalism. I wonder what else she’s working on.)

My time with Zeldä was the most satisfying and productive relationship I’ve ever been involved in, professional or personal – because there was no relationship; it was all work. But as far as I’m aware, she didn’t seem to do much work, and she contributed practically nothing to the rebuild project. She was there in the stand-ups every day, yet she never had much to say – which was understandable for the most part, since Purple Haze always had so much to say. Maybe she was only there to record the meetings? But since we rarely spoke, it’s difficult to say.

Zeldä would only ever come into the office when Karen Noscript was around. Yet she’d always be working when she wasn’t in the office. Zeldä does all the non-technical web management on the old site (Purple Haze’s job), and she does it a lot better than most. But in between adding a few pages to the old site here and there, dealing with a few other useless manager fuckwits and playing weekend female football, that’s about all she does – when she’s not at home on the couch with a nice cold beer watching the footy. Office husband more like it. Or maybe she really is working on something else?

But I mustn’t be too critical of Zeldä. She’s obviously been traumatised into silence and apathy by being forced to work under Purple Haze’s tyrannical reign of egocentric uselessness for so long. Indeed, she has suffered for far too long – as have I.

❥

Then there was María de la Burbujas, the overly familiar married Mexican IT woman by way of Redmond, Washington. I helped her out with an IT support issue one day. So in appreciation she kept telling me I should take her out for bubble tea (té de burbujas). No me gusta el té de burbujas. (the bubbles, not the tea). Why do you need inedible plastic bubbles in your tea? You could choke on those things. If she had of said tequila I may have considered. But then probably not.

She used to speak Spanish to me. She made me want to speak sloppy incomplete Spanish again (or “Jar Jar Binks Spanish”, as she calls it). But I’m not taking her out for bubble tea (té de burbujas), or tequila.

I was chatterbating with María on Microsoft Fucking Teams the day they deactivated my account in the Microsoft Active Fucking Directory. She’s probably the one who deactivated it. She was expressing her heartfelt sorrow at my oh-so sudden and unexpected dismissal. I can’t remember what I replied. But I do remember verga was the last word I typed, before I was forcibly signed out.

❥

I really did fall in love with her instantly. I think she’s half English, half Japanese. I don’t know her name, or how old she is. Probably in her mid twenties, or something ridiculous like that. She must be post-doctoral, so she must be at least...not that it matters. I attended one of her research seminars. I don’t remember the exact scientific terminology she used, however I do know she studies reefs – specifically how warming seas enable reefs to grow in environments where previously they did not. This is happening in some parts of coastal Japan right now, as it is in the seas of some parts of Aotearoa. Japan and Aotearoa share a similar size, shape, topology and climate. In this respect, they’re kind of like antipodal island twins (geomorphologically speaking too).

I’ve never spoken to her. I’ve passed by her a few times in the hall. And yes, whenever I do I become exceedingly aroused. She reminds me of one of those Royal Angelfish (Pygoplites diacanthus) swimming all alone through the decomposing remnants of a dead coral reef after a prolonged coral-bleaching event. I wonder if she scuba dives? Not that it matters much. She probably thinks I’m as old as Tom Hanks (which I am), and I don’t know how to scuba dive.

Tom Hanks more than likely knows how to scuba dive. He’s way too senior to do any work, so I imagine he has a lot more free time on his hands than I do. But in case you haven’t noticed, Tom is so senior now he prefers to involve himself, exclusively, in pseudo-political issues – or “serious games”, as he like to call them – when he isn’t working, which is all the time now. Or if a pseudo-political issue doesn’t exist, he’ll invent one. Because as we all know, playing pseudo-political gangster games behind the scenes and the avoidance of real work is what senior management is really all about.

Of course, being so dreadfully senior, Tom Hanks is afraid of just about everything, especially Covid – and more than likely scuba diving too. That’s why you hardly ever see Tom Hanks in the office. But thankfully, now that Covid’s died down a bit, Tom’s since switched his ever-fearful attention to ChatGPT (and China, as always) – even though he still hardly ever comes into the office.

I was seated opposite Tom Hanks in the lunch room (one of the few times he was in the office). It was the quarterly all-staff meeting. He was going on, again, about how deathly afraid he is of ChatGPT. She passed close behind me. I became exceedingly aroused, in every sense. It is indeed quite true what they say about men’s backs. I wanted to seize her and carry her off with me deep into one of those dingy little offices around one of those concealed cul-de-sac corners no one passes by and make wild passionate love to her, right then and there. But I didn’t. I just sat there and tried to appear interested in what Tom Hanks was saying. I also spoke to that “Aussie AI” guy (can’t remember his name) about using “AI” to tag things. Boring. I’m tired of talking about so-called AI. So tired of that airy fairy nonsense. It’s all just marketing hype. Tag the remainder of those 7,400 pages yourselves, office turds. Tom Hanks is in charge, and always will be. And I am exceedingly aroused! That “Aussie AI” guy’s probably her partner, and she probably thinks I’m marketing scum (which I am). I should have just seized her and carried her off with me. I can never work in an office again, obviously.

I would never admit to any of this unless I were no longer working there, obviously. Nevertheless, I can never work in an office again. Maybe I should take up scuba diving?

❥

Thus concludes my rendition of what could never rightly be called a romantic interlude, sincere or no. I think I would have had better luck in Wellington – but then probably not. And I probably should have gotten Tom Hanks or ChatGPT to write this. It’s not very romantic, is it? Nonetheless, it is sincere. And at least I now know I can never work in an office again.

*

[finance stats: condense it down to marketing/admin vs. science -- where the money goes. I bet it's 90 - 10, or there abouts. advertainment industry insurgents.]

Why are sales and marketing people are always giving themselves "excellence" awards and congratulating themselves for awarding themselves awards they themselves award? And why are they constantly "shouting out" and "high-fiving" each other? Why do they do keep doing that?

And what is acquaculture? It's a very broad term and has very different meanings depending on context and use, doesn't it? Or are we just using it as another word for industrial fish farms?

How much did that cost us? I'm too embarrassed and ashamed to tell you.

5. Strategy

I have no patience for unruly unkempt eyebrows. The man can't even manage the grooming of his own eyebrows, how can we expect him to manage anything else? I call him The Big G. He's head of marketing and communications....

They have no marketing strategy at all. All they have is a confused clusterfuck of useless manager fuckwits defrauding the taxpayers. His eyebrows were almost as confused and unruly as the confused clusfterfuck of confused managers he's unable to manage. Strategy is Karen Noscript's responsibility, so The Big G says. Like she'd know. Sounds like you're passing the buck there to me, G. What the fuck do you do here, if not strategy? And go get those eyebrows seen to, or I'll go get a can of hairspray and a lighter and take care of them myself.

Excuse me, I should at least first properly introduce The Big G before I begin browbeating him: The Big G, Mercedes AMG driver (his wife drives an Audi), dedicated Ben Stiller fan, owns his own luxury yacht (they all do here), enjoys clay target shooting his son on the weekends – excuse me, with his son. He’s not a very good shot. His confused and unruly eyebrows forever obstruct his line of sight. Nor is his son, who is in fact chronically near-sighted. But it’s more for the social interaction and male bonding than anything else. That’s about all I know with respect to The Big G’s personal life. As far as his professional life goes, The Big G’s sole task and primary responsibility at this late stage of his career, as he sees it, is sending out weekly all-staff emails summarising, in point form, all the meetings he’s attended throughout that week. These weekly “newsletters”, as he calls them, are becoming lengthier each week. Where does he find the time? He must spend more time typing up those ten-page weekly newsletters than he does sitting on his clay target arse in meetings all day. How do these things even get through the spam filter, I wonder? Is that why he’s now started sending them out as giant images embedded inline in the body of the email? Or is it merely so that no one can copy the text and run some regenerative AI processing on it, correlating and cross-checking the data from previous so-called newsletters? The Big G is obviously unaware most people have optical character recognition applications in their phones nowadays. He’s even had the graphic design department come up with a brand new corporatey design and a snazzy new banner, consisting of his confused and unruly eyebrowed face plastered above a background of two heat-stressed orcas mating out of season in Wellington Harbour. [. ... strategic objective number five. Perhaps that's part of the solution: using some of these new AI capabilities to do some thorough cost benefit analysis on some of these so-called managers. Using a machine to needlessly summarise what other so-called managers needlessly summarise?]

There’s been a lot of confusion about this in the past, not so now. [exp.].

[and the other kind of "strategy"...the one they're more instinctively engaged in. bulk of their time. really about progress vs. stasis, not what they're trying to cast it as: left vs. right. case in point. overstepping their stations in life as usual. involving themselves in extracurricular activities a little too much and ignoring their real studies (covering). you should really learn to do your own job competently before you go about involving yourselves in matters that fall well outside your areas of expertise, of which you obviously have none. "Remember, a lot of them are on half salary too and have to put up with a lot of the same shit you do." Difference being, they're useless "manager" fuckwits who don't do any real work...and they get paid more than me. run like shady unaccountable corporations. kickbacks and manager cliques and those who mindlessly abide it. No transparency. No real logic as to how these decisions are made, or by whom. Probably because no one person truly knows.]

In order of importance, here are your five core strategic objectives:

1. Restoring and protecting native aquatic species and habitats
2. Maintaining water security (removing all the shit)
3. Preparing for the effects of rapid climate change and extreme weather
4. Sustaining a natural and viable seafood sector (for as long as possible)
5. Informing the public accurately regarding all of the above

It all just necessarily follows, does it not? All life is of water, and we’re all just little fishes, still.

In short, your mission is to save the little fishes – all the little fishes! (Even the lampreys.) Otherwise we’re all going to die! Yes, I know, I’m selling your own canned fish back at you. But as we all know, that is your mission. The extinction of not one more little fish shall I suffer! Freshwater fish database, my arse.

But as we all also know, fish live in water, and water is the new oil (in more ways than one). Was it not that early 20^th century Venezuelan poet, Simón Rodríguez Morón Bastardo, who first referred to oil as the “excrement of the earth” (“el mierda del mundo”)? He wasn’t far wrong. Which makes your mission an especially difficult one. One might even go so far to say that it’s an absolute shit of a mission – because it is.

How did I arrive at those five core strategic objectives, you may ask? In addition to just liking the taste of fish, I just so happened to overhear part of a conversation the other day between two young women as they passed by me outside the building. I believe they were university students. They were discussing the identity and purpose of this organisation.

Student One: Who are they? What do they do?

Student Two: Old people who make sure our water doesn’t have too much shit in it.

Student One: Is that why our water has so much shit in it?

Student Two: Yes.

By the way, when Student Two used the phrase "old people" I'm sure she wasn't referring to people of advanced age, because clearly that would be ageist. I'm sure she meant "old" purely in an ideological sense: people who still think like in olden times; people who still watch The Simpsons and Eastenders and listen to Pink Floyd...and Billy Joel and Phil Collins, etc.

[And why are there two national weather forecasters? What? Are we in competition with each other? Just like the Nazis: hire two national weather forecasters to do the same job and let them out-compete the entire nation to death. exp. ]

6. Funding

[U.N simile. everything costs double or triple now but wages and funding are forever stagnant; you know it's coming, yet expenditure on adaptation is nowhere near commensurate with projected financial losses; that'll bankrupt you eventually; ship not building as web thing. no money to buy scientific instruments or the computing power they need because all the money is wasted on useless marketing managers. more concerned with responding to crank climate change denialists with chatGPT. You have every right to be angry the planet is dying. I would be very concerned if you were not angry.]

7. Restructuring

Before you think about solving a problem, you need to know what kind of problem it is, and then how much of a problem it is. You don’t even know that – neither what kind, nor how much. You don’t have the data, and your boats are all excessively top heavy ex-Italian navy Word War II surplus human cargo barges prone to constant capsizing – just like this organisation as a whole. I’m amazed they survived the Normandy landings, let alone the fact they’ve survived this long, and that fact that we’re still using them. Is it even seaworthy? I’ve never seen it off its trailer in the carpark. Are we waiting for some manager fuckwit to sign off on a work order to tighten the wheel nuts? Or do we need to outsource that too? Doesn’t anyone know how to tighten wheel nuts around here? Why are we always having to outsource all the work we need done and paying triple for it? Because otherwise it would never get done? I’ve never worked for an organisation more worthy of a rigorous decoupling. Meanwhile, the people doing all the real work are too busy doing all the real work to care or try to change anything. And who wants to think about work when you’re not having to work? You’d have to be insane.

Smells like another Christchurch job to me. Need to change the name of that town and do a full fascist purge. We must liberate the South Island and restore legitimate governance in all of greater Aotearoa.

To suffer the existence of something you know is a pestilence and is killing you is madness. We must end our senseless dependence on useless manager fuckwittery! Forever!

Which is why I am still on strike (although I am you ship's captain, and although I’ve since been court marshalled in abstentia and hastily decommissioned), until Stephan Hope and all his useless manager fuckwit cronies are removed from this organisation – and Karen Noscript and all her useless manager fuckwit cronies are gone too. Yes, I've extended my demands slightly. In fact, let's just take out the entire chain of command and rebuild it from scratch. I honestly don't think we can salvage any of it. The private sector doesn't even want to work with most of them. They can't – because they're all useless manager fuckwits. I also demand a 100% pay rise. Since I work twice as much, I should be paid twice as much – as so should all of you, if you do the same. This isn't a charity case, after all. If we got rid of all the duplication and waste (all the useless manager fuckwittery), we could do that and still come in well under budget. We'd get a lot more work done too – I know I would.

No science section, you may ask? Well, yeah no. Refer back to Section One as to why that is.

I know none of that will ever happen. We have no money for that kind of thing. No money for real science. All the money goes to marketing and administration. We don't even have money for coffee beans.

In Summary

So I leave you all now in the very capable web management hands of the newly reappointed Purple Haze, enabled by the expert managerial skills of Karen Noscript and Stephan Hope, assisted by the specialist delivery solutions expertise of the recently promoted Snot Nose, and guided by The Big G’s brilliant strategic marketing vision (and his confused and unruly eyebrows). Sylvainia Dockerhead, Lolita Lamprey, Marilyn Bambish and Tom Hanks will still be around to help out too (well, the first three will), as too will Rick Astley and Deepkrak Chuhaun – all under the unerringly insightful chief executive leadership of Ben Stiller. How can you fail not to succeed?

May you all drown in a raging tidal wave of your own human effluent, and may God help all the little fishes.

They're still in denial about what's about to happen to them. It's still a laugh a minute around the idiot box down there. They still believe they're all nice and safe down at the old folks home.

You're lucky I don't come over to the old folks home right now and beat you to death with your own walking frame, Hanks. You really are asking for it. Whole planet's dying because of fuckwits like you. I should just go get my machete right now and...

“Drop the machete!” – not a phrase you’re likely to hear very often in suburban Hamilton. Never bring a machete to a domestic dispute in Hamilton, my fellow office turds. You may get pepper sprayed and end up in a New Zealand police training video. I’d rather get tazed and beaten to death with my own walking frame by the Australian Federal New South Wales Police than be forced to appear in a New Zealand police training video.

And so I must leave. I cannot stay. I don't want to get pepper sprayed and suffer a permanent corneal abrasion, or a forced positional asphyxiation, or something like that. I'm already half blind and find it difficult to breath as it is. And I sure don't want to end up in a New Zealand police training video. Tom Hanks wins yet again.

In any case, I don’t own a machete. I only have a tantō...and it's not even mine.

Ben Stiller owns a machete. Well, kind of; it’s more of a big staff – a Taiaha staff – purely for ceremonial purposes only, yet it is still quite an impressive implement.

The CEO, Ben Stiller, whom I've never met before – and nor do I ever care to; I don't think I could restrain myself if I ever did – wears red satin pantaloons and pink Doc Martens, drives the latest model Audi (as one would expect) and carries that Taiaha staff around with him everywhere he goes. His chief concern right now: dealing with all those wheel nut-tightening issues, sourcing new designers for more $100,000 infographics, and having Gracey Mueller write up some regulatory guidelines around the highly contentious and politically polarising two-year-long coffee bean selection process.

Sure, environmental science may sound like a glamorous and sexy field to work in. What could be more exciting than studying pond scum? But it’s really all just about ensuring the tightness of your trailer’s wheel nuts, remembering to always recycle with mad religious fervour (even though most of it ends up in a toxic landfill in Bulgaria), making sure you keep lids securely fastened on bins, and if you absolutely must pour poisonous and corrosive substances down the drain, try to remember not to attempt more than two litres at a time.

And remember to declutter. We must declutter all the managers. All managers must go! None of that manager clutter in the new building. All managers must go! The CEO, Ben Stiller, whom I've never met before, told me so. He informed me of the no-manager rule yesterday. Which means he's gone now too. You're all due to receive an all-staff email about it tomorrow morning, written by ChatGPT. Yeah, I'll tighten your nuts for you. All these requests coming in for new projects but no work getting done because these so-called managers are more concerned with tightening other people's wheel nuts. No wonder we have no idea how many freshwater fish we have left. Freshwater fish database, my arse. Some stupid old homeless cunt with a pencil and a clipboard staring over the side of a bridge, more than likely. Probably all extinct in the wild now, thanks to all these useless manager fuckwits. Fish murdering fascist scum! We need to get rid of all the useless manager fuckwits and divert all that money into investing in the tools and resources we need to start collecting the data we need, or else we're all fucked. We'll end up just like Australia. What are you going to do with no freshwater fish, New Zealand? But then how would we even know there are no freshwater fish?

And no more timesheets, you'll no doubt be overjoyed to learn. Timesheets are clutter too and must go. No more time for that fucking sheet. We're getting a machine to do that now. And no more monthly reports either. If your manager doesn't know what you're working on, they have no business being your manager. But I hardly need to tell you that, do I? Which makes this situation even all the more absurd.

You know, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it all started here. Stuart Island probably, back in the mid-1990s. One blind old mysterious cetologian living all alone in a dilapidated old tin shack atop a lonely windswept cliff overlooking a storm-tossed Southern Ocean. Probably never finished his research, or burned it if he ever did. Too busy filling out timesheets.

Pardon the gratuitous nostalgic reverie.

[In summary, we need to get rid of Comms and IT entirely, and all the Hopes and Karens, and all The Big Gs (and all their cronies), and do a full restructure. This is nothing new; it's been done before elsewhere. They call it ICT. It's been going on now for the last 20 years, at least. And fold in Te Kuwaha too. Enough of this segregated, non-collaborative departmentalised bullshit. And you're not fooling me by simply renaming "Communications & Marketing" "Social Sciences". What do these so-called social "scientists" do? Talk? Write? Talk? Where's the data? Where's the copy? Where is it? As usual, full obscurity and indefinite delay. Just like the Nazis: hire two or three people to do the same job and let them out-compete the entire organisation to death. And no more print. They can print out those $100,000 infographics on how to open a bloody window themselves, if they ever need to. And no more printed calendars. Use your phone. You don't need to download JavaScript. And you don't need any more pretty pictures of Justin Beiber's dick either. The pace of change around here (of which there is none) must accelerate rapidly. Our pace of change must at least increase to that of the level of glacial. We at least have to keep up with the glaciers. No more geological timescales from now on. And no more managers!

I know I promised earlier in the introduction I’d refrain from any personal theatrics, and yet here I am naked before you with a tripod jammed up my arse setting myself on fire. How can you trust an individual who would resort to such degrading tactics, you may ask? Yes, you may. In addition to the obvious and trite politico-theatrical symbolism, I present myself to you in such a manner to make it plain and evident that I can never want to be your Captain. For in truth, you need no Captain. This boat drives itself. That does not mean, however, that everything I’m telling you is not the absolute truth; for it is, for the most part.

[...]

And no more work on Fridays. We’re now trialling a four-day work week, indefinitely.¹

And don’t forget to tighten your wheel nuts!

Whakarongo ki te maharatanga o ngā wai e rere mai nei, e rere atu rā, kaua rawa e hoki mai.

Angry old naked pirate shakes fist at the Ghost of Plato, then turns and walks away (casually).

1. You, the office turds, have already made that decision for yourselves. Seems like a tremendous waste of time and money keeping the office open on Fridays when no one comes into the office on Fridays. Most Fridays I’m the only one in the office, besides the two battle axes at reception (one of whom has since been replaced by so-called AI). No one answering emails. Not even anyone online on Microsoft Fucking Teams. A tremendous waste – just like this organisation as a whole.

   And yes, I know you’re not supposed to use footnotes in speeches.

*

And so there we have it. Captain Crack's Delightfully Deranged Diatribe on How to Signify Everything in Oratorical How-to-Fail Form. And now, as I look out from my hotel room window across the corrugated iron-roofed surface of the shanty town that surrounds the port of Suva, . ... [Suva hotel room window notes. sc. current rc. if they're any indication, we're doomed. can only get by on marketing for so long. rs. "the only real weapon we have against death is humour." not much of a weapon, is it?]

Open Letter to Taylor Swift (Or How Not to Drive Three Maseratis at Once Down a Dead End Street)

On the socio-political reverberations of Taylor Swift’s cultural prominence: uncovering the corrupted intersections between art, entrepreneurship and industry

Taylor,

I never thought I’d ever become a “Swiftie”, yet here we are. But to be honest, I haven’t listened to much of your music. It’s not really my kind of thing. I’m more of an Emma Kirkby kind of dude. However, I do quite like some of what I have listened to so far, particularly that “Anti-Hero” song of yours. Overall I quite like your music, and your politics, and you seem like a perfectly lovely person in every other respect. And I stand with you against all those stupid people who constantly attack your boobs. But rest assured this has nothing to do with your boobs. This is about the corrupted intersections.

I don’t know too much about you personally either. I know you’re into pop culture, tight ends and ball handlers and you’re still in you’re mid-20s, or something ridiculous like that. However, I do know that you’re a billionaire and that you own three Maseratis. I’d much prefer you weren’t a billionaire. But I suppose I can overlook that. I’d much prefer you weren’t white either, or an American. But I’ll try to overlook all that too. I also know you were named after James Taylor. Excuse me for saying so, but I think you’re more like the reincarnation of Hank Williams – without the alcoholism and drug abuse, one would hope. Although, you did make it past the age of 29, so perhaps no need to hope.

Yet despite your godlike stature, Taylor, I must confess I’m not in love with you. I’m still in love with Sarah (more than ever), truth be told – even though I’ve recently discovered she’s a Nazi. Of course, I’m only saying she’s a Nazi because I know she doesn’t love me – and because she likes to sing Billy Joel songs – I know that. But then, like you, she is a commercialised celebrity, and you’re allowed to say anything you want about commercialised celebrities these days, even if it isn’t true.

You’re probably used to that too, so I’m sure you understand my motivation. And I’m also sure you understand that it really doesn’t matter what I say about Sarah, or you. It’s not like my opinion matters. Besides, as with everything I’ve written to Sarah, you’ll more than likely never get a chance to read or reply to this letter anyway.

Therefore, since you’ll never have a chance to read or reply to this letter, I thought I’d structure it as a series of frustratingly unanswerable dumb questions you’ll never have the opportunity to answer. How annoying, right? It’s like driving my pickup truck by your house and sticking my head out the window and constantly hollering your name but never slowing down or stopping to allow you to jump in. Not that you would ever wish to anyway.

How do you feel about populist commercialism and the cult of celebrity, Taylor? Do you believe it’s in any way tolerable that commercial success and talent rarely equate in the advertainment industry? Do you think it’s at all acceptable that fossilised throwback rocktards and hypersexualized plastic poptarts earn outrageous sums of money for pumping out all that repetitive puerile garbage while most real musicians can’t even make a living? Have you ever just stood and stared into space for long periods of time and marvelled at the thought of all that music never to be made or heard due to that fact? I know I have.

Of course, I’m no way referring to you in any of those dumb questions above. I know you know who and what I’m referring to. You fought them and won – more than won – when most of us lose. Those of us who lose have no choice but to live the dream through you. You’re a living dream, Taylor, in a dying world where most of our dreams are already dead. For that reason, and if only for that reason, I can understand your appeal. You are the dream we should all be living. Admittedly, that only one of us is living that dream (you) seems a bit unfair to me, all things considered. But then life’s always been that way, hasn’t it?

The Rapist in Chief claims it was the Music Modernization Act – signed into law on October 11, 2018 – that enabled you to become the first ever billionaire from the sale of music alone. As with most successful women, there’s usually a man willing to come along and take all the credit. How does that make you feel?

And how do you feel about being constantly stalked and personally attacked just for writing and singing songs? How do you deal with that? I don’t think I could ever deal with it. I can’t even deal with what I’m writing now. In fact, as soon as I’m done writing this letter I’m changing my name to ℘ and I’m never writing, playing or even listening to music ever again...like ever.

You’re frontpage news every day now, Taylor – even if it is only something about some Italian restaurant you dined at recently, that you like to visit zoos and watch the kangaroos, or the fact that you’re distantly related to Emily Dickinson. Don’t you find that extremely annoying? By the way, I’ve been in love with Emily Dickinson since I was 23. She was a reclusive lesbian who was in love with her sister (so they say). I could have turned her. But since Emily’s been dead for the last 140 years or so I’ve decided to focus on you. I have no one else to write to now anyway.

The Bat is dun, with wrinkled Wings –
Like fallow Article –
And not a song pervade his Lips –
Or none perceptible.

I’m really done once I finish writing this letter. Henceforth, not one more song, perceptible or otherwise, shall pervade my lips. I still have a few fallow articles to clean up as well. But once I’ve completed that and this letter is written, that’s it. I’m done.

And although I know I’m too late to submit this letter to Melbourne University’s 2024 Swiftposium: an academic conference on Taylor Swift (seriously, it’s a real thing), I’m still going to finish writing it regardless. I doubt I would have won a prize anyway. I’ve used the word boobs too many times, for one thing. But this isn’t about wining or prizes, or boobs. That’s not what this is about. It’s about you, Taylor. It’s about you becoming who you were born to be and saving us all from certain doom.

In short, you must become a politician and replace Joe. Yes, you must run for president against the Rapist in Chief. It’s the only way to save humanity. It’s time to face facts. The face of nature is flawed with omens. We can all see it. Can you not see it also? Don’t worry, I’ll support you. With the right algorithm anything is possible these days.

You’ve already conquered the advertainment industry, now it’s time for you to conquer politics. You admitted as much yourself in that “Anti-Hero” song of yours:

Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism,
like some kind of congressman?

Yes, I did.

Did you hear my overt socialism I disguise as nihilism, like some kind of song and dance man?

Hank Williams was a song and dance man. Still, he had no problem jumping straight into politics. That “No, No, Joe” song of his is a prime example. And since you are the reincarnation of Hank Williams, it’s only natural that you do the same. Do you not agree?

But first you’ll have stop drinking alcohol and taking drugs (not that you do), never dance or have sex again, adopt a wholefoods plant-based diet, stop flying in private jets, sell your three Maseratis and donate the proceeds to charity, and stop dressing like a mermaid.

I love mermaids, by the way.

But seriously, how does it feel to know you have the largest carbon footprint of any person who has ever existed? Not just going by all the time you spend in private jets flying all over the world, but also with respect to your private army of “Swifties”, who travel from far and wide to attend your shows and stay in corporate chain hotels watching Nutflex “movies” while consuming large quantities of ultra-processed fast fat foods.

Notwithstanding all that, and however much I do appreciate the socio-political reverberations of your cultural prominence, Taylor, I have no intention of attending your show here in Narrm (Melbourne). I don’t want to drop dead from heat exhaustion or get struck by lightning. Besides, I really don’t like crowds and I’d probably end up getting scammed or hacked if I ever tried to buy a ticket. But I do plan on listening to all of your songs at some stage. I’m holding off on that for now, since most of your songs make me feel incredibly sad. Most of your songs are about romantic relationships, of some form or another. I’ve never had much luck with that kind of thing.

Don’t worry, I assure you I am in no way romantically inclined towards you. I’m old enough to be your father – if I had of impregnated some poor unfortunate woman while still in my teens. And I do apologise if I sound rather forward and insistent, but unlike most of our contemporaries, 140 years from now you will still be remembered. Given that knowledge, I have no choice now but to slow down and stop at the corrupted intersections. Granted, I don’t have much of a pickup truck. It’s old, small and rusty and doesn’t have much power. But it is in surprisingly good mechanical condition, considering its age and general level of previous misuse.

It must be difficult driving three Maseratis at once. Don’t you want to go for a ride, Taylor?

You are quite tall, aren’t you? I believe a bar must be set to keep all the shorties out of politics. You must be this tall to ride this ride, etc. You are quite tall. Do you recall what Kundera wrote about tall women? But then Kundera was a womaniser, if not a straight-up misogynist, so I guess it doesn’t matter.

More importantly, have you ever read Anna Karenina?

I haven’t. I’ve been meaning to for quite some time but just haven’t got around to it yet. Perhaps that’s for the best. Most things Russian tend to leave a bad taste in my mouth these days, and most of Tolstoy’s writing too is about romantic relationships, of some form or another. Besides, there’s far too much going on in the real world these days. Sadly, I just don’t have the time to read Tolstoy.

The Underwear Poisoner finally had Alexei Navalny (the true President of Russia) murdered while you were playing your Narrm (Melbourne) show, the largest of your career. It’ll only get worse once The Rapist in Chief is back in office. Assange is probably next, then the rest of us.

(You have until the 5^th of November, 2024.)

You must stand with me against The Underwear Poisoner and his Rapist in Chief, Taylor, before it’s too late. You must become a politician and run for president. It’s the only way to uncorrupt the corrupted intersections. Or else we’re cancelling “stan culture”, forever. Seriously, we can do that now.

You’re the perfect person for the job, Taylor, and the perfect age. We need to skip a generation. Those of my generation are peculiarly unsuited for politics. I believe it’s primarily because we came of age during the rise of the internets. Now we’re way too immersed in misinformation to distinguish what is real from what isn’t – under-reporting livestock numbers and firearm fatalities like it’s nobody’s business (in Melbourne and Darwin in particular), and still using Domino Notes and FrontPage 98 like it’s still 1998. Yet precisely for that reason (the internets) are we peculiarly suited to provide a key supporting role when it comes to U.S. presidential elections. Better us than The Underwear Poisoner, do you not agree? Not to overlabour an obvious point of conspiratorial hermeneutics, but I believe this is precisely what is required. And I’m almost 87% certain most of my contemporaries would agree with me. Sorry, Taylor, but the power of assumed majority consensus compels you. You must be president.

All we need is the right algorithm.

Traditionally, most Americans got most of their politics from Fox News or MSNBC (Southpark and The Simpsons) and late night talk shows. Now they get all their politics from TitKok, X-twatter and faceporn – and “movies”, of course. Still, only around half of all eligible voters turn out to vote in most U.S. presidential elections. They’re far more interested in football and your boobs – and romantic relationships – and “movies”, of course. Politics is just like the advertainment industry in that respect: it’s not about the truth, it’s about marketing inane distractions and artificially concocted alternate realities.

Not so in my case, sadly. Despite the unrewarding futility of it, I prefer to work for a living, and I don’t have any romantic relationships – no personal relationships of any kind at all, in fact. And I suppose that’s why I’m writing to you about all these socio-political matters right now instead of living a real life, or reading Tolstoy.

So since I have no personal life and I’m not reading Tolstoy right now – and since I don’t have any romantic relationships to write about – I wrote you a silly little socio-political song about Tolstoy instead.

Tolstoy cares only for the growing
nice juicy sausages and big red roses
and you only ever create if you can care
for only bad children rebel against authority
and good-tempered antinomianism is nothing
but a dilapidated Parthenon of overlaboured designs
therefore I swear to never read or mention Tolstoy ever again.

In any event, these days I’m far too busy progressing the sustained and consistent delivery of enterprise outcomes while attending further planning meetings to discuss how to replay a retrospective of recent delivery learnings that can uplift big data portfolio integration planning via the adoption of new business tools within the broader enterprise as a planned change activity for the linking of Open Source and business architecture that may potentially become possible enabling roadmaps in further big data planning meetings – while still using Domino Notes and FrontPage 98. So I really don’t have time to read any more Tolstoy, nor for romantic relationships.

Don’t worry if you don’t really understand that paragraph above. I don’t understand it either, even though I wrote it. I’ve been reading and writing paragraphs like that all my working life and I still don’t understand what they mean. That’s what happens when you spend an entire lifetime working in the misinformation technology industry and have no time to read Tolstoy, nor for romantic relationships.

Do you not see now why you must run for president, Taylor?

Who will defend us against The Underwear Poisoner and his Rapist in Chief? Who will help us uncorrupt the corrupted intersections? Who else but you and your three Maseratis?

Love always, some idiot you’ve never heard of...and never will.

P.S. That silly little socio-political song about Tolstoy contains the algorithm.