A teaser for DAY OUT. One of two films I have just completed. Starring Michael Byrne, Nancy Donovan & Jay Piper.
A teaser for DAY INN. One of two short films I have just completed. Starring Dan Wilson.
I awoke to the sound of my gravest fear. There were people in the house. Moving about and knocking over my material possessions like clumbsy bores unable to appreciate the finer qualities of my favourite Mars Attacks toy. I had to confront them, who knows what plastic valuable they may tread upon next.
There were six of them for what I could decipher with my sleepy eyes. A bearded young man, an even younger teen Chinese girl and a shaved headed thug foolishly trying to hide amongst my belongings. I couldn’t see the rest, but I knew there were six. There had to be six.
A commotion outside forced their hand, they were hiding from an incident that had occurred just outside my abode. They were desperate refugees and pleaded for my understanding. All would be explained. And so I offered them some tea.
The kettle came to a boil almost immediately and I purposefully surveyed my new friends as I soaked the paper bags in the steaming mugs. Details came to light that unsettled me. The shaved headed wanna-be chameleon had a tattoo that covered a top quarter of his face and scalp. One clear as day swastika with it’s crooked arms bent over his shaved head and over one eye. I was making tea for a fucking skinhead! What corrupt reality had I found myself in? Something was very wrong and the teen Chinese girl, sensing my growing discomfort, was more than eager to explain.
You see, she had just finished bashing a woman out the front of the house with her own handbag and I am confused. She said that she tried to jam her ID into the old ladies mouth because she didn’t care if the world knew what she had done. So very confused. I sip my tea. Something must be done. I can no longer house these delinquents. With determination I storm from the house and out onto the street. An older man I recognise from the neighbourhood is walking towards me. He is flanked by a woman who is obviously the victim of this heinous crime and another man whom I am unfamiliar.
"Follow me, I am the way." He cheers at me and his small posse.
But this cannot be true. He believes himself righteous. Seeking vengeance for the greater good of the community.
"No." I plead, "I am the way." I argue.
Confusion bungles the lot of us. Circling one another in delirium I plead and demand that they each understand that the individual is the way. For each and every person to follow their own hopes and dreams and systems of belief. We are bewildered. There is nothing here for me. These people are ridiculous in their motivations. All I wanted was calm peaceful sleep in the safety and comfort of my own home. How had these intruders turned me against a community that was now against itself?
The three fell down in the street. Sleeping as I was at the beginning of this tale. Three singular bright lights shone down on each of these elders. They awoke peacefully and rose from their slumber fresh and unfazed. They had discovered a new route in which to take their lives. Forward with their own principals. Unhampered by the indoctrination’s of their past. It was time for me as well, and I woke to consider just how bizarre my dreams had become.
It was twenty years ago when the other punk rockers and metal heads around school started sharing GWAR with me. We watched Live in Antarctica, Tour de Scum, Phallus in Wonderland and Skulhedface together. We knew all the best lines and we quoted it all relentlessly. Hell-O, Scumdogs of the Universe, America Must Be Destroyed and This Toilet Earth were all on high rotation, but I’ve got to admit that I didn’t quite get it at the time. I loved the humour, the art, the gore and twisted music; but it was so very varied. Too wide and unique for my young mind to grasp. The bizarre mythology shot straight over my head like a blood gushing load from Oderus’s Cuttlefish of Cthulu and quite frankly, I had no understanding how huge of an impact this band would have on my life.
And then there was RagNaRok. The album that set the fire burning. The album that set them in stone for me. From the punch your face stomper Meat Sandwich to the sweet and ever so dear ode to life on the road None but the Brave, the album laid claim to my heart and soft impressionable brain. I got it. It all made sense. It was fucking stupid, and that was half the point. Ball tearing music, fun times, social commentary, weird irreverent characters and a style that threw caution to the wind and farted on it. That album will forever be a classic in the wild and scattered discography…
At this point there was no turning back, and surprisingly the new albums kept on flowing. Carnival of Chaos was this weird punk rock trip that ended up being the most vocally melodious of all GWAR albums. If you’re looking for a sing along, this is the place. Scallop Boat, Hate Love Songs and the always classic Pre-Skool Prostitute, this album is just as strange as the next. I bought We Kill Everything from Sanity at Charlestown. The devastation of discovering I had bought an eight song censored version of the album near broke my heart. I returned it as quick as I could and refused to take no for an answer. If the album didn’t open with Babyraper, it was not for me. It was real now. GWAR flooded through my veins. I got it. I was a fan. I needed more… and then it seemed like they disappeared.
Looking back now it was only two quiet years, but without the internet as it is today, there was no news, no info what so ever. Maybe a small pic in a metal mag here and there but still no one outside of the old school friends knew or cared about the Lords and Masters that were quickly competing to be my favourite band. Heck, the fuckers were still yet to step their monster feet on our continent. Still, my fix was satisfied by new films here and there and the We Kill Everything companion It’s Sleazy is by far one of my top faves of all their vids.
Luckily enough I bumped into a friend who was keeping his fingers on the pulse. GWAR had a new album and by fuckery it was heavy, at least by GWAR standards so far. Violence Has Arrived. Slymenstra was gone and this masculine metal idea had really taken a hold of what was now my favourite band. Kurt Cobain had shot himself in the arm and head, RHCP’s grew lamer with every new release and Faith No More had the common sense to bail on a high… still GWAR raged on. And holy shit did they rage. The album is a statement. A call to arms. They had finally found their sound and it was metal. Still a little thrash/punk, but the stage was set for almost all that would follow.
It was here that it became obsession. Some money found it’s way into my wallet and I started spilling it all on the catalogue. I have never regretted this decision. For a short time in my life I had expendable money… and I blew it on GWAR. All the dvd’s, cd’s, side projects and comics; anything I could get my hands on. I can’t fucking wait to dig through all this awesome shit over the next few weeks. It was real now. I got myself a tattoo to seal the deal. It was GWAR. They had won the battle of my teenage years. All the other bands had died, failed and bailed. GWAR stood atop them all and I longed for everything they could shit on me.
Enter Corey Smoot. Holy mother fucking shit balls on metal tits. War Party arrived and dicks were split. Complex, mad, heavy fucking metal. It was real. The band had truly shaken off all their buffoonery and replaced it with an even sharper sword. I was keen. How the fuck did this band keep dropping such impressive albums? It blew me the fuck off my feet. And then the fucktards backed it up with Beyond Hell! Shit my pants, these two albums are companions. Arm in worm arm after harm. GOLD. A beautiful time to be a GWAR fan.
A few more years passed and by this point it was well known that I was obsessive about these jerks. Barely a day went by when I didn’t celebrate their madness. It consumed me. They became a part of my everyday life. They had been there for so long by this point. They were family I would never meet or see and I didn’t care. I was inspired and influenced. The fact that these madmen built an empire of blood, guts and metal astounded me. It was everything I wanted to be. Rude, crude, admired and plethoric.
Next up Lust in Space dropped and the opera returned just a little. The themes and stories reigned supreme once again and the metal madness kept shredding all the way. It was a strange time for me, as each album kept dropping I could never quite believe they were still there for me. How on this mud ball does the worlds most disgustingly notorious band continue to bust nuts like this? My dick was getting sore from being so damn fucking hard for so many years now. Surely something’s gotta give… and it didn’t.
Bloody Pit of Horror revealed itself with the most unbelievable news this bohab could ever face. GWAR was coming to Australia. It seemed too good to be true. Why now? After so many years!? I had made peace with the fact that I would never see them… and all that was about to change. There was only one thing I could do.
I followed GWAR up the east coast of Australia catching every show I could afford. Driving solo in my car, 4,000km’s in five days, I caught three shows, one in each of the east side states of Oz and that show in Sydney will be one of my finest memories. Standing in that crowd with all my old school friends. None of us had really kept in touch. None of us knew if the others were going to be there, but sure enough. Heads rolled, dicks spat and the blood ran free. So fucking cool to experience that show with the friends I had enjoyed those early years of discovery with. Too fucking cool.
It all turned out quite well. Somehow my favourite scumdogs not only withstood the test of time, but they also made it all the way to the land of Oz. Life was good. I was reinvigorated. The band had kicked cunt for 25 fucking years by this point and I was signed up for eternity. My official slave membership card stated it as fact. What on shit could they deliver next!?
What they delivered next was devastating. Flattus Maximus - Corey Smoot had died of heart failure while on tour. What the fuck? A member of GWAR died. Not just epic guitar shredder Smoot, but Flattus fucking Maximus. The first ever retired character of GWAR. Was it possible? Were they just human after all!? I didn’t believe it for a moment and Oderus made it clear. Flattus had returned home to the planet Scumdogia and a distant relative would soon fill his spot.
And he did. Pustulus Maximus came and made proud his fallen soldier and GWAR returned with their most important album since the original coming of Smoot. Battle Maximus is classic GWAR. It’s metal, but the punk rock thrash comedy ethos of old comes seeping back through. A celebration of life and death. Of humour and sorrow. Looking death in the face and laughing at it all away… until that second last track.
Falling. Brockie’s farewell. A song for his fallen soldier ironically ends up being his swan song. It’s beautiful and melodic. Layered, insightful and sincerely touching. Everything GWAR will never be known for.
And now I’ve got to face the fact that my biggest, weirdest hero on this fucked up mud ball is gone. His art splatters my body in ink that will never fade. My girl and I cry for our loss like selfish bohabs. I can never dream to appreciate how hard this must be for everyone at the Slave Pit Inc. I can’t imagine life without GWAR and Oderus Urungus. The baddest most slickest fuck up this side of Antarctica. My heart goes out to all wise enough to get it. This planet has lost the most unique mad man we could ever hope to celebrate. Raise Hell fucker.
and the women barking
like dogs in the street
as cars speed past.
and I scare her
as the world grows violent
and less selfless
lest we re: member
Our thoughtless forefather
Strum the strings old man
Bring the beat and let low the bass
The music is everywhere
Enjoying the emptiness of space
Where no woman barks
and no man brawls
The space is our own
Consume it as you may
A few nights ago I got on reddit and asked /r/sex to suggest sex positions/scenarios for me to draw. Weirdness ensued… this pic will link you to the gallery.
Somehow I have managed to crank out a couple of drawings on tour…here’s “Horrible Squirrels” to Gerant and his gal from down under.
Ohhh… FUCK YES!
Nothing will settle for me at the moment. For the past year my world has been upended over and over and over again. It’s a recurring reality I just can’t seem to shake. And it is here, with another turmoil (admittedly one that is most likely far smaller than I am imagining) that this new nightmare reared its drug riddled head.
It’s funny how common it is to look at all the small little instances that merge together to put you right in that spot. That one empty space in time where you find yourself standing next to man about to OD on heroin. Why did I pick THAT club to go to? Why is the band in such disarray that I must spend so much time on the phone discussing the future of something that appeared so certain? - But that’s it isn’t it? One can only be certain about uncertainty.
I caught Tim crossing the park and sent him off to fetch beers. I was on the phone and the conversation was sure to bring us something fresh to chew on over our Zamkowe. The phone conversation continues as I begin wandering around like a cat trying to find somewhere to sit. Trying to stay focused on the subject at hand while doing my best not to bother the two men I’ve just noticed sitting in the car I’ve been walking around. It’s an odd place to have a car, there’s an actual car park not even a stones throw away. I figure that they’re smoking weed or skipping class or doing some other innocent yet dubious recreational hobby I am unaware of.
The phone conversation turns to an alternative future and my focus shifts as the two men appear to be scuffling now. One climbs over the other, and perhaps he is slapping his friend in the face, I can’t quite tell. It’s broad daylight and surely too obvious a spot for the two of them to be fucking. I just can’t seem to work this out and I communicate so to my phone conversation as the passenger’s door flies open. A short bearded man comes sprinting at me. I immediately think of what is where in my trousers. I’m expecting to be mugged for the second time this year.
Straight passed me and into the club the man disappears, I look over in the opposite direction to see the man in the drivers seat unconscious. Shit just got real.
"Adam, something’s going down. I have no idea what, but it’s not looking good. I’ll phone you back soon."
I exit the call and in no time the short bearded man comes running back out of the pub with a handful of men in tow. “Is he alright?” I stupidly question.
Someone is calling an ambulance from inside the club, but I figure I’ll get onto it as well. The car is now open, one guy has climbed into the passenger seat and started giving mouth to mouth. Another man tries to give him compressions but it’s all kinds of useless as he is still laid back in the drivers seat.
I’m onto the operator, I would have not a clue what to do if it wasn’t for this woman’s most excellent help. “Get him out of the car and lay him down flat on the ground.” I command.
It’s tricky, I’m dealing with drug addicts and drunkards. I’ve got to sell my every instruction to them. He now lays in the gravel, he is turning blue and his friend struggles with the concept of compressions. One of the onlookers sees that I am struggling to get a steady rhythm out of this stoner so he pushes him aside and assumes the position. He looks up at me ready, his face says tell me what the fuck to do and I’ll do it. “Ok, stop the mouth to mouth…”, this was particularly hard to sell. How do you get someone to stop doing what they think is best? Stick with me people, we’re going to do what’s right for him.
Check his mouth and throat for obstructions. Thirty compressions followed by two short breaths. I’ve got to count them out loud so the lady on the phone can be assured that we’re doing it correctly. I start counting and waving my hand like a conductor. I do this at band practice all the time, it’s exactly the same… except this song will hopefully save a junkies life.
We get through the first thirty and old mate grabs the nose, tilts the head back and throws two breaths into his lungs… and nothing. Another thirty and the man doing the compressions looks grateful for my instructions. My friend doing the mouth to mouth is catching onto the rhythm. I’m starting to see the benefits of being resuscitated by musicians and the short bearded man starts doing some of the funniest shit I’ve seen anyone ever do next to a dead body… Ok, now I’ve thought about it and it’s obviously not funny, but any port in a storm right?
"Give him one more for me." He starts pleading my friend giving mouth to mouth.
"Give him one more breath for me man." He pleads while I tell him to shut the fuck up. I truly can’t believe this scenario, just moments ago I was prepping myself for a beer. Now I’m conducting CPR while trying to get this junkie to shut the fuck up. I can understand his anguish, and in no way do I mean to make light of such a dire situation… but seriously, "Shut the fuck up dude."
He snores! He takes maybe two breaths and we all gasp in relief… and he stops again.
More compressions, more breaths, more snoring and he’s gone again. This happens a few too many times and it’s obviously starting to freak the lot of us out. Where the fuck is the ambulance? How long has this been going on for?
Sirens wail as we continue our song, keeping good time and checking on one another. We’ve put together a sweet little band here, it’s a shame that it’s a singular and never to be repeated performance. I hope the paramedics brought some pyrotechnics, this show is going off like a hit to the vein… I’ll stop now. Two ambulances have arrived and we’ve filled them in on the situation.
I shake the hands of everyone involved as the paramedics resuscitate our unconscious audience. It’s been a pleasure working with you guys, everyone has done an exceptional thing here today.
I grab a quick happy snap to mark the occasion and head inside to my well deserved beer. Later I asked the other men at the club what ended up happening. They brought him back to life, cleaned him up and left him there in the gutter. Last I heard he was smoking a cigarette. I hope he liked our song.
Here’s a clip I just finished editing for the most awesome band Black Island. Rad blokes, awesome song and some great little snippets of our strange taxidermy collection… Here’s some more links to their stuff:
For no purpose at all. For nothing but lack of creativity. You are not secluded to the internet. You may not even use it. The troll be the negative stain. The bully of the internet. The snotty cunt that ruins your night. A stain. With no spine. Yellow if that. Every person that bares their face on the internet should stand proud. Every person that is proud of what they do. Be it your everyday job that sits upon a lower rung. Be it your blog that has no followers. Stand tall. This anonymous free for all is insulting. Not simply to I, but to all who put their honest self on the line. We all know that those belittling others have nothing on their resume that encourages such filthy behavior. Clean up your act. I am speaking to both parties. The first rule of troll kill has always been never to feed them. Fuck them. I’m changing the rules. Come out into the sunlight. Bare your face. Bring the internet down and be left with no playground at all. It’s ridiculous and astonishing that such foolishness would bleed into such an insignificant medium. It is people like me that feed the machine. And it works best when well oiled, greased and smothered with affection. Your dry hatred tramples all that is good. We are here to connect to and inspire one another yet you decline the creative. You wear the shoes of the hated. Tie them tight. If you face a troll - Demand their face, name or some damn evidence of their existence. Without this information they are nothing. Not even troll like. Impossible scum, worthy of sparring… they will never make the ring.
Serial Killer Sam
OFFERS TO MOW YOUR LAWN
TIES YOU UP NAKED AND CHOPS OFF YOUR GENITALS WITH A WHIPPER SNIPPER
My mate Dan turned me into a meme! I’m the luckiest guy in the world!!!
Ok, stop thinking about yourself for a moment and contemplate how awesome this guy is. His name is Gerant Kenneth Kenneth and he is kicking goals every fucking minute of his life. His name itself should be enough proof of his most radical nature, but word has it that you want to know about his comedy and You Tube channel… well hold your horses buddy because we’ve got some pretty wild shit you’re gonna want to learn first.
He wrote a book. When was the last time you even wrote a competent shopping list? - This dude wrote a whole damn book. And it’s great. Probably the best book he has ever read.
He can play music. I’m not talking about strumming the opening riff to Smoke on the Water. I’m talking about this stud singing, smashing drum kits, rocking guitars and obliterating your underwear with his mad synth skillz. He’s been owning stages up and down the east coast of Australia for more than a decade… and that shit’s for real.
What about art? - This low ridin’ homeboy did something like four years at art school. He’ll fucking paint a picture of your awesome self if you ask him nice enough. Buy him a case of beer for his troubles and you’ll have a friend for life. This cool cat even exhibits his art in galleries. I’m not talking about doodling while on the phone, this freak is pimpin’ his goods to those in the know.
Caught off guard by all the swearing? - This motherfucker has no interest in entertaining children. If that’s what you’re after, go check out those Wiggly fucks with all the whacky songs and shit. Kids go fucking ape shit for those bad ass piss lickers.
Keeps himself nice. Not only does this bad boy have a smoking hot body, the gnarly prick even has a head on his shoulders. Studies philosophy and has a keen interest in ethics. That’s right, fucking ethics. This dude uses his brain to fucking think about shit other than himself. That’s what we call righteous… and how many truly righteous people do you know?
We could go on for days, this handsome fuck has talent falling out of his asshole. It’s (quite frankly) insane. And he’s homeless. That’s right, he’s writing this fucking bio in a gutter and he still doesn’t give two fucks. He’s an overnight sensation waiting to happen. Who the fuck wouldn’t want a piece of this?
You Tube. Let’s have a look at this shit. Four years strong, near 3,000 dedicated subscribers, more than 700 videos clocking up thousands of views every single fucking day, near one million total hits, partnered up and making coin from that shit; this tiger is killing the internets with his biting wit and satirical nature one internet at a time. It’s fucking crazy. When he does stand-up comedy people lose their minds. Red Simons gave this bastard a 7 out of 10 on Red Faces. Do you understand what that means? This stingy asshole rarely gave out scores higher than 2, and this maniac got a 7. That’s the kind of shit that ends up in history books.
Let’s face it. This dude is just straight up fucking awesome, and I haven’t even scratched the surface of the plethora of projects he has on the make, all of the time. He’s a fucking juggernaut. He is Gerant Kenneth Kenneth. Fuck yeah.