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.
Here you will find another tumblr blog of mine. Johnny Illiterate and I share tales and prose for you all to peruse… please enjoy.
GB walked into work at 11pm. He was shirtless, weathered and smothered with prison ink. Said they had cut him down five years behind and now his wife had fucked him by fucking her boss. I told him I knew how he felt.
The police had just let him go. Her boss came at him like a dog and he needed help.
"My name is GB and I will kill them tomorrow" he told me. Dead in the eye as if looking for doubt. I didn’t.
I phoned for help. Two different women. The second more caring than the former, but she would have to travel from Killingsworth.
The game was up. I had done all I could do and it was time to shut shop. I shook his hand and told him where to wait for his rescue. He told me that he would return on the morrow. To thank me. The only person to have helped him on the test.
Cautiously I move from the counter. My wallet and phone now ignorantly safe within my pockets. He declares that he is not a thief and I honestly return that I believe his word.
Back door locked. Move the maniac forward. Front door locked. Wish him safety. He reiterates his gratefulness and I remind him of his rescue just opposite this road that he walks out on and in front of a car that comes screeching to a halt.
"Why didn’t you hit me?" he screams at the vehicle as if oblivious to the idea that this machine may have occupants.
"Why didn’t you hit me!?" he screams as he smashes his open palms against the bonnet of the car.
I grabbed GB by his enormous shoulder and moved him from the road. He followed me willingly as tears welled in his eyes. Now the question is mine to decipher.
"Why didn’t they hit me?"
I locked up shop and warned the clients of the sad man. As I walked home I understood his desperation and checked the streets for his body.
I have no knowledge as to what became of the man named GB.
The last of the tobacco has been inhaled and filtered through inebriated lungs. Intoxication fueled by an eight dollar six pack of a deleted beer line. It’s time to get back to work.
My life cycles like this: Work as an obsessive compulsive for as long as it takes to complete all designated tasks that I deem important and imperative, then crash and burn through a series of isolated and social activities that cater to extreme escapism… and it’s time to get back to work.
My work consists of self-directed and self-motivated projects that constantly evolve within my tumultuous and hairy head. Be they film, art, comedy, literature, music or performance orientated, these creations are restless in my mind from the moment I wake until that moment in the very early hours of the next morning when I finally crash. I can vaguely recall maybe two times this year that I have actively submitted to the idea that it was time to go to bed and simply sleep. Even the suggestion that I have a ‘switch off and stop working’ period is a fallacy I portray to make myself feel better about spending a few weeks contemplating my next line of creative action. Although my body may become less active, it is here that my mind really goes to work on everything that is imaginable and potentially next on the list of ‘important and imperative’ things to do.
There was a time where I learned to quiet my mind, and I’m certain that my ideas were less informed and incomplete. There was a time when I tried to pursue just a limited amount of projects, and I found myself in stress and bothered for not fulfilling my own desire to prolifically create.
And so here I am, ready to take on the next imperative bout. With all these ideas that fuel my songwriting, filmmaking, writing and performance it quickly becomes difficult to not only complete all set tasks with their needed and appropriate attentions, but it’s also near impossible to keep track and hold of them all at once. Even the simple task of keeping an online presence (Oh, the terrible woes of the First World) can be daunting and surprisingly time consuming at times. One must be relentlessly stringent when considering their mark here on the interwebs, more so than the outside real world where shallow commentary and drunken banter and behaviour can be quickly forgotten, forgiven and contained within small social circles. The internet NEVER forgets and it stores your mistakes for all to revel. Now Google will always be there to help confirm the sordid details of that one stupid thing you posted six years ago. That one misinformed action that may have been quickly forgotten in the world made of flesh and bone, or at least kept for an appropriate speech at a celebratory reception where your dick headed behavior may be celebrated as hilarious in retrospect.
Fix those lyrics, write that story, finish that song, update the website, keep a healthy relationship with your wife and friends, catch that movie at the cinema (a strangely high priority for me), respond to online correspondence, book the next tour, make art and exhibit, edit and upload films, contemplate ethics and your admittedly small role on Earth and in time, exercise, visit your grandmother, clean the house, get horrendously drunk for days on end.
Just a snippet of an ever revolving list of things to do, and I admit that I am confused by the things that I did. What is the purpose of all this mark making?
Be them the alphabet characters that make up this sentence, the strokes of paint on a canvas or the unintelligible tantrums of my on stage performance; I struggle to put it all into any comprehensive perspective. What am I trying to communicate by behaving in this manner?
It’s a deeply staggering question that I find myself returning to over and over again but I barely have time to contemplate it any further than a quick surface screening as there are songs to write, words to type, films to make and performances to be honed.
Once again it is time to act on these compulsions; it’s time to rid myself of these running thoughts by once again actualizing my running consciousness. It’s time to stop smoking and start chewing gum again. It’s time to switch off the gaming console and switch on the camera. Stop thinking and start writing. It’s time to work again.