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.
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.
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.
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.
Throughout the past week I have been labeled as obsessed, crazy, foolish, and most offensively as a stalker. The truth of the matter, as any person with the slightest insight into the universe of GWAR would know, is the journey I have taken over the past week shows nothing but the common behaviour of a dedicated bohab.
Bohab: Devout fan of the band GWAR
The past week has seen me drive solo from Newcastle to Melbourne, from Melbourne to Sydney, from Sydney to Brisbane and finally from Brisbane back home to Newcastle. That’s near 4,000km’s in roughly five days just to see one band play three 40 minute sets at a festival full of bands I could care less about; crazy and foolish I may be.
Contemplating why I would perform such a stunt deserves context, and I believe that context can be found in 1996 when a friend and I followed the reformed Sex Pistols for three shows down the east coast of Australia. The thing is, I had never contemplated the idea that I would get my chance to see the band perform live so when that opportunity arose, it had to be exploited.
For twenty-seven years now GWAR have been terrorising audiences with their Grand Guignol style performances. Over the years their music has evolved from simple punk rock ditties to complex aggressive metal mayhem, but their tongue in cheek and black humoured approach to entertainment has always been the bands modus operandi; and for twenty-seven years the band has never stepped foot in Australia.
In September 2010 it was announced that this injustice would be rectified as the band would be performing as part of the No Sleep Til festival touring Australia in December. Finally, after sixteen years of consuming everything the band could throw at me I would get my chance to see GWAR in their most brilliant latex flesh, and of course this had to be exploited.
Not satisfied by simply getting to see the band perform live, I was determined to get some time with GWAR one on one. After sixteen years of slavery to this band I had so many questions and damn it, if I’m spending this much time and energy following this circus half way around the country surely it wouldn’t be too much to ask for a quick Hell-O, handshake and a few words concerning their first Australian tour… would it?
Back in ’96 bands toured as their own entity, if the Sex Pistols wanted to reform they would do it on their own merit. These days everything is relegated to a festival and it breaks my balls. Back then it was simple to meet your favourite act, you simply hung around the back of the venue after the show and eventually you could pretty much count on someone from the band being bothered to come shoot the shit with the minions. Now with festivals you’re hoping to bump into your favourite band amongst thousands of other festival goers. The problem is, what if your favourite band wear masks that conceal their identity? I didn’t stand a chance.
So I went legit. I got myself an angle and prepared myself to write about my journey and attempts to meet the unstoppable GWAR. I emailed the band, their publicist and promoters, I was embarking on a journey of epic proportions and without a doubt I would have a tale to tell on my eventual return, to meet the band would be the climax of both the story and my sixteen years of dedication to the band. I was blinded with enthusiasm.
Melbourne came and went without a meet. Then Sydney offered little more…
When I finally arrived in Brisbane for the final show I received a message from Oderus Urungus himself: Today we will get a chance to sit down and talk some GWAR.
As I stood in the rain waiting for my phone call I was thrilled to see the band perform one more time. With or without my meet I was still ecstatic about finally seeing the band I had invested so much of my life into… at the same time I was feeling like a cold and soggy bohab.
And the phone call never came.
Fortunately the shows were everything I had hoped for and more. Unfortunately my questions remain unanswered… but I am not deterred.
This isn’t over GWAR!!!
I have this dream of violence. Not handed out upon others, but dealt upon me. And not for a lack of defense, but for a need or want.
When I was sixteen, maybe seventeen I dated a punk rock hippie kitten with coloured hair and a vocal bed manner. One night I took her to a show my band was playing in a ballet studio full of teenagers, marijuana, alcohol and butane.
Late in the night as we waited for our ride home some locals took my bare arse as antagony. Tripping with my pants tangled around my knees they charged me face first into the gutter. I was bewildered and confused to say the least.
The punching began once I was seated. With his boyfriends and girlfriends as audience he plowed his fists repeatedly into my face and skull. I was lost, swimming. My brain bounced around inside my head like a toy balloon.
When the punishment finally came to an end I began to laugh. The absurdity of violence had broken me into humility, and I found my position hilarious. As the laughing grew in resonance, confusion poured over his face like a soured milk.
And so the punching resumed. His fists once again rained down upon me. A barrage of thumping flesh and bone devestating in its relentlessness… and I laughed.
Oh how I laughed.
When the pounding rhythm came to its inevitable conclusion I slowly lowered the hands that had been fruitlessly defending my softening mask and shell. The blood revealed itself as long slick ropes unravelling from my nose. Red dripping lashes painting the pavement like Pollock. It was gorgeous in its reality. I still remember the sound of the wet syrup slapping the concrete weighted and wet… and I laughed.
By this point even my own boy and girl friends were recoiling in horror. My antagonist was just as lost as I. I was lost and stumbling in the mist of my mangled mind. Cackling, giggling, laughing into my hands filling with the warm wet red blood. He was lost in astonishment. Why wouldn’t this little prick fear him? Why wasn’t this violence intimidating?
I have this dream of violence. Not handed out upon others, but dealt upon me.
Ever since this ocassion, and this is just one of many much the same, my verbal antagony has grown and bloomed into something dangerous and extreme. I feel invincible, confident to receive and enjoy the most severe beatings and pain with shining lights and humour.
That night I fucked my punk rock hippie kitten as blood still spewed from my face.