So it was like 11:30PM on Friday, and I just finished my last uni paper. It's the third time I've been to uni, and the second time that I am going to not go back, but I'm finished you know? And I have a beer at home with Steve. Then Steve goes to bed 'cos he's got stuff to do in the morning. So I finish my beer, and go to meet Jess. And I'm wearing shorts and PE socks with the red and blue socks stripe that they have, my shoes are old Vans that I cut into slippers because they smelt. I smelt bad because my t-shirt smelled because all day and all week I've been sitting in my house writing ad briefs and today that uni thing. And it's done. And it was ten days late, which was okay and now it's good.

I walk up out of my house and walk down to Crown St. I can smell my underarms because you don't need to wear deodorant when you just sit in your house and do things on your computer all day for nearly an entire week. And I'm unemployed now because of the financial crisis. Walking down Crown St I see three Thai ladyboys, a police rescue truck outside the place where slimbo kids hang out and about six dicks in the same "Special K" t-shirts but all on different corners, they weren't even the same dick.

And I watch these two young gay guys kissing on a road and saying goodbye, and then the other one starts running in the other direction. He's probably going back to a gay bar. It's sort of nice because he walked the other one back to a spot, now he's going back to party.

Anyway I am smelling bad and my pants are falling down because I'm not wearing a belt and I don't have a job but I'm sort of glad that I don't because I have already paid my rent and I don't need to spend any big money soon really plus also getting some tax.

Confidence is a thing you can have when you smell and you're unemployed, you see.

The word 'hipster'

It has been bought to my attention that the internet (and maybe even the world minus Africa and Antarctica) has been inundated by people writing articles about the phenomenon of the hipster. How this defined group of people are full of contradictions and sucking the meaning out of former staple working class values like smoking and wearing flanellette.
Phrases like 'ironically detached,' 'narcissism,' and 'Lisa Pryor' are pretty common in these articles. The central theme invariably involves the writer just doing a bunch of philosophy about themself, concluding that a hipster is a bad thing to be. The conclusion usually starts with an accepting sigh: '(SIGH!) Well, I don't care what you say, I'm GLAD I'm not a hipster. (SMUG SIGH) I guess I'll have to be content being a regular, observant white person who lives in the inner city and writes feature articles in the first person. Definetly not a hipster though.'

BONUS: I have decided to write my own definition of hipsters.

Hipster: A Definition by James Ross-Edwards

Hipster is a word that's thrown around all too often these days. Sometimes underpants are called hipsters. If these underpants worked at Bourke St Bakery, would they forget that hospitality is more about being nice than wearing a plaid pinafore and being a dick?

Hipsters usually do things like go to Bandits and be DJs. Some hipsters dress like pirates, others go to club nights that have the F. word in the title. Ketamine is a main drug of hipsters (citation needed).

Everybody needs bio.

Even Peter Fitzsimons. He would insist on writing his own, probably mostly about walking the Kokoda Trail and how schoolboy rugby should be on the ABC on Saturday afternoons instead of the Shute Shield match of the week.

"I'm sorry, Peter, I can't agree there." James said.
"What do you mean? Move out of the way mate, I'm on my way to meet Billy Birmingham. We're going on his yacht, maybe collaborating on a project too."
"Bullshit. Are you going to do a Baltimore remix of the Twelfth Man? Or are you just going to go on and on in the paper, like you always do?"
"Jesus. Go away."

He didn't get my sense of humour at all. He doesn't even know what Baltimore is!*

*Baltimore is a word that people say if it is 2007, and they are in Sydney.

I* wrote a bio for a DJ named Roulade instead. He is from rouladeunlimited.com. Here it is:

*After re-reading, it is apparent that Roulade wrote some bits of this himself. "Perthonality," for example, is all his.

ROULADE
With his former moniker (Turbosaurus) ageing faster than the concept of the allover print hoodie, unnamed required something new. After reading in a fashion/culture blog that the two fads of the day were French things and fashion/culture blogs, a new direction was taken sans time wasting. Road-testing all manner of stage props from crucifixes to laser pyramids, grew tired or gimmicks, subversive street art and the foul taste of cigarette smoke.


Foregoing his commitments as a floundering Perthonality, unnamed relocated to Sydney in early 2008, keen to see the sun rise over water. Bitterly disappointed and seeking wisdom, unnamed turned to The Good Dude Radge, who immediately directed him towards the door of one of those soup kitchens in Darlinghurst that feed homeless people. Not sharing Radge’s benevolent nature, he left him to it, later conferring over a bespoke instant messaging program, they decided on Roulade.


“Roulade is intertextual, as it references a popular French dish.” Roulade paused before adding, “and anyone that doesn’t consider food a text is a wanker.”


“So one night at [place] we were supporting [name]. I was sitting in the green room having a drink and this young guy with a [haircut] and [shoes] walks up to me and says: ‘Roulade! Those jams earlier were pretty sick.’ I said thanks. He then asked me, rhetorically I think, ‘how do you do it, dude?’ Do you know what I said?”

“No?”

“I told him that I ensure that there is a CD playing at all times…”

“That’s all?”

“Nah, I also try and avoid Crookers remixes (loudly raise roof x3).”


Since his east coast relocation, Roulade has been gently simmering in the fruitier side of the 4/4 time signature, dealing heavily in [insert specific genres] as well as occasionally dabbling in [street cred genre].


If you want to know where to find him, follow the beats (bold text = growled out loud). If that doesn’t work, just call his work… The receptionist is lovely and will put you straight through.

Something new.

I was asked to write some creative writing by a guy for a thing. This is what I wrote:

Frank Sartor: A Novel by James Ross-Edwards

Frank Sartor awoke with a start. It was 4:51am. Nightmares and cold sweats were routine for him, and he cursed the day he ever decided to be a crime-solving pilot. Hauling himself upright, Frank answered his bedside phone, which had been ringing for some time.
"Hello?" He answered, grumpily.
"My name is Detective Amber Liebervitz, I am calling on urgent business from Europe." The voice was foreignly accented, and perhaps sinister.
"Hey listen buddy, it's the middle of the night– "
"Mr Sartor." The clipped European voice continued. "I suggested you listen, and listen carefully-"
"No I suggest you listen!" Frank was getting mad. If there was something he didn't like, it was getting woken up by a nut. And this is exactly what had just happened. “Mr Liebervitz, I’m a pilot that solves crime. Do you have any idea how busy I am? I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. With all due respect, this better be important.”
“It’s the Bermuda Triangle, Mr Sartor.”
“What about it?”
“You will be informed in good time, Sir. That is, if you agree to help us.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“There is a car waiting for you. Good day, Mr Sartor.”

Frank sighed and reached for his pilot’s pants. It was going to be a long day.

---

For lack of any material of my own, I have commissioned a friend of mine, Frank, to write creatively on my behalf. I pay him in friendship and an occasional cooked dinner, and he completes my assignments and any other projects that come my way. Frank is not a brilliant author or particularly creative, but, unbeknownst to himself, his writing comes across with a distinct postmodern edge. The pastiche is thickened when the work is passed off as my own, resulting in an alarmingly satisfying dialogue between author and audience:
"Are you having a pretty satisfying time, reader?"
"I'm having such a satisfying time, dude."*

*Simplified conversation

---

"So James, what have you been up to lately?"
"Not much, hey. Writing some fiction and stuff a bit, I s'pose."
"What sort of fiction?"
"The kind that isn't true. It mainly focuses on a central character called Frank Sartor."
“…”
"Oh and before you ask, it isn't anything to do with the former NSW Government Minister!"
"Yeah. I know. You know another guy called Frank Sartor. You tell me this every time you drink. You texted me those exact words last week."
"A cry for help, a –"
"What?"
"Sorry man, I was just starting a soliloquy. Do you read much Contemp-Amer?"
"Wha–"
"Contemporary American literature. Like Dave Eggers, McSweeney’s and that. It's crap, I hate it. So much smug irony, all playing with language. I swear I'm going to cancel my subscription soon..."
"This is a lopsided conversation."
"(d)ude sometimes you have to play with the laws of language and gramm’ar for a certain effect."
"It sounds like you're crying out for help. All just John Brogden-ing in the office you don't actually have. Just like, three gin and tonics with actual lime wedges, texting an old school friend something cryptic and vague that could mean something, but doesn't."*

---

On the way to the cockpit, Frank remembered that he was wearing his lucky blue satin boxer shorts. His crime-solving mentor, Captain Joe Harvey, had given them to him, as a graduation present, and he never flew without them. Yeah Boi, he thought to himself. Yeah boiii.*


*I’m sorry James, but I don't know where to continue to from here. Spicks and Specks is about to start. Below I have included an internet diary that I’ve been working on. Maybe you can include this in your novel about me?
Frank ☺

Frank is sick of work now. 07:17 PM September 22, 2008

At nans. 01:42 PM September 23, 2008

1 spaghetti bolognese please Mum! 10:30 PM September 23, 2008

Frank is maybe actually gearing up for a big night in The Cross??? 04:22 PM September 25, 2008

I've experienced a fairly serious bout of writer's block lately. Granted, it is a totally pretentious illness - and I should know, I only listen to music in which the artist has a one word name, that is a noun. It isn't that I hate any certain types of music more than others. The fact is, I hate all types of music - it is a terrible, diluted art form that's only useful purpose is to divide people into easily definable categories. One-name artists are, for my mind, the only artists worth listening to. I have an Amazing* friend, who argues ferociously for artists with names that have the vowels removed, and sometimes appear as an acronym. This friend and I frequently argue over things. Just the other day, he described a fully grown man as cute. I disagreed.

*he is African.

Frank Sartor on "Pilgrims"

James has asked me to write about the Pilgrims that are visiting Sydney for World Youth Day:

It seems that a lot of people are making comments about these visitors to our city. At training last night I overheard Pete (coach of First Grade) talking to Grub (#8 for Seconds). Their conversation:

Pete: Fucken' pilgrims. Mate, I don't wanna make a big go of it, 'cos I know some of the boys are Catholic.
Grub: Yeah, like Legsy...
Pete: Yeah yeah, Legsy and quite a few of the others too. But I'm pretty sick of these chopper cunts in orange backpacks."
Grub: Thommo's one too I think, and his brother.
Pete: Yeah, Thommo and Hollywood. Marist boys.
Grub: But those boys are always rootin'!
Pete: Exactly mate. The religion's bullshit!

Pete and Grub are good friends. They often have a cigarette together next to the sheds before training. Grub's brother is in gaol (jail), I'm not sure why, but once Pete punched a Blue Mountains bloke in the throat for making a joke about it.

It used to be about being funny, then I went to University.
It used to be about being regular, then I went to University.
Intertextuality was something I dabbled in, but never cried about. Then I went to University.
It didn't matter that I hadn't read Anna Karenina before I went to University. I still haven't, but now this is a thing I should have done.

Here is an excerpt of something new. It is the introduction of Frank's new book, 'A Haiku by Frank Sartor - Published and Edited by James Ross-Edwards'. It is mostly Frank's own work, but was glad to lend my deft touch to the introduction.

-

Note from the publisher (and mastermind) on the second edition:

As a scholar, raconteur and man of letters, becoming blasé at the sight of brilliance is an occupational hazard. My inbox overflows daily with manuscripts to peruse, speaking engagements, interview requests – usually someone from (the) sydney magazine wondering where I get my coffee.

With such a busy schedule, deciphering understated genius from glorified mediocrity is increasingly difficult. As is true to literature as it is to life, the greatest gifts are usually presented in the most unlikely ways.

During a particularly cold April morning, I was sitting in bed, browsing the papers and the morning mail, enjoying a pre-prandial cigarette and cup of tea courtesy of my PA, Jeeves. I was particularly dreading the day, a gauntlet of meetings with my difficult agent and her gaggle of incompetent geese, and a pre-recording of an interview for some sort of digital television channel – horrible, hollow. Such was my foul mood, I could hardly force down my eggs benedict, and felt a little guilty later for shouting at Jeeves. The poor thing didn’t deserve that. Not now. Not from me.
After recollecting my thoughts and freshening up, I ventured out into the breezy Sydney morning, on my way to the first appointment of the day. As I wandered down the street pondering the pathetic state of literature in Australia, I felt my mobile phone vibrate against the soft cotton lining of my trousers – I had received a text message. It was from an acquaintance of mine, Frank Sartor. He was known to me only as a simple man with a pleasant demeanour. I had acquired his phone number by mistake, as he shared a name with a powerful man that I had several problems with. The message read as follows:

“Hello James this is Frank Sartor, the one who knows you. I hope you like this Haiku…”

What followed is, of course, history, as this second, collector’s edition, copy of A Haiku, by Frank Sartor – published and edited by James Ross-Edwards will attest. The moment I read this efficacious piece of verse, I felt a dark numbing feeling inside my chest – and I simply knew I must publish it to tell Frank’s story, all of our stories.

Our critics were ever present throughout the development phase, slamming the concept of a seventeen-syllable poem being sold as an entire book. “Who does James Ross-Edwards think he is?” They said. “Pompous, talentless, nobody. Ross-Edwards has manipulated and used a talented – and obviously naïve – young writer to make a few quick dollars from a market that should know better.” Despite this initial criticism, the first printing of AHBFSP&EBJR-E was an astounding success, and this second edition, featuring supplementary material including press coverage of The Haiku, guest author’s interpretations, and a diary entry from Frank, promises much to satisfy even the most insatiable Sartorialist.

Please enjoy this short work of astounding brilliance.


When I asked James what this all meant he threw his hands in the air, then paced around rubbing his temples and clicking his tongue. “Don’t you see, Frank? Can you not see what we have done here!” I told him that I had written a Haiku, and he didn’t need to go on about it so much.
“Frank, my friend. We have created something out of nothing! We have written a book about a three-line poem, and not even included the Haiku. This is postmodernism, Frank! This is art!”
“But you don’t actually have a PA named Jeeves.”
“It’s intertextual and it’s brilliant! I am engaging in a ‘wink-nudge’ dialogue with my readers, and we are all utterly satisfied.”

I also thought I should clarify that James’ desk is not actually mahogany, it’s laminex.

Postmodernism.

I am sorry for being a terrible man. What with me being all nouveau and crass in my office job lately, I have been ignoring you.

---

I am pleased to announce that we will be releasing another zine/my theory and reading major work.

The working title: "Haiku, by Frank Sartor"

The body of text will be an all original, straight up 5-7-5 layed down by F. Sartor. I am reluctant to offer a sneak preview, as I do not wish to diminish sales by revealing the beginning and end of the haiku. Here is the middle line:

"Maybe not at my expense?"

"Haiku, by Frank Sartor" will be supplemented by 17 pages of endnotes, and is released on the day of the Sydney Writer's Festival zine fair/is due in a bit over a week.

Frank Sartor checks in with a haiku

A pre-season fight
Clock, Undies, Pubes all involved
Boys got too rowdy

Some time shortly before 1788...

A general update: The captain has been uttering unthinkable utterances. Some of the men fear that he has caught the Consumption from a prostitute, Errol, his best girl. I have been avoiding close contact with him where possible, mostly confining myself to my cabin and the waste trough I share with the other other men convicts. Myself and several others have taken to warding off Delirium and Brainstop by appreciating and discussing various musics. One of the fellows, an Irish lad, smuggled aboard a collection of burnt CDRs filled with various club tracks, while a fellow Englishman inexplicably owns a fairly decent set of CDJs. We have been learning earnestly, and hopefully by the time we dock in new South-Wales we will be able to seek our fortune as proficient DJs.

{The rest of this entry is illegible, as it is stained with salted pork rations and a crude list, written in texta, titled "128bpm"}

Malouf and Muscles

In an organised gathering of fee-paying minds held within the grounds of a university, I learnt that author David Malouf wrote exclusively in long-hand. Once the author of seminal HSC the 2 Unit Advanced English text, Imaginary Life is happy that his handwriting was worthy, he then types it out, on a typewriter. It is up to someone at his publishing company to type it out again - probably onto a Apple Computer.

What do David Malouf and Muscles have in common? More than you think, probably!
1. They share the same country of origin
2. They both have had their worked reviewed in Fairfax newspapers
3. They both have used the following words in sequence in their work: "peace, love ecstacy"

Thank Yous:
Thanks to everybody that attended BCorTM: A Tremendous Party Night. Unfortunately we had to move venues, as the OAF was booked out in favour of some dance music. The money raised provided more than enough to maintain this blog for the remainder of the year.

When The Data Entry Finally Got Too Much.

Kym opened the front door. He was keen for a cup of tea and a heavy portion of peanut butter atop a slice of stale bread. He was a happy man of modest wants.

Searching for the light switch in the living room, he was shocked to notice that James was sitting alone in silence. James was still wearing the same clothes as he had been when Kym had last seen him, just under 24 hours previously.
"Are you okay, buddy?" Kym asked.
"I can't see the screen on my laptop anymore. I think I may have done something to my eyes." James' eyes remained fixated on his switched off computer.
"It's off mate... The battery's probably run out."
"No no, I think that it is something different to what you mean."
"How about I make you some tea?"
"How do you feel about the band The Drones, Kym? Do you think that they are a pretty good band?"
"You know I do."
"Because I think that The Drones are a pretty good band."
"Did you eat today?"
"Stephen has been gone for a few days. Why?"
"I think he's been at work and uni and stuff."
"You're right. I'm going to talk to him tomorrow about this."

James uses his writing skills to get inside the persona of a 16 year old Muslim girl.

Man, it is so hard to be a Muslim girl at the moment.

For one, I have to live out in the western suburbs which get all hot and gross in the summer - especially because I wear a headscarf ALL the time. My parents are really strict and make me worship everyday, sometimes eight times depending on the state of Mecca!

I go to a school with mostly Muslims but also some normal people.

I feel lucky to live in Australia as there is no war in this country, but sometimes I feel like I don't belong. Like when the Cronulla riots were on.

I had to include a Lake.

This story is contributing to me being a "Master of Arts." Kind of in the same way Brett Whiteley was a "master of art," but I will actually have a proper graduation and formal qualifications.

---

Mark stared the kind of stare that he wished a camera crew was there to record. It was one of those long, focused stares. The kind of stare that would be used in a video clip filmed in the rain on a Greyhound bus. It was such a good stare. Onlookers (of which there were none) would see him and immediately understand the significance of the private moment the man was sharing with himself. They would leave him alone to reflect.

This was an image the man was all too keen to create. In reality, his entire internal focus was dedicated to maintaining this philosophical aesthetic. Not to say that the man had not done any thinking at all, mind. At several points he had imagined what a stirring eulogy he would make at a friend's funeral – should they die suddenly and tragically. The politics of grieving would deny him the rousing applause he deserved, but he did not do things for public recognition. He simply was not that type of a man. The stare was briefly interrupted as the man strained his memory trying to recall if the crowd had applauded after Earl Spencer's address at Lady Di's memorial.

Mark had visited the lake as a personal reward for his efforts earlier that day. Having been subjected to a string of demeaning and generally unbearable assignments as an office temp, he had finally taken action in form of a face to face with his recruitment consultant, Kathy.

Mark's previous suspicion that Kathy's attractive voice directly correlated with the rest of her was correct. He immediately sensed that Kathy felt the same way about him, and thus the meeting started smoothly.
"So Mark, what can I help you with today?" Kathy asked, motioning him to a high-backed black swivel-chair.
"Um, well there's a few things I s'pose. Firstly, I'm not that happy with some of the assignments you have, ah, assigned me."
"Okay, sure. What aren't you happy about? What can we do better?" Kathy was all smiles.
Mark shifted awkwardly in his chair. He had been overly concerned with Kathy’s impression of him and had forgotten his pre-prepared any specific examples.
"Well, there was the one last week, Nespresso I think the company was called? My entire task involved holding down a desk chair for three days and folding three different brochures for some tacky coffee technology into an envelope."
"A bit boring was it?"
"Well, yes." Mark paused for effect. "They were so annoying, Kathy. They kept using the word 'amazing' to describe their own product, and the women had one of those frustrating accents."
"Frustrating accents?"
"You know the expat kids who end up going to international school in Hong Kong or Singapore? A little bit American. Kind of like those Russian tennis players who move to Florida at about 14?"

Kathy's silence suggested that she was not a very intelligent woman.

Those kids ALWAYS drag their Ls.

Apologies for not writing anything in a while, but sometimes there is not anything to write. Sometimes the only thing to do is watch the same eight youtube videos over and over again. Sometimes the stimulus pool runs dry, particularly when you have a limited repertoire and you are sick of the things that you normally plagiarise.

This is why I am going back to university - to become a better blogger. Apparently some of my teachers are going to be real-life bloggers, like the ones on TV. I am going to learn how to think up a new blog entry every single day, an entry that will invoke comments, an entry that will inspire opinion and independent thought in those otherwise incapable of this. Sam Brett and Sam de Brito are to smh.com.au/blogs what the Mirage and the Lancer are to Mitsubishi, respectively. I will be the Pajero, bigger, prouder.

The best way to get on smh.com.au is to digitally penetrate a fellow member of the NSW Labor Party (more of a combination-style example rather than a specific reference). The next best way is to blog about social situations, like the two Sams. This is not the only approach - if you are Dom Knight, you simply refer to yourself as a "Chaser writer" in the byline, then write something not controversial. If you are Peter Fitzsimons then you write in rhetorical phrases including "how good is that?" and then refer to one of your two favourite things: GPS schoolboy rugby, the ANZAC spirit. If you are Miranda Devine, you write whatever you feel like and then get all flustered and scream, "there, I said it! You aren't going to like it but I said it!" at the end of every piece. The sub-editors remove this from the end of every piece (apparently Miranda still has the gall to invoice them the extra $13 for every column she submits. She earns a dollar per word, you see.)

--- ALSO,

I was lucky enough to get a visit last Tuesday afternoon from my mate, Chuckos. He is the head cocktail chef at the Harold Park Hotel in Glebe. The conversation was a bit strange, as I wasn't sure why he had dropped over. Our conversation:

Me: (opening the door) Chuckos! What it do?
Chuckos: (goes in for complicated handshake followed by hug) Jimmy-Jay! I'm all good little brother, had the whole day to myself so I thought I'd check in with some of my local boys.

Me: Yeah nice! You want a cup of tea or something?

Chuckos: (makes funny face, and makes throat cutting gesture) Nah bro, I'm detoxin' over February hey. No alcohol, caffeine, or bizzo 'til the first of March.

Me: What bought that on, you're always chemically enhanced!

Chuckos: (looks around suspiciously and shuts the door, whispering) Is anyone else home?

Me: Nah just me, what's going on?

Chuckos: (brightening) I'm just playing with you little man! Nah, it's all good, I'm just looking after myself. I took out some of my younger crewmembers a few weeks ago and it got a bit loose (whenever Chuckos says 'loose', he points his head to the sky and sings it in a stiff falsetto, dragging the L in the style of a kid from Adelaide who really likes Aussie hip-hop.)
Me: Yeah? What happened?
Chuckos: (gets defensive suddenly) Nothing, why?
Me: Um, don't worry - want something to eat? I might go get a muffin or something from down the road.
Chuckos: (a little bit disgusted) Muffin? Nah man, I just got my special pistachios I ordered from the Blue Mountains yesterday. I'll just rip into them before I get to my shift. Actually, I better go now - I need to talk to the big man about one of the glassies I'm not happy about. That kid is gonna get his ass kicked if he ever leaves my back bar that sticky again.
Me: Righto, I might pop in for a beer later on then.
Chuckos: Alright Mr Jimmy-Jayenstein, I'll see you later brother boss man (hugs me again before leaving).
Me: (shuts door.)

I wandered through the house, like a small child at an open house inspection. I nearly ran into a pane of safety glass, as I noticed a shiny object in the backyard, perhaps a bird, perhaps a toy bird. The glass was very clean. The poison from the DIY cockroach bomb had settled all over the crockery and food, the dead insects would be ready to vacuum in several hours. The kitchen smelt like a mixture of rain and headache. My only choice now was to wait for the villagers to come to my door, application form and cash deposits drawn like pistols, talking about power points and saying "cute", the man is wearing glasses, the women are getting angry, the baby is just for show. They probably don't even own the baby.

When the villagers come to door, I will hide underneath the table in the dining room, knees drawn up to my chest.
When the villagers come to my door, I will breathe shallow breaths from up in my stomach.
Waiting for the front door to splinter.
Waiting all winter (summer).

Guest Post: Jon Valenzuela

Every now and then it is correct to help a fellow out. Like a lady or gentleman of age who can only take baths, or a young lady frothing at the mouth due to amphetamine use. In both cases, assistance is required in the smallest room of the house/St Johns tent at an outdoor music festival. My father once knew a man forced to roll in a chair due to inactive legs. A man of principle and charity, my father allowed this man to let the ball bounce twice rather once in a game of tennis. The result was not suprising, but my father has always been a very capable tennis player.

The following was written by Jon Valenzuela. Jon cannot afford his own blog.

---

Hugh Hefner shuffled slowly across the lobby of the Playboy Mansion, grumbling all the while. He was on his way to the kitchens in search of a plastic bag – one of the bunnies had taken a shit in the Grotto again. Normally, the mansion would be swarming with servants, all of whom would be eager to help restore the Grotto to its former glory, but it was Labour Day weekend and most had gone home to see their families, leaving a skeleton staff. Hugh didn’t mind though. Of late, he had grown tired of the endless pampering and celebrity parties. When a weed crazed Matthew McConnaughey got into a fight with a novelty lawn flamingo and had to be repeatedly tasered at the last Superbowl party, Hugh had merely sighed. His joie de vrie had fled over the last few years. The slapping of his carpet slippers on the marble floor broke the hush of the empty house.

When he reached the kitchen, Hugh stopped short. He was rarely entered this room and had forgotten the sheer size of it. Cupboards and drawers stretched into the distance under the buzz of fluorescent lights. While hardly the adventure he had hoped for, he started to methodically search for the bags. In his mind, he was on the hunt for a great treasure. He had barely made it past the first sink when Julio entered the kitchen, his broad, brown body bent double under the weight of two garbage cans. He had elected to stay at the mansion over the weekend, as most of his family was still down south, waiting for their chance to cross the Rio Grande.
“Meester ‘Efner, hwhat are joo dooin?” Julio asked, his thick Mestizo accent garbling his words. Hugh glanced up.
“Trying to find a goddamn plastic bag. Who the hell organized this kitchen?”
Julio set down the garbage cans and wandered to a drawer chosen seemingly at random. Tugging on the handle, a thick wad of plastic bags leapt out and slapped onto the ground. Julio stooped to pick them up, and then cradled them protectively to his chest.
“Hwhat joo need thees bag for? Joo need some help?” Hugh felt anger growing inside him.
“Goddamit, just give me the bags. One of the bunnies messed up the Grotto and I need to go clean up”. Julio’s placid eyes filled with good humour as he realised he had a chance to impress his employer. Maybe, after this, he could speak privately with his boss about sponsoring his sister to come up legally and work as a maid.
“Oh Meester ‘Efner, joo don’ need to worry about dat. ‘Ulio will clean de Grotto for joo. Joo go relax, drin’ some scotch.” In his mind, Julio knew that all rich men drank scotch. He hoped to try it one day.

Hugh felt the rage drain from him. He knew that Julio held him in awe for his riches – he had used the Mexican fascination with scotch to drive many Playboy imitators out of business during his sporadic trips to Mexico. To get his hands dirty would crush Julio’s spirit, and Hugh couldn’t bare the thought of another man feeling as empty as he did.
“Alright Julio, it’s fine. There is a shit in the Grotto. When I was there it was floating, but it may have sunk by now. Get it out of there and chlorinate the water.”
Julio lumbered off happily. He loved any chance to enter the Grotto. Though he had never been there during one of the famous parties, he swore to his fellow workers that during clean up, if you listened hard enough, you could still hear the slapping of ‘las tetas de las conejas”, the breasts of the Bunnies.

Hugh leaned against a kitchen counter and sighed deeply. He was the architect of his own downfall. Through his successful business practices, he had constructed the golden cage he now lived in. Oh, how he longed for the early days, when the entrepreneurial spirit filled him with vigour. He was lost in his thoughts when a crashing cacophony came from the direction of the lobby, followed by the screams of Julio.

Hurrying from the kitchen, Hugh found himself at the scene of a terrible and bizarre accident. The front doors of the Mansion lay shattered across the other side of the lobby. Twin flaming tire tracks lead in from the front lawn and ended in a snarled skid in the middle of the marble floor. Standing on top of the injured, twitching Julio was a silver car, its rear half covered in complex electronics that released wisps of steam as they cooled. Hugh recognised the car and his heartbeat quicked. The signature 80s styling of the DeLorean was interrupted as the driver’s door gullwinged open. Out stepped a gangly figure, clad in a hawaiian shirt with a lab coat over the top, his grey hair frizzing wildly around his head like a thunder cloud.
“Great Scott!” he yelled, his eyes darting around the lobby. Spotting Hugh, he rushed over to him, treading on Julio’s chest on the way. Julio breathing became shallower, and blood started to bubble from the corners of his mouth.
“Mr. Hefner, you have to come with me. The human race is in grave danger”. The man grasped Hugh by the shoulders, his wild eyes focusing on Hugh’s face.
“What is the problem?” asked Hugh.
“Mr. Hefner, in 1953 you established a magazine that would grow to encompass a world-wide empire of softcore erotica, sparking a sexual revolution that liberated millions of young men and women. However, something has gone wrong in the past. Marilyn Monroe, your first pictorial, is having second thoughts about posing. Without Playboy, sexual repression would continue unabated. The Love Generation would never exist. Eventually, sex would cease all together, bringing about the end of the human race. Mr. Hefner, this must not be allowed to happen. I need you to come back with me to 1953.”

Hugh, in one deft move, undid the belt holding his signature red dressing gown. As it fell from his shoulders, it revealed a stylish safari suit. Hugh was ready for adventure.
“Doctor Brown, let’s go.”
“Please, call me Doc” he said, beaming as they moved toward the time machine.

Guest Post: Chuckos.

Editors note: Chuckos works in hospitality. He's one of those guys that looks pretty slick at twenty paces, a handsome and stylish bartender. On closer inspection you notice that he is wearing black brothel creepers with a silver buckle, a tattoo of an Indian Brave is showing through the sleeve of his cheap business shirt along with the unforgiveable outline of a pack of Holiday Slims 30s on his breast pocket. Everyone knows people like this.

Chuckos says:
So, my mate James asked me to pen a few words for his internet webpage that he regularly does. As a mixologist by trade, the only thing I really look on the web for is the odd cocktail recipe or for tax-deductible supplies (bar blades, wine knives, regulation blacks etc). I told James this and he just said "yeah nah, just write about what you do and stuff. Bartender stories are a hit with my demographic." Fair enough.

As the head cocktail-chef at the Harold Park Hotel, my work is demanding. I'll usually start my days at around 5pm, and often won't get out of there until as late as 3am on weekends (if we get slammed and have a difficult close). I'm very fortunate to be surrounded by an excellent crew, complete with some pretty decent looking women. My weekend starts on a Sunday afternoon (at whatever time I wake up!), and I like nothing more than spending my Sunday arvos kicking back with a few drinks - on the OTHER side of the bar for a change. I'll usually head into town and meet up with a few of the work crew for mid-afternoon drinks usually at Loft, Bungalow or sometimes the Tillbury. We smash that action up for a few hours, always shouting crew members drinks, always tipping our bartender. Once it gets to about 9pm, it's inevitable that we are gonna be Up The Cross pretty soon.
After tipping our taxi driver we will observe a moments silence for the late and great Barons. Some of us will stop for smokes and gum, then we wander over the road to Peppermint Lounge where my boy Danny makes us something vodka-based and potent - it's amazing what a good bartender can do with a middle-range pour like Absolut, and Danny is no exception.
It is usually around the second or third of Danny's concoctions that text messages are exchanged and The Business arrives. Now I'm not as crazy as I was in my youth, I'm right off pingers these days - they're all bloody ketamine and speed these days. The last time I can remember feeling the cool rush of an MDMA-based Gary, I think I was at a bush-doof out near Peats Ridge or something - would have seven or eight years ago, back when I was working at Bunnings... Anyway, the point is that cocaine is the only drug for me these days.

Make that Forty upright this instant. Heath would want you to share it with friends.

I was heartened over the long weekend to learn that my slackness over the last several weeks has caused a several people a small amount of disappointment. For the record, this blogger has been somewhat pre-occupied by festivities and the endless search for employment that does not does not facilitate insomnia/lazy sweat.

As Sam De Brito would say: boys need good role models. Ahh, the less-fair sex, where to begin et. al.

Below is a story that I was going to read ALOUD at an evening based around "erotic fan-fiction." Unfortunately it was not deemed erotic enough. The first part of the story was similar (identical) to a piece I wrote towards the end of last year, so I did not include it. I am sorry about this. The second part is completely different (and fairly raw).

---

This starter sentence proved later to be a little bit too perfect. He didn’t want to hear me talk about his music – even he was bored of that. The conversation flowed easily from growing up in the Hills to why people in bands from Sydney don’t tend to support a football club. Interesting, but overall I felt like I was indulging Tim more than I would have liked – he hadn’t even asked me a question yet.

By the second time I had followed Tim to the toilet for a bump of his terrible cocaine, my shyness had well and truly left me. I was ready to become a partner in this conversation.

My opportunity soon arose when our conversation naturally veered towards Russel Crowe’s body of work. Desperate by this stage to open up, I waited for Tim to draw breath and light another cigarette.
“When I was about ten, I watched the Sum Of Us with him and Jack Thompson. You remember it? Russ plays a gay bloke.”
“Yeah, I saw it”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, I was a bit young to understand, ‘cos you know, Russ’ character plays footy and stuff, he seemed ‘normal’. I was convinced I was gay for weeks after.”
“Are you gay?” he asked, appearing reasonably bored with my anecdote.
“Nah, not at all. I just figured that if he had turned out gay, there was a chance I would too.”
“I have a theory about gay gents,” he said leaning back in his chair and sticking a Lucky Strike behind his ear in a text-book display of only half-warranted arrogance.
“What’s that?” I asked, sensing that his intense eyes probably meant he thought about this a lot.
“Gay men are simply the men who love sex the most.”
“Yeah, I’m not really following.”
“Anal sex is the most aggressive and stimulating of the entire repartee. Why would a chap like me bother with women anymore? I’m not marrying another Spanish bitch, I’m too old for Annandale sluts and Adalita isn’t interested.”
“What, so you bend Davey over his amp after rehearsal?” I half joked.

Apparently he did, or had anyway. Too scattered to act shocked, I sat there half tuned-out to a description of Rogers and one of the members of Dallas Crane in a hotel room above a dimly-lit Adelaide pub.

“Yeah, Uncle Timmy has done a bit in his time,” he chuckled, leaning slightly forward on his chair. “What do you reckon?”
“Um, were Dallas Crane supporting you, or was it the other way round?” I asked. No metaphor intended, it was just becoming slightly hard to make small talk when a weathered man in Blundstones was reaching his hand under the table in the direction of your crotch.
“Right!” He jumped up. “I’m off to the toilet if you care to join,” tapping his nose and winking suggestively.
The decision I made came remarkably easy in the end. It was not that I was desperate to milk Tim Rogers’ prostate in a public bar toilet, it was that I could not be sure that it was a bad idea. So I followed him.

My only lucid thought whilst the “last gunslinger in town” treated me like a lead guitarist was a joke I’d read earlier that day. It was about a cartoon bear that highly regarded his mouth’s reputation for the “staunch avoidance of perinea.” I could no longer relate.

The Drones.

Last weekend I attended the Annandale Hotel to see The Drones. It was brilliant (this is a review). My highlights included seeing not only Tim Freedman, but also Phil Jamieson enjoying the show. Freedman is either the world/Newtown's youngest looking 60 year old or the oldest looking 26 year old - it's hard to tell. I estimate that he is closer to 60 than 26, as he apparently used to date the mother of a kid in the year below me at school. Whatever the case, Freedman spent the early part of 2004 recalibrating in New York. Phil Jamieson is a shorter man than I had previously imagined. Resplendant in a navy blue business shirt and a smug look, his head to toe profile read like a speech bubble: "I am the lead singer in a very good band. I know you are all aware of my personal issues as you saw me talking to Andrew Denton on television. Ah, talent and the problems it brings: Cobain, Whiteley, Doherty, Cave, Jamieson."

Phil Jamieson's speech-bubble projecting aura is very similar to one of my former high school PE teachers, Mr X. This particular teacher had never been interviewed on Enough Rope, but made up for it by being allowed to wear tracksuit pants to work every day. There is not many men in a hundred, or even a thousand that can boast that.

Several years after high school finished I ran into Mr Q., an old maths teacher whilst drinking at a pub. Mr Q. was always considered a pretty cool guy, as he smoked across the road during lunch and swore on occasion. During the course of our chat I worked up to asking him what Mr X. was like to work with. My old maths teacher paused for a second to think and adjust the cuff of his short-sleeved shirt: "Without using the word 'fuckwit' or 'idiot', the best way to describe X. would be anecdotal. I'm not going to use any specific examples, though. A specific example will just give you a story to repeat, and you asked for a brief summation of his character."
He paused and stared over my left shoulder momentarily. I didn't bother turning around myself, I had an inkling that he was deep in thought rather than staring at a pie-warmer.
"Mr X. is the kind of bloke who... The type that would... I don't know, he's just a cunt. He'd take your last cigarette, rip it up and say 'one less nail in your coffin, mate. No worries, don't thank me.'"
"Did he actually do that?" I asked.
"No, he didn't."
---
Strontium-90
Removed from milk
As curious an entity
As bullshit writ on silk
- The Drones.