Thief of Time

Today I came home to find a Christmas letter addressed to my family sitting on our kitchen bench. This endless essay of self indulgence finds its way to our doorstep at the conclusion of each year from the same group of old family friends. This year I did actually take the time to read it and learn what our old friends had been up to in the year that was. As per usual, the letter was three pages worth of "look how amazing our lives are!... so what life goals did you achieve this year?" However, as sickeningly sweet and self obsessed as it may have been, it did make me re-think a few things. By the time i reached the end of the letter, I came to some pretty ugly realisations. These old friends have spent the last twelve months seeing the world, finding new places and people, and achieving REAL life dreams. I for one have spent most of my waking hours either working at a job that stresses me beyond comprehension, or pissing my money away on, well... piss! Others have created cherished memories while I have snaked my way through a drug induced haze. Don't get me wrong, I am no junky, and my level of drinking certainly doesn't hold a candle to that of my peers, but it's enough to keep me unproductive.

At this point I had a second realisation that slightly contradicts the first. When things go wrong in my life or I find myself in a position I'm not happy with, I always look for a scapegoat. Consistent intoxication is always an easy target. But if I were to really look deep within myself and ask what was really at the core of the problem, the answer would be quite different. Partying makes me unproductive... but only for the duration of the party, and of course the hangover. The straight fact is, sometimes I find myself in an undesirable place, and the reason I'm there is simply because I didn't make the right choices. These wrong turns could be anything from not taking risks, to drinking too much over a set period, or even the simple devil known as laziness. My need to find a point of blame results in an inability to recognise the real problem. The trap here is that these "points of blame" make me feel like I am actually addressing the problem. I puff out my chest, hold my head high, and announce my self realisations to the world convincing my friends and myself that I am making real change when I haven't even found out what really went wrong. 

I am slowly beginning to learn that life is not waiting for me.

Fashion Jerk

I've been relatively inactive over the last month as far as blog updates go. I'm not sure whether or not this is a positive or negative reflection on how life is going. NEVERTHELESS, I am here to bitch and moan so sit tight and get ready for fun.
Robotosaurus are a band I've always been pretty drawn to, not in any real life changing way, but more in the 'gladly letting Sayra Bahk rape my ears' kinda way. On top of this, they're also one of those bands that I've always planned on seeing but somehow the timing never worked out. Recently I began to fear that horrible situation where you put off seeing a band for so long that they wind up splitting. Consequently, you then spend the rest of your days hearing all your friends rave about how amazing their shows were. So when shitty circumstances prevented me from attending both the Friday AND the Saturday shows on the recent Roboto tour, I made the solid decision to trek out and see them on the Sunday. Not entirely sure if any of my friends would even rock up, I ventured out to Catfood Press and was not at all suprised by what I saw. A sweet little shop front setup providing a great opportunity for bands to play an intimate show that surely creates an alternate experience to that of any venue show. To be honest, I've been raised in an environment that holds the DIY, non-venue show in high regard. I always saw it as a great thing, bands doing what they do best for the people who really care to see them, true punk. However, on this particular day, I began to question the foundations of such shows. I'm sure at some point, someone who can see what my perspective is missing will correct me as to why I'm wrong here, but I'm starting to think that for the most part, the 'illusion' of true DIY punk shows no longer exists in Melbourne. Here's my question to you; why do you go to a DIY show? what is it's appeal to you? For me, I go to see a band or artist do their heartfelt thing in a cramped room that provides little seperation between them and the screaming, flailing audience that love them enough to rug up on a cold, wet day, and face potential sobriety just to see the show. Partying doesn't matter, getting fucked up doesn't matter, the clothes on your back do not fucking matter. All that matters are the band and the audience thriving on an expression that launches itself far beyond what we are able to experience in physical reality. So why am I standing in the middle of a lifeless room, blank faces permeating throughout, hands in pockets, and that distinct atmosphere that whispers directly into your ear; "I just came here to be noticed, I'd rather be at home playing Xbox". I mean, the 2 metre distance between the bands and the audience speaks volumes really. I'm not sure what it was about this day, perhaps spending the first half of it alone meant that I payed extra attention to the conversations around me. All I know is that there were several points during the day, that I found myself looking around in complete awe of some of the conversations that were taking place. I could actually feel my IQ dropping just from listening to Johnny Lipring bang on about the fat girl that keeps calling him even though he doesnt want to be so much as friends, and the bottle of tequila that almost put him in hospital. Don't even get me started on certain vocalists who said thankyou to the folks who came out to see his band play by trying to rumble with them, not long before moving onto anti-violence rants.
For the record I don't have a problem with liprings, and I certainly don't have a problem with Xbox. But my God, I hope someone saves the concept of decent, passionate, DIY shows really soon.

Tour de Force

Thursday, March 5th, 2009. Time to team up with some touring musician friends and party our way to old Sydney Town. At 4 pm (3 and a half hours later than originally planned) the three of us jumped into a car packed with clothes, instruments, and a whole lot of party vibes. We drove off into the horizon with intoxication following closely behind and no real plans of where we were going to stay over night.
It's funny how sometimes you build up expectations of something, and as soon as your moment arrives, you notice all these little obstacles being placed strategically in front of you, as if bad luck were a series of events raining down from a sadistic God. This trip was no exception. Within the hour we were battling declined atm cards, broken cameras, lack of a working CD player and shitty radio reception, which would force us into 10 hours of driving conversation over the next two days. But with joints circling freely and a hefty brew supply depleting, it became obvious that NOTHING was going to derail this party train.
As nightfall came we weaved in and out of small civilizations until we found ourselves in one odd little town. I'm sure the haze in our heads was enough to make this town, equipped with little more than a dingy pub and a giant historic submarine, seem pretty creepy. Not nearly as creepy, however, as the folk that infested it. At some point, one of us had decided and the rest had agreed, that visiting this town's local was a top idea. We made our entrance only to see snouts rise in perfect harmony. Wide-open nostrils suck in the air, sniffing for what unfamiliar smell had just invaded their precious space... outsiders. They could spot us from a mile away, and it made us just a little bit uneasy. We found ourselves a quite little table in the corner to share some drinks, keep to ourselves and joke about what reading we might get if we were to use the coin operated breathalyser on the wall behind us. At this point I made the mistake of heading to the bathroom on a route that crossed directly in front of some very liquored up, aged locals. The conversation that ensued was riddled with fear, on my part, that I might say the wrong thing and tick off this one seemingly insane human being. After being told to "be a man" and use the term "going to take a piss" instead of "going to the bathroom", I accidentally (or maybe deliberately... I can't remember) lured Old Man River back to our corner hideout. Here we were picked apart and pigeon holed within minutes by a bubbling, spitting old drunk with a cigarette stained beard, who claimed to be changing our lives with every incoherent one liner. Apparently if something doesn't make sense, and you turn it into nonsense, it will make sense. Eventually we managed to ditch Old Man River and the drunken pub games that seemed to smash more bottles than anything else. I took the breathalyser test and blew something a little over 0.07. Too drunk to drive... young Dean our driver decided to avoid the breatho and so we made our way toward the giant submarine to continue our party in the good company of three.
We didn’t make it much further on the night roads, with all of us unfit to drive; we set up our tent on the side of a busy freeway (an idea that seemed DYNAMITE at the time).

Friday, March 6th, 2009. We awoke to the deafening sound of passing trucks, immediately stupefied by, but somehow stoked on our decision to camp out next to the freeway. I guess part of us felt like we were now truly ready for the dirt lifestyle that seems to come with this sort of tour. I sat in my new spot behind the wheel and we powered on toward Sydney Town. After proving that we were far too solid a unit to be broken down by the obstacle course of issues the day previous, someone had decided to grace us with the presence of physical obstacles on this, our second day of travelling. This came in the form of one giant mother of a fridge placed smack-bang! in the middle of a four lane freeway. The fridge, most likely intended for industrial use, had fallen off the back of a ute manned by the two fellas running down the road in a mad panic at the hands of the potential chaos they had caused. We survived the fridge death. We continued our drive, threw coins at a pretty sensational tollbooth and fumbled around Newtown and Annandale until we found our destination. After cheerful greetings and a much-needed shower, we all shared a joint in the back yard before heading off to the Lansdowne for the first show of the tour. Bear Arms (in replacement of Dead China Doll) played alongside Green Green Green and Yeah Bears. The bands did their thing, we ate food, we drank, I threw up outside the Lansdowne and then went to bed.

Saturday, March 7th, 2009. Today hosts’ early intoxication. A daytime house party in a place I can't entirely remember (I think somewhere near Sydenham?) Question? Green Green Green and Hira Hira all hit the lounge room for perfect party performances. Not before hitting the liquor though, and what hard hitters they were. I think we were all pretty happy after watching Kris knock back half a bottle of Vodka in the short time between arriving at the party, and playing a dizzy looking set with Hira Hira. Thank god he found a wall to lean against while they played. By late afternoon we were all pretty merry, some of us a little more than others. Kris by this point seemed to be moving onto his hangover. He and Dean were all tuckered out. Angus and myself were not and so we marched on toward the Annandale to watch Gay Paris while wiping ourselves completely clear of sobriety. This actually turned out to be a pretty bad thing for poor Dean when we took it upon ourselves to wake him when we arrived home drunk at 1 in the morning. I flicked on the light and watched in amusement as Dean struggled to come to terms with being awake after being in what was probably an awesome, deep sleep. Angus hugged him, he grunted and told us to "fuck off". Then the topic of more weed came up and Dean got up, perfectly on cue, wide eyed, wide smile, ready to roll up, and just like that the party kept moving. I don't really remember the rest of this night.

Sunday, March 8th, 2009. Today there was a consistent feeling that the party was over, things were wrapping up, and that we would soon settle back into a sensible lifestyle. I figured it would be a pretty nice Sunday if our plans to have Lehi escort us around the town came into fruition. They didn't, and instead we slept in. In fact, when we eventually did leave the house, we only got as far as the IGA three or so blocks away. Dr. Pepper was the highlight of this little expedition. None of this stopped us from enjoying ourselves though, we sat on the couch all day watching "Kenny vs. spenny", no complaints here from anyone!
Later that night Green Green Green and Hira Hira were to play at the Hopetoun with Ghoul. I got nicely liquored up, maybe not as much as on previous nights, but I was having a great time and so was everyone else. We soldiered on through more drinks and smokes both at the Hopetoun and back at the house. It wasn't til the next day that we actually realised how messy things got toward the end of the night, especially for Angus who had his best party performance on this night. The next morning we got up several hours later than we had intended (no surprises there), loaded up the car and read the love note left on the bench by Kris claiming that Green Green Green "huff dong for lyfe". We said our goodbyes and piled into the car dreading the ten-hour drive ahead of us. We ventured on into the day enjoying more tollbooth basketball and the last of our party supplies, which may have included warm beer. I think I'm ready to enjoy sobriety for a while now.

*embryo (apocalypse as a tool for creation)

Looking at your self in the mirror after having your constructions crushed is an intense experience. I've spent long enough doing this to understand that I'm spending time in a world that cannot be rebuilt. Nostalgia, in all it's sweet charm can be an incredibly dangerous thing. Fortunately for me, it has always been in my nature to avoid backwards steps as if they were wildfire, so the recreation of a life that has now crumbled will always have this artificial taste to it, and that is not a puzzle piece that fits with my personality. So where to from here? I am about to change almost everything in my life, and it goes against every instinct in my frail little body. But the dust has settled and my eyes have adjusted enough for me to see and understand that I have more control than I initially thought. Those infamous thieving heavens have bigger plans for me yet, and in their wisdom, they have faced me with many options. I carve my own path from here, and I must say that my gut feelings are doing a much better job of serving me than I ever could've hoped for. I have faith now in my ability to decide what is right for me, and in the path ahead, the path that is destined for my trails, there lays only prosperity and happyness. I am terrified beyond comprehension, but I have little left to lose. As someone once told me in reference to their own life; "If I get one more chance to stand and fight, it's now or never", those words have never sung so much truth.