follow me, bitches

If you're a guy and you sit at home in your tie-dye Afro-beat pants, and you read my blog religiously, I won't think you're a pussy.


dialogue bits

"You don't work for me. Stop acting like a servant, you stranger. You don't work for me."
Dan stared at Jimmy and saw a hollow creature staring back at him. Jimmy looked down first, then turned his back around and started piling up the dishes near the sink. He turned on the hot water.
The water ran.
"Yeah, whatever. I don't even know why I said that, I'm sorry."
"So I'm a fucking stranger to you, is that what you're saying Jimbo."
"I'm not saying anything like that. I'm sorry."
"I've known you for nine years."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Dan's voice pitched high. He was quiet for several moments, trying to build his voice together, teetering on the edge of self-control. Jimmy turned off the tap. "Work for you? I act like I work for you? What the hell, man. You're acting really fucking weird lately. It's fucked up. You need to stop taking so many-"
"So many what?" Jimmy interrupted him, turning around, and under his voice there was a roar, a primal heartbeat.  Dan's atitude was getting out of hand. This whole situation was escalating to something mostruously blunt.
"So many fucking drugs, that's what."

Jimmy blinked. His face still in every respect, frozen: he had been glazed with an icy one, and for the first time in a very long while he felt his neck warm with embarrassment. But then came the avalanche of his character, together with pupils the size of marbles, and the look of a deranged little man. He grabbed the plates and splahed the lot into the full sink.

Water everywhere.

"Fuck you. Fuck you, Daniel. You're a cunt," he said, hovering over Dan as his voice escalated, who didn't recoil but also didn't move, looking down at the puddles of soap water on the linoleum.
"Fuck this..."
"Just fuck you. Fuck all of you. It's particularly irrelevant, what I do. It's really irrelevant in comparison. You guys are all gigantic dogs. You're dogs, that's all."
He moved back, looked at the dishes, then at the wall, then by accident at himself, through the window reflection. "A bunch of fucking wankers. A bunch of cock-sucking fucking-"
"Shut up."
"-who follow me around like dogs-"
"-and don't even have the slighest idea of what the fuck THEY are doing with THEIR lives-"
Dan's third interruption wasn't verbal: he instead shoved Jimmy face-first into the cupboards. The move was so quick that it knocked him out of his senses; much like a doll that had just been flung across the kitchen. After the thud, there was only silence. Jimmy saw grey dots of light flickering around him, and he held his head while it rung a one-tone, unmoving.
"Go get professional help," Dan groaned, sweeping his hand over the counter to collect his keys. He paused briefly and looked over at Jimmy, who'd gone over to the sink again, supporting himself against the window sill. Then he left. 


"The older you get, the more rules they're gonna try and get you to follow. You just gotta keep livin', man.

Wooderson, Dazed and Confused


another mcsweeney classic

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by brevity, over-connectedness, emotionally starving for attention, dragging themselves through virtual communities at 3 am, surrounded by stale pizza and neglected dreams, looking for angry meaning, any meaning, same hat wearing hipsters burning for shared and skeptical approval from the holographic projected dynamo in the technology of the era (...)"

Read: TWEET by Oyl Miller

Check out the other multitude of socially awkward penguins here.

goo think

I wrote this at an outrageous hour under outrageous circumstances, but it makes more sense than the string of filthy idiotic thoughts I have at present daylight:

If you're consumed in your own life experience you're not actually living, you are just preoccupied with yourself. If you take on board other experiences (read them, see them, listen to them, get innocuously cultured in order to absorb what has come and gone and what is the present world processing right now) you will probably be living the normal life that would have still been going around when there weren't mass-media social phenomenon platforms all over the Internet and all sorts of entertaining junk on television making us even more consumed in personal image and self-evaluation. And in this normal life we would be hopelessly non self-conscious, and would contribute more directly to art and other facets of the creative spehere. I don't think there are many of us who experience this creative blockage; I know for a fact many interesting people that work AROUND the obstacles of social media - they usually ignore it altogether to a pleasant effect and a chilled out lifestyle. Still, I find it necessary to point out that being tuned to third-persons experiences, cultural experiences, is possibly the greatest way to gain further insight into yourself, and people around you, and society in general. I think... because that's where all the best ideas come from. By studying what's been done and where this new place where you feel you are on par with the collective consciousness is. Being on this "agenda" means being on the forefront, with knowledge on tap, and having the tools to anticipate needs and ideas, like the little geniuses of modernity.

I mean honestly, can you imagine Pablo Picasso trying to deal with cubism and Facebook?


fuck you, jimmy

He blinked himself awake.

There were duos of boys and girls spread around. But his own nest was singular. Him and not one more. That was Jimmy's style. Jimmy was nobody's. Jimmy, the skater, the shaggy hair, the slept in t- shirts, the megalomaniac smile. Jim, the party kid, the one who was high when everyone else was dry, the kid you approached at the sidewalk outside Jasper's for recognition, for the measly hope that he would flash you an entry into his knitted and knoted community of wanderers. Jimmy, presence seen, present tense. The kid that had always been around; the undisputed friend, the undisputed flavour. Jimmy Hawthorne; the boy, the legend.

But this morning things were too still for such measurements. No Jimmy comparisons to be made. No such cowerings or covers; right here stood James Eli Hawthorne: fatigue rendering him ugly and washed up, black circles under his blue eyes. He seemed paused, in a way. In the verge of punctuation. Jimmy had all the linger and vision, but he was yet to break any groundwork for his stereotype. His type: boys with intention. Young selfish blokes that tried to lead the world. So cashed up in themselves at times, that good intentions flew right past them. Another creature of sound. This morning he looked like anyone else, though, if not lower on the scales of mediocrity, pushing down. Jimmy looked and felt to the day like every other main key there had ever been; every other purebreed.

In fact he could have, at this point, been very much a nobody. Had this been another casual Sunday he would have woke at midday; sat down with Calvin or Dan and cracked open a beer or two. But there were no such things as casual Sundays in May. He felt in the manner of someone old and that had been doing this for a very long time; this morning he was sick of the routine and everything this atmosphere had ever offered him. He was starting to see. And it was a picture much clearer than anything he'd ever seen.

like an ice cube

Expanding slowly we become
never quite as good
better still than none.

these pictures on your wall belong to the pornographic industry

His room is always a mess, but I keep coming back. In a sense I feel like I ought to care for him, tender something I see bruised in his spirit, a shadow of sadness. But it seems I always get too concerned with my ego blisters, and his room never gets any cleaner. 

It's not important that I say all this but it isn't so irrelevant either. We all consume a little tenderness easily. The other day I thought of the most eloquent phrase: "these pictures on your wall belong to the pornographic industry". I thought of this eloquent phrase when I left the remote house in the remote "Eta" neighbourhood, to be difficult and cryptic. Let's just call the whole thing a big Eta. So I left Eta thinking that. There wasn't any porn on the walls. I guess it's just the nature of the Eta house that makes me think there is some kind of pornographic culture happening there. I guess I was just a little hazy too. I had covered myself in an American flag blanket all night, what do you expect.

But let's backtrack a little and talk about Eta and its inhabitants. A curious bunch. Nerd jocks. Have you ever come across the concept of nerd jocks? Well these guys were nerd jocks. They were the rich kids that tagged along the better-looking, socially apt kids in high school and offered their place as the prefered location for meetings. Kids these days call drug gatherings "play dates". This new name terrorizes me a little bit. Play dates. Holy fucking shit.

Anyway, there I was in the Eta house and there was plenty of eloquence to be had amongst all of us; eloquence of the nice kind in which people foster a healthy curiosity for one another to help relieve the general stress of hanging around absolute strangers in a confined space (I, being the main stranger). Anyway, cutting to the chase, we started drinking and being generally loose and hits were had and hits were shared (this was late at night and proved to be a great relief to the shitty night I was having beforehand) and all of a sudden - I don't know if the really confined space helped mitigate this or not - I got that sensation that you are in some particularly special cloud nine. The whole scene and all the boys my eyes could possibly gobble over, the multiple conversations and fairly sparse music discussions... When suddenly, it. The whole thing, drenched with perfection. Okay, not perfection. But his presence made the garage vibrate. Presence, hey. Presence is a funny thing. When people have a lot of presence, no matter what - no matter who was there previously or who jumped in the bandwagon with a bit of delay -, when this person leaves, it's like the whole world sinks in a little a bit. This person carries the room. This person facilitates, but more than that: without this person it feels as though you may or not be wasting your time with all these other people (in my case, nerd jocks). But with professors - with professors you just know there is no other place you'd rather be. Why? Because they have no doubt. They just are. They are presumptuous as fuck, as you would imagine. They are overtly convinced of their own talents, and most people just like to drink assurance whether it's a legit thing or not.


You pinned me against the wall and I shivered, that is, until the security guard told you off, but you ignored him, feigning this bizarre interest in me. And you talked about my hair an how much it shines, and I thought to myself faintly, I could probably do this for a while.


hey cowboy

relationship data-types

Person #1: I like you.
Person #2: I don't.
Person #1: Oh, fuck you!
Person #2: Whatever. You'll be buddies with me in a month.

Person #1: I like you!
Person #2: Hmm, I like you a little, but your beard could use a trim. I'll see how long I can deal with this.
Person #1: Sweet! Can we make out?
Person #2: Not tonight. My better-looking friends are here.
Person #1: You're a fucking snob!
Person #2: Deal with it, Santa.
Person #1: Ok.

Person #1: I dislike you in so many levels.
Person #2: I can't stand being seen around you. God almighty, you suck.
Person #1: All I do is think about you.
Person #2: Same. My place?
Person #1: Calling a cab now. 

Person #1: I am utterly disillusioned with love.
Person #2: I am completely clueless as to whether you like me or not.
(deadly pause)
Person #1: So... I guess I'll see you around!
Person #2: Yep! Bye-bye! 

Person #1: Hi. I'm young and immature. 
Person #2: I see.
Person #1: I'm also gorgeous as hell.
Person #2: I see that too.
Person #1: I'm also talented.
Person #2: When you want to be. Can we talk about me a little?
Person #1: No.
Person #2: You're the biggest dick.
Person #1: Yes. 


kanye west's single art

the bad ears

A great little bit of a (somewhat monthly) music-oriented column by Tom Ewing:
We're rhetorically hostile to fellow music listeners. We bundle up fans of particular acts, of course. But we also create stereotypes of people who listen too intensely (audiophiles, obsessive fans) and too casually (people for whom music is "just background noise"). We construct listeners who are too into music-- hoarders and novelty-seekers-- and the 10-albums-a-year buyer who's not into music enough. We project ideas of not listening the right way or for the right reasons-- calling into being the "hipster," the "rockist," the "fangirl." The implied contrast is to our own, naturally superior, modes of consumption. After all it's easier to suggest people fit into some kind of straw man category-- posers, ideologues, undiscerning bobbleheads-- than to risk ourselves by empathizing with what they hear or don't hear in the music.
Read the rest here.


Everything you wanted to know about underwear but were too afraid to ask your mother

An article not for the faint-hearted

Straight, young, single men, this is for you. These are the tips no one has ever cared to give you, either because they were too embarrassed to tell you that you had really ugly underwear on, or because they found that not telling you may yet prove to be your demise with women altogether (they were obviously bitter from the time you took your pants off). This may very well be the next men's lingerie Bible. This could potentially make or break you. This piece of writing could catapult you into God-like, sack stardom. But only if you read on, and carefully so you must.

For some time now I have been collecting the important data that comes with the making of such laborious analysis on the preference of men's undergarments. I felt that, to be relevant, the information had to be up-to-date and include a wide array of tastes, professions, and pick-up lines. Fieldwork wasn't always pleasant, to say the least. So in turn I found that consulting with a number of experts would increase the chances of presenting an accurate report to mankind. I believe this has resulted in a well-structured and revised text. In any case, debate is always welcome and healthy in noble causes such as this one – although I find it won't change my mind, but go on. Try me.

Note: The opinions expressed in this report are more or less the truth.

The brief basics
No pun intended, I swear

Working in a nationwide men's department store has given me great depth of vision into the types of men out there and what kind of underwear they prefer. If only my floor manager could see me right now, collecting private work data and handing it away (for free!) to third parties. Oh my. Anyway. I have found men's undies come in one of the four basic shapes, with the corresponding clientele:

Briefs: the men that wear these are awkward types (in my counter, anyway). The data shows they are usually balding, impaired with one or more nervous tick and/or accompanied by their mother (whom they don't live with anymore but are taken out for a "shopping date" with – 'Pete, maybe we should get you about half a dozen briefs?')

The advice: fair enough. I can see how briefs are the building block of men's undies. They are pretty straightforward in their business of covering the necessary goods. Something your father would wear, right? Something basic. Yeah, right. Take a look at it. I mean, just take a good, long, look at it, and tell a girl in the eye that these don't look like a pair of woman's undies, with a big accident happening at the bottom centre. Not to mention the gusts of curly hair that 99% of the time will blossom from the sides of the crotchal area (that is a technical term, leave me alone). I guess what I'm trying to say is: this is not an attractive look. If you want to stay home reading a compilation of John Keats' Poems whilst sipping a nice cuppa, then briefs are absolutely fine. Possibly, you may even enjoy a sexy date with yourself (try rimmed glasses for best results). But that's it. This style belongs in your drawer, tucked away from daylight. With moths feeding off it, if possible.

Hipsters/Trunks: the males that buy this style of underwear are possibly the most average of the lot. This kind is usually accompanied by their girlfriends, whom usually buy the cutesiest colourful pair they can get their paws on.

The advice: don't let your girlfriend buy your underwear. Seriously, just send her off to the perfume section or something. This is private business! What is she doing, snooping around those aisles? Do you pick your girlfriend's underwear? Don't say yes. If you do, God, what a tacky lady she must be. The point being: this style will suit you in the bedroom, if you buy it yourself, with your own money. Not only it covers unsightly hairs, but it smoothes out natural bumps, picks up and lifts what needs lifting, and is generally a sexy little cover-up. The only disasters which can possibly occur with purchasing trunks are the colours and patterns in which you may buy them in – and there are plenty to be had. These are just a few quick ghastly examples:

No, no, no. Dubious!

This is likely to murder someone.

Oh my.

 You are not eight and tasteless anymore! GINCH GONCH?!?

Waistband advertising only works when there's a reputation to be had about it.
Also this colour is just wrong!
Also, I am not a real fan of this contrast overlocking.

G-strings/Thongs: every time I have to put a man g-string through the register, I end up doing or saying one or more embarrassing things. It's a real disaster, but some guys really just don't care. And these guys, I have found to notice, are either gay, or cyclists.

The advice: well. This report being entirely directed to straight males, let me rule this one out for you. And don't even get me started with, 'but it doesn't show through the back of my pants' business. I don't care. And you shouldn't either!

Warning: these guys are lying. She does not approve of his g-banger. This is wrong. Wrong. Wrong in so many levels.

Boxers: I don't exactly witness many men buying pair after pair of boxer – rather it is their female counterpart that comes in and does the dirty work for them. They are usually middle-aged women, and they are chatty as hell, and they really love a bargain – any bargain, but it has to be a real bargain; none of that $79 polo deal.

The advice: once upon a time I used to think boxers were alright. Yes, that was high school. There's nothing particularly wrong with wearing boxers to bed, as in – actual sleeping. But the sheer reality is that they are just little shorts, and that your goods already come semi-unpackaged. There is just too much air; too many gaps, buttons and otherwise unrouted exits for things to flop out of. And my statistics show that nine out of ten girls like a challenge. (The remaining one girl is, as you can imagine, a slut.)

Undies are your friends
You don't pick stupid-looking friends, do you?

You may be more confused about your choice of underwear now than you were prior to reading this informative work. You may be shocked and angry at women in general for being so vain as to care about something so meaningless. You may have suddenly realised you have been wearing briefs all your life and that maybe, just maybe, there is light at the end of the tunnel for you if you simply switch to trunks. You may feel generally fretful and uncomfortable. Don't panic.

The underwear you parade around the bedroom after a romantic encounter leaves a long-lasting impression on the female mind. It also tells things about you that you never meant to share (but since you got to be naked, it just slipped your mind). Think of your clothes as your outer skin and your undies as your heart, or something. It's the undies that tell the real story about your character. We pick boyfriends based on this!

It is because of this that you must value your underwear. They are your friends. Wearing good underwear to bed is not only a sign of sexual stability (meaning you get it regularly); it also gives the impression that you feel as though you are an expensive lay, since you are packaged with style.

Calvin Klein has always been an expensive package yes in my expert's books. Calvin Klein men's underwear is basically a synonym with sex appeal. Calvin Klein reminds us of muscles and dimpled smiles. In fact, Calvin Klein has built such a good undies' image for itself that, to make your life a little bit easier, by buying a pair you will be pretty much instantly fantasized of as this:

I'm not particularly advocating for Calvin Klein, but rather for something with a bit of an international reputation. You may prefer to stock up on cosmopolitan underwear if you feel like you may be of the world traveller type. Bonds is another good one. Emporio Armani doesn't hurt, either. Trust me. It is the right kind of currency to have. If you want your undies' waistband to be telling something about you, it might as well be in universal language.

Do's & Don'ts: more tips to confuse you further


Steer away from red: I don't know why, but this is an unattractive colour for men's undies. See, you are not a woman. You don't need to wear the colour of lust. Instead, stick with trusty white, black and charcoal (not light grey, big difference). This is particularly important if you are really pale, or a redhead (the latter case being of special difficulty to pair with any colours in general, or with a girl for that matter).



Wear satin boxers: as one of my experts quoted to me yesterday on the way to Chermside West, "there is no hope for men that still wear satin boxers. Jesus, that was so ten years ago," to which I pondered, since she's only in her twenties, that she must be referring to her dad's undies (or I so hope.)

Bibliography, annotated texts, references, Appendix and other generally important things: please refer to the next blog.