47) In the Lifeboat For Losers Cafe.

Arthur snapped out of his reverie at the raucous croaking of a pestilential drunk called Robert. Looking like a Werewolf from a war-zone, he had thrust his scabrous mug into Arthur’s face and was demanding a cigarette. Arthur sighed, he was sitting in the same window seat at the Yobbo Yo-Yo Cafe that he’d sat in for an eternity, entombed like some royal mummy in a crypt as if all time, space and movement elsewhere had been an illusion. 

It was sometime in the mid ‘Nineties and life in Sydney had been an awful trial, his dream of success in the arts fading fast, he was wallowing in the muck with countless other wannabes and possibly about to get trampled in the stampede to the Big Nowhere. Looking back he was amazed he'd survived the  years of exultation, horror and danger, but that had all just been a warm up for old age in the gutter, from now on it was do or die time. As Robert kept on hassling for a fag, Arthur flicked the bum a butt then turned his back on him, all the while perusing the flawed human cargo stacked around him in the Lifeboat for Losers Café.

Across from him sat a kooky old crone dressed like a teenaged Punk, in black leather mini-skirt, torn fish net stockings and studded dog collar. Her hair was razored into spikes, her eyes were huge, glazed empty pools, the smacked out eyes of the Omega People with a flood of mascara leaking down her craggy face. Most surreal of all was that she clutched on her lap a little pug dog that had the same face, haircut and dog collar as she did, like a vision from “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” and Arthur had to blink twice to get a hold on reality.

At the next table sat the dreaded Tax Collector in his baggy suit and tie, a tireless bore, he droned on and on in a monologue to nobody in particular about his weekend hobby, Druidic Pagan Rituals. This is where he would transmogrify from his tedious, real self to an heroic warrior dressed in cape and Viking's helmet, uttering streams of mumbo jumbo while he tried to get his hands on the Scarlet Whore of Babylon perched on the sacrificial altar. When Arthur told him to shut his cake-hole the bureaucrat hissed, “You useless deadbeat, what contribution have you ever made to society?” Arthur snapped in return, “As if a Tax collector is the epitome of an active social conscience! Stick it where the sun don’t shine, douche-bag!”

Sitting with the Taxman and nodding sagely at all the nonsense was Marcielle, the American braggart in his cowboy hat and tooled leather boots. He swore he was the script writer for the science-fiction spoof “Flesh Gordon” and had lived off the royalties ever since, though he taught script-writing at Sydney University for an extra crust. Any movie that got a mention in the Café’s interminable film-lore rant he was sure to have worked on or been present at during the shoot and he purported to have met everyone who shone in Hollywood. There was even the night he’d had dinner with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, only he’d taken a whore as his companion and she’d dipped her fingers into the pate and ruined his reputation.

He was a horny old devil, dripping with excitement when recounting all the teenage popettes he’d screwed in cheap hotel rooms. He commented loudly upon his hobby of trying to pick up sex in Internet chat-rooms, reading out his sordid e-mails, crowing over his deviousness. He looked more worn than his purported age of fifty-five years, with a drawn, creased face under long white hair, skin the texture of cottage-cheese, his sexually confused cyber-space  suckers were in for a big shock if they ever did meet him in the pallid flesh. Arthur figured Marcielle’s much trumpeted celebrity and sex spiel was a fantastic web of lies spun by a cocaine crazed con man and he sneered at all his sordid tall tales accordingly.

A scraggy prostitute by the name of Corinne ran into the Abandon All Hope Café crying for sanctuary, her rat’s tail hair in her face, her nose bloody, her lip-stick smeared and her black-lace dress torn apart causing her scrawny breasts to flap about like wet socks. She’d just ripped off a mug and he was hot on her heels and she screeched for Vitto to save her. She flung herself behind the counter and cowered there, Vitto stepping into the breach and blocking any sight of her behind his dirty apron. A fat oaf then came to the door, panting and eyeballing the crowd of misfits. Not finding what he wanted he ran on, and after a few minutes Corinne crawled forth, sniveling to Vitto to give her some hide-out cash. 

The Old Contrary Mary laughed in her face and told her to hide down in the toilets, not bring her troubles to his doorstep. She was reputed to have been a great beauty once, the toast of the jet-set, enjoying the high life, and then scag had got a hold of her. Twenty-one years later she was a haggard, villainous crow, scraping her next heroin-hit from the gutters, reduced to rifling the pockets of the dickheads desperate enough to go with her. She rushed out of the Café followed by the regulars' derisive taunts, they’d suffered her misadventures day in, day out, even Robert the Wino Werewolf laughed at her with the few brain cells he had left.

Robert the Werewolf continued gibbering into the lumpen faces around him and they listened attentively to him as if he were Professor Shlockendork. He sometimes dried out and studied medicine at University, only to sample the lab alcohol from the specimen jars and fall headlong into the heebie-jeebies again. His hairy face was a mass of wounds from his falls and his fights, he cherished a good beating, his pain receptors having got twisted from the imbibing of methylated spirits, fighting made him feel wanted. Arthur swore Vitto humored the drunk into hanging around so as to have company, any company, during the graveyard shift. Arthur felt a pinch on the arm from Vitto as he whirled past doing his usual dervish dance, making coffee, emptying ashtrays, washing dishes, sticking up photos of the penultimate shlock film-stars, fussing and fidgeting, making Arthur tired just watching him.

 Arthur took in the cluttered Café and seemed to glimpse through the haze of marijuana the faces of the many dispossessed souls who'd come and gone over the years, like ghosts still hovering in the corners. There squatted the shrewish Jan Eager, vomiting black bile as she pissed defiantly on the floor for all to see. She was a brilliant painter but as furious a misanthrope as Medusa, and she died alone in her Kings Cross flat, her corpse lying undiscovered for several weeks. Arthur could still see Mad Alice sitting at a table, lifting her blouse to flash her tits at unsuspecting strangers. She had long been a sex worker and had developed full-blown AIDS and was slowly rotting to bits. Covered in weeping sores and bandaged like a nuclear fall-out victim, she often sat on the wall opposite the Café for a breath of fresh air and still got propositioned by the deadhead pussy-punters who’d dribbled down Roslyn Street from the main drag of the Cross, blind-drunk and egregiously horny.

 His reminiscing intensified: out the door flounced a livid Fat Michelle after her one millionth argument; larger than life, mortified at being a blimp, she was the most belligerent of people. With a beefy arm she slammed the glass door hard and it shattered into splinters, earning her a lifetime ban from the Bete Noir Café. There were desolate nights when Fat Michelle yet loitered in the neighborhood to gaze longingly through the window at the crowd of deadbeats, wanting very much to belong, even if it was to a gang of misfits choking in their cloud of marijuana smoke. She had a bent crush on a creature called David Massacre and hung about the street like an ill wind hoping to catch a glimpse of her boyfriend’s cracked head.

The tragic specter of David Massacre shimmered between the two rows of tables at the Café’s center, that area being a strange attractor for flipped-out freaks. The poor fellow had an ugly dent in his forehead from where someone long ago had hit him on the head with an axe. He was forever plucking away at a beat up guitar, out of tune, making a horrendous noise as he whined bits of a song he was trying to write. With manic flourishes he promised everyone he’d been signed up by a record company, and was on his way to fame and fortune for his song would definitely be a hit on the airwaves. He was so brain-damaged he never realized the only hit he was ever going to have was the one he’d already had on the head with the axe.

He creaked on till he lost his reason completely and sued Vitto and the Café for harassment and psychological injury, after he’d rioted and broken everything he could lay his hands on. They all had to go to court and Vitto had to trundle forth umpteen witnesses to declare that, in truth, it was David Massacre who was torturing him, coming to his Café and smashing the place to bits in a psychotic melt-down. This was the same maniac who had previously sat down and played guitar on the Sydney Airport runway to stop the capitalist machines from landing. They dragged him off the runway but they didn’t stop him from marauding, and it was the Café No Skyway in the High that he set his deluded attentions upon, intent on destroying the dump. Finally he became yet another of the sorry stiffs found in their grubby apartments weeks after they had dropped dead, from alienation and exhaustion.

Arthur focused on reality when Karl, the most notorious drunk on Kings Cross, staggered through the door squawking his usual stream of abuse and splashing his cheap wine about. He played Frankenstein to Robert’s Werewolf, with his clothes in tatters and skinny frame covered in suppurating lesions from having fallen flat on his face innumerable times. He looked like a leper who’d fallen under a train, as mangled as a tub of KFC chicken, and trailing dirty bandages behind him. He took perverse pleasure in placing his filthy, cadaverous hands on the chic designer-clothed shoulders of the few nice, middle-class customers Vitto could attract into the Necropolis Cafe. Karl had made a fine art of terrorizing the good burghers of Kings Cross, scuttling dead drunk through their shop doors, demanding a hand-out and screeching obscenities when refused.

The moment the old soak showed his face, Vitto started screaming for him to “Get out!” over and over, but the crafty old sot ignored him and continued to shout his warped opinion of the “horrible fucking world” he was forced to live in. This had gone on for years, Vitto being reduced to a helpless, quivering jellyfish in the face of Karl’s resolute obnoxiousness.

Karl stayed glued to his seat, spitting and cursing, with Vitto shrieking and wailing for him to “Fuck off!” Arthur got totally wound up, he’d had it with the years of abuse from this useless old pisspot, with poor Vitto on the verge of a nervous breakdown, brandishing scissors, ready to cut Karl’s tongue out. Arthur jumped up and grabbed the drunk’s wine bottle by the neck, Karl making a grab for it at the same moment, his bandaged claw latching on to the bottom of the bottle and clinging to it steadfastly. Like a dog on a lead, Arthur used the bottle to pull him from his chair and drag him out of the Café, Karl clasping his end of the bottle as if his life depended on it. Arthur pulled him across the road where he was plonked down on the ground and the bottle wrenched from his grasp. He then poured the wine onto Karl’s mangy head, screaming, “If you want booze, have it, have it all!” Karl stiffened, hunched his shoulders and screamed as if boiling coffee was being poured upon him.

When Arthur glanced up, he saw Robert the Werewolf, Karl’s partner in drunken outrages, stumbling towards him in slow motion, fist upraised in a punch and Arthur was easily able to reach in and give him a good shove in the face that sent him toppling like a collapsed wine bag. Then Karl lurched up and tried to throw a punch, feeble and pathetic, Arthur was like a speeding bullet in comparison, casually reaching over and pushing him on his arse again. By this time Robert had got to his feet and made another slow motion attack and just like in a George Romero zombie movie, Arthur found these walking dead-men child’s play to push over, no matter how many times they came at him. Karl had somehow got hold of a chair from the Bad Voodoo Café and he came staggering up with it raised shakily above his head as if to crush Arthur to smithereens. Arthur grabbed the chair and spun it, Karl spinning with it and then falling to the ground with his butt up in the air. Arthur gave him an almighty swift kick up the arse that sent him sprawling.

Robert tottered up again, wanting more attention, but the brawl was getting tedious, with all of Roslyn Street watching in grim satisfaction from their shop doorways and someone yelling, “ Kill ’em, Artie, kill ‘emmm!” He asked Robert if he really wanted it and Robert nodded assent, desirous of an orgasm of pain, a resigned Arthur giving him a hard Wing Chung kick to the balls. He flinched but kept on coming and he got a second, harder kick in the nuts. He stopped for a second, as if questioning his senses, then lumbered on, hands out groping mid-air just like a zombie. He got one last, hard kick in the crotch and he stopped in his tracks, his eyes rolled up into his head, he stuttered and drooled, he was kind of ecstatic, he’d had enough, a veritable orgy of violence, and he reeled away.

Arthur strode back to Nurse Ratshit’s Glass-box Café, having finished giving his bad therapy, only to confront Vitto clutching at his face a la Anna Magnani, eyeballs popping like he’d seen the Devil’s spawn in action. Arthur tried to drink his café latte with tranquility, as though nothing had happened, when the two piss-heads reappeared and tried to shove their way into the cafe, crowding each other out and getting stuck in the doorway, as if in an absurd Laurel and Hardy skit. Karl was naked except for a pair of yellow, silk boxer shorts and one red-boxing glove which he had miraculously managed to dredge from the gutters of the Cross in seven minutes. They created a god-awful ruckus and Vitto was reduced to shrieking mindlessly again.

The Old Mole blamed Arthur for creating the disturbance and insisted he leave the premises, throwing him like a sacrificial lamb to the wolves howling out on the street. Arthur made a pompous speech about friendship and betrayal, loyalty and shallowness, while the old Maestro of Melodrama looked on disgruntled from behind his coffee machine. Arthur then strode to the door and pushed the drunks out of the way and left, swearing it was the last time he would honor the dump with his presence. He had the Sydney art-world to conquer, they were a much nastier crowd than these fools and, while fighting zombies was great training, it was beneath a man of his talents. As far as Arthur was concerned, the Café should have been called the Gladiator’s Shit Pit and he was never going there again.

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If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.

46) Flight School.

On many nights of his early life Arthur had flying dreams, he bravely soared aloft and then most days forgot that he did so. Asleep, while delving deep into the Unconscious, he even dreamed he attended an ethereal flight-school, endeavoring to perfect the art of flying to the Underworlds under the guidance of wise instructors. He practiced at running along dreamscape roads until, from sheer willpower, he lifted off, realizing his immaterial dream body was indeed weightless. He would fly jerkily for a bit, until he became unsure of his ability, and then he would find himself plonked back on the ground, into the dust, as if gravity still had a hold of him, but maybe it was just his ignorance dragging him down.

When he could stay aloft for greater lengths, he would soar about, ascend to giddy heights then plummet breathlessly, to pull out of the fall with a long swoop and then land with graceful poise. He got to practicing somersaults and other aerial circus tricks, for flying blissed him out, and he imagined he had an audience of peers and Masters appraising him from some lofty mountain pinnacle. When he flew great distances into the Dark Continent he tricked his rational mind by pretending he was in a glass-bottomed plane, watching the worlds below slide by, a safe, easy ride. Or he was seated out on the wings of the plane, precarious and scary, for the driving wind could blow him to kingdom come and, on take-off, the plane seemed to just scrape past onrushing skyscrapers and the snarling branches of giant trees. Yet he always made it into the astral sky and onwards to ‘other’ visionary realms of the Mind.

Thus in his childish heart he felt the whole world was open to him, he could go where he willed, become what he wanted, with a life of renown, as a great world-shaking artist he hoped, even a movie star, for that was his fondest dream.

In the early “70s, when he was studying Yoga in the Himalayas, he met a strange fellow, an inquirer into the avowed dream-flights of his fellow homo sapiens. Arthur was hanging around the classes of Vedanta philosophy at the Sivananda Jungle University when he met this tall, fifty-ish American dude in a business suit who was going around with a tape recorder interviewing any and all Babas who avowed they could astral travel. He was compiling a survey of “Out of the Body Experiences” worldwide for publication and he assured Arthur it was a widespread phenomena, many trustworthy people having attested to the validity of lucid flying in their dreams. Arthur confessed that he’d long dreamed of flying, nearly every night taking off, only mostly it was directionless, blind, like a mote in a solar storm. Whenever he felt he was consciously lifting out of his body, fear would jolt him back, fear of the Other, of being demon Possessed, of Death, and of not being able to make it back into his body.

The Astral Researcher smiled benignly and told him that he need not fear it, all manner of people daily experienced astral flight. All he had to do was relax, think of the smiling face of someone he trusted then imagine lifting his astral arms straight out in front of him and looking at his hands. This technique, concentrated upon, would allow him to slip out of his body without any serious trauma. Arthur thanked him and went on his way, pondering on the curious nature of this strange man’s expertise.

That night in his concrete cell at the Ashram, before he fell asleep, Arthur tried the meditation for lift-off, thinking of his dear friend, Compassion, and fantasizing that he stretched his arms out before him, concentrating on his imaginary hands pulling forth from his heavy flesh. Lo and behold, before he knew it, he was floating out of his body. He drifted up to the ceiling and looked down upon himself. Then he longed to explore this great, curious, New World, and he willed himself to fly out of the building, up into the cool night air, floating high above the Ashram. He could see all the details of the Hindu Monastery below that he knew so well and the environs of Shangri-la beyond, the winding, green river of the Ganges, with the blue foothills and the snow-capped Himalayan ranges as backdrop.

He wondered if there was another world beyond the mountains and if he could fly there at his first attempt. But then the thought hit him, “What if I got lost, how would I make it back to my body? My precious body! Where is my precious body?” He looked back down to the Ashram and with these apprehensions he suddenly found himself in his body, heavy and solid, breathing fast, wide awake, his eyes snapped open, reassured he was back in reality, at a loss that his first lucid lift-off had been aborted. He tried not to worry about it as he had the rest of his life to perfect his talents.

The following morning at Satsang, the Ashram’s requisite spiritual congregation, the Head Honcho Swami gave the daily lecture on the subject of Siddhis, powers one may acquire whilst practicing the Yogas. He spoke of powers like dream flight or mental telepathy, levitation or telekinesis, prophecy and hypnotism, claiming they were mere distractions on the Path to Enlightenment, and, like hot coals, not to be frittered with. Arthur was astounded that the Swami had picked up on his latest mind-game, the old mug must have seen him flying above the ashram during the night, breaking the ten o’clock curfew. Still Arthur dreamed. What if he could fly anywhere at will? With courage, intelligence and good heart he could explore every level of the multiverse of the Mind, lose his fears and gain deep insights, unlock mysteries and maybe find his reason for existing. Samadhi would always be there, waiting for him, at the end of Time.

It was all probably just a trick of the Mind, that mysterious phenomena that had created the universe wherein humanity dwelt, but even so, if one could fly about through all the levels of the Mind, it would be interesting fun and worth exploring.

But three tired old cliches dragged him down into forgetting his inherent Budhahood and Eagle-nature, the Holy Trinity of “sex and drugs and rock’n’roll”. Sex mania with all the wet dreams, frustrated desires and fantasies of fulfillment, like phantasmal lost lovers followed into the mists who were ever ready to induce lead-weight erections, distracting pleasures and mind-numbing orgasms. Drugs that took him up high into the clouds like LSD, Ecstasy, Marijuana and Hashish, imbibed as the elixir of false knowledge, bliss and tranquility, to really get him spinning in his head, flat on his arse and wandering lost on his feet. And Rock’n’Roll restlessness, for hard and fast adventures, extreme sports and situationist stunts, all with accompanying electrifying music, his blood pumped, his mind thrilled, his body exhausted and heart jaded.

These three old sores relaxed his inhibitions too well, making him sink into a morass of excitation and satiation, become heavy, mindless and flightless, like a Dodo bird. For most of his life, when he tried to fly, he crash-landed, thankfully on his feet, a bit cut-up but eager to try again.

Later in life his repetitive dreams of getting on top of things changed tack, he slowed down, got more sedentary and meek, as if he truly did devolve into the flightless Dodo. As always, when he dreamed, he was high up above the world, so very high atop a vertiginous tower, upon a narrow parapet just big enough to hold his sleeping form, if he didn’t hold tight he could fall away into infinite depths, into oblivion, for the tower tilted in the wind and he could slip, go over the edge if he lost his grip.

Other souls had leaped and flew above and below him, joyously; para-gliders, skydivers, brave and hardy, adventurous, taking risks, they had marvelous lives, of achievement and success. Not him, he played it cautious, a wimp and a flake who gripped tight his narrow platform, but at least he survived to have an old age, ordinary though it was.

At the end of the dream he slid down a precipitous ramp, down, down, down to the bottom of his skyscraper, to where the losers shout their sorry wares with no one listening, and he hurried away, to try to climb back to the heights, hopefully to get the guts and heart to leap, and fly, truly fly, regardless of the dangers and pitfalls, to fly away into the blue, let go of the dross, spread his arms and embrace it all, maybe achieve something fabulous. A nice dream if he can make it.

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If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.

The Greatest Soul Ever Prostituted.

I just watched and enjoyed Morgan Spurlock’s “The Greatest Movie Ever Sold” about advertising and product placement in the movies. Such product placement has always spoiled movies for me: when there’s a Coke machine or MacDonalds in shot, I no longer suspend my disbelief in the story and just see it as so much contrived hogwash.

My whole life I’ve been annoyed by the ubiquitous wall to wall commercials in city living: on buses, revolving billboards, football fields, dim-wits' T-shirts, on every damned step one walks up, every fucking where, nowhere is sacred. They don’t call them brand-names for nothing, logos get branded upon one’s fore-brain as if by a branding iron by the sheer number, tenacity and cleverness of their application. I feel like I’m violated, physically and spiritually, drinking in corporate crap when moving across the city, when turning on any piece of technology, even when dressing, eating and shitting. I’m the same as the protagonist in William Gibson’s novel, “Pattern Recognition”, who feels intense nausea at the sight of any brand-name, so averse to designer logos she cuts them off her clothes, turns away at the sight of a Starbucks, and is creeped out by any product signifier such as a toy Michelin man.

You might have noticed that there is no advertising on my Blog though Google has been offering it to me for years; poor and starving as I am, I just can’t bring myself to sell my soul and sully my site with commercial crap around the edges. I’ve discovered there are other Internet sites hosting my Blog or with my tales on their list of favorite Blogs and they have shit-head advertising cluttering their pages, making a living from my hard work, but what can I do about it? I don’t like it at all, it seems out of my power, and at least they provide a link to more readers all around the world, I guess I’ve got to be thankful for the promotion. Still, believe me, they do it without my permission, and I hate product placement, to me it’s prostituting my soul.

For instance, the latest movie that was ruined for me by the egregious brain-fuck of product placement was “Rush”, the racing car shlockbuster directed by Ron Howard. Okay, back in the ‘70s, racing cars had sponsors who had their logos plastered all over the cars and overalls, (and still do), and Niki Lauda, or was it James Hunt, really did have Marlboro radiating like a giant eyesore from his tail-fin. But every scene of "Rush" had someone puffing up on the noxious cancer sticks, pitstop crew, racing-fans and, most particularly, the star, Chris Hemsworth, who never had a fag out of his gob. At one point, while making a speech on receiving some award, he reached down to an audience member’s table and snatched up their cigarette and exclaimed, “I need that more than you!”

What a shameless whore! Millions of sufferers and cancer deaths for millions of dollars, what a father-fucking business! As cigarette advertising is banned from all public space and most media, movies are the last frontier left to showcase the poisonous products. There are innumerable movies with many so-called respected actors lighting up, all for filthy lucre, it’s fucking sick; why don’t they go the whole hog and also advertise crack with a sexy siren puffing on a crack-pipe? Marlboro must’ve approached Ron Howard with “a great idea for a movie”, one that perfectly represents the ideal of “the Marlboro man”, tough, brave, dangerous, masculine: racing car drivers with fag logos all over them.

There's hardly a movie that doesn't have someone or everyone smoking cigs, going back 100 years, and believe me, I watch a zillion movies and look out for it and I'm down to only a couple of costume dramas wherein tobacco wasn't fashionable yet. Even in many of those some old yob lights up a pipe. It's as if the tobacco companies also own the movie companies, or vice versa.  And most actors are probably offered extra dosh, and plenty of plum roles in future projects, if they light up, with the excuse that it will fit the time-period of the movie. But it's fucking ubiquitous bullshit!

Audrey Hepburn and everybody else smokes continuously in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" but as she ordinarily smoked three packs a day and died of appendix cancer I suppose it explicable, making smoking as chic as the little black dress. The noble Angelina Jollie smokes in "SALT". The astronauts smoke inside the spaceship in "Aliens". In "Monument Men" George Clooney bribes a German prisoner of war into betraying his country for a packet of Chesterfields, all the while Cate Blanchett is making rollies and picking tobacco off her lips as a piece of show-biz shtick. Set in World War 2, in "Their Finest" everybody walks around smoking non-stop, to relieve their tensions, even the lead actress whose character could easily have been the one healthy girl who didn't smoke. In "A Cure for Wellness" the Dane  character has been chewing Nicorettes much of the time hoping to give up cigarettes. When incarcerated in a sanatorium and chased by the thug male nurses, he steals a packet of fags, hides in a store-room and thankfully drags down on a cig, in great satisfaction and relief of tension. 

These are just a few examples, it's just about in every dam movie, they don't need billboards, television ads, fancy packaging, for the glamour of movies suck us in nicely. I am going on about this like a cat with its balls cut off because I am forever trying to give up tobacco, I've tried 21 times and right now I'm back to smoking my own rollies, around 10 a day. And when I succeed in abstaining for 6 months I to the movies and get drawn into the sight of movie stars posing with a cigarette, their pleasure and style entrances me, and the next time I'm tense I light up. This is killing me, as well as millions of others!

I just witnessed the height of absurdity for tobacco product-placement in the movie "Ghost in the Shell": in a high tech laboratory of robotics and cybernetics, that should have been a dust-free environment, the lead scientist is standing over her gear with a giant cigarette blowing ash into all the fine machinery. And then she turns out to be a robot herself, so what's a robot doing smoking a fag? None of the other actors smoked, hopefully they refused, so this one woman must've been the only one willing and she ran with it for the extra money proffered. Of course my gripe got over-wrought in this movie as it depicts a near future where hologram-advertising hovers bewitchingly in every square inch of space from shop and sky-scraper facades to the thin air above the  buildings, like a nightmare hallucination.

Repeat, I hate advertising, the industry sums up all that’s fucked about this contemporary civilization we’re all stuck in, selling rubbish, most of which we don’t need, destroying the environment, with lies and false smiles. I recently read a book, “Confessions of an Economic Hitman” by John Perkins, an economist sent into developing countries to con them into taking on debt they can’t afford. He revealed I’m not the loner flake I fear I could be and vindicates my anti-commercial attitude by factually reporting on the plundering, devastation and murder of much of the world by corporations in the name of profit. All those brand-names representing designer clothes, footwear, petroleum, construction co.s etc built on slavery, starvation, pollution, oppression; he encourages us all to disrespect the elites who own, run and represent it all, not to feel less than.

In “The Greastest Movie Ever Sold” Morgan interviews musicians who bitch on about getting coverage and audience by providing jingles for world-raping products, saying it’s a way to showcase their music to a bigger audience, that there’s no credibility without visibility, but I think they had that glazed look of fame-whores in their eyes, greed and ego-stroking causing them to kid themselves: they want the money, large amounts of it, as if it’s God’s bounty and they worship it. Private jets, limousines, designer rags, mansions, bling, pussy and cock on tap, good food to eat and eat and eat till they bloat up and explode. What the fuck! Most people, working hard, are confused, ignorant of the truths behind the products, lost in the downpour of consumer carrots dangled in their faces, they follow the mesmerizing twinkle of advertisements lighting up the fog, for they know in their hearts there is no moralizing god or afterlife in heaven, this life has to be squeezed of its juices as much as possible, even if it is only reconstituted, too bad for the rest of the planet.

I created “Toby Zoates” in 1978 as an anti-brand name, ripped off from a famous breakfast foodstuff here in Auz; I can't help but subvertize the cheesy sacred cow of the commercial world with satire and derision. It’s been the main theme of my art all these years and I’ve suffered because of it, no jobs, no good living, virtually starving, the govt. sponsored arts and/or corporatization of the arts killing me off. So be it, I’d rather be an ignominious bum than a whore. 

P.S. This rave is not calling for a "revolution" or overthrow of capitalism: given human nature it usually just swaps one tyranny for another. Without advertising I wouldn't get to watch any movies or have a modern society to live in, as Morgan Spurlock himself suggests, sharp satirist that he is, getting product placement to fund the $1.5 million budget of his documentary. History and civilization have brought us here, like a colossal bulldozer pushing us along, there's no turning back, what is, IS. I'm just saying brand-names, burnt into my eyeballs, make me nauseous and I don't want them on my Blog, if I can help it. In our own personal spaces we can resist whatever we don't like, that's my rebellious cry.

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If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.

"AUSTRALIAN GOTHIC"

If I had to come up with a style or genre to describe my work I guess I'd call it "Australian Gothic" as there's definitely a twisted, dark horror element underlying my tales of the post-modern human condition. Soon to come will be a series of stories that have at their heart terrible acts from malicious souls: classic, realist Aussie Urban Myths, in the way of "Wake in Fright" or "Wolf Creek". Infamous murderers, perverted sexualities, demonic personalities, fantastic events and, for contrast, those good, kind souls who stand up to and get victimized by the demons. A typical tale would be along the lines of the following, "Northcott Ghetto Homecoming", more nasty real than any confabulated fiction could be.

After spinning around the Himalayan mountain tops for several weeks, visiting exotic fairy tale temples and sacred pagan nature sites, surviving the chaos of labrynthine Indian bazaars and rickety tinpot Chinese airport, I arrived back in Sydney to the usual Northcott madness knowing full well it wasn't going to get to me, I can handle anything. With my saintly neighbor Dolly now dead and buried, her spirit was no longer able to act as the linchpin holding together our basement floor of the flats, the dump was in fact devolving further into dissolution and detritus, when once I had prayed, "Please, don't get any lower."

Cursula, dumb schitzo hoarder to the right of me, had piled up against my apartment wall the broken furniture and bric-a-brac she'd rescued from the dumpster, a pyramid of shit and target for our local pyromaniac, who has already set my flat alight via her heaped up garbage. I laboriously dragged most of it back to our garbage shed, she'll bring it back again but as a lazy dill she will soon give up the struggle and, indefeatable, I will eventually succeed in getting rid of most of it.

Old Sandy, the reformed alcho on the other side of me, has fallen off the wagon again, (actually, this happens weekly, the wagon can't carry her rage), is dead drunk and charging in and out of her flat with much slamming of doors, screaming and cursing the world, kicking at other people she meets and calling them "fucking cunts", who would guess that she's actually a very sweet old lady? Then a mate arrives and tells me the latest horror stories my accursed neighbors perpetrated while I was away. Old Sandy had claimed that, back in the day, she was quite a rebel junkie queen and she asked Cursula to "get on" for her. Cursula was hungry for a hit so with a cut in mind did as she was asked and shot the old bird up. Sandy hadn't tasted heroin in years and quickly overdosed, dropping dead. Cursula called an ambulance who rushed to Northcott and gave Sandy a shot of Narcane.

This snapped the old girl awake and straight, she sat up and yelled, "Gimme the rest of it!" After the Ambos had left Cursula gave the old derro another shot and, finding some of the poison remaining in the needle, gave herself a hit of the leftovers, not caring that it had mixed with Sandy's blood. Later on she moaned to all and sundry about Sandy having Hep C and now she was worried about infecting herself because of her greed. Forget zombies and vampires, or maybe this was the realist version of those celluloid monsters, this kind of shit is the true horror story that makes my flesh crawl, it's way out of my ken as I've never put a needle in my arm and just can't imagine the stupidity of it.

Northcott Housing Ghetto has a 1001 tales of woe like this. It's bemusing to remember that it was originally built in 1960 as a low-income workers' housing paradise. Built possibly on sacred Koori land, where for thousands of years shamanic rituals were enacted, the buildings now crushing down on top of thousands of murdered Indigenous Australians lost under the dirt. Definitely built upon an old convict grave-yard, the bodies dug up and moved to another cemetery when the foundations were laid, but not all the bones found, poltergeists still wail up and haunt us who cling to the place, rocking the boat of our quietude. Old age and disability pensioners found refuge here as did struggling families like dear old Dolly's, and many of them died in the flats, adding  to the ghosts howling up the canyon of brickwork. Then THEY dumped the mentally ill and the drug addicted here for the hospitals were closed down and there was no money for drug rehabilitation hostels. It also provides housing for those recently released from jail, like a giant half-way house, the Crims either straightened out and lived happily ever after or they returned to crime and terrorized us the local residents.The latest wave of Northcott denizens are new immigrants and refugees, Russians, Africans, Afghanis, Iranians, Sri Lankans, the whole edifice a melting pot of ethnicities, drug addictions, illnesses and geriatrics, and I'm on the front line, no security door protecting my place, but what the fuck, I'm a warrior.

Northcott is an island of poverty and madness in a sea of inner-city gentrified wealth and stability, it's like a mirage of an oasis for the disaffected and dispossessed, squatting on zillion dollar property. How long can it last? The sharks are surrounding us, drooling to have the property given over and built up into the rich men's heavens. It's a miracle the place has sailed on regardless, seeming to flounder upon the rocks at times, with countless suicides, murders, massacres, muggings, overdoses and acts of alienated madness. But certain independent politicians like Clover Moore stick up for us and demand that there be a place for the poor in the inner-city. I'm tough enough to surf it, to get on top of it, to be creative in the midst of the turmoil, painting, drawing, writing, observing, living on, not easily done over though there's been attempts at it. To reiterate, after surviving the slums of Melbourne, Delhi, Mumbai and Pyrmont Squats, Sydney, I can handle the Gothic citadel of horrors that is Northcott Housing Ghetto.

I will write further Australian Gothic horror tales, involving Aboriginal and Irish convict ghosts rising up to lament their tortured lives and unjust treatment at the hands of the colonial authorities, the type of ruler still in power here in the hick backwoods continent of Auz. And one of those tales will again be about Northcott, a truth only I dare to tell, called "The Demon Neighbors", about how old Dolly stoically suffered elder abuse at the hands of two vicious, malevolent djiins.

www.amazon.com/author/tobyzoates

If you enjoyed this story please go to the WEB address above and consider buying my book of tales about growing up anarcho-queer, rock and roll punter and mystic adventurer in Australia and India of the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s.