Something told me I needed to spend $100 on books this week; some of my recent acquisitions being:
Allen, Woody. Complete Prose.
O'Rourke, P.J. Eat the Rich, Give War A Chance and others.
Palin, Michael. Diaries 1969-1979, The Python Years
Thompson, Hunter S. Gonzo Papers 2.
Wolfe, Tom. In Our Time; Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers.
I then proceeded to spill a hot coffee on most of them, then pore over them, wimpering, with a hair-dryer. At no point during this did I wonder if I had become too attached to my books. Luckily no words were damaged in the making of this sad physical comedy routine.
I watched a documentary today on how Americans are using computers to rig their elections now. It was called "Hacking Democracy." It made me proud to be an Australian. Mainly because I don't know how they rig our elections.
I spent some time today being glad that I don't have a speech impediment. It was the most valuable time I spent all day.
Happy birthday Dan.
Ben
Friday 26 September 2008
Thursday 18 September 2008
Blog: Writings That Are Not Drug Induced But Have Nothing To Do With Anything Especially David Foster Wallace
New idea for character: carrot man. Second thoughts: perhaps limited in emotional aspects, but possibilities for merchandising good. Read today that David Foster Wallace died. Strange because I read it today, but it happened a week ago, but at least my world-awareness gap is getting smaller; earlier this month I read that Bernie Mac and Isaac Hayes had died on the same weekend, a month before I read about it, which made me feel bad, but not as bad as their loved ones, and perhaps for different reasons.
Hayes and Mac had just completed work on a movie about a man whose only joy in life is composing internet blogs about dearly departed celebrities, or dead celebrities as people with other joys in life call them. In the film the man (unemployed, alive) had an unhealthy appetite for loneliness but constantly failed at it, acting out by going out all the time and meeting lots of people. The man, not apparently based on the screenwriter or any of his family or friends or internet favourites, despite being memorable to all those who remembered him, had the strange fear that he was completely unmemorable; that even his very own mother would just walk past him on the street, even if he was bleeding from the eyes and she recognised him. The man also had a private paranoia that there was very little money in his bank account, even when there was none at all. To assuage this, the man retreated into the internet, like Hollywood Star in one of those 80’s sci-fi movies where special effects are hand-drawn. The rest of the picture dissolves into self-reference and the greater bulk of the audience are lost, with only those who can find a good book or supermarket brochure on their person not realising that the final twenty minutes don't make sense.
Apparently its Citizen Kane meets David Bowie; sad about Mac and Hayes though.
More thoughts on carrot man: definitely a promising idea. Refer to Coles docket from January; I remember I left another vegetable themed character there who would go nicely with carrots.
Have begun painting my nails with this cleverly titled don’t-chew-your-nails paint, which looks just like a bottle of nail-polish, which seems flammable enough to add fuel to the fires of my masculinity, ongoing ever since I began walking like my first female “crush.”
I’m always too shy to admit it, but when I hear about a celebrity who’s died I feel kind of like the first time a grown-up gave me free money. I sit there, helpless as to when the good news will next return. My days are long and quiet, and aside from packages arriving bearing the latest Bryce Courtney, which I need because I have a squeaky door that disturbs my writing, all that keeps me going is the hope that each dawn will be greeted of something significant.
For what is more significant than dying? I mean, not many things we have no control over, aside from being born. Everything else we can influence to happen to some degree: getting married, getting a job, voting to encourage the politicians; its all stuff that in a free and right-thinking society we have full control over. But I have to admit that aside from writing another book, dying is one of the only ways I can get any excitement out of David Foster Wallace; and I find that sad, which is why I say I’m sad he’s died. But J.D. Salinger is another story. That bastard has for years stubbornly refused to let me read any of his unpublished books or died, so I get nothing from him.
If I ever do something significant, I’d like it to be very reckless; like wearing a bath-robe and slippers to the shops; because I think I’ve been through my sensible period. The only times I’m scared about are the puritan period and the idealistic period. As soon as I start shouting at dinner parties because of baby seal farming or baby Jesus farming just shoot me dead with a witty insult and bury me in hypocrisy.
Final decision on carrot man, and any derivations of the vegetable theme: I retract all these ideas and deny I ever had them.
Hayes and Mac had just completed work on a movie about a man whose only joy in life is composing internet blogs about dearly departed celebrities, or dead celebrities as people with other joys in life call them. In the film the man (unemployed, alive) had an unhealthy appetite for loneliness but constantly failed at it, acting out by going out all the time and meeting lots of people. The man, not apparently based on the screenwriter or any of his family or friends or internet favourites, despite being memorable to all those who remembered him, had the strange fear that he was completely unmemorable; that even his very own mother would just walk past him on the street, even if he was bleeding from the eyes and she recognised him. The man also had a private paranoia that there was very little money in his bank account, even when there was none at all. To assuage this, the man retreated into the internet, like Hollywood Star in one of those 80’s sci-fi movies where special effects are hand-drawn. The rest of the picture dissolves into self-reference and the greater bulk of the audience are lost, with only those who can find a good book or supermarket brochure on their person not realising that the final twenty minutes don't make sense.
Apparently its Citizen Kane meets David Bowie; sad about Mac and Hayes though.
More thoughts on carrot man: definitely a promising idea. Refer to Coles docket from January; I remember I left another vegetable themed character there who would go nicely with carrots.
Have begun painting my nails with this cleverly titled don’t-chew-your-nails paint, which looks just like a bottle of nail-polish, which seems flammable enough to add fuel to the fires of my masculinity, ongoing ever since I began walking like my first female “crush.”
I’m always too shy to admit it, but when I hear about a celebrity who’s died I feel kind of like the first time a grown-up gave me free money. I sit there, helpless as to when the good news will next return. My days are long and quiet, and aside from packages arriving bearing the latest Bryce Courtney, which I need because I have a squeaky door that disturbs my writing, all that keeps me going is the hope that each dawn will be greeted of something significant.
For what is more significant than dying? I mean, not many things we have no control over, aside from being born. Everything else we can influence to happen to some degree: getting married, getting a job, voting to encourage the politicians; its all stuff that in a free and right-thinking society we have full control over. But I have to admit that aside from writing another book, dying is one of the only ways I can get any excitement out of David Foster Wallace; and I find that sad, which is why I say I’m sad he’s died. But J.D. Salinger is another story. That bastard has for years stubbornly refused to let me read any of his unpublished books or died, so I get nothing from him.
If I ever do something significant, I’d like it to be very reckless; like wearing a bath-robe and slippers to the shops; because I think I’ve been through my sensible period. The only times I’m scared about are the puritan period and the idealistic period. As soon as I start shouting at dinner parties because of baby seal farming or baby Jesus farming just shoot me dead with a witty insult and bury me in hypocrisy.
Final decision on carrot man, and any derivations of the vegetable theme: I retract all these ideas and deny I ever had them.
Wednesday 17 September 2008
Blog: Why the white suit?
Or What Is It That Tom Wolfe Thinks About As He Is Dressing In The Morning, And Other Time-Saving Tips.
Or Is Tom Wolfe Wearing A White Suit Or Is He Just Happy To See Me?
Or Ernest XIII: Ernest Wears A White Suit, Starring Tom Wolfe.
Or Imperial Trooper Cloning Facility, or Tom Wolfe's Wardrobe?
The House That Tom Built
In His Long White Suit
Was a long boring book.
Tom's significant other: Tom, come in here for a minute.
Tom (or, if you prefer, Foghorn Leghorn): Why yes Maude?
Tom's significant other: I was just getting ready for the wedding, and I was checking what you were wearing...
Tom: Why Maudie, I'm wearing my birthday suit, you know I always wears my birthday suit when I'm composing a thousand-page novel.
Tom's significant other: I'm sorry dear, I didn't realise you was workin', will this one be about racist rednecks who dress up in white suits and talk like Foghorn Leghorn too? I so loves it when you writes like that; hot darn.
We interrupt this smattering of jabs at Tom Wolfe to inform you of a real tragedy in the literary world: David Foster Wallace has died.
Or Is Tom Wolfe Wearing A White Suit Or Is He Just Happy To See Me?
Or Ernest XIII: Ernest Wears A White Suit, Starring Tom Wolfe.
Or Imperial Trooper Cloning Facility, or Tom Wolfe's Wardrobe?
The House That Tom Built
In His Long White Suit
Was a long boring book.
Tom's significant other: Tom, come in here for a minute.
Tom (or, if you prefer, Foghorn Leghorn): Why yes Maude?
Tom's significant other: I was just getting ready for the wedding, and I was checking what you were wearing...
Tom: Why Maudie, I'm wearing my birthday suit, you know I always wears my birthday suit when I'm composing a thousand-page novel.
Tom's significant other: I'm sorry dear, I didn't realise you was workin', will this one be about racist rednecks who dress up in white suits and talk like Foghorn Leghorn too? I so loves it when you writes like that; hot darn.
We interrupt this smattering of jabs at Tom Wolfe to inform you of a real tragedy in the literary world: David Foster Wallace has died.
Friday 5 September 2008
News: Third Time's The Chat
That little band went to bluesfest, that other little band went to America to make it big... This little band is going to the Excelsior Hotel, Surrey Hills.
It just doesn't get any bigger than that.
Particularly with the likes of Jack Carty and the Party, alumni of the Sydney Uni Band Comp and other places where young people go to meet other young people, and the lovely Emma Davis (lovely both as a person and as a singer, and she's also cute.)
In the intervening weeks since the last time the Chats went live Joe Public has often come up to me in the street and said, "Ben, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your lounge-room gig, even though I was invited and it sounds amazing on myspace (http://www.myspace.com/bencheshireandthechats that is) and I've had to say to them, "just don't let it happen again." But perhaps I shouldn't be saying that, since I told you it was ten bucks for a twenty-minute gig and I told you it was an all-ages band comp at the Stag... But that shouldn't matter... Just the very notion of a live performance by the Chats... We could do it in the very living room of my drummer Joe's place and it would be magical! Right? Wrong. You missed that already, that was last gig, and its on myspace, so check it out. But forget about that. That's in the past. This gig is in the future, which is way cooler. Its at the Excelsior, Surrey Hills, and we're not even going to try and treat it like our living room, because people don't like it when I take my shirt off in bistro-areas.
Jack Carty and the Party
with Emma Davis and Ben Cheshire and the Chats.
Excelsior Hotel Foveaux St, SURREY HILLS, between Central Station and the Hopetoun.
18th Sep, 8pm. $8
(All the 8's... Freaky.)
Ben
It just doesn't get any bigger than that.
Particularly with the likes of Jack Carty and the Party, alumni of the Sydney Uni Band Comp and other places where young people go to meet other young people, and the lovely Emma Davis (lovely both as a person and as a singer, and she's also cute.)
In the intervening weeks since the last time the Chats went live Joe Public has often come up to me in the street and said, "Ben, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your lounge-room gig, even though I was invited and it sounds amazing on myspace (http://www.myspace.com/bencheshireandthechats that is) and I've had to say to them, "just don't let it happen again." But perhaps I shouldn't be saying that, since I told you it was ten bucks for a twenty-minute gig and I told you it was an all-ages band comp at the Stag... But that shouldn't matter... Just the very notion of a live performance by the Chats... We could do it in the very living room of my drummer Joe's place and it would be magical! Right? Wrong. You missed that already, that was last gig, and its on myspace, so check it out. But forget about that. That's in the past. This gig is in the future, which is way cooler. Its at the Excelsior, Surrey Hills, and we're not even going to try and treat it like our living room, because people don't like it when I take my shirt off in bistro-areas.
Jack Carty and the Party
with Emma Davis and Ben Cheshire and the Chats.
Excelsior Hotel Foveaux St, SURREY HILLS, between Central Station and the Hopetoun.
18th Sep, 8pm. $8
(All the 8's... Freaky.)
Ben
Lyrics: Looking Out
We’re going out, we’re buying beer, until the bartender won’t let us anymore
We’ll sleep on the floor, but we’ll look up, we’ll look up
Then we’ll go out and find a job so our landlord doesn’t nail us to the door, and look under the floor... We'll look up, just look up...
When there's no-one left to impress... When the girl's gone home... All you wanna do is roam...
I’ll come to you, so don’t you move, I don’t want you to come back from the beach, to keep me company
I’ll just look out, I’ll look out.
Through the week, the news I read, gets bad and badder still, the more I make it up, I get more and more stuck,
I’ll just look out, I’ll look out.
When there's no-one left to impress... When the girl's gone home... All you wanna do is roam...
I write a word on a line, then I fold and fold and fold until it fits, in the creases of your lips, looking out, looking out
I’ll take a shower or a bath or maybe shower and then bath then shower, bath
Behind protective glass…
Looking out, looking out…
We’ll sleep on the floor, but we’ll look up, we’ll look up
Then we’ll go out and find a job so our landlord doesn’t nail us to the door, and look under the floor... We'll look up, just look up...
When there's no-one left to impress... When the girl's gone home... All you wanna do is roam...
I’ll come to you, so don’t you move, I don’t want you to come back from the beach, to keep me company
I’ll just look out, I’ll look out.
Through the week, the news I read, gets bad and badder still, the more I make it up, I get more and more stuck,
I’ll just look out, I’ll look out.
When there's no-one left to impress... When the girl's gone home... All you wanna do is roam...
I write a word on a line, then I fold and fold and fold until it fits, in the creases of your lips, looking out, looking out
I’ll take a shower or a bath or maybe shower and then bath then shower, bath
Behind protective glass…
Looking out, looking out…
Lyrics: Nothing's Gonna Be The Same Again
In a world that’s so full of hate
When I smile, it hurts my face
In a time when time is short
Its reassuring just to know you’re there at all
In a place where we wave with guns
And we trade our friends for gum
Its hard to imagine the bond that we used to have
Its reassuring just to know you’re there at all
Its like nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be the same again.
Though I run in a human race.
No-one looks at my DNA.
Though you stare with a pair of empty eyes
Its reassuring just to know you’re there at all
Its like nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be the same again.
Its like nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be the same again.
Though we’ve lost our Mother Teresa
We’ve doctors and others who think they’re about to save her
Though I laugh, you don’t laugh back
Its reassuring just to know that you could.
When I smile, it hurts my face
In a time when time is short
Its reassuring just to know you’re there at all
In a place where we wave with guns
And we trade our friends for gum
Its hard to imagine the bond that we used to have
Its reassuring just to know you’re there at all
Its like nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be the same again.
Though I run in a human race.
No-one looks at my DNA.
Though you stare with a pair of empty eyes
Its reassuring just to know you’re there at all
Its like nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be the same again.
Its like nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be
Nothing’s gonna be the same again.
Though we’ve lost our Mother Teresa
We’ve doctors and others who think they’re about to save her
Though I laugh, you don’t laugh back
Its reassuring just to know that you could.
Lyrics: Happy
All my lonely days are gone
My nights are filled with scorn, but I'm happy.
This summer we're at war,
We don't know where we are, but we're happy.
All the people in my bed,
A couple in my head make me happy.
We're going down the coast
To settle up a grudge and be happy.
Ah help me,
I've had a bad night,
And I don't feel beautiful,
Like you made me feel,
But that was long ago...
If I could lose some weight,
That would make my day, I'd be happy.
But there's biscuits in my loo,
The bears are two-by-two and they're happy.
There's biscuits in my mouth,
The bears are flying south and they're happy,
But there's beer inside the fridge,
Let's make each other rich and be happy.
Ah help me,
I've had a bad night,
And I don't feel beautiful,
Like you made me feel,
But that was long ago...
My nights are filled with scorn, but I'm happy.
This summer we're at war,
We don't know where we are, but we're happy.
All the people in my bed,
A couple in my head make me happy.
We're going down the coast
To settle up a grudge and be happy.
Ah help me,
I've had a bad night,
And I don't feel beautiful,
Like you made me feel,
But that was long ago...
If I could lose some weight,
That would make my day, I'd be happy.
But there's biscuits in my loo,
The bears are two-by-two and they're happy.
There's biscuits in my mouth,
The bears are flying south and they're happy,
But there's beer inside the fridge,
Let's make each other rich and be happy.
Ah help me,
I've had a bad night,
And I don't feel beautiful,
Like you made me feel,
But that was long ago...
Poem: Ex in the Ocean
I walked right out on the windy pier
And thought I saw your head – bobbing there.
No, not there. A bit to the right. Yes, there.
I told my better half, a blonde Retriever
That I should probably fish you out,
If only I’d brought my pole.
I forgot to mention I can talk to my dog.
Probably should have mentioned that.
Nevertheless, Jessie, as she liked to be called,
She looked at me with those humanbaby eyes
And I knew she was going in the drink.
“Wait,” I called out, for I’d remembered I hate you.
I stood at the railing, watching her sadly.
For on her own, she meant more to me
Than all my Exes in the ocean.
I couldn’t look. I shut my eyes until I heard her
Padding along the pier. I looked.
There she was. Wagging happily, with an old boot.
“Lucky she’s deaf,” I muttered, then mouthed silently,
“Good dog. You found my boot!”
I put the soggy boot on to continue the ruse.
Jessie watched me as I did it. I stood there,
Watching you floating in the distance; then
Jessie went and found the sandal I’d hid in the bushes
She dropped it next to my foot,
Sore from the waterlogged boot,
And looked up at me. “Not impressed.”
B.C
And thought I saw your head – bobbing there.
No, not there. A bit to the right. Yes, there.
I told my better half, a blonde Retriever
That I should probably fish you out,
If only I’d brought my pole.
I forgot to mention I can talk to my dog.
Probably should have mentioned that.
Nevertheless, Jessie, as she liked to be called,
She looked at me with those humanbaby eyes
And I knew she was going in the drink.
“Wait,” I called out, for I’d remembered I hate you.
I stood at the railing, watching her sadly.
For on her own, she meant more to me
Than all my Exes in the ocean.
I couldn’t look. I shut my eyes until I heard her
Padding along the pier. I looked.
There she was. Wagging happily, with an old boot.
“Lucky she’s deaf,” I muttered, then mouthed silently,
“Good dog. You found my boot!”
I put the soggy boot on to continue the ruse.
Jessie watched me as I did it. I stood there,
Watching you floating in the distance; then
Jessie went and found the sandal I’d hid in the bushes
She dropped it next to my foot,
Sore from the waterlogged boot,
And looked up at me. “Not impressed.”
B.C
Thursday 4 September 2008
Poem: Birthday Suit
Last night I was waiting to cross the road,
When a man wearing no more than Speedos
Came abreast of me and stopped. My fingers
Tightened around the fly-spray can I’d gone to get.
I prayed, for the first time in years,
For the lights to change or the man to go,
Whichever got hit by a bus first
(Sorry, I mean whichever came first…)
When I inspected his facial area
And discovered him grimacing in regret.
I didn’t want to be that guy, but before long I piped up,
“You’re a little underdressed.”
He smiled like a straight man on reality TV,
“I’m freezing,
But it was so humid in my apartment.”
B.C
When a man wearing no more than Speedos
Came abreast of me and stopped. My fingers
Tightened around the fly-spray can I’d gone to get.
I prayed, for the first time in years,
For the lights to change or the man to go,
Whichever got hit by a bus first
(Sorry, I mean whichever came first…)
When I inspected his facial area
And discovered him grimacing in regret.
I didn’t want to be that guy, but before long I piped up,
“You’re a little underdressed.”
He smiled like a straight man on reality TV,
“I’m freezing,
But it was so humid in my apartment.”
B.C
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