Reflections From The Back Of A Motorcycle

2012-05-17T12:12:00.004+10:00

2012-04-15T20:38:00.001+10:00

Led by a coward

2012-03-17T16:42:00.002+11:00

Sometimes, things just have to happen. You do not have a say in it. They have to happen. As painful and as disconcerting and scary as each step may be, your on auto-pilot.

Once things have been pushed so far... you do not have control over the decisions that are made. Sometimes, no matter what anyone says, you don’t have a choice.

The sky burnt red over the smog filled, soul crushing city as the black smoke rose from a car fire. Lit by one of the confused punks who believed that a few fires would do anything except earn the wrath of the police. The message was clear but no one was listening. A group of young, testosterone junkies yelling into the wind and the wind does not respect fools.

He sit watching the skyline slowly turn black as rubber tires burnt 50 stories below. The revolution was as hollow and empty as his heart. The messiah was as fake as the message he broadcast and if the populace had realised, he would have been exiled to some menial task in an cubical farm office where no one would have noticed him or heard a word he had to say.

Roaming, leather clad punks scurried back and forth like rats in the streets that ran like spider veins. Car alarms, breaking windows and the roaring of fireballs filled the evening air. The noise that grated his ears was replaced with the anarchy he craved but the taste was just as bitter as the fruits he was forced to eat before the “revolution”.

Across the tarmac, from the 52^nd floor, a desk was hurled from the window, spewing glass and papers down to the concrete below, the desk turning weightless for a fleeting second before gravity turned its vulgar gaze in its direction and sent it hurtling downward.

Police fired handguns at the rapidly approaching crowd but with each fallen cell the organism grew louder, stronger and very, very angry. The beast could not be killed so easily, as the policemen turned to run, the mob gained speed and without effort the few policemen brave enough to face the storm were tackled, beaten, robbed of their weapons and power and devoured.

This would be all for nothing in time, power is never lost for long.

He watched the massing from safety, not wanting to get his hands dirty. Always a coward. He watched the streets turn from grey to throbbing black as the movement swelled, heaved and shouted as one unintelligible breast. Meaningless, inarticulate shouting that signified nothing and would be forgotten as soon as the last syllable was exhaled.

Shouts of liberal, leftist rubbish replaced the alarms as the masses found a voice. Condemning the “fascist, right wing lackeys” all the while and unknowingly imitating them. The thrill of the barbarian, always just underneath the skin, pulled into life by a few well chosen words but destined to fail.

From a right hand corner a squad of green dressed solders rushed into position, assault rifles raised, waiting for the final command to quash the rebellion. As the black animal mass rushed towards them a volley of small, brass covered lead bullets erupted from the 15 barrels simultaneously. The first wave of grunts hit the pavement and slowly, the hot, dark blood leaked onto the sun warmed tarmac.

Another and another and another volley, more and more of his disciples fell. The coward watched as more and more foolish young bodies lined the street. The realisation of the futility of their efforts started to ring in their ears with the echoes of the gunfire and the mob ran down alleys and side streets as the hard faced, determined squad ended the lives of the few stragglers, desperate to get away from their executioners.

The consequences of every act, are contained in the act itself.

A helicopter swooped overhead, looking for the few who still held corruption and dissension in their hearts. The coward hid behind an air conditioning unit. The foul smell of recycled dust and stale air filled his nostrils as a neon white spotlight illuminated his hiding spot. Fear and panic filled his heart and to his surprise a hot stream of urine filled his lap.

Tears of panic welled and shot from his eyes like a geyser and he started weeping uncontrollably. Soon there was the tramp of steel-toed boots emanating from the fire escape as a squad of black uniformed, faceless police burst through the fire escape and surrounded the pathetic, cowardly “saviour”.

He was lifted by his neck and lead to the ledge of the building, held by neck, leg and arm he was made to see the extent of his doing. The dead bodies laying motionless in pools of black blood, the burning store fronts and cars, the shimmering pieces of broken glass, the smoke rising like ladders to the sky.

He cried. He cried and cried and cried, he cried from fear, from panic, from not knowing what the officers would do next. But not for what he had done, for what he had caused, for the lives his actions, words and deeds had taken.

He was thrown back onto the tiles of the roof and a black cotton bag was thrust over his head while his hands and feet were Flexi-cuffed. He was carried away as the final gunshots echoed from the street below...

Tom Waits - Come On Up To The House

2012-02-14T08:14:00.000+11:00

Well the moon is broken
And the sky is cracked
Come on up to the house
The only things that you can see
Is all that you lack
Come on up to the house

All your cryin don't do no good
Come on up to the house
Come down off the cross
We can use the wood
Come on up to the house

Come on up to the house
Come on up to the house
The world is not my home
I'm just a passin thru
Come on up to the house

There's no light in the tunnel
No irons in the fire
Come on up to the house
And your singin lead soprano
In a junkman's choir
You gotta come on up to the house

Does life seem nasty, brutish and short
Come on up to the house
The seas are stormy
And you can't find no port
Come on up to the house
There's nothin in the world

Come on up to the house
Come on up to the house
The world is not my home
I'm just a passin thru
Come on up to the house

There's nothin in the world
that you can do
you gotta come on up to the house
and you been whipped by the forces
that are inside you
come on up to the house
well you're high on top
of your mountain of woe
come on up to the house
well you know you should surrender
but you can't let go
you gotta come on up to the house

Come on up to the house
Come on up to the house
The world is not my home
I'm just a passin thru
Come on up to the house

How Life Turns To Shit - Intermission

2012-02-14T08:07:00.000+11:00

As I have found, 12 months and 11 days later, nothing has changed for me. I'm still the monster I always was. I don’t know if I will ever change, I don’t see much hope for the future. I look in the mirror and still loath what I am and what I’ve become.

I blame myself for everything that’s happened; I don’t blame my “illness”, I still have enough control over my faculties to know the difference. If I really am out of control and if I really have lost control over myself, I don’t see how it’s possible for me to come back. Because that means I don’t have control over my mind and my brain as opposed to the illusion that I still have control over my intelligence.

I feel defeated by everything. No matter what I try to create or do or make or even say is pathetic and shit. The only reason I am putting fingers to keyboard now is because I don’t know what else to do before my counselling session. My stupidity has resulted in my family joining me in today’s session. I know why they have to but it will be next to impossible to hear what they need to say without it feeling like an indictment of my failings and proof that I am the worst person alive.

If I really have lost control of everything, how can I make the decision to come back to who I used to be? How do I regain control over myself? If I have lost my intellect how can I put myself back together? How can I know what to do? How can I change if I don’t have the brain function to do it?

Am I too far gone to come back? Will I always be this monster that I am now? What can I do?

Who am I really?

What am I?

How can I be strong enough to fix anything when I feel so weak?

The world is so dark; do I really stand a chance?

How Life Turns to Shit in 12 Months or Less OR How to Loose Friends, Alienate Family and Make a Pathetic Ass of Yourself OR Pathetic Confessions to Sins Every One Knows. Part Le Deux

2011-11-01T19:13:00.001+11:00

The next day I was up at 7AM and the first of the nicotine withdrawals kicked in. I knew they were in the post but they always come in the first post, the post that hurts the most.

Since they confiscated my smokes and I couldn’t bring myself to speak to the fellow detainees due to fear I was proper fucked.

Waking up at hours 700 also poses another problem. Its hours to bloody early darling! It also means I have to deal with everyone with no way to pass the time – sleep was not an option because I didn’t want to be molested or attacked before the hacks came to save me. No phone, laptop, PSP or Nintendo to pass the time. All those little toys that are part of our life support system are stripped away. I may have been at a hospital but remember dear readers. It’s their job to detain you. DETAIN.

Imprisonment with “nurses”. Nurses is in quotes there because they did not nurse or rehabilitate, they were paid baby sitters. They sat in there little glass booth in the middle of the common area and made sure we didn’t get up to mischief.

So there I was, 7AM, in a ward of 25 fellow loonies and I am sitting in a corner crying, sweating and shaking. It was 30 degrees by the time I woke up and it was getting hotter and to compound the issue further there was… wait for it.. NO AIRCON!

How the hell can a hospital ward have no bloody air conditioning or fans or anything to cool down the crazies. No fans, no water fountains but a Coke machine that you had to pay for yourself!

Just think for a moment about the situation – You are locked away from your family, you are in a room full of 25 “people” who are a danger to them-selves or others, 30 degree temperature, no personal entertainment, no free water (aside from the showers), no cordial or sports drinks or fizzy unless you have some money from day release, you have the shakes and are on edge from the nicotine withdrawals, you are TERRIFIED, no way to contact friends and family without money and even if you did have some coinage you better remember the number from your head because you don’t have your phone and therefore no contacts or address book, you are experiencing fear like you have never known and you are ALONE.

You have all above running thru your head and then you have the reason why you are there in the first place – YOU’RE SUICIDALLY DEPRESSED!

Now I may not be a smart man – or a fit or attractive one – BUT even I know that the least you can do to help someone relax if nothing else would be to have a designated smoking corner outside, give us back our smokes, and have some god damn water to drink.

When everyone is out in the common room a baby sitter in white brings out Dixie cups of water and our pills. Since I am on a relatively small dose of Zoloft my clear cup looks empty but there are some full cups sitting next to mine. These Dixies are about the size of a Lego man high and probably 1 and a half Lego men wide and some have a hell of a lot of pills in them.

Within an hour or 2 the pills have been absorbed into the blood

and brain which leaves some of the loonies drooling and staggering. These are Anti-Psychotics, evil, evil drugs. Since leaving the hospital I have been put on a very low dose of an Anti-Psychotic called Seroquel XR. In my research I found that the standard dose for Paranoid Schizophrenia is about 2500mg. 2 and a half GRAMS a day. Seroquel can also cause, I repeat CAUSE, an incurable Parkinson’s like condition where the facial muscles move uncontrollably. Cessation of the drug does not reverse the condition.

Just picture that for a moment, a Paranoid Schizophrenic who can no longer control his facial muscles and is always looking surprised, suggestive or flirty, all without his or her control. Wondering why people are staring….

I digress. Listening into some the conversations I discover that the wards are not just for loonies and retards but court assigned junkies and crack heads. That’s right Meth freaks detoxing hard. I am all for drug treatment but a psych ward is not the place to put detoxing junkies.

I did not get names but there was one junkie who was planning an escape, one who could not control his aggression, a poor woman who had a scar across her neck from ear to ear. She didn’t say much, I think by choice. I hope by choice….

Out of the 25 or so were about 7 courts ordered, a few like me, a few junkies, a few agoraphobics a few with anxiety issues and one Religious screamer who I ran into later in the day. The poor sod was named Dean and I will never forget him. More on him later.

I sat as quiet and as still as possible, always trying to keep my back to a wall and keep looking in as many directions I could to make sure I wasn’t going to be fucked with. I went into full defence mode. Fists clenched, eyes wide open, ready to fight. When you are that scared your body works on auto-pilot. Fight or flight. Fuck’em first before you gets fucked.

(hmm Thats a big ol' chunk o' text isn't it? Oh well James Rolfe and Mike this time)

(Those fucking costumes rock!)

More to come

2011-10-31T21:28:00.002+11:00

If you ask me to play myself, I will not know what to do. I do not know who or what I am

How Life Turns to Shit in 12 Months or Less OR How to Loose Friends, Alienate Family and Make a Pathetic Ass of Yourself OR Pathetic Confessions to Sins Every One Knows.

2011-10-31T21:21:00.002+11:00

Catharsis is good for the soul so they say, since I am a-feared there’s not much of a soul left after these long eleven months and I am currently in a low patch, I can’t really think of what else to do at 6:33PM on a Monday night.

I have been trying to avoid making this post as it will come across as whiny and pathetic but sometimes pride must be sacrificed to heal thy self.

November 2010, work ran dry. At first it was fantastic, no wake up alarms, plenty of X-Box time, rest convalescence. HEAVEN. Then life throws the unwelcomed reminded of reality – No work means No PAY. I tried to push the worry to the back of my mind and just try to enjoy myself like all good lay-a-bouts.

Then the phone calls and letters came, all saying “Where’s our money? Did you forget us? Where’s our bloody MONEY you lazy bastard!” My family help out as much as they can, sending $300 care packages that kept the roof over our heads for a few days longer. We were in a hole that was getting deeper, wider and a lot fucking darker.

December 2010, still no work. More calls, more letters, more panic. Letters became threats, our friendly landlords turned into money grubbing bastards wanting us out of the house. Panic becomes swearing, swearing becomes louder and frantic.

Middle of December I finally get my bike back and initially it’s awesome. The awesomeness fades real fucking quick and soon I DREAD getting on the thing. The problem is the accident I had 4 months previous has left a little doom seed in the back of my mind and now it has grown into a full doom tree that starts to drop fruit every time I get on the bike. The doom fruit land with a very sickening thud when I try and ride and soon I can’t get on the bike without feeling sick and so I give up one of few things that brought me happiness.

I force myself to ride to work in January but I feel worse and worse with every day until I can’t get out of bed any longer.

The combination of my hating my job, life, bike and myself, having no money, having no freedom being trapped within my own misery and looking after my best friend’s house lead me to my first fall. I take a knife to my arm.

Kate stops me before anything serious happens. We have a long talk which just makes us both feel worse and she calls the Emergency Mental Health team for advice. She said the magic words “He hurt himself” and they are getting a bed ready for me in the psych ward. I argue and yell and scream that “no cunt is taking me to the fucking loony bin” and we delay the dreaded day for 2 months…

(This is going to be a fucking huge block of text so here is a picture of one of my hero's and a fellow loony - Spike Milligan)

January 2011, depression grows deeper and darker, I stop caring about everything, no medication for a few months, don’t care about work, Kate, myself or ANYTHING. I don’t go to work; I don’t leave my borrowed bedroom. Still in the pit, we make a trip to Wollongong to visit my family for my brothers 21^st birthday.

I don’t feel much like partying and being awake is giving me headaches so I slept thru it, it’s easier than being around the living. The next day my brother has a hangover and the shits and doesn’t want to talk to anyone. I have the shits and don’t want to be near anyone. The immovable force meets the very pissed off object and we come to blows. Not my proudest moment.

This makes my blood boil and I leave and walk the 30 minute, all up-hill trip to the nearest train station. Much to my disgust I have a 2 hour wait for the next train to Sydney. I sit and fester and steam in my own self-pity and decide to fuck the train home, I’ll jump in front of it. When it does finally arrive my cowardice wins out and I don’t splatter myself on the rails. Gutless cunts, 1 - 0.

2 hours waiting, 2 hours traveling and still not home. Stuck at central station for another half hour the very angry wheels turn in my mind for plan number 2. I know at home there is a large number of a different size, shape and coloured pills at home from anti-depressants to stool hardeners and a small volume of alcohol. The plan is simple, find the pills, swallow the pills and wash it all down with what’s left of the booze, simple!

By the time I get home Kate has hidden everything sharp or remotely dangerous from me and I am left high and dry again. For the better or worse… January 31^st ends with me still breathing and with everything hidden that could do me enough damage to bump me off, I don’t have much of a choice.

I sleep til the phone rings the next day. My dad calls and tells me to “sort yourself out” there’s a notable pain in his voice which hurts me and I start to cry. This begins a wave of tears that do not stop for a week.

February 2^nd I go to my GP and tell her that I can’t stand being awake, every moment hurts and I want a gun to put a bullet between my eyes. She does the right thing and sends me to Westmead Emergency to be assessed by the Mental Health Registrar.

We walk back to the car and find that the bastard won’t start. What the hell! The reservoir is empty. 3 2 litter cordial bottles later and the fucker is still empty… Why is there a puddle under the car? Oh fuckkkkkk! A hose is broken; a very important and expensive hose is broken. One that is right at the base of the engine. FUCK!!!

Oh well no trip to the hospital today. What’s that? We still have to go? FUCK!!! Kate calls Dave and asks him to take us to the hospital and like a mate… he does. An hour in the waiting room and I am admitted into the ER. 3 more hours waiting and an orderly brings me a sodium free Casserole, surprisingly good - for no salt.

2 hours later the Registrar pays me a visit and gives me the standard “how crazy are you” exam. He wants to put me away in the Cumberland Hospital Psych Ward. We both tell him no but he won’t listen. He was a gutless cunt who only wanted to cover his arse. He is such a gutless cunt, he out right lied about what goes on in the ward. I was promised counselling, monitoring and support. He told Kate that if we did not agree he would have me sectioned. In other words I HAD NO CHOICE.

(another big block of text... Peter Sellers this time, another loony hero)

At 1AM the next morning, a full 7 hours after being admitted, an ambulance crew picked me up and drove me literally around the corner to Cumberland.

By 2:30 I was admitted and they stripped me of my wallet, phone and ciggies. I rapidly found out the ward was not just for the mentally unfortunate, oh no no no no noooo, they also have retards. Retards who don’t know they have to wear clothes in public. Ugly, drooling, simpletons and then it hits me. This is not the treatment ward where I will be helped and healed. Ohhhhh Fucking NOOOOO. This is where they detain, contain and hide everyone no matter what.

I was given a tranquiliser and put to bed in a room with another guy. I started to cry and slept with my back to the wall. The words “your mine now Prag” (watch OZ for what Prag means) repeated over and over. I tossed and turned and it was a hell of a long night.

This is going to take a hell of a lot of time and text so I think I will end part one here. After all this is just the 3rd of February and we are almost in November... Stay tuned dear readers and only friends.

Bored Scribbles 1 30/12/2010

2011-10-31T18:11:00.001+11:00

Friday December 31^st 2010

Old Years Night.

Jacob Herzfeld lay on his back, his tiny body a frail and weakened figure, left physically and mentally impotent by the passage of time. He had looked into the eyes of death and found it wanting.

The respirator forced another unwarranted breath into his exhausted lungs while the heart monitor slowly pinged. The sound of the monitors and medical equipment reverberated from the old wooden walls until the slow, erratic pings became a constant, whining tone.

The candle light that remained in Jacob’s eyes was blown out by the winds of time and the book was finally closed. The final chapter had been written and the story was finished.

A burning white light filled the room and his old crippled body was filled by a new energy. A middle aged man in a black suit and black briefcase entered from the door to his left and confidently strode to the foot of his bed. Jacob was dwarfed by the stature and poise of the well dressed stranger.

“Well then, what do we have here...” The figured slowly and deliberately placed his case on the end of the bed and opened the case with a loud click. Instead of echoing within the room, the clicks and movement of papers echoed furiously within Jacobs mind causing a new form of pain to be introduced into his frail mind.

“Jacob Herzfeld also known as Randolph Grüber, born June 25^th 1923, murderer, thief, traitor and war criminal. Your crimes have funded your life since you were 20 years old and your punishments will be more terrible than your pathetic mind can imagine.”

Jacob let out a cry of panic as the stranger’s words sent slivers of ice though his soul.

“During World War two, your actions lead to the death of thousands of Romani, Jews, Polish and Homosexual civilians.”

The room filled with the ghostly bodies of a hundred tortured and executed prisoners. Their faces twisted and contorted with abject terror, their eyes mirroring the image of the young SS officer, armed with his Luger P08 pistol, herding in prisoners to false showers where Zyklon B would be dropped through vents in the side walls, releasing toxic Hydrogen Cyanide and executing thousands of innocents.

Hundreds more eyes, projecting the crystal clear image of the same young officer smiling the smile of a manic as he pulled the trigger of his Luger and sprayed the brain matter of hundreds of prisoners onto the cold brown earth.

The twisted bodies limped and stumbled forward to the bed, bringing their horrible forms and projected images into sharp, inescapable relief. The leading figures raised blue-gray arms and stretched and latched onto Jacobs’s tiny frame, holding still his mind and body and preventing any escape from the terrible scene.

The strangers mind shattering voice spoke again. “You stole the belongings of those you killed to finance your greed.” Jacob’s soul froze at the sound of this unearthly tenor.

The ghoulish figures held tighter.

“You betrayed your fellow criminals to save your own worthless skin.” The burning white light shifted hues to a dark crimson red. “You lied and deceived everyone around you in order to escape the judgement that you rightfully deserve.”

Suddenly the ghouls vanished, freeing Jacob and giving a false feeling of liberation. The sound of ancient gears and cogs started a terrible tremor, shaking the room and throwing portraits from the walls.

Eldritch, blood dripping hooks , connected to thick iron chains, ejected though the dark wooded walls and dug deeply into Jacob’s flesh pulling his body in opposite directions and raising him from the bed.

“Your punishment is eternal.” As he spoke, a burning red portal opened at the foot bed opened before him. “There will be no rest, no reprieve and no escape.” The hooks pulled towards the fiery opening.

As Jacob’s skin breached the portal an intense fire leapt onto the wrinkled body, burning and charring with a pain unknown to man. The wrinkled skin turned to black leather as his body was sucked into the burning vortex.

As the tip of his head had passed through the gate, it sealed shut and the room was once again quiet. The stranger put his documents back into his briefcase and shut it with an echoing click. He adjusted his tie and straightened his suit then slowly and in a measured way, picked up his case, walked slowly thru the door and shut it with a gentle thud.

Fare-thee-well Dave and Stella

2011-01-07T10:49:00.000+11:00

Just a quick post to wish 2 of my best mates in the world a safe and rockin trip to Vietnam and to let them know that I locked the house up before we left :P

Normal ranting will continue when work dies down and I have a minute to think about everything that shits me

Self Defense

2011-01-01T12:00:00.000+11:00

First and foremost Happy New Year guys – hope 2011 kicks ass.

Lately I have been posting the link to my blog on different Motorcycle forums to try and increase my audience. Most of them I have been lurking on for a while just haven’t posted on.

The blog may not be 1984 or Crime and Punishment or The Godfather or even Clerks but I am proud of my stories and obviously want people to read them, otherwise what’s the fucking point?

So I have been advertising the blog on bike forums and trying to get some cats interested and the first response, nine time out of ten, has been “SPAM”. Now I’m not posting the link in the main forum, I post it off in the “Off Topic” or the funny posts sub forum and I know there’s at least 2 laughs in the car crash story.

The exact message I post is:

Lately I have been put my thoughts to paper so to speak and have come up with my first blog. Reflections From The Back Of A Motorcycle.

It’s a blog about riding bikes, getting hit by a car, shit that pisses me off and other observations.

The link is: http://rftboam.blogspot.com/

Check it out, post some comments and click an ad or 2 but let me know what you think.

Thanks

I posted the link because it’s something I’m proud of and hopefully some cats get a laugh or 2 when the read some of the stories or if nothing else post a comment with something constructive to say or even click an ad so I get 10 cents for the effort.

Of course I’m advertising, I’m advertising my own creation because NO ONE else will and the only pay off I want is some cat sitting at home or work and getting a laugh or saying “I get it” or “I understand what the dude means”.

If I get a comment or even an ad clicked then bonus but above all else I want it to be read by others. Otherwise it’s just jerking off without cuming.

So if you don’t like the blog then that’s cool, I get it, it’s not for everyone but if you don’t like, then don’t like it for the content or style or even the fucking font but don’t dislike it because I want the highest number of readers possible and post the link every chance I can get.

Bottom line – If you don’t want to click the fucking link – DON’T CLICK IT. It’s not rocket surgery.

Red State V2

2011-01-01T10:54:00.000+11:00

Kevin Smith has released the Teaser trailer to his next flick "Red State" and it looks fucking intense!

I cannot wait to see this movie. To quote @N_S_Boulton on Twitter: "teaser for red state looks like a tarantino movie fucked a john carpenter movie"

Kevin also sold the posters of charactors to different sites via Twitter to raise money for different charities

http://gfbrobot.com/ bid $2000 to Mitch Albom’s www.havefaithhaiti.org in less than 30 minutes for The Father poster.

http://pussyeatingclub.com/ bid $1700 to The Kenny Gordon Foundation http://www.kennygordonfoundation.com/ in less than 30 minutes for The Sons poster.

http://www.xcellentcreations.com/ bid $1800 to The Kenny Gordon Foundation www.kennygordonfoundation.com in less than 30 minutes for the Caleb poster.

P.S: Ralph, you look awesome in the poster. A serious and scary motherfucker

The Wayne Foundation bought both The Virgin and The Holy Ghost posters.

Red State looks awesome and I for one am foaming at the mouth to see this flick. I havent been this psyched to see a flick since Watchman and this looks better.

Thanks Kev!!!

Music To My Ears

2010-12-28T15:10:00.000+11:00

I listen to a lot of music. A LOT of music. A lot a lot a lot. I do most of my music listening on the back of my bike. I do this for 2 reasons; 1 I’m left the hell alone so I can enjoy it and 2 because the road can get fucking boring with nothing but wind and traffic noise in your ears.

As such I have a few recommendations for you all.

Cradle Of Filth - Darkly, Darkly, Venus Aversa

This album absolutely rocks; it is Cradle back to the power and musicality of “Midian”. High speed extreme metal played by the best the world has to offer.

Favorite Tracks - Lilith Immaculate, Forgive Me Father (I Have Sinned), Beyond Eleventh Hour

Dead Kennedys - Give Me Convenience Or Give Me Death

Yea it’s a best of, who gives a shit, Dead Kennedys kick ass. Live tracks + re-mastered studio tracks = a big bucket of punk win! Lots of air guitar and rocking out.

Favorite Tracks – Pull My Strings, Holiday in Cambodia, California Uber Alles, Too Drunk To Fuck

Eagles of Death Metal - Death By Sexy

Canned Heat meets Queens Of The Stone Age. Sexy rock with a lot of thrust and grunt. Rock you can fuck to.

Favorite Tracks – Cherry Cola, I Want You So Hard, Eagles Goth, Bag O Miracles

Mars Volta - De-loused in the Comatorium

The first thought after listening to this album in one sitting is “Holy SHIT that was good.” Guitars with more effects than I can name, insanely good drumming, lyrics that tell a story like a series of oil paintings on Acid. On their own the tracks are good but play it from start to finish and the album is awesome.

Mumford & Sons - Sigh No More

UK Folk for a new generation. This is one of those rare albums you can pick any track from and it’s an instant favorite. Every song has an incredible peak and deep meaning and the instrumentation is perfect on every song.

Favorite Tracks – Tracks 1 – 12

There is a hell of a lot more that I listen to when I’m on the road but I usually gravitate to the above. However I have to mention or recommend the following:

· Any Queens Of The Stone Age Album. I mean ANY, from Queens Of The Stone Age to Era Vulgaris.
· The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy BBC Radio Series
· George Carlin – Last Words Audio Book
· Nile – Ithyphallic
· Captain Dan And The Scurvy Crew. Pirate Hip-Hop for the WIN.

A lot more falls under the “When I feel like it” category but I highly recommend the above and hope you can check out a few of the above.

Enjoy

Vic The Country Gentleman

2010-12-27T12:26:00.002+11:00

This Christmas I had the pleasure of going to see my wife’s grandparents. And getting the chance to sit and talk to a real country gentleman.

Vic grew up during World War 2 and the hardships and struggles of the time help to shape his sense of honor, fairness, loyalty and honestly.

Vic is not only gentleman but a man’s man. He liked a drink and a dirty joke as much as the next man but only in the company of other men. No swearing, dirty jokes or loutish behavior in front of a woman. Ever.

Vic, Graeme (my father in law) and I were out the back smoking and drinking, well Graeme and I were drinking and smoking, and telling our jokes and stories, whispering our dirtiest jokes, including my favorite about the musical octopus, so the women would not overhear and be offended.

That was the main factor that I found most fascinating about him. It didn’t matter what we were doing or talking about, the man always had a sense of nobility and honor that isn’t even a shadow of what passes for honor today.

Vic was always a hard working man, worked hard and played hard too. He maintained a no bullshit attitude; he offered none and accepted none. During our few conversations he always spoke slowly and in measured way. The slow speech was not an indication or old age or stupidity, it was an indication of Vic taking his time to think about the words he wanted to say and to make sure his message was clear.

That was the real pleasure of sitting and talking to such a true, no nonsense gentleman. There is no pretence, no false modesty, no trying to impress me or give a false impression of himself or his impressions of me. You could talk about anything from cars to hooking up a water tank in the back yard and he made you pay real attention. Not thru bullshit or intimidation but thru his delivery and honest speech.

It is incredibly sad that the Country Gentleman is a dying breed of man. Now a days the words honesty, fidelity, honor, nobility and a way to behave in front of young people, older people and women have had their meanings crippled.

Due to our excess that has filled our cultural vacuum; things like trashy celebrity magazines, the stunning decline of actual journalism, reality TV and novelty ring tones, the image of what makes a real man or indeed real woman (but that’s a WHOLE ‘nother story) has been so distorted that it is completely unrecognizable.

Now the best you can look forward to is being ignored when you walk down the street. The complete opposite of the glory that once was and is now called “the old days” where people would say hello and mean it.

So raise your glasses to Vic and all his kin. There are not many like him left.

Tribute to George Carlin

2010-12-24T15:28:00.002+11:00

"I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium. Digital and smoke free. A  diversified multi-cultural, post-modern deconstruction that is  anatomically and ecologically incorrect. I’ve been up linked and  downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of  downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low-life. A  cutting edge, state-of-the-art bi-coastal multi-tasker and I can give  you a gigabyte in a nanosecond!  

I’m new wave, but I’m old school and my inner child is outward bound.  I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice  activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database, my database  is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to  time I’m radioactive.

Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin the wave, dodgin the  bullet and pushin the envelope. I’m on-point, on-task, on-message and  off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed. I've got no urge to  binge and purge. I’m in-the-moment, on-the-edge, over-the-top and  under-the-radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic  missionary. A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. I wear  power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps and run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big-foot, slam-dunk, rainmaker with a pro-active  outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in  denial!

I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant  and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down  because I’m tireless and I’m wireless, I’m an alpha male on  beta-blockers.

I’m a non-believer and an over-achiever, laid-back but  fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home, low-rent, high-maintenance.  Super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and  built-to-last! I’m a hands-on, foot-loose, knee-jerk head case pretty  maturely post-traumatic and I’ve got a love-child that sends me hate  mail.

But, I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing-- a  supportive, bonding, nurturing primary care-giver. My output is down,  but my income is up. I took a short position on the long bond and my  revenue stream has its own cash-flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food,  I buy junk bonds and I watch trash sports! I’m gender specific, capital  intensive, user-friendly and lactose intolerant.

I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the “F” word in my emails  and the software on my hard-drive is hardcore--no soft porn.

I bought a microwave at a mini-mall; I bought a mini-van at a  mega-store. I eat fast-food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-sized,  ready-to-wear and I come in all sizes. A fully-equipped,  factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically-  formulated medical miracle. I’ve been pre-wash, pre-cooked, pre-heated,  pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried,  double-wrapped, vacuum-packed and, I have an unlimited broadband  capacity.

I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean! Cocked, locked  and ready-to-rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go  with the flow, I ride with the tide. I’ve got glide in my stride.  Drivin and movin, sailin and spinin, jiving and groovin, wailin and  winnin. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal  and the rubber on the road. I party hearty and lunch time is crunch  time. I’m hangin in, there ain’t no doubt and I’m hangin tough, over and  out!"

Bikers, One Percenters and Motorcycle Clubs

2010-12-23T20:55:00.001+11:00

There is a difference between the 3 groups listed above. In my view a Biker is a guy like me who loves to ride and loves his bike. I’m not affiliated with any kind of club, I just love riding, either with mates or by myself or in a group.

A Motorcycle Club is a group of like minded riders who love to get together and have a ride or have a beer or a feed and have a good time. Not involved in any illegal activities or any shit like that, just a group of people who like to hang out and have something in common. Like the Harley or Kawasaki Owners Groups or the Ulysses Motorcycle Club.

A One Percenter (also known as an Outlaw Motorcycle Club) is a group who may or may not be involved in illegal activities.

I have met a couple of guys in Outlaw clubs, one in the Banditos and one from the Gypsy Jokers. We had a chat while smoking at a rest stop and I can say – these dudes rocked. Not only friendly as all hell but honest and funny guys.

Everyone in the media has these guys painted in the worst kind of light. The image portrayed is that of a group of homicidal rapists who are so wired on Crystal Meth they have no idea what year it is.

This is simply not true.

Granted I am not a member of any club and granted I haven’t met every member of these gangs but I know enough to know how to behave. Treat them with respect and you get it back.

This poor paint job has covered the rest of us too, the bikers and the clubs. I ride a Suzuki GS500F, a road bike, nothing like a Harley or a cruiser and yet I have seen and heard people as I walk past in all my gear.

“Don’t look at him honey” a mother will often say to her small child. I heard this shit in a doctor’s waiting room for fuck sake. What do these people expect me to do in a god damn waiting room? Rape their kid in front of them?

In the same night I pulled into Dominos Pizza to get dinner on my way home. As I got of my bike and took my helmet off, I saw some guy looking at me. He stared at me as I walked in and waited for my order. This wasn’t a ‘he’s hot’ kind of stare it was a ‘oh my god I’m in danger’ stare.

I went outside and lit up a cigarette and this asshole was still staring at me, same look in his eyes. I looked over and said “what do you want?” he jumped and scampered away like a frightened dog.

I’m not the most imposing or threatening kind of guy. I’m of a normal, standard height and an abnormal weight. I feel tank in all my gear but I really don’t look it. I often say I look like a bowling pin. So the only thing I could pin this look of terror on was because I was a biker.

Well I got pissed god damn it...

Wankers. Wankers Everywhere...

2010-12-23T19:59:00.003+11:00

Every time you are on the road or even walking, you will see no less than 10 Wankers out there. As sure as damn it is to Dom it, they are out there. Everywhere. EVERYWHERE!

The line between Wanker and Cock Sucker is very thin. A Wanker is someone who is going 10KPH under the limit. A Cock Sucker is someone going 10KPH under the limit, when you overtake them; they are talking on a Mobile Phone. As you can see it doesn’t take much to become a Cock Sucker.

On the way home from work today I almost ran afoul of an Amour Guard Van driven by a Wanker. I was on Parramatta Road again, which in its self is a very dangerous place, when I saw this van on the left, stopped at an intersection, wanting to turn left onto the same side of the road as me. I knew as I saw the van this would be a Wanker at the wheel.

He was stopped at the intersection with the armored bonnet well over the stop line and sticking out into the left lane. As I got in front of the nose of the van, he started out into my lane. Now I was already in front of the van and had right of way and this Wanker pulled out on me.

I opened the taps on the bike and swerved close to the center lines and dodged the Wanker. This shit happens every day. Some Wanker will pull out without looking. Some Wanker will change lines without indicating. Some Wanker will be going 10 – 20KPH under the limit. Every. Fucking. Day!

I may not be the best rider out there, in fact I know I’m not, I have done some stupid shit that could have made me come-a-cropper. Usually these things are related to entering turns and round-a-bouts to fast and needing to break hard but in saying all that I always indicate and I do my best to do the limit while keeping myself safe from the Wankers in front of me.

People believe me IT IS NOT HARD TO USE YOUR MIRRORS. Please for the love of almighty Bob, look where the fuck you are going.

Fear and Loathing in Parramatta

2010-12-23T16:28:00.002+11:00

I got used to riding around on my own and didn’t like depending on my wife 2 carry my fat ass around. I felt like I was putting her out. I knew she didn’t mind and even though it was a hassle, she was happy to help me but still, it was an imposition.

4 long months later, on the 15^th of December 2009, 4 months after the accident and 9 months after my birthday, my bike was ready to be picked up. During that time I had not ridden once. I was paralytic with fear. I was terrified. I was fucking scared.

Not only had I not ridden in 4 months but my skills were almost forgotten. My belief was that like most things requiring skill, if you don’t practice your forget. Kate (My wife and part time partner in crime) and I stood in the gravel car park of Action Motorcycles in Parramatta. Trembling as I geared up and the engine warmed.

Action is in a shit of a location. Not only located a stone’s throw from the crash site but at the intersection of 2 main roads. Lot of traffic, lot of noise and a prick to get in and out of. Once you leave the car park there’s only 1 way to go and I didn’t want to go that way.

Once I set off I nervously made the mistake of getting in the wrong god damn lane and couldn’t get over to the right. I missed 3 right turns because I didn’t have the ‘Grumba’ to move over. Finally I found a break in the traffic and turned right. I entered the turn a little hotter than I should have. As I swung into the turn the bike got a good lean to it and as I gassed my way out, it all came back to me.

I yelled into my helmet “ITS ABOUT FUCKING TIME!!!!” I was back in a big bad way. I took as many left and rights as I could before I realized I had no idea where the fuck I ended up. I only stalled the thing twice.

Back tracking I found the main road I was looking for. Peak hour… What a fucking nightmare. Not only was it busy as hell on the roads but it was also 35 degrees out and about 400 fucking degrees in all my gear. I was roasting in my own juices out there.

The ride home was delightfully uneventful. I pulled in with a sense of relief and accomplishment… it was after all my first time out since my accident. The only thing that kept me from riding the rest of the day away is that I could not handle the heat anymore and I was starting to show symptoms of dehydration.

Meeting a Cock Sucker

2010-12-23T15:44:00.002+11:00

Granted all drivers do not fall into the 3 categories of Faggots, Cock Suckers and Wankers. But most do and that’s the problem. One night in late 2009 I had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting one of these Cock Suckers. Rear on.

It was a shit day at work and I had a bad run in with my father. My father is one of the best people to grace this planet but has an unfortunate number of demons following and clawing at his back.

This particular run in was after a weekend spent fighting with both my parents and by the time the day was done, so was my

tolerance for the world.

I was travelling down Parramatta road and was close to home, ready to vent my anger and frustrations out on the Covenant and save the universe. Feeling Emo is always best resolved by shooting strange aliens and tea bagging their corpses.

Coming up to the Woodville Road turn off I stopped and waited patiently for my turn to merge and speed towards home. While waiting for the traffic to thin out so I could move, I was slammed into from behind and catapulted over the handle bars.

I hit the blacktop like a sack of shit and rolled 2 meters away from my bike. I remember seeing my arms and legs flail about in the air before I landed on my ass. When I stopped rolling I couldn’t move and I thought I was paralyzed. The first words out of my mouth; What the FUCK!

I remember seeing traffic streaming past and my bike standing vertical, buried in the Cock Suckers radiator. Another 2 or so meters would have put me into traffic and would have transformed me from a rational, angry, careful, angry, responsible and angry driver to a Road Crayon.

A Road Crayon is reddish brown smear on the tarmac to be washed away with a fire hose. The combined blood, bone and organ material, ground to a paste and smeared by the rubber of passing cars. Thankfully Almighty Bob was smiling on me and the additional padding in my ass fat, slowed my kinetic energy and stopped my rolls after twisting a couple of joints.

Once the shock of the thing had worn off I gleefully discovered I could move my toes. The ambulance arrived in less than 5 minutes and put me in a neck brace and gave me a shot of sweet lady Morphine.

HOLY FUCK! MORPHINE!! That is the good shit! Within 2 seconds of the delicious intravenous 5ML was injected into my right arm, a warm, buttery glow started building in my stomach and rapidly shot though my body. I think it would be like being trapped in a freshly baked Croissant. Jesus Christ that felt good. 8 seconds later I was officially off my tree.

If I was ever to become an addict, Opiates would be my choice. Granted my pain was about a 7 (Hurts like a bitch but I can probably manage) but that shit is seductive. I was bent for about 3 – 5 hours and my god, it was good.

The pain of the impact had faded, the pain from my neck brace had faded and hugs felt amazingly good. When I came back to my senses I hurt in a big bad way. Mostly from the hard plastic neck brace digging into the back of my skull.

At about 10 or 11PM, the police arrived at the hospital to take my statement. I told them that I was stationary, with my lights on, waiting for my turn to merge. They told me I was hit at about 30KPH and the driver would be fined at a minimum.

As expected, the police took a sample of blood to make sure I wasn’t drunk or drug fucked at the time of the accident. Thankfully I wasn’t. The driver was fined and lost a few points.

8 Hours, 7 X-rays and a CAT scan later I was discharged with only a mild concussion and some very sore muscles and joints. The doctors on duty were worried I did serious damage to my neck.

When they first pulled the brace off me I could not move my neck without wincing. After the CAT scan they confirmed there was no skeletal or nerve damage. The pain came from not being able to move my neck for 8 hours.

I will state here, for the record, THANK GOD FOR SAFETY GEAR. At the time of my accident I was wearing the following:

· 1 Australian Standards approved helmet

· 1 Nylon motorcycle jacket with armor plating and padding

· 1 Pair of black jeans

· 1 Pair of Rossi motorcycle boots

The helmet protected my nut from cracking and spilling my brains onto the blacktop. The jacket saved my back and elbows from cracking and shattering during the rolls and the boots kept my ankles from separating. With all the gear I had on, not only did I not break anything but I was able to walk. THANK YOU, MOTORCYCLE GODS.

I was sore for a few days and had time to think about things. Granted I was fucking pissed at the guy for not paying attention but on the whole, I just wanted him to do the right thing. And that right thing cost him almost 9 grand.

At the time I was furious but looking back now, I know it was just an accident. Just the universe playing silly buggers by sitting in an office chair and spinning until it felt sick and throwing up at whoever it looked at. In this case, it was me.

It took almost 4 months to get parts and to have my bike back on the road. I was a miserable cunt. There’s no other way to describe it. I was bored, depressed, constantly frustrated and jumpy. It was strange how badly it affected me.

At the time of my accident I was riding to work every day and going out for trips on weekends, if I could have slept on my bike I would have. It’s not like I spent every waking minute on the thing but I really enjoyed the rides, even with traffic, Faggots, Cock Suckers and Wankers, I honestly enjoyed it.

Faggots in the Mounitans

2010-12-23T15:42:00.003+11:00

PREFACE: Faggot in this case does not mean homosexual – far from it. In this case Faggot means the opposite of gay. These are the Alpha Males who use fake tan and hair products and moisturizes. These Faggots go out looking to start a fight and rape unsuspecting women on weekends then go out drinking with their Faggot buddies. Believe me, you know the type.

One of my favorite runs is up to Lithgow and the Blue Mountains. Way back in the day, when the first settlers raped their way from Botany Bay to the west, they came across a mountain range filled with Blue Gum trees. The story goes when these old cocksuckers made their way to the top of the range and looked out over the valley, the vapors from the eucalypts gave off a blue hue to the valley and surrounds. I have never seen it personally but regardless it is a beautiful area.

One particular trip to the mountains will stand out. It was an after work road trip, so it already had a different vibe. Dave had bought himself a new Bandit 1250 and the bike needed a good long shake down. We set off though the long stretch of the M4, at a slow but comfortable cruising speed of 80KPH.

After about half an hour on the motorway, my head echoing the music of Queens of the Stone Age and Thin Lizzy and the nip of the cold night air making its presence on my noise and eyes, a dark colored Mazda sped past me. The kind of Mazda driven by faggots, Cock Suckers and Wankers.

Interestingly the rhythm of that sentence - Faggots, Cock Suckers and Wankers – follows in the scale of disgust these pricks illicit in passersby. These Alpha Male Faggots are by far the worst, followed by cock suckers. These are the people you hate; you hate them so much you say to your mates “here comes Joe, that cocksucker! Oh shit he is walking over...” Wankers on the other hand you can handle (no pun intended) in small doses. You still call them wankers to your mates, but an hour of conversation, you can stomach.

Anyway this Faggot speeds up to me and gestures.... Put that picture in your head; here I am, left lane of 3 lanes, doing MY speed limit, not weaving, not putting anyone out by my driving and this cock sucking faggot speeds up to me in the second lane and starts flipping me off. This prick is holding up the second lane and committing an offence to flip me off.

“What an asshole!” Said the disembodied voice of one of my heroes. The late and the incredible, George Carlin. I heard his voice and instantly agreed and did the only thing a rational, angry, careful, angry, responsible and angry driver would do; I gave him the finger and took aim at his car door with my right boot.

I missed of course and my foot swung wildly to the right. The Faggot saw my movement and sped on leaving me to cruse in peace and shake my head at the pure ridiculousness of the situation.

Old Enough?

2010-12-23T15:39:00.007+11:00

Being 25 when I bought my first serious bike was probably a good time, old enough to be smart and young enough to still be silly from time to time. Days like today when I have got the shits with the world means the bike gets a good hard thrashing, not speeding or anything, but long rev outs and very fast take offs.

The engine sounds as angry as I feel and the world becomes a 50KPH blur. Motorbikes are fantastic, everyone should get one or at least do a Pre Learner to find out if they like it or not. Not only do they put you in touch with the sights, sounds and indeed smells of the road but nothing else gives you a feeling a complete and total control. Well maybe being a professional Dom... But fuck them, the bunch of weirdo cocksuckers.

Speed Limits

2010-12-23T15:39:00.006+11:00

One aspect of riding that most have to deal with is the speed limits put on Learner riders. The limit is 80KPH. Regardless of what the speed limit on the freeway or highway, those with the bight, obnoxious L plates are stuck at 80KPH. That’s. It.

The cops in NSW are absolute pricks. Overbearing, overzealous, opinionated pricks. These pricks will pull you over and fine you for travelling 61KPH in a 60KPH zone then illegally search your car and if you don’t have any hash, will plant a baggie in your glove box. Either that or Defect the car or bike for “Possibly exceeding local noise restrictions” then force you to pay exorbitant amount to have your vehicle tested.

If they find nothing wrong with it, you’re still out of pocket, god forbid it is 1 Db too loud because then you are automatically defected and cannot drive the fucking thing til you get it modified for an even bigger expense.

Like I said; PRICKS. These pricks cruse the Highways looking for an excuse to pull people over to exercise their prick-ish-ness. As such I keep the bike at 80KPH. That’s the main reason anyway, the antisocial reason and the one that give me the most pleasure is – it pisses off EVERYONE behind me. Imagine it, a fat fuck L platter on a motorbike, going 30KPH under the speed limit. This makes a lot of people angry and one very happy motorcyclist.

From a young age, I have always loved motorcycles.

2010-12-23T15:38:00.001+11:00

The look, sound, smells and vibrations all spoke to me on a primitive level. From cutting out MotoGP pictures from magazines to riding pillion with my dad thru Lantana owned back roads, something has attracted me.

It still stuns me that I didn’t buy my first bike until I was 25... well stuns isn’t the right word, being a kid who thought he could be the next Valentino Rossi right until the age of fear and self doubt kicked in, I pussed out about 12. The fear of getting seriously injured or killed on the road held back my motorcycling life til Dave, my best friend, confidant and mentor decided it was time to get our bike licenses.

I was about 20 – 22 at the time and his suggestion hit me in 2 ways, first and foremost in my mind was the fear, that nagging voice of self doubt that holds us back from doing things that are fun and exciting. In my short lifespan on this insignificant little blue-green planetoid I have realized that the line between fear and bravery is about as thin as a skin cell and 9 times out of ten you have to tell that nagging cunt to “GO FUCK YOURSELF!”

The second thought came on slowly at first, from a whisper to a scream as the plan was fleshed out. “Do it you pussy, don’t be a little bitch.” My initial hesitations planned a seed of doubt in Dave’s head until one day, a year or 2 later, he turned to me and said “I booked us in for our Stay Up Rite’s”

That was it, pussy boy or not, I was going to the Pre Learners course. For those playing the home game, A Pre Learner course is a 2 day session that teaches you how to ride a motor bike and weed out those who just can’t hack it. The problem with the last part of the plan is that you have to not only crash the bike but shove the fucking thing up the instructor’s ass before you fail it.

Not only did some clown crash the bike and break the roll bar, but the fucker passed. What the fuck? If this asshole can crash going less than 20KPH and break the frame AND STILL PASS what faith can you put in the system?? In saying that, the courses are a god send for those who take riding seriously and want to “get out there and get amongst it” this ass-clown didn’t take it seriously and had a case of gravel rash to prove it.