-No Rhyme or Reason
-The Road Behind – Epilogue
-Conducting CPR
-The Troll Will Wither And Die
-Gerant Kenneth – The Bio
-Anything Does Happen
-Work, Procrastination
and Compulsion
-The Road Behind
-Self Destructing Idols
-A Dream of Violence

As we grow older as a species. As information accumulates. It becomes clear that these dated gods that have ruled and smothered us for millennia are out dated, sterile and ripe for little more than death and their rightful place in the history books of the wise.

Millions world wide still beat and press at the chest of these bigoted old clowns. Forcing breath after breath down the dry throats of an idea that has shackled them from birth.

The universe is too large and endlessly fascinating for their relevance to register on even the most sensitive scale. Ethics and sober consideration shall inform those already wise to the ruse. Those still stilted by irrelevance will grow weary as their attempts to resuscitate these bigoted invisibles will grow tiresome and ever more foolish.

There will be no rhyme or reason outside of fact. Let the metaphors be metaphors and have what wisdom can be found from their deceit carry over into enlightenment. No death will be remembered. Each pursuit leads to infinity. Which is to say, change will only lead to change which will only lead to a final death larger and more encompassing than any god could conceive.

With these conclusions I see that relevance is merely fleeting. Our ideas are intangible and momentary. No more or less important than any other dribble spilled from the mouth of authority. To worship death is to know the unknown. It waits patiently for us all.

It was twenty years ago when the other punk rockers and metal heads around school started sharing GWAR with me. We watched Live in Antarctica, Tour de Scum, Phallus in Wonderland and Skulhedface together. We knew all the best lines and we quoted it all relentlessly. Hell-O, Scumdogs of the Universe, America Must Be Destroyed and This Toilet Earth were all on high rotation, but I’ve got to admit that I didn’t quite get it at the time. I loved the humour, the art, the gore and twisted music; but it was so very varied. Too wide and unique for my young mind to grasp. The bizarre mythology shot straight over my head like a blood gushing load from Oderus’s Cuttlefish of Cthulu and quite frankly, I had no understanding how huge of an impact this band would have on my life.

And then there was RagNaRok. The album that set the fire burning. The album that set them in stone for me. From the punch your face stomper Meat Sandwich to the sweet and ever so dear ode to life on the road None but the Brave, the album laid claim to my heart and soft impressionable brain. I got it. It all made sense. It was fucking stupid, and that was half the point. Ball tearing music, fun times, social commentary, weird irreverent characters and a style that threw caution to the wind and farted on it. That album will forever be a classic in the wild and scattered discography…

At this point there was no turning back, and surprisingly the new albums kept on flowing. Carnival of Chaos was this weird punk rock trip that ended up being the most vocally melodious of all GWAR albums. If you’re looking for a sing along, this is the place. Scallop Boat, Hate Love Songs and the always classic Pre-Skool Prostitute, this album is just as strange as the next. I bought We Kill Everything from Sanity at Charlestown. The devastation of discovering I had bought an eight song censored version of the album near broke my heart. I returned it as quick as I could and refused to take no for an answer. If the album didn’t open with Babyraper, it was not for me. It was real now. GWAR flooded through my veins. I got it. I was a fan. I needed more… and then it seemed like they disappeared.

Looking back now it was only two quiet years, but without the internet as it is today, there was no news, no info what so ever. Maybe a small pic in a metal mag here and there but still no one outside of the old school friends knew or cared about the Lords and Masters that were quickly competing to be my favourite band. Heck, the fuckers were still yet to step their monster feet on our continent. Still, my fix was satisfied by new films here and there and the We Kill Everything companion It’s Sleazy is by far one of my top faves of all their vids.

Luckily enough I bumped into a friend who was keeping his fingers on the pulse. GWAR had a new album and by fuckery it was heavy, at least by GWAR standards so far. Violence Has Arrived. Slymenstra was gone and this masculine metal idea had really taken a hold of what was now my favourite band. Kurt Cobain had shot himself in the arm and head, RHCP’s grew lamer with every new release and Faith No More had the common sense to bail on a high… still GWAR raged on. And holy shit did they rage. The album is a statement. A call to arms. They had finally found their sound and it was metal. Still a little thrash/punk, but the stage was set for almost all that would follow.

It was here that it became obsession. Some money found it’s way into my wallet and I started spilling it all on the catalogue. I have never regretted this decision. For a short time in my life I had expendable money… and I blew it on GWAR. All the dvd’s, cd’s, side projects and comics; anything I could get my hands on. I can’t fucking wait to dig through all this awesome shit over the next few weeks. It was real now. I got myself a tattoo to seal the deal. It was GWAR. They had won the battle of my teenage years. All the other bands had died, failed and bailed. GWAR stood atop them all and I longed for everything they could shit on me.

Enter Corey Smoot. Holy mother fucking shit balls on metal tits. War Party arrived and dicks were split. Complex, mad, heavy fucking metal. It was real. The band had truly shaken off all their buffoonery and replaced it with an even sharper sword. I was keen. How the fuck did this band keep dropping such impressive albums? It blew me the fuck off my feet. And then the fucktards backed it up with Beyond Hell! Shit my pants, these two albums are companions. Arm in worm arm after harm. GOLD. A beautiful time to be a GWAR fan.

A few more years passed and by this point it was well known that I was obsessive about these jerks. Barely a day went by when I didn’t celebrate their madness. It consumed me. They became a part of my everyday life. They had been there for so long by this point. They were family I would never meet or see and I didn’t care. I was inspired and influenced. The fact that these madmen built an empire of blood, guts and metal astounded me. It was everything I wanted to be. Rude, crude, admired and plethoric.

Next up Lust in Space dropped and the opera returned just a little. The themes and stories reigned supreme once again and the metal madness kept shredding all the way. It was a strange time for me, as each album kept dropping I could never quite believe they were still there for me. How on this mud ball does the worlds most disgustingly notorious band continue to bust nuts like this? My dick was getting sore from being so damn fucking hard for so many years now. Surely something’s gotta give… and it didn’t.

Bloody Pit of Horror revealed itself with the most unbelievable news this bohab could ever face. GWAR was coming to Australia. It seemed too good to be true. Why now? After so many years!? I had made peace with the fact that I would never see them… and all that was about to change. There was only one thing I could do.

I followed GWAR up the east coast of Australia catching every show I could afford. Driving solo in my car, 4,000km’s in five days, I caught three shows, one in each of the east side states of Oz and that show in Sydney will be one of my finest memories. Standing in that crowd with all my old school friends. None of us had really kept in touch. None of us knew if the others were going to be there, but sure enough. Heads rolled, dicks spat and the blood ran free. So fucking cool to experience that show with the friends I had enjoyed those early years of discovery with. Too fucking cool.

It all turned out quite well. Somehow my favourite scumdogs not only withstood the test of time, but they also made it all the way to the land of Oz. Life was good. I was reinvigorated. The band had kicked cunt for 25 fucking years by this point and I was signed up for eternity. My official slave membership card stated it as fact. What on shit could they deliver next!?

What they delivered next was devastating. Flattus Maximus – Corey Smoot had died of heart failure while on tour. What the fuck? A member of GWAR died. Not just epic guitar shredder Smoot, but Flattus fucking Maximus. The first ever retired character of GWAR. Was it possible? Were they just human after all!? I didn’t believe it for a moment and Oderus made it clear. Flattus had returned home to the planet Scumdogia and a distant relative would soon fill his spot.

And he did. Pustulus Maximus came and made proud his fallen soldier and GWAR returned with their most important album since the original coming of Smoot. Battle Maximus is classic GWAR. It’s metal, but the punk rock thrash comedy ethos of old comes seeping back through. A celebration of life and death. Of humour and sorrow. Looking death in the face and laughing at it all away… until that second last track.

Falling. Brockie’s farewell. A song for his fallen soldier ironically ends up being his swan song. It’s beautiful and melodic. Layered, insightful and sincerely touching. Everything GWAR will never be known for.

And now I’ve got to face the fact that my biggest, weirdest hero on this fucked up mud ball is gone. His art splatters my body in ink that will never fade. My girl and I cry for our loss like selfish bohabs. I can never dream to appreciate how hard this must be for everyone at the Slave Pit Inc. I can’t imagine life without GWAR and Oderus Urungus. The baddest most slickest fuck up this side of Antarctica. My heart goes out to all wise enough to get it. This planet has lost the most unique mad man we could ever hope to celebrate. Raise Hell fucker.

Just a few days ago, and with the help of a handful of brave citizens, I saved a mans life.
Nothing will settle for me at the moment. For the past year my world has been upended over and over and over again. It’s a recurring reality I just can’t seem to shake. And it is here, with another turmoil (admittedly one that is most likely far smaller than I am imagining) that this new nightmare reared its drug riddled head.

It’s funny how common it is to look at all the small little instances that merge together to put you right in that spot. That one empty space in time where you find yourself standing next to man about to OD on heroin. Why did I pick THAT club to go to? Why is the band in such disarray that I must spend so much time on the phone discussing the future of something that appeared so certain? – But that’s it isn’t it? One can only be certain about uncertainty.

I caught Tim crossing the park and sent him off to fetch beers. I was on the phone and the conversation was sure to bring us something fresh to chew on over our Zamkowe. The phone conversation continues as I begin wandering around like a cat trying to find somewhere to sit. Trying to stay focused on the subject at hand while doing my best not to bother the two men I’ve just noticed sitting in the car I’ve been walking around. It’s an odd place to have a car, there’s an actual car park not even a stones throw away. I figure that they’re smoking weed or skipping class or doing some other innocent yet dubious recreational hobby I am unaware of.

The phone conversation turns to an alternative future and my focus shifts as the two men appear to be scuffling now. One climbs over the other, and perhaps he is slapping his friend in the face, I can’t quite tell. It’s broad daylight and surely too obvious a spot for the two of them to be fucking. I just can’t seem to work this out and I communicate so to my phone conversation as the passenger’s door flies open. A short bearded man comes sprinting at me. I immediately think of what is where in my trousers. I’m expecting to be mugged for the second time this year.

Straight passed me and into the club the man disappears, I look over in the opposite direction to see the man in the drivers seat unconscious. Shit just got real.

“Adam, something’s going down. I have no idea what, but it’s not looking good. I’ll phone you back soon.”

I exit the call and in no time the short bearded man comes running back out of the pub with a handful of men in tow. “Is he alright?” I stupidly question.

Someone is calling an ambulance from inside the club, but I figure I’ll get onto it as well. The car is now open, one guy has climbed into the passenger seat and started giving mouth to mouth. Another man tries to give him compressions but it’s all kinds of useless as he is still laid back in the drivers seat.

I’m onto the operator, I would have not a clue what to do if it wasn’t for this woman’s most excellent help. “Get him out of the car and lay him down flat on the ground.” I command.

It’s tricky, I’m dealing with drug addicts and drunkards. I’ve got to sell my every instruction to them. He now lays in the gravel, he is turning blue and his friend struggles with the concept of compressions. One of the onlookers sees that I am struggling to get a steady rhythm out of this stoner so he pushes him aside and assumes the position. He looks up at me ready, his face says tell me what the fuck to do and I’ll do it. “Ok, stop the mouth to mouth…”, this was particularly hard to sell. How do you get someone to stop doing what they think is best? Stick with me people, we’re going to do what’s right for him.

Check his mouth and throat for obstructions. Thirty compressions followed by two short breaths. I’ve got to count them out loud so the lady on the phone can be assured that we’re doing it correctly. I start counting and waving my hand like a conductor. I do this at band practice all the time, it’s exactly the same… except this song will hopefully save a junkies life.

We get through the first thirty and old mate grabs the nose, tilts the head back and throws two breaths into his lungs… and nothing. Another thirty and the man doing the compressions looks grateful for my instructions. My friend doing the mouth to mouth is catching onto the rhythm. I’m starting to see the benefits of being resuscitated by musicians and the short bearded man starts doing some of the funniest shit I’ve seen anyone ever do next to a dead body… Ok, now I’ve thought about it and it’s obviously not funny, but any port in a storm right?

“Give him one more for me.” He starts pleading my friend giving mouth to mouth.
“Give him one more breath for me man.” He pleads while I tell him to shut the fuck up. I truly can’t believe this scenario, just moments ago I was prepping myself for a beer. Now I’m conducting CPR while trying to get this junkie to shut the fuck up. I can understand his anguish, and in no way do I mean to make light of such a dire situation… but seriously, “Shut the fuck up dude.”

He snores! He takes maybe two breaths and we all gasp in relief… and he stops again.

More compressions, more breaths, more snoring and he’s gone again. This happens a few too many times and it’s obviously starting to freak the lot of us out. Where the fuck is the ambulance? How long has this been going on for?

Sirens wail as we continue our song, keeping good time and checking on one another. We’ve put together a sweet little band here, it’s a shame that it’s a singular and never to be repeated performance. I hope the paramedics brought some pyrotechnics, this show is going off like a hit to the vein… I’ll stop now. Two ambulances have arrived and we’ve filled them in on the situation.

I shake the hands of everyone involved as the paramedics resuscitate our unconscious audience. It’s been a pleasure working with you guys, everyone has done an exceptional thing here today.

I grab a quick happy snap to mark the occasion and head inside to my well deserved beer. Later I asked the other men at the club what ended up happening. They brought him back to life, cleaned him up and left him there in the gutter. Last I heard he was smoking a cigarette. I hope he liked our song.

For no purpose at all. For nothing but lack of creativity. You are not secluded to the internet. You may not even use it. The troll be the negative stain. The bully of the internet. The snotty cunt that ruins your night. A stain. With no spine. Yellow if that. Every person that bares their face on the internet should stand proud. Every person that is proud of what they do. Be it your everyday job that sits upon a lower rung. Be it your blog that has no followers. Stand tall. This anonymous free for all is insulting. Not simply to I, but to all who put their honest self on the line. We all know that those belittling others have nothing on their resume that encourages such filthy behavior. Clean up your act. I am speaking to both parties. The first rule of troll kill has always been never to feed them. Fuck them. I’m changing the rules. Come out into the sunlight. Bare your face. Bring the internet down and be left with no playground at all. It’s ridiculous and astonishing that such foolishness would bleed into such an insignificant medium. It is people like me that feed the machine. And it works best when well oiled, greased and smothered with affection. Your dry hatred tramples all that is good. We are here to connect to and inspire one another yet you decline the creative. You wear the shoes of the hated. Tie them tight. If you face a troll – Demand their face, name or some damn evidence of their existence. Without this information they are nothing. Not even troll like. Impossible scum, worthy of sparring… they will never make the ring.

Ok, stop thinking about yourself for a moment and contemplate how awesome this guy is. His name is Gerant Kenneth Kenneth and he is kicking goals every fucking minute of his life. His name itself should be enough proof of his most radical nature, but word has it that you want to know about his comedy and You Tube channel… well hold your horses buddy because we’ve got some pretty wild shit you’re gonna want to learn first.

He wrote a book. When was the last time you even wrote a competent shopping list? – This dude wrote a whole damn book. And it’s great. Probably the best book he has ever read.

He can play music. I’m not talking about strumming the opening riff to Smoke on the Water. I’m talking about this stud singing, smashing drum kits, rocking guitars and obliterating your underwear with his mad synth skillz. He’s been owning stages up and down the east coast of Australia for more than a decade… and that shit’s for real.

What about art? – This low ridin’ homeboy did something like four years at art school. He’ll fucking paint a picture of your awesome self if you ask him nice enough. Buy him a case of beer for his troubles and you’ll have a friend for life. This cool cat even exhibits his art in galleries. I’m not talking about doodling while on the phone, this freak is pimpin’ his goods to those in the know.

Caught off guard by all the swearing? – This motherfucker has no interest in entertaining children. If that’s what you’re after, go check out those Wiggly fucks with all the whacky songs and shit. Kids go fucking ape shit for those bad ass piss lickers.

Keeps himself nice. Not only does this bad boy have a smoking hot body, the gnarly prick even has a head on his shoulders. Studies philosophy and has a keen interest in ethics. That’s right, fucking ethics. This dude uses his brain to fucking think about shit other than himself. That’s what we call righteous… and how many truly righteous people do you know?

We could go on for days, this handsome fuck has talent falling out of his asshole. It’s (quite frankly) insane. And he’s homeless. That’s right, he’s writing this fucking bio in a gutter and he still doesn’t give two fucks. He’s an overnight sensation waiting to happen. Who the fuck wouldn’t want a piece of this?

You Tube. Let’s have a look at this shit. Four years strong, near 3,000 dedicated subscribers, more than 700 videos clocking up thousands of views every single fucking day, near one million total hits, partnered up and making coin from that shit; this tiger is killing the internets with his biting wit and satirical nature one internet at a time. It’s fucking crazy. When he does stand-up comedy people lose their minds. Red Simons gave this bastard a 7 out of 10 on Red Faces. Do you understand what that means? This stingy asshole rarely gave out scores higher than 2, and this maniac got a 7. That’s the kind of shit that ends up in history books.

Let’s face it. This dude is just straight up fucking awesome, and I haven’t even scratched the surface of the plethora of projects he has on the make, all of the time. He’s a fucking juggernaut. He is Gerant Kenneth Kenneth. Fuck yeah.

GB walked into work at 11pm. He was shirtless, weathered and smothered with prison ink. Said they had cut him down five years behind and now his wife had fucked him by fucking her boss. I told him I knew how he felt.

The police had just let him go. Her boss came at him like a dog and he needed help.

“My name is GB and I will kill them tomorrow” he told me. Dead in the eye as if looking for doubt. I didn’t.

I phoned for help. Two different women. The second more caring than the former, but she would have to travel from Killingsworth.

The game was up. I had done all I could do and it was time to shut shop. I shook his hand and told him where to wait for his rescue. He told me that he would return on the morrow. To thank me. The only person to have helped him on the test.

Cautiously I move from the counter. My wallet and phone now ignorantly safe within my pockets. He declares that he is not a thief and I honestly return that I believe his word.

Back door locked. Move the maniac forward. Front door locked. Wish him safety. He reiterates his gratefulness and I remind him of his rescue just opposite this road that he walks out on and in front of a car that comes screeching to a halt.

“Why didn’t you hit me?” he screams at the vehicle as if oblivious to the idea that this machine may have occupants.

“Why didn’t you hit me!?” he screams as he smashes his open palms against the bonnet of the car.

I grabbed GB by his enormous shoulder and moved him from the road. He followed me willingly as tears welled in his eyes. Now the question is mine to decipher.

“Why didn’t they hit me?”

I locked up shop and warned the clients of the sad man. As I walked home I understood his desperation and checked the streets for his body.

I have no knowledge as to what became of the man named GB.

The last of the tobacco has been inhaled and filtered through inebriated lungs. Intoxication fueled by an eight dollar six pack of a deleted beer line. It’s time to get back to work.

My life cycles like this: Work as an obsessive compulsive for as long as it takes to complete all designated tasks that I deem important and imperative, then crash and burn through a series of isolated and social activities that cater to extreme escapism… and it’s time to get back to work.

My work consists of self-directed and self-motivated projects that constantly evolve within my tumultuous and hairy head. Be they film, art, comedy, literature, music or performance orientated, these creations are restless in my mind from the moment I wake until that moment in the very early hours of the next morning when I finally crash. I can vaguely recall maybe two times this year that I have actively submitted to the idea that it was time to go to bed and simply sleep. Even the suggestion that I have a ‘switch off and stop working’ period is a fallacy I portray to make myself feel better about spending a few weeks contemplating my next line of creative action. Although my body may become less active, it is here that my mind really goes to work on everything that is imaginable and potentially next on the list of ‘important and imperative’ things to do.

There was a time where I learned to quiet my mind, and I’m certain that my ideas were less informed and incomplete. There was a time when I tried to pursue just a limited amount of projects, and I found myself in stress and bothered for not fulfilling my own desire to prolifically create.

And so here I am, ready to take on the next imperative bout. With all these ideas that fuel my songwriting, filmmaking, writing and performance it quickly becomes difficult to not only complete all set tasks with their needed and appropriate attentions, but it’s also near impossible to keep track and hold of them all at once. Even the simple task of keeping an online presence (Oh, the terrible woes of the First World) can be daunting and surprisingly time consuming at times. One must be relentlessly stringent when considering their mark here on the interwebs, more so than the outside real world where shallow commentary and drunken banter and behaviour can be quickly forgotten, forgiven and contained within small social circles. The internet NEVER forgets and it stores your mistakes for all to revel. Now Google will always be there to help confirm the sordid details of that one stupid thing you posted six years ago. That one misinformed action that may have been quickly forgotten in the world made of flesh and bone, or at least kept for an appropriate speech at a celebratory reception where your dick headed behavior may be celebrated as hilarious in retrospect.

Fix those lyrics, write that story, finish that song, update the website, keep a healthy relationship with your wife and friends, catch that movie at the cinema (a strangely high priority for me), respond to online correspondence, book the next tour, make art and exhibit, edit and upload films, contemplate ethics and your admittedly small role on Earth and in time, exercise, visit your grandmother, clean the house, get horrendously drunk for days on end.

Just a snippet of an ever revolving list of things to do, and I admit that I am confused by the things that I did. What is the purpose of all this mark making?

Be them the alphabet characters that make up this sentence, the strokes of paint on a canvas or the unintelligible tantrums of my on stage performance; I struggle to put it all into any comprehensive perspective. What am I trying to communicate by behaving in this manner?

It’s a deeply staggering question that I find myself returning to over and over again but I barely have time to contemplate it any further than a quick surface screening as there are songs to write, words to type, films to make and performances to be honed.

Once again it is time to act on these compulsions; it’s time to rid myself of these running thoughts by once again actualizing my running consciousness. It’s time to stop smoking and start chewing gum again. It’s time to switch off the gaming console and switch on the camera. Stop thinking and start writing. It’s time to work again.

Throughout the past week I have been labeled as obsessed, crazy, foolish, and most offensively as a stalker. The truth of the matter, as any person with the slightest insight into the universe of GWAR would know, is the journey I have taken over the past week shows nothing but the common behaviour of a dedicated bohab.

Bohab: Devout fan of the band GWAR

The past week has seen me drive solo from Newcastle to Melbourne, from Melbourne to Sydney, from Sydney to Brisbane and finally from Brisbane back home to Newcastle. That’s near 4,000km’s in roughly five days just to see one band play three 40 minute sets at a festival full of bands I could care less about; crazy and foolish I may be.

Contemplating why I would perform such a stunt deserves context, and I believe that context can be found in 1996 when a friend and I followed the reformed Sex Pistols for three shows down the east coast of Australia. The thing is, I had never contemplated the idea that I would get my chance to see the band perform live so when that opportunity arose, it had to be exploited.

For twenty-seven years now GWAR have been terrorising audiences with their Grand Guignol style performances. Over the years their music has evolved from simple punk rock ditties to complex aggressive metal mayhem, but their tongue in cheek and black humoured approach to entertainment has always been the bands modus operandi; and for twenty-seven years the band has never stepped foot in Australia.

In September 2010 it was announced that this injustice would be rectified as the band would be performing as part of the No Sleep Til festival touring Australia in December. Finally, after sixteen years of consuming everything the band could throw at me I would get my chance to see GWAR in their most brilliant latex flesh, and of course this had to be exploited.

Not satisfied by simply getting to see the band perform live, I was determined to get some time with GWAR one on one. After sixteen years of slavery to this band I had so many questions and damn it, if I’m spending this much time and energy following this circus half way around the country surely it wouldn’t be too much to ask for a quick Hell-O, handshake and a few words concerning their first Australian tour… would it?

Back in ’96 bands toured as their own entity, if the Sex Pistols wanted to reform they would do it on their own merit. These days everything is relegated to a festival and it breaks my balls. Back then it was simple to meet your favourite act, you simply hung around the back of the venue after the show and eventually you could pretty much count on someone from the band being bothered to come shoot the shit with the minions. Now with festivals you’re hoping to bump into your favourite band amongst thousands of other festival goers. The problem is, what if your favourite band wear masks that conceal their identity? I didn’t stand a chance.

So I went legit. I got myself an angle and prepared myself to write about my journey and attempts to meet the unstoppable GWAR. I emailed the band, their publicist and promoters, I was embarking on a journey of epic proportions and without a doubt I would have a tale to tell on my eventual return, to meet the band would be the climax of both the story and my sixteen years of dedication to the band. I was blinded with enthusiasm.

Melbourne came and went without a meet. Then Sydney offered little more…

When I finally arrived in Brisbane for the final show I received a message from Oderus Urungus himself: Today we will get a chance to sit down and talk some GWAR.

As I stood in the rain waiting for my phone call I was thrilled to see the band perform one more time. With or without my meet I was still ecstatic about finally seeing the band I had invested so much of my life into… at the same time I was feeling like a cold and soggy bohab.

And the phone call never came.

Fortunately the shows were everything I had hoped for and more. Unfortunately my questions remain unanswered… but I am not deterred.

This isn’t over GWAR!!!

Burroughs, Bukowski and Thompson, Hunter S. that is. These men, these writers have and continue to inspire and influence me more than any other element on Earth. Sure there are countless other authors, musicians and artists that contribute to my philosophy and decision making, but these three take the cake and eat it whole. Consuming all remaining logic I own, even now in death they still scream at me.

Burroughs with his surreal interpretation of reality. Bukowski with his care free, passion fueled ability to appreciate and decipher the mundane. Thompson’s wild and unrestrained approach to diving head first into life and the world around him with a fervour unbridled, armed to the teeth with educated ignorance… and all of this is without reference to the relentless consummation of a stash of drugs and alcohol so enormous and varied as to bring a tear to the eye of even the most hungry and devoted of addicts.

Burroughs started it all for me. His nasal drawl still sings in the back of mind. Cynical and confused yet curious and certain. He explored literature, sexuality and drug culture like a mountain climber determined to reach the highest peak. An adventure that took him not only to the heavens, but one that also lead him to the deepest of valleys.

I guess you could say the same of Thompson as well. Maybe trade the exploration of sexuality for an autopsy of politics and Americana and you have yourself another journeyman painting with his pen and his words, revealing and unravelling truths hidden behind the conservative blanket of a purposefully blind society.

These men deserve medals of the highest order. Astronauts of literature.

When it comes to identifying with any of these artists though, for me it’s Bukowski through and through. Any man that loves booze and pussy should eat this mans words with a smile and a broken heart. Sure I could care less for gambling with anything bar my own life, and I’ve never held a job long enough to put on a resume, but his ability to wax poetic about this standard existence speaks louder than a primal scream.

Angst. Something even the most religious must understand, even if they do suppress, smother and drown it with an irrational God of any name.

As a student of life and literature, as I always have and will be, this leaves me with idols dead that still breathe through their writings. How I approach and document this next phase of my life lays on the shoulders of corpses. Dead men mummified with alcohol and illicit substances now feeding this next generation of artists surrounded not so much by journeymen and real life encounters, but by technology and interwebbed social distortions and networks. The artists of today communicate through a digital medium void of responsibility. Void of eye contact, a place where the conniving run free to manipulate. And this is not to admit my own guilt, my own house within the irrelevant. My videos, words, business and conversation litter the internets. My vile abruptness blooms within a cloud of servers and optical wires, but my reality is external. It lives and breathes on stage in pubs and clubs up and down this East Coast of Australia. My own madness inspired by the masters is splattered through the stories and life instances I have acquired, shared and ruined with others. Be them friends or family, be them audience or stranger. My journey begins again and again.

As each day I awake.

As each day I travel and create.

My wife and I, along with the lovers and the fuckers will consume this planet like a plague. Our actions will inspire the generations that follow, and on our dead shoulders will sit the harvest of what we have sewn.

So please, I beg of you… go forth and devour like the king gluttonous pigs before us.

I have this dream of violence. Not handed out upon others, but dealt upon me. And not for a lack of defense, but for a need or want.

When I was sixteen, maybe seventeen I dated a punk rock hippie kitten with coloured hair and a vocal bed manner. One night I took her to a show my band was playing in a ballet studio full of teenagers, marijuana, alcohol and butane.

Late in the night as we waited for our ride home some locals took my bare arse as antagony. Tripping with my pants tangled around my knees they charged me face first into the gutter. I was bewildered and confused to say the least.

The punching began once I was seated. With his boyfriends and girlfriends as audience he plowed his fists repeatedly into my face and skull. I was lost, swimming. My brain bounced around inside my head like a toy balloon.

When the punishment finally came to an end I began to laugh. The absurdity of violence had broken me into humility, and I found my position hilarious. As the laughing grew in resonance, confusion poured over his face like a soured milk.

And so the punching resumed. His fists once again rained down upon me. A barrage of thumping flesh and bone devestating in its relentlessness… and I laughed.

Oh how I laughed.

When the pounding rhythm came to its inevitable conclusion I slowly lowered the hands that had been fruitlessly defending my softening mask and shell. The blood revealed itself as long slick ropes unravelling from my nose. Red dripping lashes painting the pavement like Pollock. It was gorgeous in its reality. I still remember the sound of the wet syrup slapping the concrete weighted and wet… and I laughed.

By this point even my own boy and girl friends were recoiling in horror. My antagonist was just as lost as I. I was lost and stumbling in the mist of my mangled mind. Cackling, giggling, laughing into my hands filling with the warm wet red blood. He was lost in astonishment. Why wouldn’t this little prick fear him? Why wasn’t this violence intimidating?

I have this dream of violence. Not handed out upon others, but dealt upon me.

Ever since this ocassion, and this is just one of many much the same, my verbal antagony has grown and bloomed into something dangerous and extreme. I feel invincible, confident to receive and enjoy the most severe beatings and pain with shining lights and humour.

That night my punk rock hippie kitten embraced me as blood still spewed from my face.