Friday, November 29, 2013

Saturday and Serene

I love Saturdays, when the expanses of the weekend seem to stretch out before your feet like an endless desert, or a road, paved with possibilities. The sun is shining down on the tarmac on Church Street, just outside my window. Today I figured out how to roll my makeshift blinds up with the sheet that also hangs down over my window. And let the stiff breeze blow. Sunlight. Summer. Saturday.

This time of the afternoon is the best, when plans are like freshly poured concrete, still uncertain, setting. I'm so calm right now, look how many commas I'm using. Descriptive words. Short, broken sentences to describe only feelings, rather than the actions that traditionally accompany them. I have about four hours all to myself now, and I couldn't be happier. Maybe I'll meditate a little? Maybe I'll write more – I've already written about five pages of notes and bits today. Maybe I'll sit here and tap out words on my laptop. Browse YouTube or Reddit, or maybe I'll just fall asleep. I could do some reading... my room is my world, and this world is my oyster.

I love the feeling of the sun shining down on my skin, light brown as it is... that's something interesting, isn't it. I have a strange rift in the way I see myself as a 'white' person... that phrase is so useless anyway. I mean, there really is very little pressure in Australian – or at least inner-city Melbourne – society to identify with a particular racial group. I feel like a white person, insofar as I presumably know what a white person feels like. I don't feel like a Latino, or whatever else people might think I look like when they first recognize that my skin colour is markedly different to their, and my complexion too. 'Racially ambiguous' is the term I've used thousands of times over and over in my head. I feel white, but that's not what my skin is, so what does that make me?

This is not a burning question in my head, and one that even if it does require an answer – and I'm not even sure it does to be honest – doesn't require one in the immediate here-and-now. That's thinking for another time. Maybe in America, when I eventually get over there, my skin colour will become a more important fixture in my identity... but even then, as soon as I open my mouth, I'm sure my accent will wipe any presuppositions about ethnicity completely out of anyone's mind.

I had this idea for when I go to Spain: I want to be
forced to practice speaking Spanish when I get over there, otherwise I'm sure I'll just fall back into the easy habit of speaking English with everyone I meet, and not improving my Spanish skills whatsoever. So my plan is to tell everyone I meet – especially if I end up working on a farm for a few weeks – that I am from Australia, but that I'm Aboriginal, and that in Australia, Aboriginals don't speak English, they speak a different language, and as such, I can only communicate with you all in Spanish, because I don't speak English at all, sorry. I feel like there is a lot of merit and potential to this plan (much like my Saturday afternoon... OOOOOH POTENTIAL TIE-IN!), the only sticking point would lie in my ability to Commit to the Bit. I am such an habitual bit-bailer. I bail from bits. I find the idea of even doing a bit at all so silly and hilarious that I crack up as soon as the bit-doing business has begun. I would have to commit to this bit, and I would have to commit hard.

I'm sure I'd tell them after a while, maybe at the end of our engagement. I'd have to... it'd be hilarious I'm certain.

I just got a message so I think I'm going to stop here... reading, that's probably what I'll start out with. If I fall asleep from there, so be it. Today is Saturday, the day so good, they wrote a catchy song about it. Whoopee.

Peace, Taco.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Bullshit

Fuck. Cunt. I just wrote a really good post about last night at the Rochester and treating running a room the same way I treat comedy in terms of rates of improvement and cultivating it like a skill and things that Beau said and I burnt him really good too and I framed it by talking about my new phone that I got yesterday and I was pretty happy with it like happy enough to put it on Facebook and link it from the Rochester page too which is what I wanted to do yesterday when I was going to the Rochy I thought “hey wouldn't it be cool if I wrote something tomorrow about tonight's night and linked it from the Rochy page and then it'd all be cool and happy” and it almost was but them MY LAPTOP CRASHED GET FUCKED CUNT FUCK!!

Ugh... not happy. Whatever.

I need a shower.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Maintain Maintain Maintain

FUCK! It really is such a struggle. Maintaining... keeping up with this blog. How does Herring do it... a post every day FOR OVER TEN YEARS!!? The man must be half insane. Half insane, and half of the most grounded, sane type of person that exists in our world.

I'm telling myself, now and for the next however many years, that the reason he's able to keep up that blog every day, is because he's forty-something years old and doesn't live the same lifestyle as me. But honestly, he's a comic too... I'm sure he knows about beers in the night and late afternoon hangovers piercing through the will to live... I'm sure he knows about the lack of motivation that comes in cycles coupled with thrilling, manic spurts of insane energy... I'm sure he knows about the creeping, questioning uncertainty, every day, every day, “do I really want to do this?” But he keeps going. Ten years, not a single chink in the armour.

Maybe I need to read more of his posts, maybe they aren't as emotionally involved as mine, I know that he tries to tell a story from the day before, rather than succumbing to the narcissistic urge to endlessly introspect – narcissistic, and also oh-so-tiring.

I just seem to run out of juice. What could I have written about yesterday that would have been worthwhile and maybe turned into a 600-word story? Well, I caught a cab home with SCumming – mine and Luka's new nickname for new comic Simon Cumming, although I personally prefer Scummers, we'll see how it goes – that was eventful. The cab, not the words in between the hyphens... GOOD GOD LOOK HOW I SIDETRACK MYSELF. There really is no hope.

I need to go to the toilet now, as is common with the minutes just after waking up... I had some wack dreams last night... dreams in which my brother owned a pistol and was arrested for shooting someone on a soccer pitch. I had to defend him from the investigations, led by Richie. I bought a phone from a service station and changed my voice to something else so that I could pretend to be someone with information – a witness or something. Real family shit. Insanity, my brother would never shoot anyone.

Dreams last night, dreams today, this world is an ever-evolving blur in front of my eyes.

Peace, Taco.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Open Mic Drive

 I haven't been writing in here every day AT ALL, for the last few weeks. I need to get my motivation levels back up again... as I lay in bed a few hours ago listening to the new Opie and Anthony Podcast – 'The Best of Patrice O'Neal' – on repeat, I found myself wondering at my recent lack of motivation. “Why have I suddenly fallen into this slump?” But then again, I found myself wondering the opposite, in equal measure: “What reason is there to get up in the morning?”

This question needs an answer, but the answer has to come from somewhere, and the best kind of somewhere I know of is me, so here it is.

OPEN MIC DRIVE!

Luka, Blake and I are starting a podcast called 'Open Mic Drive' (it was between that and 'Open Drive Life'; the title being a nod to the well known 'Open Mic Life' starring Doug Gordon and formerly Russell Wigginton, now Dilruk Jayasinha) about... well I don't really know what it's going to be about yet. It's going to be completely different from any other podcast, and I think people are going to love the idea... the basic premise of the actual audio is that the three of us, who share rides home at least a couple nights a week after gigs, will record our post-gig conversations and take the best bits to form an episode every week. If Luka gives someone else a lift home, then they'll be the guest for that week. If we pick up a hitchhiker, they can be a special commentator. We'll listen to music and talk about life and yell at people out the windows and rag on Blake for not having a dad... OH THE POSSIBILITIES!!

I feel though, that when we first announce the podcast, there will be waves and parades of eye-rolling throughout the open mic community – and so there should be. There are so many fucking comedians doing podcasts out there – funny and talented people all – but it's just too much. There's so much information to wade through, with only the faint promise of stumbling across something truly amazing. The next WTF? Unlikely... with every new podcast the herd gets thicker, and harder to traverse.

So what of us? What of 'Open Mic Drive'. What of the hypocrisy of railing against the never-ending tide of podcasts battering our screens and making it harder to find gold, only to join said tide and hope to find some arbitrary point of difference to stand out from the crowd? What of it indeed.

I know this sounds like blatant own-horn-tootery, but have faith, our podcast will be different. I can't tell you why yet, but I'm excited, friends. This is now my reason to get up in the morning... well, one morning a week, anyway. I'm excited right now. Yes. Yes. Open Mic Drive Yes.

Peace, Taco.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Something that Happened Yesterday

Yesterday while driving down the Great Ocean Road we stopped at a fish and chip shop in Apollo Bay. The choice was between two shops; one with a blue exterior – the kind of blue you would usually associate with a seafood place, and I would usually associate with bad smells – and one with a bright red (if I remember correctly) exterior. The red one looked bigger, and more popular (to me at least – there were no people in either). Phil said we should go in the blue one, so we did that.

The guy at the counter sounded Russian to me, although Phil was adamant his accent was Greek. We made jokes at his face as we ordered, he told us that “no, the sauce is not free”. He said it in his accent though, so it wasn't that clear. Between us we only had fourteen dollars, so we decided to get eight dollars worth of chips and a piece of fish worth six – that's fourteen all up... MATHS!

The guy told us we could wait outside, maybe, if we were lucky, he'd bring our food out.

Earlier at the petrol station... OH MY GOD! We spent about half an hour with our petrol gauge on ZERO, flying through the hills and winding roads next to the Great Ocean, praying to non-specific gods that we would make it the remaining 35... 19... 15... 10... 5 kilometres to Apollo Bay without running out of gas. HEARTS BEATING THROUGH CHESTS!! We made it though – goodliest of good fortunes – and rolled into the petrol station... we got some petrol and made some jokes and laughed a lot and one of us said something funny to the attendant who laughed with us too – she was having a great time. Then just as we were about to get in and head to the fish and chip shop (still undecided at this point on blue or red), I quipped that Phil had said he was going to get some cigarettes. I was half joking, half being serious because maybe I wanted one too OKAY!!!? So we got some cigs too.

Because of all of the previous things together, we found ourself sitting outside the blue fish and chip shop, smoking cigs (one each) and not saying anything because we were both insanely tired. I only half finished mine before realizing I didn't really want it, and walked the ten metres to put it in the bin after consciously fighting the urge to flick it away like a James Dean lookalike – I even said words to that effect as I walked back, glad at having made the right choice.

Two minutes later when Phil finished his cig, he DID flick it. Right onto the pavement. Motherfucker. I picked his up too, squashed as it was after being butted on the table, and ferried it over to the bin to be disposed of responsibly. Because I'm a good bloke. Okay?

And then we got our chips, brought out by the Greek/Russian man (probably Greek) and took them, with the piece of fish that was hidden underneath, to the car. We ate most of it save three or four little chips at the end, drove for another few hours, and at 1am, arrived in Melbourne.

That was something that happened yesterday.

Peace, Taco.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

My Homework from 'A Brief Guide to World Domination'

Today I am in Adelaide, and like most days in Adelaide, I am spending this one at my parents' house doing nothing much and essentially waiting for something to happen. Is this what I want for myself? To wait? I don't know, that wasn't a rhetorical question.

Who do I want to be? I read something a while ago called 'A Brief Guide to World Domination' by some guy whatever who cares, which asked two questions that it said should be at the core of everything we do:
  1. “What do you really want to get out of life?”
  2. “What can you offer the world that no one else can?”
Tough stough... (just a little spelling joke there, before I start getting serious)

Okay, so number one. What do “I” want to get... out of... life... what do I want to get out of life? No holding back. Okay, what I want to get out of life, I think is... everything. No. Okay. I want to get everything that I want. I want to be able to have everything that I want at any given moment accessible to me as soon as possible. But what do I want? I think I want people to pay attention to, and like me. Pretty shallow huh...

I'm sure I can do better than that – the danger here though is trying to dress that fairly base desire just laid down there in careful rationalizations that make them look more altruistic... well I want the people that I care about to be happy. That makes me happy. But then, I do want their happiness to somehow involve me, like maybe I want people to be happy, BECAUSE of me. I want to make people happy. Yes. I don't want people to just be happy at random, I want to be responsible for peoples' happinesses – as many and as great as possible. That's right. Me! Taco!

That sounds realistically selfish while still being acceptable, doesn't it? The oft-quoted eulogism, “all he wanted to do was make people happy”, I feel can be translated to this selfish desire.



  1. “What do you really want to get out of life?”
    “Well, Mr So-And-So Psychiatrist, I would like to be, through my own actions, personally responsible for as many peoples' happiness as possible. And it'd be nice if they knew about it too.”
Now what can I offer the world that no one else can? Fuck me, really? Ugh... okay... my blood? Fingerprints? This word - “Quertykoacquatlophyx”... ?

Stop being an idiot, idiot.

I honestly have no idea... okay, so currently, what I want to do with my life in the long term is I want to be a stand-up comedian. I guess that implies that I believe I have an unique point of view that no one else can offer the world. That doesn't really feel accurate though. Louis CK – arguably the best (Most original? Funniest? Most successful?) comedian in the world right now has quite a few AMAZING jokes about how if you're in your early twenties you are the most worthless kind of person and have nothing to offer the world. (“If you're twenty... okay... fine... we'll see.”) As degrading as that sounds, I can't help it from sounding pretty reasonable too. I have potential, but that's it.

But is that it? Potential? Eugh... Is the answer to question two that I have an unique potential, different from that of anyone else? I am now, being as I am at my wit's end with this question, going to attempt to unashamedly list what I perceive to be my positive attributes that I might better understand the nature of this disgusting 'potential' that is apparently so important to my happiness:
  • I am good at communicating my thoughts
  • I am driven and work hard
  • I am generally likeable (queue sarcastic jeering)
  • I am funny when given the opportunity ie. When I am sufficiently comfortable in a social situation
  • I'm pretty good at mental arithmetic, and making lists
That's all, I think. I don't actually have any real tangible skills that have been cultivated or worked on, these are pretty much all either basic character traits, or things that I have developed over years interacting with people socially. But I guess the skill that I'm cultivating right now is stand-up comedy, which, for the uninitiated, is definitely a skill make no mistake.

So I guess that's it:
  1. “What can you offer the world that no one else can?”
    “My potential, apparently, whatever that is.”


What is probably the most damning detail here though is that even after being so obviously affected by the two questions posed by 'A Brief Guide to World Domination', I couldn't be bothered remembering, or even looking up, the guy's name who wrote it to put in my blog. God damn it. I guess I'll have to reconcile myself with the fact that as endeavouring to bring happiness and fulfilment into other peoples' lives is an anonymous and largely thankless endeavour. But then WHERE DOES MY SELFISH PART GET TO COME IN??!

I guess, really, I only wanted to be famous.

Peace, Taco.


[if anyone wants to read the actual thing I'm referencing here:
http://www.psychologytoday.com/files/attachments/40787/worlddomination.pdf]

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Pump the Brakes

After what I wrote yesterday, I don't really know what to say today... I wasn't even going to post it because it felt too inward-looking and I felt like no one would care about what felt like the whingeing life-updates of a megalomaniac. But people loved it, and now I feel really good about having written it, like, way better than I felt when I posted it yesterday. And that's strange as well, because apparently I only judge the worth of something based on other peoples' reactions to it.

Never mind that though, tomorrow morning I'll be getting on a plane bound for Adelaide and then spending the day hopefully catching up with a few people if they have time for me. Then Phil and I will jumping in his car and driving to my grandparents place in Lucindale, and then the day after, completing the drive back to Melbourne. Phil is moving here, finally, and as is the general theme of my life at the moment – more so than usual – I don't know what to expect.

I feel like he and I are in very different places at the moment, and I'm worried that once we are again living in the same city our differences in lifestyle will become clear and we'll drift apart. This is where I have to start applying what I was writing about yesterday though; so I could either worry that we are going to drift apart, or I could just live my life the same way I've been living it for the past eighteen months – the way that seems to be working for me – and make time for Phil around that... think of him. What does he want to get out of moving here? What can I bring to the table to make his and everyone else in that crew's lives in this city better?

I really need to stop stressing so much about what everyone around me is going to think about the things that I do, whatever they are. I need to relax. I need to go with the flow. I need to stop predetermining my actions. I need to get out of my head. For the next week, I'm going to try and make this blog be the retelling of a story from the previous day, rather than intense introspection. Goal, set.

Peace, Taco.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Hard Things Are Hard

Right now, for maybe the first time ever, I don't have a girl in my life, or any sort of open romantic attachment to anyone. Also, coincidentally, this week I feel strange.

I think I need to maintain this feeling... well, not maintain it, not cultivate it and hope for it to stay, because it doesn't feel good, it's not a positive feeling and it certainly isn't giving me energy at all. But I need to actively feel it, force myself to feel it. For my show '36 Hours' that I've been writing for the festivals I'm doing next year, I wrote the line;
“Once I decided to find the pain inside me that I'd been trying to run from and just experience it, I found that there actually wasn't that much there – at least, not so much that I couldn't handle it.”
I was really happy with myself the day I wrote that line, I think it speaks to something very true in my life, and hopefully in the lives of other people. I feel like it's something that I need to keep in mind right now.

What is probably going on here, is that for as long as I have been running around and chasing girls, I've been simply trying to distract myself from my essential loneliness. Oh... I mean, I'm not actually lonely... maybe that would be better as, my fear of being lonely. I'm afraid of being alone, of feeling alone, of feeling sadness that comes from being alone, so I try to plug that up with temporary human distractions, but then those people end up turning away from me because they know or at least sense that I am doing just that: using them as a distraction. It's a pretty selfish way to be, but it's not such a bad thing, I don't think. I'm not beating myself up over it, I just think it's important to acknowledge that that's what I've been doing so that I can put a stop to it.

I read something else yesterday with the title, “I don't think marriage is for me”. Classic mislead – the article was about this guy who's been married for a couple years admitting that he'd been a little selfish in his marriage, and that marriage isn't for him, it should never be for you, it should be for the other person. That goes with all relationships... but I think I've been living and thinking of my relationships with everyone around me in terms of what they can do for me, and that's why they continue to become stale and unfulfilling.

So what can I do from here, right now? Other than say, “I pledge to be more mindful of other people and to treat others with respect in my interactions with them every day.” Wouldn't that be be hilariously hollow... I don't know, like practically, I don't know. I don't know what this means or how I can change my actions to reflect this new realization.

I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know...

I wonder how many times I would have to write that before the letters would line up with the top line again? It'd be different once published on my blog, because the margin is different. I've stopped introspecting now, I guess I thought it all sounded way too hard.

I'm trying guys. I promise.

Peace, Taco.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

I'm Naked (not a metaphor)

The thing about milk crates – besides their unparalleled usefulness as footrests or for carrying various cargo including milk – is that they are shaped in such a way that while being very easy to grip, also makes them uncomfortable. The ridges that make them so convenient to grip onto also serve to dig deep into the skin, and the same goes for when they are being used as a footrest. As such, when I think that I'm going to be resting my feet for any sort of long period on the milk crate that lives under my desk in my room – for example, if I plan on writing a lengthy piece for this blog – I am always sure to put socks on, to stop the thing from growing painful on the soles of my feet. This fact, along with the current time (11:33am, Monday morning) should reasonably account for my current state of dress, being as I am completely naked sitting at my desk, save for a pair of comfy, white socks.

I have been dressed today before now... I had work at six at Meatballs, so I got up at five thirty or so and got dressed and got on the tram and went down there, because you're not allowed on the tram without a shirt on. Most of the other early morning types were out, the ones I recognize from my three or four trips before sunrise every week. High-Vis Vest, Fat Man, no crazies because those people at least afford themselves the luxury of sleeping in on weekdays, and me with my clothes on, rubbing sleep out of my eyes.

After work though it was straight back home to comfy bed again, and since I haven't had a shower yet, I divested myself of my slightly-dirty work clothes before lying down for my nap. Nothing exciting has happened to me yet today, and it's midday already. Nothing exciting happened to me yesterday either – the day was spent downstairs in the pub with the local crew drinking beer and playing pool all afternoon. That in itself is fairly exciting though, not as an event, but as a prospect – being able to throw away an entire day and consign it to nothing is the most exciting thing in the world most days, and I did it yesterday, although admittedly that time I did still have to put on pants.

I have deleted SO MUCH of this post, paragraphs that you people will never get to read, because I have deemed them, in the shortest minutes, completely unreadable and worthless, and so purged them from existence. You might even say I hate them. I do, and you very well might say that.

I can't help it, you know. Other than being naked, there's nothing else today that's really captured my imagination, which is sad, because it's not Monday's fault, as much as everyone usually seems so eager to cast blame on this poor loser of the week. Hate Mondays? No, you're just bored with your life I think... Mondays are great when taken advantage of. Today is not one of those Mondays for me though, or it hasn't been so far, anyway. Right now I am going to put on my gym gear and get on the tram to Fitzroy to make an attempt at salvaging something from this grey situation. Tonight I have a set at Alan and Sofie's room in Collingwood, and then after that I'm doing a glassy shift at the Workers. So there are a few points of interest on the horizon. Nothing to jump up and down about though, so I won't be doing that.

Another reason I won't be jumping up and down is that it's not a good idea to do that when you're naked, how's that for a mental image? Grim? Unnecessary? I'm not surprised, but that's what I'm going to leave you with.

Peace, Taco.

Friday, November 1, 2013

A Well Made Drum

For the first time ever, I have a costume. Well, okay, it's a drum... but HEYFUCKYOU this is the first time I've ever been ready to go to a costume party. Finally, I won't be that loser who didn't dress up because he 'didn't care' or he 'thinks costumes are lame' or his 'skin becomes inflamed when exposed to most fabrics' – lame excuses every single one, and if anyone pulls that shit on me tonight they are getting a smack upside their head-bone. Fuck all you hoes. I have a drum.

So what I did was I found a bucket that had been sitting outside my room for like ooooooh fuckennnn... two weeks? Not a big bucket, it's a modest affair, like maybe something you would get five kilograms of lard in from a grocery store for the grossly overweight. It has a handle, which I was unable after some effort to remove, but that shouldn't be a problem. I have tape in my room always, so when I saw the bucket my mind made the connection between those two items and the weird slouch-hat thingo I have never worn that's in my wardrobe and went 'BEATNICK'. Oh fuck yes.

I tried a few different materials for the skin of the drum before I hit upon a winner: old shirt? Not able to be pulled tight enough for good sound, plus looks dirty, plus can't fasten well and is too bulky – shit. Plastic bag? Tightness problem solved but has too much give in it as a material to make a good skin, doesn't POP when struck, as drum should – shit. Paper bag? Good skin, slightly weak, but can be taped over to make strong, plus as added bonus can draw peace symbol on with pen – YES!

DRUM!!

The bottom of the bucket (it's white, I think I found it and used it to wash my brushes in terps when I was painting the room) is still showing out of the bottom of the skin (I used a brown paper bag in the end) and the sticky tape looks kind of tacky when it reflects the light. But my drum makes a nice POPPING sound when I hit it, just like my old bongo used to. The idea for the costume ACTUALLY came from Phil – I was going to use the hat as the foundation for a French Philosopher outfit, but he suggested Ned Flanders' dad from that tiny cut-scene in The Simpsons: “Ned spilled ink all over my POEMS MAAAAAN!”

The best.

So now all that's left to do is figure out how to incorporate a red scarf thingo into this outfit – there IS a way – and go buy a tiny pocketbook from a newsagent before they all close so that I can walk round the party drunkenly accusing people of spilling ink all over my poems, and I feel like I have a fair chance of taking out the title at this Halloween 'party'. There's no title, as far as I am aware, but there will be. I will be sure of it. And when I win, I'm going to beat the fuck out of my drum, probably put my fist through it, cry, yell, and then throw it at someone's head.

Watch the fuck out Melbourne. Today, is Saturday.

Peace, Taco.