The landlord asked me if I smoked before I moved in. I said No. Of course I said no. I wanted the place. It was the only place going. Amazing though that a ghetto Landlord is so fussy. The bathroom stinks of mould. If I stay here for too long I'll get a chest infection. But he's not worried about my health. He's just worried about me burning the place down. And yaknow I'm worried too because this place is a fire trap. I have every intention of giving up. As soon as life gives me something else to look forward to. Right now Smoke is the only thing that makes the fire in my belly tangible. I think I can I think I can I think I can.. I'm keeping it real with every puff...
So this morning I read an article about Bill Hicks in the Australian.
'BILL Hicks's disastrous first performance in Australia was illustrative of his entire career. The Texan stand-up comic had come to the Melbourne Comedy Festival in 1993, with the comedy fraternity waiting breathlessly. After years battling alcoholism and drug use, the prodigiously talented performer arrived with serious industry credibility, having got his act together again in the early 1990s by storming two of the world's biggest comedy festivals: Montreal's Just For Laughs and the Edinburgh Fringe.
But in front of a too-cool first-night crowd at Fitzroy's compact Universal Theatre 2, Hicks flamed out in a horrific performance. Comedy parlance says when you fail on stage, you die. Hicks died a thousand deaths that night'
That would be right. Nothing survives Australia. Not even Bill Hicks. Melbourne killed Judy Garland too. No one is beyond our dead glare and our Icey indifference. The only thing we show any sort of passion for is backstabbing. We kill creative spirits with a shrug and a stare. Show us your money or we'll ship you off to Malaysia. We are the white sheep of the brave new world and the black sheep get shorn and shafted on touch down. You can sew your fucking lips together. We don't care! We fucking hate performance art. Give us sex in the city and a recipe to your cup cakes or shut the fuck up. We're the Lucky country. And you're lucky to be here. If you're really lucky you might get a melanoma or parking fine. Just feel lucky that you're not an Aussie Citizen and subject to our tax department. We should be so lucky lucky lucky lucky. Just like Kylie. Lucky she found a way out of here alive! So don't come here thinking you're too big for your boots because we'll just yawn and treat you like we treat the locals. Then death will start setting in. That tumor you've been putting off will finally get you! The nervous system will finally unravel. The vultures will circle. There's no escape in the land of letting go (of everything you eva dreamed of.)I'm Disaster Diva. I should know....
This time last year I watched Christopher Hitchens smoke his last ciggie for the Sydney Writers Festival. He was our Darling 'Love ya book mate! You're right. There is no fucking GOD. And please smoke outside because no one's gunna save us from The Health Department or the Insurance Industry. But don't worry we won't seat you next to the garbage bins because you're Vanity Fair to us! You stink of land of milk and honey bunny wunny! Puff On Mcduff!'
And he did. I saw it. I have it on video. He sucked up that smoke like he was feeding an engine. It totally turned me on. Then we sent him home and within minutes he was diagnosed. I should have fucked him because the way Hitch was looking at me through the eye piece of my camera and puffing on that ciggie he was up for a good shagging. I hadn't had a fuck in years but I would have broken my celibacy for that hunk a hunk of burning commentary. I would have slapped him around for turning into such a pussy post Sept 11th and then let him fuck my brains out. That post coital ciggie would have really been something...That would have been the smoke of a lifetime. I just know it.
But I wasn't in New York I was in Sydney and the Feeder was watching me. If I hadv'e shagged Hitch the Feeder would have got jealous and sacked me. He owned everything within spitting distance. There's no hope of piggy backing out of Alcatraz with Vanity Fair on ya mind while the feeder is watching. The feeder is a Philistine of the Arts. Oh sorry! that's Philanthropist! He uses the writers as an entre for his meals or he sticks them out the back in the Magdelene Laundry to clean the skid marks on his undies. (and the food don't look so fine at the other end lemme tell ya) He'll stick an apple in that dead pig we call culture and serve it up for the Australia Council just to make those Gatekeeping cunts all feel special. He'll feed a Song Company but knock off a singer. He's less of a patron and more of a bouncer. He makes sure the arts aint sayin nothin. Because in Australia we kill the wild things. If nature doesn't get them first.
I digress...where was I...