Even though I said I'd not post again, and I've made myself out to be kind of cool-ironic-hip you can clearly see in this photo what an absolute wanker I am. Look at my gaze, eyeing up the spoils I could receive if I just succumb to the glory hole of capitalism. 'Just back up to the wall' capitalism says, 'it won't hurt a bit'. 'Ahhh', I say, 'but I've experimented with you before, and you're a cruel master'. And at that capitalism, represented by the bourgeois holiday house on the hill, yawned, shook and crumbled to the beach below.

Tummy (puku) full of burrito, but rounded by taco.

Face full of optimism, but what will we do about the poor?


This is my friend. Her name is Kelly. She should get her own blog.


In America (sic) the government is too wussy to tax people so instead they appropriate the tools of capitalism to gain revenue. Near Kelly's school is a park bench, maybe even a bus stop waiting seat, that has a photo of two real-estate sellers. There is a dude and a bird. The dude looks like he is a shark that has been yanked out of sea-world and shoved into a suit, but is unsure of himself in this new human skin, and unsure of his ethics as areal-estate merchant.

In my hand is a walnut flavoured ice-cream substitute block thing from a liquor store in Encinitas. It cost 80c ($NZ1.20), and was made in Mexico. It was squarer than the American (sic) made ones. And they were fuller. I had had a coconut one earlier in the week, the coconut had settled near the ice-cream stick and was as tasty as a Doritto. Tastier? Yes, tastier than a Dorrito: as tasty as two Dorittos. Anyhow, we had two of them each - no wonder I have a taco puku.

This shark is selling clothes. Better than a regular mannequin, yes? Man, I'm wasted.

l-r. Elyse, Julia, Brian, Kelly, Deanna. We were at a cafe (caf-aye). Murdoch was a photographer.


‘Oh sweet Narcissus’ Mao thought, ‘in your self-absorbtion you have provoked the most blessed response in me. If, if only, if only we all could love ourselves as much as you love yourself, and which I now love myself. Oh Narcissus, I love you for this, I love you more than you love yourself!’



What is your favourite photo? A little background information: we had just all eaten these faux dogs, that is fake meat hotdogs, because we all believe that meat is murder and will not rely on simply explanations that the industry of animals is polluting our sacred earth. We are not ecologists, we are not. Instead most of us feel a deep empathy for our animal relations that is tied to our shared animalism. Kelly, Julia, Caleb, Brian. Readers should check other photos in the blog to check their suspicions that these are the beautiful people that this photo represents them to be. perhaps it is the wonder of Murdoch the photographer. And we'd drunk 32oz. bottles of TeCate (the imported beer). How many mls is that? I reckon it is a lot considering a 330ml of some Coca-cola type product is 12oz, so maybe about 900mls - of beer. With lime.

I am ephermeral. kelly is a rock. I am fleeting. kelly is a rock. I am nomadic. Kelly is the strategic. I am the ghost. good night.

The title of this post is Lager! Lager! Lager! Now, between Kelly and her blog typing minion of the picture above, we could not (for the lives of us) think of who sings that song. Kelly recalled it was from the Trainspotting Soundtrack. If you do know, perhaps you could leave a message. In a similar vain, we were at a bar called the Night Owl on Wednesday where I chose two jukebox songs, and Kelly chose one. I chose 99 Red Balloons, the German version, and You Spin me Right Round, which is a song made of electronic equipment and recently regained some fame in the movie The Wedding Singer. Kelly chose a song that I also endorsed (it was my $1) by the New Radicals and which featured on some car advertisement and was rather catchy at the time.


Kate, followed by Sarah, followed by loads of lager and totties. Lager! Lager! Lager!



Kelly's flatmate, Caleb, followed by her buds Kate (l) and Cathy (r). There are three Kates in Kelly's course, a Cathy, and a Katherine, but hardly any lushes willing to put it all on the line for the love of a good man. Art school girls. and Lager!


I saw Kelly getting into position to take this photograph and so I placed myself where I was distinctly in the background, and gave my face the required twitches to capture all of my beauty. Nina (l), Murdoch (c), Pierre (r). Seriously, that Pierre dude totally chewed my ear off about Guatemala. But I'm a good listener so I got him a can of the imported beer TeCate and chatted away amicably. At the same time all the hot tottie were getting massively lagered and here I was talking to some french guy who is married to Nina, or at least wears a ring and is in something of a relationship with her. Even though lots of United States people don't think too much of the French, Pierre was cool - he just sort of took it as it came and didn't get all worked up about Derrida or having to speak English. Usually I'd bring up the Rainbow Warrior - you know to get him on the back foot - but Pierre was so cool I didn't even have to.


Have I mentioned lagered babes yet? Count 'em. One, Two, Three. Leggy and Lagered. Lager! Lager! Lager! Davena (l), Julia (c, mostly obscured), Deanna (r).


Again, the star of the posed photo is the fellow infiltrating from the rear. These girls thought they were so fucking cool with their matching stripes and faux chic edgy vogues. But this guys showed them where it really is at - his sculpted bod. See, three cries of Lager is for the lads as much as the lasses.


Do you guys remember that time when I lived in Manchester and my accent got totally 'scouser' - rhyming all these slang phrases and getting on the lager with me mates, having curries at midnight, then beating the shit out of some Paki's? me neither.

With my faith in rave culture restored I set out to preach the word. These two aren't lovers, but if you had seen 'em on the dancefloor, core, you'd have thought different. 'Do you remember the first time?' The highlights in music were probably Hole's song that goes "when I went to school in Olympia..." Anyhow the lager ran out, we necked some sheila's Midorri, whacked out Caleb's whiskey, and sloshed our way home singing football chants. lager! Lager! Lager! later.

p.s. Murdoch is flying to Guatemala (the Guat') on Monday and will not be publishing any more, nor urging Kelly Jane to blog.