Welcome to the Bastard Ranch

I'm so very tired of all of it...

2006-05-08T15:36:00.000+10:00

...NOW

...YET ONCE

Is anything pure anymore?

I'm so exhausted by all the dirt.

There must of once been more than this, surely...

Little Wayne...

2006-04-19T14:50:00.000+10:00

...I'm going to video tape you being molested by a group of homeless crystal meth addicts and them make your mother watch said tape by stapling her eyelids open and nailing her to the fucking couch... then will come the sodomy, oh goodness the sodomy. You will scarely believe the variety in size, colour and texture of the objects I force into you're mother until she learns that discipling your child is not someone else's responsibility. The leason is an important one and I do intend to ram it home.

I am not having a fun time at the moment, particularly at work. Yesterday was the probably among the three worst days I can think of that I have had at a job. I can't force up the bile to actually write about the arbeit hell I was in but I just want to give a special thanks to a couple of special members of Upwey society that really made it a day to remember.

It was about 3pm before I got a chance to head out for lunch and most importantly aspirin for my armageddeon-ish headache. I'm waiting at the crossing when I get struck on the side of the head. I whip around adrenline pumping, ready to fucking destroy my cowardly attacker, little Wayne. Little Wayne, is 2 or 3 year old who has decided that throwing his metal toy car at my head might be fun. Now, I don't know about the world in general but if I had have thrown something at a stranger's head on the street my parents would have beaten me with stick, wrapped in Gaffer tape with nails hammered into the tape until I learnt my lesson, and you know what...I would have deserved it, learned and been a better person for it. But no, not little Wayne's Mum, no this filthy shit of mum just whisked little Wayney away from the bad man and held him in her bad parenting 101 graduate arms.

Well little Wayne and Mum, I salute you! Now I know where arseholes come from.

Apparently I’m Smarter than you…

2006-04-07T16:53:00.000+10:00

Unless you’re officially a genius…

Unless you’re in the top 0.5% of the population for intelligence…

Unless you have an IQ in excess of 150, then I’m smarter than you…

…And yet…

Why is that you’re probably happier, better adjusted, had better relationships with women, more confident, a better driver, more skilful lover, go to more parties, have more brews, screw more random people, dress better, embarrass yourself less, trip over much less, are less likely to spill coffee, tea, lunch, dinner, crunchola all over yourself than I am.

My physiologist told me yesterday that I have an IQ of 149. Apparently I have extremely high cognitive function but tragically the only insight that cognitive function grants me is that maybe that cognitive function is not really worth all that much.

Maybe if I was smarter…

Or dumber…

Omnipotence or ignorance seem to be the only sure fire roads to happiness.

Market Research or Would you sleep with Surlyboy?

2006-03-24T17:32:00.000+11:00

I have theory.

I hope to use this theory to market t-shirts.

I concede its not an original theory but I intend to use it as has never been used before. Well, maybe not since that guy who wrote "He's Just Not that into You!"

Before I invest thousands I must do market research, look at key demographics, market segmentation, develop a business plan, integrate product production with marketing and publicity campaign and hundreds of other tasks. Before I do any of this I must know...

Ladies...

Would you sleep with Surlyboy?

Checkout his blog, think about it, toss it around in your heads, your hearts and your loins and give your most honest answer.

To find out more check out his inner torment here. Think hard, think deep...would you want this man hard and deep in your sacred cave?*

*I use 'sacred cave' as an interchangeable term so any of you lads that feel you're 'sacred cave' would also welcome Surlyboy to explore its dark recesses please let us know.

What do you get the man that hates everything?

2006-01-30T16:02:00.000+11:00

Today represents the anniversary of my esteemed housemate and fellow bastard rancher ripping from his mother’s loins and bursting upon this innocent world like some crazed demon spawned from the pits of hell. Maybe that’s where he was spawned, it would explain a few things. I don’t know what type of bars his mother used to hang out at but maybe they were actually in the pits of hell or even maybe Ringwood (insert you own observation/witty rejoinder here). Probably not though, she seems like a lovely women. But enough about the wellspring of this entity that doesn’t solve my problem, namely what do you get the man that hates everything? And just as importantly do you give your housemate a birthday present even if you’re a pair of hard grizzled grizzly grizzly bears with bad grizzly attitudes?

Bloke on bloke etiquette is so awkward. I ain’t taking man love here I’m talking love of your fellow man. The fact of the matter is that I do live with the guy so you’d figure this wouldn’t be an issue but it took me ages to buy him the Bob Dylan autobiography for Christmas (which I thought he’d really like) because I felt very ‘sissy’ buying something that might give some serious enjoyment rather than going something wacky and pointless-probably with a giant pair of hooters featured somewhere on said item. I’ve found this a constant quandary when buying gifts for my nearest and dearest male friends. Is this normal? Is this the way of the cock bearing among us or am I just traumatised from being labelled a ‘gay cunt’ so many times at High School because I was artsy that I’m afraid that any gesture that could be interpreted as affection could have me once again tasting my own blood as my head is slammed into a locker door?

That said, the young gentleman in question did correct me on my last post and with an ego as towering as my own being corrected is enough to induce rage. Maybe I should forget the birthday present and wait till he dares correct me again and then give him a hunting knife and wrap it in his rips.

Ahhhh, I guess that’s a little tough on someone’s birthday. I hope he’s birthday is full of everything that brings him joy…getting drunk, getting laid and doing cool shit. (oh, and of course stepping on the throats of those that anger him.)

Words like violence...

2006-01-27T13:00:00.000+11:00

...break the silence.

Ahhhhh, to quote Chad Kroger of Nickelback fame "Its been a while". I certainly am going to have to learn to love Mr. Kroger because it appears that my housemate now believes him to be the ultimate expression of 'Rockness'.

You snigger? You Chuckle?

So did I... at first.

But then have any of you seen the video clip to the song 'Hero' from that Spiderman soundtrack*. It may not be good but its certainly epic and hey, isn't that what we all love? There's a reason Meatloaf is the highest selling artist of all time**.

Well yes, two months, no blog. Why? Whats the deal?

Well, yes the fact of the matter is that this blog is kinda based on the theme that I'm kindy irratible so in that vein I answer simply this "None of your fucking busines, nerd."

Cheers all,
Angry.

By the way Richard Watts is interviewing me on Thursday February 16 at 10am on RRR about the film festival I'm directing. Small fucking world hey?

*It should be noted that while I say it was on the Spiderman soundtrack I think you'll find it doesn't actually appear in the movie. Or at least we at the Bastard Ranch couldn't find it. Surlyboy suggested it simply a ploy to 'shift units' but I refuse to belief the record industry or hollywood for that matter would be so cynical.

**May not actually be true.

Just remember... you asked for this.

2005-11-16T17:22:00.000+11:00

Well folks,

Now that the pain in my head has relented somewhat and given the fact that I was somewhat touched by people demanding that I update this miserable personal journal of mishap and malcontent, well I've decided to concede to a request I dismissed earlier and do this 20 things about me junk. Facts about Angry as Bastard in no particular order of importance or relevance.

1. Between the ages of 14 and 21 I was single for a total of just over 6 months. Now in my mid twenties I often regret this and wish that I had kissed a lot more people at a lot more drunken teenage parties.

2. When I am in a relationship, especially one that is going well (and my current one is going sensationally well) I spend a lot of time thinking about how happy this person makes me and how extraordinarily fucked up I will be if it ends. To fight this terror I conceive very elaborate plans how I will eject from my current life and start a whole new one if things go bad. My current plan is to move to Canberra and become an ASIO agent. I looked into where I could take Arabic classes and checked out the ASIO website but then got paranoid that I was going to be monitored because I had been to the website.

3. Sometimes at night I still fantasize that my bed is some sort of spaceship or futuristic vehicle. This has only gotten worse since I moved out and bought an enormous sleigh bed that looks like something pimps would have used at the turn of the century.

4. I'm scared of midgets. I realise this view is not PC but I'm not saying I dislike people of short stature its just a completely unjustified phobia so don't fucking judge me.

5. When I was about eight I was at a country dance at Phillip Island and I went outside to get some air and I saw this guy lifting up this women's dress and start performing oral sex on her and then they were in position to start fucking when the women noticed me. The guy asked me if I wanted to watch but I said "No thank-you" and ran away.

6. I have a passionate hatred for parties at which everyone breaks out guitars and starts playing and singing. I used to dislike it because I felt left out because I couldn't play an instrument but as I got more confident in the things I could do I started to think it was just really fucking rude. I don't turn up to parties and start shooting film or start giving long spiels about contemporary theory and practice in attracting audiences to arts venues using new tools in market segmentation because no one wants to hear. Same goes for you with the guitar fucko.

7. I really don’t like people I don’t know very well being in my house and I think this feeling is only getting worse as I get older. I imagine this will manifest itself in some interesting way now I have a housemate.

8. For a long time while I was at University I got concerned I had never been “bi-curious” as they say in those sad local paper personals as it seemed that all my friends were coming to me with confessions of forbidden boy on boy inklings. I thought the fact that I had never had slightest inkling of a vague hazy interest in another gent made either really sexually conservative or sub consciously homophobic or both. I’m not sure where this worry came from and I’m not sure were it went but for a couple of years it genuinely concerned me.

9. I knew the physical love of another before I knew the physical love of the self. I’ve mentioned this fact a couple of times over a few baudy beers with the lads with some degree of pride but the truth of the matter is that honestly I believed you needed someone else there to ‘make it work’. I really didn’t understand that it was a pastime that one could enjoy alone.

10. I once had what a psychologist would later describe as a psychotic episode at a tool gig at which the waves of light and sound made me loss any sense of myself as a separate entity (no drugs or alcohol where involved in this event). I felt that I was in every person and every inch of the auditorium. When I came back into myself the feeling was physically jarring to the point that I went into the toilets and was violently sick. An amusing footnote to this anecdote is that I had to buy an overpriced tour T-shirt that I had ridiculed so savagely on my way in to the gig to replace my own vomit encrusted one.

I think 10 is enough to start with. I shall post the next instalment of me in the coming days.

I LIVE YOU BASTARDS

2005-11-06T21:14:00.000+11:00

That's right,

I survived.

Sure I may be horribly deformed and psychologically unhinged by my experience but I'm still here. You poor bastards, you should have finished me off when you had the chance but now I will once again grow strong and there will be no escape from my atomic rage for all you posers, fashionistas, indie fucks and other soul sapping dregs of society.

Sure they may have removed a part of my jaw. It happened to be a little part of my jaw called mercy. So now I don't have any so save your begging.

I know full well my enemies were plotting my destruction at the hands of that mad surgeon but hear this... "I cannot be destroyed. You will not end me. For you I have nought be a raised fist and scream of proud defiance and horrible retribution."

By the way, though I am still weak I have one small bit of rage to dish out. What the fuck is this 'tagged' business? Apparently someone 'tagged' me so now have I to tell 20 things about myself. Guess what cunts, its a fucking blog. The nature of the whole medium is a personal narrative. Read the fucking thing- I'm sure you'll find 20 tidbits about your gentle narrator. Oh, sorry, what was that? Its part of the online fun and games that make up the blog community. Well fuck a doddle do. I wish my cock could swell as big as my face currently is but hey we don't always get what we want.

Smoke It,
Angry as Bastard

The Good News Story Is...

2005-11-03T17:06:00.000+11:00

...People.

It turns out people, can often be, despite a lot of evidence to the contray at times, really quite good to spend time with.

This week myself and my rock god roomate organised a lively game for rounders for our friends and guess what?

Not only did people turn up, not only did Surly and I run around so much that are flacid unfit muscles were screaming the next, no most importantly we had fun. And this was good, clean, wholesome fun. Sure there was plenty of filthy trash talk but it was so delightfully unpretentious. Not a pair of chuck taylors or a head of heavily styled hair in sight. Hmmm...despite my natural inclination to see sport as a purveyor rather than balm for societies ills maybe there really is something to be said for the daggy social cohesion that is provided by a game of rounders.

Good times.

Sadly, just as my golden summer has started it has to be put temporarily on hold as tomorrow I am off to have my wisdom teeth extracted. I'm not real happy at the prospect of having these teeth out but hey, I've got a whole week and a half off so I'm hoping I can get into a state in which DVD watching is actually pleasurable and the isn't body is racked with too much pain after a couple of days so that I can make myself a nest on the couch, feel sorry for myself and catch up on a whole lot of televisual entertainment.

See you on the otherside.

Time for a Good News story.

2005-10-20T15:03:00.000+10:00

Damn,

These blog-ma-jigamies are getting a little to wrist slashy, neck hangy, rifle against templey for my liking. Time for a good news story.

I'm off to find a tale of inspiration and redemption. Once I've found one I shall return and inspire all you fucking losers.

Smoke It, you Indie fucks.

2005-10-17T14:02:00.000+10:00

All of you indie fucks can rock around to the Bastard Ranch and smoke the pair of fat and furious cocks that await you there.

It seems this year that I have been to disappointing indie gig after indie gig and been recomended disappointing indie album after disappointing indie album by disappointing indie kid after disappointing indie kid.

What was wrong with me?

Weren't these people supposed to be my contemporaries, my peers, my generation. Why weren't they speaking to me. Sure they were droning on at me in their ironic t-shirts and cardigans and skipping around singing new New York inspired rock and cutesy and witty folk and Belle and fucking Sebastian but it wasn't moving my stony heart. Was I so out of touch? But then I went out Saturday night and I realised, no I was fine, it wasn't me at all. I realised these indie fucks don't understand the basic principle of entertainment. That's right you boring voids... entertainment. It isn't a dirty word.

I headed off to see Hayseed Dixie on Saturday night. Bluegrass meet Acca Dacca it sounded funny, the tickets were cheap, and it was a chance to grind up against my girlfriend. Boxes ticked. I went along expecting a novelty band and a novelty they certainly are but I actually had a great time. I actually laughed at a gig because I was enjoying it so much. Sure they were great bluesgrass musicians and maybe they should be taking their artform more seriously than covering AC/DC and Motorhead but bloody hell they were entertaining.

So indie fucks, here's a memo. Music is supposed to be entertaining, captivating. As my wise house said last night, whatever you do you have to do it full on. If you're going to rock then you go and rock shit. If you're going to tug at my heartstrings then you tear that organ out. Entertaining doesn't mean empty ironic banter followed by music that is little more than a soundtrack for you to pose to. Entertaining means that it means something to me and it means something to you. Now, I know its not cool to care about anything for us hard bitten, savvy, gen-Y, 20-somethings but seriously folks, I'm begging you, drop the cool if you don't feel it, drop the irony if it don't mean anything and fucking entertain me.

Getting a tad political

2005-09-29T10:24:00.000+10:00

Politics.

You won't find me down at Flinders Street station selling the Green Left Weekly in my "Blood for Oil" t-shirt cursing all and sundry and screaming for revolution. I'm to much of a pragmatist. You won't find me sitting around a upper class bridge road eatery talking about these imigrants and their nasty ways in between tales of a weekend spent looking for a new Audi. I'm too much of a humanist.

I always used to think of myself as someone with socialism in their marrow but that kind of idealism was an illusion. I'm middle class and there is no escaping that. Certainly a couple of generations ago my family was dirt poor but not now. I can't speak for the working class because I don't really know them. I'm a typical comfortable armchair lefty that is all for helping the common man but them I'm quite happy to return to the house that I bought at 23 with help from my family. I preface my remarks with this as I think it fair to know someone's prejudices and perspective when listening to their opinions.

Now to the brief rant.

The way the Australian people are currently swallowing the slashing of our rights under this vague haze of terror fear is really sickening me. Courage is a concept that the right has very much taken ownership of. In my mind preserving our rights takes courage. Democracy only works on the courage of the population. If we wanted to be totally safe the logical choice is a totalitarian government. When the state controls every aspect of the society the threat of terrorism or anything else for that matter disappears. If we are willing to give over control of our lives to the government we can probably be protected from everything except of course the government. To make a free democracy work takes resolve, takes courage. Yes, it may make us more open to terrorism. Yes, people will probably die if there was a terrorist attack. Democracy isn't free, it isn't easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. Courage isn't fighting the 'war on terror' in backwater battlefields across the world, courage is choosing to live our lifes with the freedoms that we want despite the threats because at the end of the day the current threat is probably only incrementally higher that what it has always been. The fear of terror and the even greater fear of higher interest rates eating into our precious ipod budget and we were happy to serve up our rights at the last election.

We think all need to put down the ipods and get a bit more active.

The bland perspective.

2005-09-26T18:29:00.000+10:00

The following being an account of an apparently life affirming evening of one my oldest friends which I personally found rather uneventful.

Fucking hell. When did this venue get so god damned busy. We push in through a horde of dressed up and ready to dance indie cock heads. Tight pants, little girlie t-shirts and that was the just the guys. We push further into the crowd. My companion sees one of his mates, fucking hell, he’s going to know heaps of people here tonight and won’t know anybody and I’m definitely not the mood to make small talk. Lets face it, I don’t actually have a mood that is into small talk. Tap him in on the shoulder, point at the bar, mime the international symbol for ‘lets drink beer’. I don’t actually want a beer but I really fucking hate being at these places without a beer in my hand. It gives me a prop so I can do something rather than just stand there looking like a loser. God, I’m so fucking self conscious when I’m not in my element. We settle in to a viewing possie. My companion is quiet. I want to make conversation but I’ve got nothing. Probably for the best because its really loud and I’m starting to get really worried it might damage my long term hearing. I can just make out my companion’s ear plugs and I’m hit with a pang of jealously. Fuck, how come he get to have two little bits of rubber. The much discussed band starts with the much discussed lead singer gyrating and pouncing around like a cross between the cock of the god of rock and some mincing queen. I’m amused. I’m actually having a good time. The music is pretty much forgettable. But half way through the gig I notice the girl. Not just any girl, this is in fact the defining girl in the life of my companion. I’m pretty much ambivalent to the sad little whippet but as I watch her standing her staring intently at the grinding groin of her latest rock acquisition I start to get filled with disgust. Maybe it was all the referred pain from my companion after the hours of conversation that have focused around the girl. I think I find something personally affronting about these talent vampires that try to define their void of a personality by filling it with the dreams, hopes, talents of another. Of course as with any vampire they eventually destroy their host. I turn around to my companion and I am filled with a surge of anger. What the fuck is wrong with you? You basically ignored us for years because of this vapid little void. Fuck you. But then, hey, that’s love. And it ain’t my love so its certainly not my worry. I got enough relationship atomic disasters to deal with of my own. Bugger it. My ADD internal dialogue is off again. That will be pretty much the deepest thought I’ll have for the evening. The band finish and I’m worried that I’m a homophobe because I’ve been really disgusted by the much discussed lead singer’s constant and prolonged arse jiggling. I turn around and ask if my companion wants to say hi to the band. I really don’t want to. Thank god, neither does he. I’m surprised but I’m not arguing. I want to get home and have a cup of tea.

Rock'n'Roll Attitude: Shut and Buy you fuckers

2005-09-16T10:00:00.000+10:00

What the fuck is up with Rock'n'Roll retail?

Jay-Jay's and Coke I'm looking in your direction. I don't play music. If someone gave a guitar and offered me a case containing a million dollars if could play them a G Chord my only option would be to beat them to death with the guitar and steal the money as there is no way in hell I'm going to be able to play that chord or any chord for that matter. I don't know no much about guitars but I sure as hell can pick one that has been stuck in the hand of some soulless, braindead model so that they can preen around trying to look like a rock star. This endless parade of skinny girls with merticulously messy hair or tanned guys with exposed, oily abs trying to convince that they are strutting gods of rock while handling their instruments as if they were holding a mangy cat and didn't want to get to close. For god's sake you idiots just get a real band to do it if you so enamoured with your market research that's telling you that all those free spending 20 somethings that are still living with their parents will by anything if it strictly conforms to their non-conformist rock'n'roll values.

I have enough issues with commercial organisations appropriating images of sub-culture to sell their nasty little products. But that issue aside there is another big problem here. While Coke is out there telling us to all to love the lead singer a whole section of our community is being confused and mislead. I speak of course of the 'rock stars'. The average 'rock star' will spend their week hidden amongst the population generally in a job that requires either a name tag or a uniform or both. At the end of the week these weekend rock gods pounce out into the world chests exposed, hair manicured under the occasional cowboy hat and sqeezed into tight, tight jeans. These poor saps are being cruely mislead. They're sitting their thinking "I'm a rock star, the crowd loves me, I have an emaciated groupie girlfriend, a skanky groupie following. I am the centre of all creation" when in reality they should look at themselves, take off the cowboy hat and face the fact "My band is average, indie kids spend too much time on their hair, my girlfriend will leave next year is my band doesn't get big, I work at Safeway. Fuck I need to sort out my life."

Making the house a home (or at least a ranch)

2005-09-05T17:41:00.000+10:00

Just over a week into my new roommate situation (i.e. having one) and I feel that it is time to take stock of the situation.

I've been living* by myself since I took that most massive of steps at the start of the year and signed away my soul in a contract written in virgin's blood and became a homeowner. Despite the occasional most welcome visit from my girlfriend I was pretty much flying solo.

The first thing that happens when you live by yourself in a three bedroom house is that you become extremely disorganised. I pretty much was not really lacking for space so if wanted to keep all my clothes in small piles in another bedroom while I went out and purchased a bed so big that I would have room for not sliver more furniture in my room, well fuck it, I would.

But now, I have a roomie. There is no room for such decadence, in fact with the ridiculous nature of our combined record collections there is little room for anything else.

Also, there's the cat issue. I don't really like cats as a rule. And this cat is a particular bitch.

And then there has been the concern about my sleep. You see I am not a cat that can deal with having my sleep interrupted, in fact I have killed before over this very issue. Now here I was inviting some guy that worked in a record store, played in bands and probably spent his evening doing coke, fucking whores and listening to metal all very loudly.

...And yet.
It turns out that I have already been charmed by the cat, my life and house are more organised and my new roommate as the highest respect for my sleep.

So hears to you surlyboy**.

Thanks for making this house a ranch.

Angry as Bastard,
on the porch, watching the cattle, at The Bastard Ranch.

*Strange note for all you Freudian analysists out here. The first time I wrote 'living' here I actually wrote 'leaving by myself'. I didn't pick it up until I was about to publish this update. Then once it was up I realised I corrected by mistake incorrectly and the sentence now read 'luving by myself'. Analysis that Freud you sick fuck.

**That said if the cat turns nasty, or he starts interrupting my sleep or he tries to play me cutsy aussie folk music I will smother him to death while he sleeps with his own cat.

The Performance Pressure of Anger.

2005-08-24T14:07:00.000+10:00

The second post already, how quickly these things sneak up on you.

I want to talk to you all about performance pressure. And no this is not any form of malfunction in the boudoir. Angry as Bastard has that covered. Hell, you can tell a lady that has known my touch simply by the way her gait closely resembles a croquet hoop. No, it is not love the verb that troubles me, it is love the noun.

Now as you have probably gathered gentle reader I known for being somewhat of an angry bastard. Entertaining- sure, Good fun- no doubt, Caring- at times, a good bloke from time to time- I hope so. Certainly I never been a one dimensional man but ask most of those intimate colleagues of the owner of the bastard ranch and they will tell you that I have something of reputation for being a sarcastic, angry, bastard. A very funny sarcastic, angry bastard I’ve been told but still very much a man that entertains with a brand of humour, a brand of overall personality I guess, that may entertain you but you won’t always feel like a good human being for laughing.

This a reputation that has stuck so fast that I’ve been introduced more than once as “This is my friend, he’s the most sarcastic bastard in the world.”

Right so that’s me. Or at least was me.

But now we are having issues. You see life for your humble narrator is going quite well at the moment. I have a good job, I own and operate the bastard ranch and I’m most ridiculously in love with spectacularly awesome young lady. I don’t know maybe I never had that much to be so angry but hey, no use dwelling on the past. The problem is that with this more positive outlook its very hard to deliver the same level of optimum rage but people are still craving the unabated fury. It really isn’t easy trying to deal with the performance pressure of anger.

It really fucking pisses me right off.

God Dammit

2005-08-22T10:13:00.000+10:00

God Dammit,

I went to go and post a bit of hate speech on the blog of my friend and would-be housemate (read Manservant) and I find that the little puss (in his own words) has set it up so I can't post my incendiary razor sharp wit without signing up for this lonely man's girlfriend substitute. It appears that this blog Nazi won't be happy until all have conformed to his visions of legions of losers tapping away at their sad little keyboards, feeling their sad little blogs with their sad little life's, well fine have it your way Adolf.

So now I have gone and signed up for this ridiculous service, which I will most likely quit once I have gone and put this little pube back in his place, but yet...

What if I start writing in this thing all the time? What if I get as addicted as all the rest of my lame friends who are obbessed with each other's blogs?

Look, I have a girlfriend. I don't need this shit. I really don't.