Struth Be Told is a column I have written for Canberra street press BMA from 2002. This page is a collection of my best columns, plus writing from other publications. My work is currently being published in Frankie, J-Mag and The Big Issue
This page is also home to some oddments such as song lyrics and the world famous ‘I’M SO POST MODERN LYRIC WRITING MASTER CLASS,’ which allows you to try writing your own post-modern lyrics, and be given feedback by an industry professional.
They say dance is the hidden language of the soul – if this is the case then Friday nights are all about learning to say rude words. Is there no greater relief from the cerebral shackles of modern life than cutting some serious lunch on the floor? While girls are so rhythmically infused they could dance to their own heartbeat, for men, like most things, it’s tricky. Strangled by their Straighty 180 collars and Blend It Like Beckham jeans, men love nothing more than to hover on the sides like out of work bodyguards, tapping along sheepishly, demonstrating that a …
Throughout the ages man has felt an insatiable desire to self publish. The origins of blog and zine culture can be traced back to the Stone Age. It was here that early man first became aware of his own genitals and was able to draw them on a cave wall (a cromagnadoodle). This is the art worlds equivalent of inventing the wheel. Man then became in touch with his own ego (‘grong woz ere 10000 b.c.’), and published a primitive rant piece (‘mamoth sux.’) These incidents would also provide the well tagged cornerstone for modern day graffiti, which has itself …
Press stud check shirts and three piece flared suits
Art Deco prints and mod Beatle boots
vintage scrabble with no pieces missing
a few of my favourite second hand things.
Ah yes, like Scrooge McDuck used to flap wildly about in his columns of cash, the modern young thing can interpretive dance around shelves of perishable trinkets and wardrobes laden with long-lost fabrics, basking in the wealth of yesteryear. Boy/Girl, do we love vintage! If we had it our way, the whole world would be one big ‘the 60’s.’ Psychedelic pop art, milk in bottles, mint condition Stones records and no-one would have …
They say humans spend a third of their lifetime sleeping. Of that time, I spend a third lying in bed swearing, a third sitting in the kitchen eating ham and a third rolling around in a half-awake dream state with the devil playing Pictionary. Rock and roll brain, you god forsaken sponge! Where did it all go wrong? Insomnia. Discusszzzzzzzzzzz.
I’ve always had an overactive imagination, and can’t remember a time when I didn’t spend at least half an hour hurtling through wormholes down the rabbit hole of my mindioli. Through childhood, this tended to be an exciting time, like a …
This is how it goes:
Me: I’ve never been overseas.
Person: What!?
Me: Yep.
Person: But you’re from Tasmania.
(Person laughs for 18 minutes).
Me: True. I guess I have then.
(Person continues anecdote of how they caught a train from Paris to Berlin and then ended up in Amsterdam and fell in love with a New York girl who they lived with for a while before moving to London via Tokyo.)
Me: I’ve been to Broome.
You’ve heard of the 40 year old virgin, now meet the 29 year old travelling virgin – oft attracting the same kind of playful derision …
Alcohol is pure sex. Frosted white wine splashing between your lips. A smooth green bottle, snug in your dancing hand. The spitfire sweet of a straw sucked liqueur. The luscious punch of ice shrapnel between teeth, a slush of lemon and gin anointing your smoky throat. Alcohol lubricates your gasping mind. Oils your dancing bones. Fuels your childlike craziness. Alcohol is the slinky DJ at the decks of your brain, fading your inner monologue and amping up the joy. Alcohol is your dear, dear friend. Wild and reliable. The champagne spray that christened your adulthood will also toast your …
Who could forget the feeling of first discovering your favourite band or show. Like a seasoned explorer, you sail the air waves, telescope poised, waiting for a particular hook, lyric or joke to glimmer on the horizon like a cheeky lighthouse. Eyes grinning through sea spray you throttle your badge encrusted wheel, drop the striped sail on the Good Ship Indie and lay a course for life-changing island. Reaching shore you dash out, plunge your headphone jack into the coconut tree and immerse your mind in its luxurious bounty. That which lay undiscovered now feels like home, and your map …
As a kid I’d say ‘when I grow up I want to be a struggling artist.’ When I blew out my birthday candles I’d wish for a first round grant offer from the Australia Council. To further the fantasy, instead of playing shops at school I’d insist we played Centrelink. On dress up days I’d pull on a bummed out cardigan and tobacco flecked cords. I had a clear vision of myself as a grown up: In my late twenties, artistically hit and miss, still renting with a phobia of children and a string of failed relationships behind me. And …
(This piece first appeared in Frankie magazine in response to the question ‘What is your super power?’)
You don’t choose to be a social suicide bomber, you are born one. Just like a pre-pubescent Spiderman was caught with goo on his hands, those inflicted / blessed with this conversational gift discover it by accident. With great power comes great irresponsibility; if it’s the ability to unnerve the most robust of people with sheer presence alone.
I first discovered I carried ‘the mark’ (my face) entering teen hood. I was a Junior Nipper at the Burnie Surf Club, and often attended squad training …
I was speaking to a friend who’d gone to see U2 on their ‘Pop Mart’ tour. She felt mixed emotions of loving the gig, but feeling oddly underwhelmed at the sight of “just four blokes up on stage.” For her, the juxtaposition of antlike men representing the mythological superstars of her childhood was, to be precise, ‘smaller than life.’ The experience of U2’s music, a pollination of studio perfection with her own imagination was now a crude reconstruction where freaks shrieked over stampeding frequencies and Bono sipped water between songs like some guy at the bus stop.
When I was …