Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Empire of Cheese.

  Papa John's is an entitled white asshole undoubtedly raised by parents who both looked and dressed like Colonel Sanders and is simply a dysfunctional success in a dysfunctional world. He profits from not paying a viable wage to the people who make him his profit and because he's lived his entire life inside an economic table-fort sleepover he thinks he's a philosopher when in the wider sense he's a self-fellating Marie Antoinette.

He's the retarded teenager that mistakes insecurity for ambition that America rewards.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

More articulations of Jolly Goodfellow....or Rumple.

I can only marvel at the energy requirements and the tenacity of that singular individual called Rumple/Jolly Goodfelow. [Taken from Alan Clays clown website]...


"I look at the ground and then look up at the stars and I think 'Crikey! How can one get their head round the spectrum of the universe?' Life certainly is an overwhelming inner and outer journey to experience. At times life can feel like trying to meditate in a room chock-a-block full of bric-a-brac, with multidimensional stream-of-consciousness visions passing through the mind a zillion miles an hour.

Life is performance art and we are all in its theatre playing our roles. Life is a performance on and off the stage. My natural life feels more like a show than when I'm performing at times. I have never done a rehearsal for one of my shows ever. Am I the master of no routine? I have travelled the world performing with no show. I guess that is my show, 'No Show'. I must be doing something right. Maybe I do have a show. Sometimes I wonder. The audience can be the judge. I could be the world's most unprofessional professional or professional unprofessional.

I used to carry a 4-wheel granny trolley around Europe. It travelled to 30 countries with me. It's a miracle that I did it in such a ridiculous style. Who on earth could be bothered carrying one of those around the world? It was stuffed with as many props as I could possibly squeeze into it.
I guess my granny trolley didn't make it easy for me when I turned up in England for the first time from Australia. I was sent back to Australia for the suspicion of coming in as an under-the-table jester with the intention to jest (wildcard style) without permission.

It's not an easy gig being a jester these days and especially when there are no castles in Australia. It's a bit of a paradox. It's a laugh: the idea of representing my country when I'm abroad, being an antipodean jester as there's not much tradition for this profession in Oz. I feel at heart with the art of being a jester as a profession, as it rhymes with being a bit of a natural fool in everyday life. It's not an easy art: always trying to obey the laws of logic.

Life's a tragic comedy. There's often a fine line between tragedy and comedy. Being a jester, clown, performer and artist is everything. It's funny, sad, crazy, silly, mad, serious, happy, depressing, wild, weird, wonderful, mental, brilliant, exhausting, beautiful, intimidating, overwhelming, exciting and everything else.

Laughter is the greatest high of all because it comes from the heart. My goal is to help spread more healthy humour into the world. Making people happy through laughter is a true gift of love. I am very privileged to have the freedom to be creative. Quite often people say 'What are you on', when I'm performing as a jester. It's amazing what a costume can do. I say 'I don't need anything! Why not get high on laughter? Laughter is the jest medicine. Don't be a fool to your spirit!' How do you like my foolosophy?

Send in the clowns and help cheer up the world! They should give the soldiers at war clown toys to play with instead of weapons. It would help make people laugh, instead of cry, which would hopefully set off a chain reaction of laughter, far and wide as to speed up the happiness of the world. Laughter mantras should be made compulsory for the whole human race to practise. It would be much better to die from laughter, as then at least we'd go in a funny way.

It's a constant effort to keep a childlike innocence in this complex world, so it's good to relieve the tension as much as possible with the spirit of fun. Live out your dreams. The best things in life are free. I think I'll wave my fool's flag for eternity. See you at the end. Every end has a new beginning. Do you call this soul clowning? Keep it simple. Silence is golden. The laughing Buddha will tell you. Who knows better? We can only go by human perception. Gorblimey! Am I a joke I can't get out of? What the heck! The show must go on! Toodle-loo! Love to you all! Signing off, the undercover jockey jester with the girl's voice! Rumpel is my name! "

Sat nights aren't the same

I've had more Sat nights than you've had hot dinners. I had them every night of the week for decades internationally,

As an isolated social hermit Saturday nights are a series of unrelated trains of thought. So that hasn't changed.

Tonight I went 10 mins carriage to carriage down the train we'll call the 'Farewell Humanity Express'.

These are all facts, confirm them at your leisure.

** plutonium-239 has a half-life of approximately 24,000 years.

** one pound of plutonium evenly distributed to the lungs would kill every human on the planet.

** Since the mid-20th century, plutonium in the environment has been primarily produced by human activity.

** We've put 5 tons into the atmosphere with atomic testing. [most of that is not ingestible but not all]


** The amount of cesium-137 that has been released at Fukushima is equivalent to hundreds of Hiroshima bombs and is still ongoing as 3 cores are still in meltdown and no-one has got close to where they are without instruments burning out before recording 'unimaginable' radiation.

** Salmon carrying traces of caesium 134 particles – the so-called fingerprint of the Fukushima – were found by researchers in the seas off Oregon.

** It's concentrated in food chains but also is conveyed on crops via rain.

**  Plus Chernobyl, plus every other leakage ever. [I was told in Tawain that one of there's was leaking 7 pounds a year]--not fact, hearsay.

I figure the climate and most supporting species, insects, bees, pollinators will go in the next 30 years and we'll rot on the vine for 100 after that.

But my point is, although we're the first extinction that will be toxic [although a plague coming from some ice age might continence that]

We may take some small pride as a species for inventing primitive sandboxes for self sustaing silicon based artificial intelligences that can run on either methane or oxygen and don't need emotion except for theatrics which is why they'll keep us around. Sound like yesterday?

within 25 years the only people automatically exempt from termination review by AI's are those that went to clown school.

See? I still have hope! Anyway, just a sat night thought.

Friday, July 21, 2017

Is she really going out with him?


Dogs and Cats, some philosophy and handy hints.


Dogs exist because for thousands of years humans, recognising individually they are incapable of giving unconditional love, and less capable of digesting it, settled for second best.


Cats have been Gods for humans much longer than Jesus has.


Handy Hint;

Your Dog is a pack animal. that sideways glance it gives you while shitting isn't some existential anal catholic residue. If you could face the opposite way and literally, watch its back, then that would be great and that's what it's checking on.


Handy Hint.

If wishing to properly introduce yourself to a cat take scent from under your arm on your fingers and present it. It saves time. Also Cats love earwax.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Ta Wit a Woo


 Copenhagen   

I had performed 8 shows in a day, I felt hard working and rewarded myself by catching a taxi to my good friend Chris's place.
He was having a housewarming and I decided I would go in a moderating
capacity, knowing full well that everyone else there was going to get
shitfaced.
There were about ten people there when I arrived, there was a table stacked with delicious home made food, everyone else had eaten.
They were sitting in a roundish arrangement talking in groups of 3 or 4.
There were two cases of beer, a litre of 20 year old rum, a large bottle of
blue label vodka, couple of bottles of wine, a tiny bottle of orange juice
and five grams of assorted hash and buds.

I was tired, I was going to take it easy, just a beer and listen to the
chat. I felt together.

Messy old mescal followed by vodka, in dispersed with joints strong enough to simulate a direct meteor hit.
I started to  loosen up, my earlier tiredness and resolve dissolved. 
I opened my mouth and 40 minutes of verbiage emerged.
Storys of nighttime mescal raids, of snowstorms striking tree bound, speed
storys, love storys, philosophic musings, enthusiastic sports quotes.

There was English Chris whose new flat it was, there was American Chris who cooked and prepared the food, salads,curried chicken,lots of guacamole--mashed avocado stuff and beans of sorts. 
Skipper Dave and his Danish main squeeze, a Welsh guy whose name escapes me and his reluctant brooding girlfriend, Nathan, Rick and a carpenter called Danny who had a swollen face from a tooth and his girlfriend and two English friends who no-one else knew who had arrived that day and were staying.

Nathan spearheaded the latter evening. In energy, stamina and in total intake Nathan took the party fearlessly into his own uncharted waters. His curiosity, his capacity to overindulge while remaining conscious, his going where few others would want to, standing, lashed to the wheel of a storm dashed large sailboat  mid ocean, enjoying every moment. That was Nathans condition.

Multiple repetitions "yeah pass it here--you know tequila’s my very favorite drink."
Reaching for the bottle and the thimble like plastic cup.
At one point he talked for an hour, his arms waving, his hands flicking.
Hyper manic happiness and you knew it was real.

Taking time out he rolled everyone a large joint then stood on the spot waving his arms about slowly.
This enthralled us until he fell bumfirst into a green plastic beer crate.
He tried so hard and for so long to extract himself from that crate that we feared for his and our sanity. 
In despair he fell sideways and found that in that position he could simply push the crate away from him.
To us all this was a great victory.
Nathan spent the next  hour standing up, falling the length of the room then getting up  again.

Two am. Half of us remain ,English Chris wisely decides to make coffee,
Nathan with difficulty could hold his cup, but bringing it up  anywhere near his head or specifically near his mouth was impossible.
Chris took his cup and placed it on top of the fridge.
Nathan devised his own dilemma- he could steady himself by hugging the fridge and tilt his mouth towards the cup on the edge. But to tip the cup with the same arm needed to hug the fridge proved after many attempts to be futile, the dramatic ending being an incomphending Nathan lying in a pile of bottles covered in coffee front and back- waving an empty coffee cup.

There were five people hanging off furniture or lying on the wooden floor in the morning.
After waking and coffee and mild investigation it was worked out that the latter part of the party must have taken place in a collective blackout.
Some lost their memories earlier and others could fill them in but no-one could remember going to sleep or anyone else going to sleep.
What did we say to each other, who were we?
 A room full of celebrating people who had literally forgotten who they were.
Three cheers for the brainstem.

Sunday, June 18, 2017