Get your rock off

29 11 2009

The sun rises. The sun sets. It does it every day.

The sun rises. Things are set in motion. Breakfasts eaten. Commutes bird-flipped and snarled through. Knees skinned in playgrounds. Milk bought at corner stores or removed from front doorsteps. Gardens weeded. Lawns shorn. Houses made and deals built. Relationships cooked, cakes ended. Beers inhaled. The sun sets.

It does it every day.

Every damn day. Pulling us from lid open to lid closed, like a human Goldberg contraption of knock-on reaction and forward momentum and don’t forget to take out the rubbish.

The sun rises. The sun sets. It does it every day.

But sometimes you have to pay money to be reminded to even look at it.

Of course it’s free. The sunrise. The sunset. But when you’re standing in a car park with a glass of bubbly and store-bought salsa hanging off the lip of a corn chip, you don’t mind that you’re paying for it. Because you’re too caught up ogling a bloody big rock as it flashes its sandstone thigh and reflects the gaze of that huge ball of fire.

Why am I in a car park? Why am I looking at a bloody big rock? Why am I rambling about the sun?

Because I’m a bad Australian. Read the rest of this entry »



Hey, wanna ride bikes?

9 10 2009


My mouth is hanging open like an overhead bin on a turbulent flight, all slack and dumb and gobbing for air. I become aware of a pool of saliva hatching escape plans, gathering near the tongue and waiting for the opportunity to drop over my lip.

I feel it begin to Rapunzel its way out.

Now, I was raised right and normally I’d not let something like that slide, least of all out of my mouth. But at this moment, with my lungs double bagging it and my heart rate techno-beating it, I don’t give a damn. I’m all, “Stand down, guards” and “Fly, be free, young spittle Padawan!”

Out it dribbles in a spectacular line of defeat, and I’m sure I hear it cry out “Tell Laura I love her” before continuing on to kiss my leg and be dashed on the road below me.

I can’t be bothered even reacting to it. Read the rest of this entry »



Zephyr. The Movie.

26 12 2008

Ladies and gents, I bring you a short film by moi. It features:

  • Some shaky footage shot by me from a moving train (The California Zephyr) on a Sanyo Xacti
  • Some awesome Moby music, used with kind permission from mobygratis.com
  • My crappy voice, recorded in a bathroom and featuring a lot of background hum and occasional water pipe noise
  • An excerpt from “A Ramblin’ Mixtape - Side B“, which is a story about the trip.
  • TIP: If you have a slow computer, let the vid load before playing. Still probs? Roll over the vid and turn off HD.


    Zephyr from Noodle on Vimeo.



    A Ramblin’ Mixtape - Side B

    16 12 2008

    TRACK 1: HITCHCOCK RAILWAY - JOE COCKER{play}

    The noise, the noise! I’m all Quiet Riot and feelin’ it like the world’s worst cover band. I turn my face to the gods of sound above. I beg, I beseech you—release me from this wretched spawn of yours, this child called Noise.

    Can you see it, dear reader? Can you see the Noise?

    Look there, as it slithers on the floor of my sleeper car. Right there, see it? No, no! Don’t look directly or it’ll snake you good. Just use that special corner-of-your-eye vision.

    See. There it is. It’s doing its best impression of a live wire, cruelly cut and crying. Zapping, dancing its jolly jig upon the cheap carpet. Look. See it how it forms the word shiver and eagerly looks for a spine to run up. For the spine is the path, the power and the glory, forever and ever, amen.

    “The path to what?” I ask.

    “Your last nerve,” it hisses. “I must use your spine as an organic conduit to your ear. There I will scratch my whine and squawk and creek-e-craw down the chalkboard of your eardrum, until that last nerve of yours is more frayed than the cord of your 70s dressing gown.”

    How rude!

    But man, what a racket, what a din. What a world-class noise!

    As the California Zephyr pulls out from the comfortable snuggle of the Oakland station, I sit and get all grouchified in my traveling compartment. Just me and my Noise.

    It is day one.

    It is day one of my great big train whore across America. Eastward ho! All aboard! Read the rest of this entry »



    A Ramblin’ Mixtape - Side A

    27 10 2008

    TRACK 1: ON THE ROAD AGAIN - CANNED HEAT {play}

    Both feet, baby. Both feet. Strap on your best driving boots and jump into the flow. Slip in. Into that stream of consciousness. That steady stream of steel, and exhaust, and rubber, and hollow-sounding horns hit with flat, angry palms.

    It’s my first time driving on a freeway in America. Something about it reaches out of the darkness and prods my inner animal with a blunt stick. I picture that inner animal as a sloth, but a punk-loving sloth. Angry when roused.

    Wake up! Wake up! Read the rest of this entry »



    5 reasons NOT to run a marathon

    29 12 2007

    ONE: BECAUSE IT’S INSANE.
    Only a person who has slipped in some idiot juice and fallen face-first into a vat of “I’m off my tree” would even consider it. Insanity clean-up on aisle three!

    Think about it: driving for 26.2 miles is a pain in the arse, and you’re thinking about running it with 40,000 people in your car?

    Here’s a suggestion. Slip a stone into your shoe and walk around for 6 hours. Then see how on top of Ol’ Smokey and covered in failure you feel. Oh, and don’t forget to surround yourself with other insane asylum escapees who will happily throw little paper cups of sticky liquid in your face and call it “aid”.

    ‘Cause that’s a marathon.

    And if you’re still going to do it, you’re playing footsies with your own delusions. You’re slick with the idiot juice. Practically pickled in it after four months of training.

    IN-SANE.

    And you’ll know you’re insane at Mile 18 of your precious marathon. You’ll shake hands with Mile 18 and discover it has a cold, wet-fish handshake that lingers a little too long.

    But there’s more. Over mile 18’s shoulder, you’ll spot something else. In the distance. Here comes Insanity Check, riding over the horizon on a ruddy great mare. This sinewy thoroughbred will pull up right in front of you and snort in your reddened face. At which point Insanity Check will dismount and stick a fork in your thigh to see if any juice comes out. And none will.

    ‘Cause that’s a marathon.

    That’s why insane people scream.

    Which brings us to the second reason NOT to run a marathon. Read the rest of this entry »






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