Our friend, Wah of Club Wah infamy, reckons anyone who wears a Che Guevara t-shirt is a, well, a very annoying person. It was also a hilarious post because it drew some angry comments from Che fans, in particular this one which still makes me giggle:

If I could I would teach you a lesson and made you a “cunt” , and use you to satisfy my sexual needs! you a.. hole! Che Guevara was a big man ! not like you> a insignificant capitalist worm!
shut your sewage “canal”-mouth! It kind of stinks!

So it was with some smirking and reminiscing on my part just now when I read this whole list of Che-branded stuff:

…T-shirts, watches, sneakers, key chains, cigarette lighters, coffee mugs, wallets, backpacks, mouse pads, beach towels and condoms. He’s not only been used by politicians like the Venezuelan president, Hugo Chávez, to promote their own agendas, but he’s also been employed by merchants to sell air fresheners in Peru, snowboards in Switzerland and wine in Italy.

The supermodel Gisele Bündchen pranced down a runway in a Che bikini. A men’s wear company brought out a Che action figure, complete with fatigues, a beret, a gun and a cigar. And an Australian company produced a “cherry Guevara” ice cream line, describing the eating experience like this: “The revolutionary struggle of the cherries was squashed as they were trapped between two layers of chocolate. May their memory live on in your mouth!”

There’s something oddly perverse about cherries and the memory living on in your mouth, but I can’t quite pin-point what it is.

Anyway. Go, comrades Che and Wah!

Calloo, callay. As of today I am not working for a while. I have another gig starting in the new year, but I thought I’d give myself a month or so of R and R, so I left my previous job yesterday. No gold watch was proffered, but I did get a bottle of scotch, which you’ll agree is better than a poke in the eye.

Last night I celebrated the only way I know how to celebrate anything – with hard liquor and late-night television. My housemate is a journo so we had to watch the frikkin Walkley awards, which was undoubtedly the least-entertaining broadcast I’ve seen in some time – there weren’t even any punch-ups. I have a dim memory of that abomination giving way to a repeat of the Seinfeld where George won’t give out his PIN number. Then came beautiful, beautiful unconsciousness.

I was woken at about 10AM by the noise of the primary school nearby, and was reminded why leftists hate children. Then I just kinda trundled down the road for breakfast at the Fine Australian Cafe with the Fine Internet Hotspot. And that’s where you find me. Whiling away the morning, watching the passing parade of Newtown, and wondering WTF to do for the rest of the day.

The last time I wasn’t working, studying or both for such an extended period was back during one of the deliberately-engineered recessions of noted Stalinist and PC Thought Policeman Paul Keating. In those days, being unemployed was easy. All that was required was scrawling a crude X on a photocopied form once a fortnight, dropping it in the slot by the door of the DSS, waking up the next afternoon and spending it all in a giddy rush on cask wine, No Frills Frozen Burger Patties and Holiday 50s. I won’t be engaging with the welfare system this time around, so I don’t even have that much to do. I’m flummoxed.

But things may be looking up soon. On Sunday, I’ll be departing for an extended sojourn at the Beloved’s family seat in country Tasmania. Fresh air, big sky, farm animals. They even have broadband, so I might post some piccies here. But even that doesn’t sound very busy.

Still, I’m sure it will all be fine. Think about it. A between-jobs blogger from Queensland retreats to a rural area, armed with nothing but limitless spare time, an Internet connection, access to a Wordpress blog and a head full of opinions. What could possibly go wrong…

The US election came and went, and now it’s time to laugh ourselves stupid at those who predicted an overwhelming win for McCain.

Political Lizard:

So sa (sic) we start this election We (sic) see that Obama starts off with approximately 36.8 million votes and McCain starts with 36.6 million votes. This is a 200,000 vote lead prior to independents being included. If these voters are evenly split We (sic) could have a situation where one candidate wins the popular vote and another wins the electoral college. A split in independents favors McCain. If McCain maintains his slight lead among independent (sic) he wins similar to 2004.

ChronWatch:

Obama’s biggest problem is that the majority of Americans racially are white. Even Hispanics, racially, are white. Once you get by all the usual politically correct blather about race, the likelihood that whites will vote for Obama is slim to none when they get in the privacy of the voting booth.

That is why John McCain, unless he selects a serial killer as his vice president running mate, is likely to be the next President of the United States of America.

When queeried (sic) on what he meant by this, the intrepid poster expanded upon this thesis:

The vast majority of homosexuals are atheist and liberal. That is a
fact. Also journalism is a favorite career path of homosexuals and
socialists.
Journalists are like lawyers. They create their own job via paper and
bullshit. Both are human barnacles on society that produce nothing of value.

Edward David Gil (cached, original deleted):

Here is how “the penny dropped” and I suddenly realized that McCain will beat Obama decisively in this November’s presidential election (as unlikely as it may seem now in July): it was when I read that the city of Denver has been giving the Democratic National Committee’s “Host Committee” members a pass on the city’s tax on gasoline for about four months, before it was disclosed.

Daily AntiKos

Reasons why:
1. Conservatives don’t participate in polls.
2. People have felt intimidated into saying they’re supporting Obama.
3. Sarah Palin will produce a turnout of the base as never seen before.
4. Coal states have shifted toward McCain.
5. God is conservative.

Owned. Every last one.

I have a confession to make and I don’t want you to get angry at me, or feel betrayed, or reel back in horror, or send me away to the Worker’s Paradise of Siberia for “re-education”, or anything like that.

I’ve always like George W. Bush. And I’m going to miss him when he leaves the White House to make room for Barack Obama, who will win tomorrow.

Okay, I hated Dubya for his war “policies”, Guantanamo Bay, Dick Cheney, his so-called “faith-based initiatives”, his indifference to his own citizens who struggled daily for basic rights like health and education, and so on.

But I sure as hell loved his horribly mangled grammar, his ability to say some of the most stupid things that does not befit the President of the United States, and his lack of embarrassment — or complete unwareness — at what he’d said.

I’ve cringed and sniggered and often laughed out loud at Dubya’s bloopers. I’ve watched The Letterman Show whenever I could just for the “Great Moments in Presidential Speeches” segment.

So, with his impending departure from the White House, I’d like to take a look back at some of my favourite things he’s said in the last 7-8 years, for posterity (and in no particular order, there was a lot to sift through). The quotes are from the excellent DubyaSpeak.com website, who have done an amazing job “recording the damage” over the years.

• I can press when there needs to be pressed. I can hold hands when there needs to be — hold hands. — January 6, 2008
• I know what I believe. I will continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe – I believe what I believe is right. — July 22, 2001
• It is naive and dangerous to take a policy that he suggested the other day, which is to have bilatarelations with North Korea. — October 8, 2004
• I don’t like to put words in leaders’ mouths. I don’t particularly like it when people put words in my mouth, either, by the way, unless I say it. — November 10, 2007
• It reads like a mystery, a novel. It’s well written. — July 26, 2004 (pertaining to the 9/11 Commission’s report)
• She is a fabulous First Lady. I was a lucky man when she said, yes, I agree to marry you. I love her dearly, and I’m proud of the job she’s doing on behalf of all Americans. Just like I love my brother. — September 9, 2003
• The Ambassador and the General were briefing me on the — the vast majority of Iraqis want to live in a peaceful, free world. And we will find these people and we will bring them to justice. — October 27, 2003
• You know, I’m — I’ve been in politics long enough to know that polls just go poof at times. — April 19, 2007
• That’s George Washington, the first president, of course. The interesting thing about him is that I read three — three or four books about him last year. Isn’t that interesting? — May 5, 2006
• It’s a myth to think I don’t know what’s going on. And it’s a myth to think that I’m not aware that there is opinions that don’t agree with mine. Because I’m fully aware of that. …I see a lot of the news. Every morning I look at the newspaper I can tell you what the headlines are. I must confess, if I think the story is, like, not a fair appraisal, I’ll move on. — December 12, 2005
• I want to thank my friend, Senator Bill Frist, for joining us today. You’re doing a heck of a job. You cut your teeth here, right? That’s where you started practicing? That’s good. He married a Texas girl, I want you to know. Karyn is with us. A West Texas girl, just like me. — May 27, 2004
• I love the story of America, I love the fact that people who started with nothing and have built a fantastic food processing business. — October 14, 2003
• There’s no need for any unrestrained yelling. — July 30, 2003
• REPORTER: Do you think you would be able to work effectively with a future Australian leader, be it either a successor of Mr. Howard from his own party, or from their opposition?
  DUBYA: Well, I suspect he’s going to outlast me, so that is a moot point. Probably a question you ought to ask him. Somebody said, you and John Howard appear to be so close, don’t you have any differences? And I said, yes, he doesn’t have any hair. — May 16, 2006
• We can help somebody who hurts by hugging a neighbor in need. — April 4, 2003
• First we talked about the bridge that collapsed. I was here earlier, saw the collapse first hand. I was impressed by the magnitude of the problem. It was — my heart was touched by the fact that people lost their lives. — August 21, 2007
• We have overcome a recession. That means things are going backwards. — March 26, 2004
• Rarely is the question asked, are, is our children learning? — January 11, 2000
• I’m the master of low expectations. — June 4, 2003
  
• Nobody has accused me of having a real sophisticated vocabulary. — October 11, 2006

Feel free to add your favourite Dubya quotes, as we begin to farewell Dubya with joy.

I’m heading up to Cairns tonight to serve as best man at the wedding of the fella who was best man at mine in 2006. Robbie was my flatmate back in the late 90s when we maintained a filthy bachelor hovel with an awesome party backyard in the inner west of Sydney. We both went to the UK together in 2000; I came home in 2002 having met McBec, and Robbie came home in 2004 having met his bride-to-be. We’ve lived in different cities since 2001 but have remained close friends and have continued to have very excellent adventures together. In honour of Robbie’s big day (Saturday) I’d like to share with you one of the stories that have become Robbie folklore.

Robbie, Joey and The Editor are burdened with atrocious fashion sense c. 2000. Robbie always has his shirt unbuttoned or off. Always.

We were staying in a Turkish pension by the beach with our American travel companion, Joey. It was about 1pm and a huge morning of backgammon, tea and reading had worked us up some massive appetites. We asked the lovely Turkish girl who worked there if we could order some of the beautiful sandwiches that were the house specialty, and she replied, in broken English, that it would be no problem. We thanked her with one of only six Turkish words we knew, but then Robbie wanted to say more.

“Have you got any mayonnaise?” he asked.

“Ma-yo-ni… What is this mayoni?” asked the bemused employee.

“Um, mayonnaise,” clarified Robbie gruffly.

Joey and I stepped in and tried to describe mayonnaise using simple English words.

“It’s like, um, white, creamy, eggy…”

“You know, mayonnaise,” interjected Robbie a little louder than speaking volume and with an emphasis on the word.

“…in a jar, white, tangy,” we continued.

“Mayonnaise,” repeated Robbie, louder.

“It’s creamy. And white.” we mumbled as we ran out of adjectives.

“MAYONNAISE!” exclaimed a terribly frustrated Robbie, who just wanted some freakin’ mayo, almost screaming.

And as if by magic, Robbie’s culturally insensitive and rather insulting method of communication worked! The (quite shocked) girl went out the back and put mayonnaise on Robbie’s sandwich. So whenever for the rest of our travels we encountered a language difficulty Joey and I would turn to Robbie and shout “MAYONNAISE!” at him, causing him to turn red and get all sheepish at the embarrassment of his moment of stupidity. Even later when I was travelling with McBec or other people I would suddenly exclaim “MAYONNAISE!” at the top of my voice for what seemed to them to be no apparent reason.

I encourage you to do the same when you’re next overseas. Do it for Robbie.

And as a gift from me to you, GrodsReader, I will leave this photo for you to mercilessly caption while I’m away. I shudder to think what will await me on Monday.

UPDATE: Nevernude Surname has set up an official caption competition post for your amusing caption entries.

It’s a bit sad really. It’s a lot sad really. Sad that I get so worked up and excited every time David McCormack comes to town either with his band the Polaroids or solo. Tonight I’m going to see DMac and a couple of the Polaroids at The Espy and I’ll probably go to his gig at The Evelyn tomorrow. For a man who in his old age (late 20s) hates the way that music is played way too loud now and that you come home smelling like an ashtray, this is a big weekend of pub rock.

It all started (here we go) in 1995 in grade 12. Custard were big and I liked ‘em. However, I didn’t really love them until I woke up on the last day of grade 12 to Apartment by Custard on the alarm radio. After a couple of live gigs here and there around BrisVegas I was a confirmed Custard stalker.

Although the band were really cool, it was their frontman who had The Cool. In his Vinnies suits and bed hair, nonchalantly strumming and drawling away, Dave McCormack was everything the pathetic and single late teens/ early 20s Ed wanted to be. If only I could be more like Dave, I thought, maybe I could pick up more (any) chicks.

Many, many gigs later in my new base of Sydney it was 1999 and Custard broke up. A sad, but inevitable, day. The Custard boys just didn’t seem to have that old X factor any more. But Dave moved on to solo work, a brief stint with The Titanics and finally his current Polaroids setup. I was overseas for most of this bar a couple of Titanics gigs but kept up to date with airmail CD orders and the internets.

I’ve been in Melbourne now for four years and have seen Dave about a dozen times since the first fortuitously scheduled event at The Evelyn only days after I arrived. At my side the whole time has been DMac recruit Billybob whose attitude has developed from polite bemusement to almost sincere fanhood.

See you at The Espy tonight. Billybob and I will be the guys in jeans with pints of Guinness.

The Editor’s been, like so many others, a tragic Pearl Jam fan since high school. It all started in grade ten in 1993 with the release of their second album vs.. Ed’s group at school were all into poppy, housey, top 40 shite, and so Ed just went along with it. It’s not that he particularly liked it, it was more that he didn’t know what else was out there. Ed knew about Nirvana and kinda liked them, but couldn’t admit it to his friends.

Weird, innit?

So one day The Editor’s packing Whoppers at his after school job at a deep-suburban Hungry Jack’s, listening to one of Bris Vegas’ finest commercial radio stations on the PA, and Daughter is announced as the new song from Pearl Jam. Ed fell absolutely, instantly, head-over-heals in love. He resolved to go out and buy that album by that band — what were they called? The Pearl Jams — tomorrow. And so he did, and he went home and listened, and he knew that Pearl Jam was going to be his life-long love.

Two days later The Editor went back to the same music store and bought Ten. Besides from Alive sounding sorta familiar, it was like drinking water for the first time. Ed tried to get a couple of his friends into this amazing new discovery, and he succeeded with one of them, but the rest had new East 17 albums to listen to or some shit.

From there it was only a short skip to Soundgarden, Nirvana (properly) and like bands. A whole new world had opened to Ed, and he liked it. In 1995, shortly after the release of Vitalogy at the start of grade 12, Pearl Jam toured Australia and The Editor spent the best night of his life so far listening to the following set list:

Last Exit, Spin the Black Circle, State of Love and Trust, Corduroy, Elderly Woman, Whipping, Animal, Dissident, Blood, Glorified G, Daughter, Why Go, Jeremy, Lukin, Rearviewmirror, Immortality, Alive, Porch
Encore: Go, Tremor Christ, Not for You, I Got You, Better Man, Once
Encore 2: Yellow Ledbetter

School finished and Pearl Jam released No Code — a dramatic departure in terms of musical style, but unlike most, The Editor was down with that. Ed moved to Sydney and they released Yield, shortly followed by another Australian tour. This time, Ed wasn’t about to do things by halves, so he roped his high school Pearl Jam convert, Wayno, into committing to a three city Pearl Jam fest. Ed and the Wayno drove up the east coast of Australia to watch The Pearl Jams in Melbourne, Sydney and Vegas. For the record, the Vegas show was the standout with an energised band putting their southern performances to shame and pulling out their fantastic B-side Footsteps.

Years pass and The Editor’s starting to grow up and move away from Pearl Jam. Not that he likes them any less, but life moves on, you know. Around this time The Editor started getting right into the band Brad, who feature Pearl Jam’s Stone Gossard on guitar. To this day, Ed’s probably more a fan of Brad than Pearl Jam based purely upon music, but The Pearl Jams and Ed share a lot of history, you know.

Just before Ed jets off overseas for a couple of years they release Binaural, which is a solid, but not outstanding, album. Upon returning to Australia, Ed’s practically forgotten about Pearl Jam until, weeks later, they release Riot Act. The announcement of a third Australian tour stir Ed’s feelings. Booking a ticket (solo) for Melbourne’s Rod Laver Arena, Ed’s not sure what to expect. Is he too old for this shit? Are Pearl Jam, like, soooo ten years ago? The Editor enters the stadium before the concert and is immediately reassured when, sitting in front of him, are a married couple, about Ed’s age, who have brought their freakin’ kids with them. And the boys didn’t disappoint. Eddie Vedder was hammered, drinking bottles of wine and forgetting lyrics throughout the show, but, shit, they still rocked.

And so four years later, it’s 2006. The Editor’s 28 and married. Surely it’s time to move on from that stuff. Pearl Jam release their eighth, self-titled, studio album. Things must be different because back in the day Pearl Jam would never self-title an album (let’s forget about the fact that the working title for vs. was Pearl Jam, okay?). The Editor’s not sure what to expect, given that their last album was a bit of a dud. Should he buy it? Actually, should he download it for nothing? Given that Ed has spent, conservatively, close to $1000 on Pearl Jam records and concert tickets in his time, isn’t it fair that he get this one for free? But the old passion stirred, and yesterday The Editor purchased Pearl Jam at JB Hifi for $18.95.

Holy shit. What an album. It’s like Pearl Jam, but grown up, but young again. Where on Riot Act they sounded jaded and tired, on this one they sound invigorated. The rockin’ songs ROCK, and the ballads make you warm in all the right spots. The guitars are crunchy and angry, and Eddie positively growls into the mic, instead of just warbling lazily like the previous album. In short, it’s an absolute corker that makes The Editor feel like he’s in grade 10 again, but grown up at the same time.

There’s word of an Australian tour later in the year and Ed will certainly be at Rod Laver for his sixth Pearl Jam concert.

As you were.

Chatting to jLo in Europe over the email (instant messenger — what’s that?) has got The Editor to thinking about some crazy tales from his own overseas travel a few years back. Ed was in Germany for a month of solo adventures when two British mates and his sister (Australian) flew over from London to hit Berlin’s bars with him for a few days. Much fun was had and on the day they flew back to England Ed hitched a train to Dresden.

Arriving at a lovely little hostel early in the evening The Editor was looking forward to a solid night of hardcore sleep to recover from a hardcore week in Berlin. He went and grabbed a falafel roll and tucked himself into his sleeping bag around 9pm. Luckily the other dorm inhabitants were not of the raucous, drunken variety.

At 2am the dorm was jolted awake by the arrival of the dorm’s new raucous, drunken inhabitant. He had obviously arrived in the evening and gone straight to the nearest bar. This drunken guy, let’s call him Drunken American, had scored the bunk above The Editor and proceeded to climb heavily, and with precious little coordination, onto it. Thankfully Drunken American rolled straight over and almost immediately began snoring. Ed said a silent prayer of thanks and went back to sleep.

Water. A running stream. Ed was dreaming about a running stream, and his arm was in it. Ed woke up, a little disorientated. Pause. Drip. Something wet dropped onto The Editor from above and his sleeping bag was wet. Drunken American had pissed his bed and it had soaked straight through the mattress. As you can imagine, Ed was angry and violently kicked the sleeping bag off, standing to give Drunken American a serve. But no matter how hard Ed punched the deserving sack of shit in the arm he just wouldn’t wake up. So at 2:30am The Editor washed himself in the toilet sink and moved to an empty bed, taking a spare blanket from the shelf. It took a while for the anger to subside and sleep to come again, but the soothing metronome of Drunken American’s snoring was hypnotic.

The faint blue tinge of dawn was upon the wall of the dorm when Ed woke to a sound coming from the other side of the room. Drunken American had woken up, fully dressed, and was staring, in shock, at his soaked pants. He jumped carefully out of the bunk and thought furiously. Noting that he hadn’t undressed or unpacked, and was well positioned to just run away, he grabbed his backpack and moved for the door. The Editor was having none of this.
“Dude,” barked Ed.
Guilty pause. Turn. “Hmmm?”
“I’ll need to dry clean my sleeping bag.”
Drunken American thought about this for a moment, reached into his pocket, and proffered a five Euro note. The Editor accepted it and Drunken American turned to run away.
“Dude,” said Ed.
Guilty pause. Turn. “Hmmm?”
“You might want to at least take that mattress outside to dry and air.”

So the last sighting of Drunken American was of him walking out with sodden pants, backpack over one shoulder, and mattress over head. The Editor, after the anger passed, was quite pleased that he would be able to tell friends he’d been pissed on in Germany (snigger.) Little did he know that two weeks later he would witness another backpacker being pissed on in a Hamburg hostel. But that’s another story.

As you were.

Sitting at GrodsHQ in Brunswick this afternoon, listening to the sounds of the Big Day Out floating up the road from Princess Park, The Editor has been forced to reflect on how so not the kids he is any more. A couple of days ago the Triple J Hottest 100 was released and Ed can’t recognise half the songs in the top ten, let alone recognise half the bands. Back in the day The Editor was a hardcore Triple J listener who religiously tuned into the annual Hottest 100 broadcast after lodging as many votes as possible. In fact, the last time Ed really paid attention to the Hottest 100 was in 2000 while he was at the last Big Day Out he attended.

It was Sydney. It was sold out. The Editor had spent days bidding for tickets on Ebay and finally secured a lone ticket (bad luck housemate Robbie) for some ridiculous price like $160. He got inside and met a friend. Within 30 minutes he’d lost that friend and there was no mobile phone backup. A long day was spent in the main arena sucking down overpriced beers and watching the Hottest 100 results flashed up onto the big screen. Towards the end of the afternoon Ed secured a prime spot on top of a large rubbish bin (he’s a small fella, The Editor) in preparation for the Red Hot Chili Peppers who were headlining that year. Making friends with some other dude who liked the bin posse, Ed could finally go for pee and bar trips without losing his seat. The Chili Peppers came on. They sucked (The RHCP haven’t made a good album since One Hot Minute). The concert finished. Ed jumped off the rubbish bin to leave and fell heavily on his ankle, tearing a ligament. For some reason he decided to try and walk home since he couldn’t get a cab (Homebush to Rozelle is a long, long way). A couple of hours and a street-side nap later Ed managed to get a cab, the driver of which was studying homeopathy and administered some anti-inflammatory pills. Sweet, sweet drunken sleep. The next morning The Editor woke fully dressed and slightly dazed. He stepped out of bed, completely forgetting his ankle, and the screaming made housemate Robbie run into the bedroom ready to beat crap out of a house intruder.

What happened to The Editor between the early and late 20s? Now he’s a committed 3PBS man who subscribes to the symphony orchestra and likes electronic jazz. People walk up to him, stare, and say “you’ve changed.”

As you were.