UBERWENSCH.COM

PERHAPS MARK AND G

I’m too tired to explain the whole thing. On top of that, my respiratory system has taken one hell of a stand and is blocking all oxygen to my brain. We are running on fumes over here at the FARCEBLOG headquarters. Figurative fumes, of course. See above.

But part of the thing, that I can do.

The locals at Sydney pubs need their own genre. There should be a book about these people already. Is there one? Would someone pay me to write it? Let me know.

Cue Monday night. The Strawberry Hills Hotel. I struggle up the mountain and see Babeface at a table with two men and a girl. I know at least one person is a uni friend, I am unsure about the other two. As I mentioned in that other post, BF picks up strangers whenever she enters a bar. After some fuckaround, I come to understand the girl is from uni and the two gentlemen – Mark (perhaps) and G – are stragglers. Hilarious stragglers at that.

I don’t care about Mark (perhaps). It looks like he had a stroke or a mother with a drug problem, I don’t know. He seems lovely but I can’t understand half of what he says, and I soon find out that the sickening smell wafting in and out of play is coming from his leg. His mother fucking leg. I assure him it is not his leg, but after he leaves for a bit and the smell goes with him I cannot stand to be within earshot.

So I’m faced with G. The dude has “CONVICT” tattooed up the inside of his arm. He looks like a bouncer, but he’s making me laugh so I let it slide. I want to know if he was in jail and why he was in jail, so I hum my way through whatever shit we’re shooting and steer the conversation towards the boob. Disqualified driving and distribution of drugs. G was a speed dealer, and he hasn’t had his license since 1986.

We discuss the fact I was not even alive in 1986, and then he explains laws about mandatory loss of license and incarceration. We discuss The System, and how he has been touched by it. We discuss the Mental Health Act, which has kept him out of jail. We discuss money, and a law suit he’s hoping to see a lot of it from. I won’t go in to details here, but yet another Anglican community group reveals its history as a predator.

We discuss the process of maturing, we discuss women, we discuss de ja vu.

“De ja vu is just a sign that you’re on the right track,” offers G.

And what the fuck, I wonder, is a shit hot line like that doing in a shit hole like this. That’s the type of soundbyte that gets forgotten.

G is like that, though. He flips between gentile road scholar and all-out scoundrel. One moment he is talking poignantly about his broken heart, the next moment he is yelling at strangers about Red Tube.

G finishes telling me how proud he is that he hasn’t smoked in six weeks, that he’s on Zyban because Champix didn’t help, that he’s too old for destructive behaviour. He finishes telling me about that and then grabs some tobacco off his friend and rolls himself a cigarette.

“I’m so disappointed in you, G. Do you feel like a cunt?” I ask.

“Why, have you got one?”

Tal

Oh I bet he'd been waiting his whole life to use that one.

10 March 10 at 00:16

VALE ANDREE PEEL

Jesus.

VALE MARK LINKOUS

Another mastermind lost to desolation. Very sad.

LORRIS RAILWAY

Two minutes from my house, on the corner of my street and another one, is a brilliant little pub called The Royal (or something like that). The steaks are $8.00, the jugs are $8.50 and the smoking room is inside.

Babeface and I trudged through the rain and cold to go there for dinner last night. We had tried to get steaks there a few nights before but were greeted with a large chalk board that read: NO STEAKS – JUST TONIGHT. Though we’d managed to acquire some delicious cow just up the road for the meager sum of $6.50, it wasn’t the same.

So our meal, two days late, tasted like a very real victory and begged a triumphant digestive cigarette. But by the time we’d finished eating the outside smoking area was totally rained out where it wasn’t already occupied, so we had to opt for the indoor smoking room with the pokies.

That was a good choice.

There were three people in there; one of no consequence, and two we ended up – let’s say – befriending.

There are very few certainties in this world, but the one at the top of my list is reads: Nobody puts Babeface in the corner …of the pub, without walking out of there at least one friend up.

The first lady to talk to us looked like an overpriced pauper. I’ve never seen Tsubi jeans worn so inappropriately, navel-high and stuffed with some ironic oriental-screen printed white shirt. Designer belt paired with no-name thongs, and white hair stuffed into a baseball cap with a peak so battered it was half-missing. I should have understood immediately that it was the garb of an old school lesbian, but it took that fucking hat – and the way she idly pulled it off and tugged it on – to get it. That is a trans-generational lesbian tic and I’ve seen it so many times that my brain almost winces when it has to process its occurrence. So this was Jane. And she was lovely. It didn’t take long until she was asking about our attendance at Mardi Gras and talking about the parties and the fuck ups they underwent this year. She was drier than a stone and although it wasn’t immediately apparent, I did appreciate how much cheek she was packing by the time we left.

Babeface was sitting on the floor at my feet, while I perched on one of those globally-issued pokies stools. As Jane faced me to talk, Babeface mouthed the word ‘Tsubi’ in my direction. It was noteworthy because it made no sense. We were looking at two (I will get to the other in a moment) grizzled pensioners; why the fuck was one of them wearing Tsubi.

I had noticed the pants but I thought Babeface was mouthing ’soppy’ at first, and then ’sewing’, so I had no clue what I was supposed to be paying attention to. Blah blah, Jane prattled on and spoke to us about Sydney and the best pubs and the Gold Coast, occasionally interrupted by her friend who looked much older, and much less alert. She was tottering between two or three machines, sliding $20 notes in and not seeing much from it.

“Jane…” She waddled over to Jane’s machine, having just spent another twenty that Jane had handed her.

“What happened to it?” Jane asked, though she seemed more amused than insistent.

“It didn’t come to fruition.”

Eventually Jane’s friend handed her two cards and demanded she go and organise their dinner. It was cheap because of some promo and some busted computer chip somewhere, but there was a time limit on that generosity. Jane had to go IMMEDIATELY, which left us with the dotty gambler. She started talking about Mardi Gras too.

“I was the first one arrested at the 1978 Mardi Gras,” she mumbled.

At least I think that’s what she said. Whether she was the first one arrested, or whether it was just the first Mardi Gras, I’m not sure. But she giggled to herself and explained that she’d given them a false name. At the front of a five person line of arrestees, she’d announced her name was Lorris Railway. They had fingerprinted her and added her to the system as Lorris.

“There were five girls behind me, and they all thought it was such a good name that they used it too.”

She talked about her friend who had been beaten up by police, maybe his name was John Marsden, and how he’d tried to fight back, she talked about the way things were and why they changed, and how they were worse now.

“I don’t know what I was fighting for. I really don’t.”

Babeface made a comment about the number of assaults increasing during Mardi Gras even now, and she nodded.

“You girls have to get political.”

Jane came back in talking about her dinner order – the parmigiana, though she found it funnier to say pyjama – and then told her friend, whose name was Louise, that Babeface and I were straight.

“YOU’RE STRAIGHT? BUT I CAN SEE WHAT YOU THINK OF EACH OTHER.”

“They’re straight!”

Jane was smirking, Babeface was smirking, Louise looked incredulous and I don’t know what I was doing.

“What do we think of each other?”

(Babeface is coy as hell.)

“I can see that you love each other!”

“They’re straight,” Jane was still smirking.

“You’ve got to get political. You’ve got to.”

The conversation kind of died off at that point, but we found out that Louise and Jane had been together for 25 years. They weren’t any more, and they’d had interim relationships. They seemed inseparable. Louise was 78 and a retired lawyer, who knows what Jane was. Most of Louise’s friends had died from AIDs.

Before we left, we told them we hoped to see them again, and Jane told us where to find her.

I was still thinking about them as we wandered home, and I made some remark about them being artifacts of Sydney’s gay history.

“Twenty-five years…” Babeface said.

DAY NUMBER ONE

..At my new job.

Thoughts: Awesome. Sexual puns work-appropriate. Lots of eating. Easily-accessible beer. Awesome.

Conclusion: Awesome.

NB: RE: Whatever that movie screening was, only see it if you are a wanker.

Jennifer

FUCK YOU BITCH

3 March 10 at 09:16

maggie supremo

Probably wouldn't.

3 March 10 at 11:00

Sydney

Just a quick post to say hi pals, I love Sydney.

I got here in one piece on Friday night, and thankfully so did all 40kg of my luggage. Babeface picked me up at the airport and we went straight to Bank Hotel in Newtown for some beers and catch ups. Here I experienced, for the first time, a phenomenon that I’m slowly growing used to (though one I am no less fond of due to its mounting familiarity): Cooper’s pale on tap.

I can’t give you a recap because I was beside myself with glee. Bzzzt, white noise here.

I do know that eventually we pried ourselves away from the beer vendors and drove up the road to my new haus. Deposited my shit, greeted my awesome “roomies” and then.. went to find more Cooper’s near Babeface’s place.

Day one ends shortly after that in a haze of exhaustion and crush-related euphoria.

Day two was Babeface’s introduction to Sydney trains, and my introduction to the James Squire Brewhouse on Darling Harbour. Fuck. Me. Their plate of ribs conquered your gallant heroine, I’m sorry to say. I left maybe two ribs untouched. Maybe three. Who knows. I ate an entire pig and it was so fucking delicious that I cannot wait to do it again.

I also realised two things on Saturday evening.

Thing one: HOLY FUCK YOU CAN SMOKE EVERYWHERE IN SYDNEY. I did not have to move, apologise or lie when I wanted a cigarette. I just sat at my table, with my beer, in front of my pig carcass, and unabashedly enjoyed smoking. Fuck you, QLD.

Thing two: HOLY FUCK YOU CAN DRINK EVERYWHERE IN SYDNEY. In the streets, in the gutter, on the wharf. Take your beer! And, you know what? Even if you end up in one of the few no-alcohol zones and you get caught there, THERE IS NO FINE. The $22.00 public drinking (in NAZ) fine was abolished. You simply have to discard your beverage now. FUCK. YOU. QLD.

There was a bad ass fireworks display over the Harbour to celebrate the gaysexuals’ big party too.

Which is to say, it was a wonderful second night in town.

SUNDAY rolled around and Babeface had to get up stupidly, STUPIDLY early for a work thing, and I had to sleep in for a soul thing, so not much happened until lunch time when I wandered JUST DOWN THE ROAD for a BROAD SELECTION OF DELICIOUS, CHEAP SHIT with my AWESOME HOUSEMATES. And chose a gigantic toastie. And a Dr. Pepper.

Babeface finally appeared a few hours later and we went to the pub on the corner for TWELVE DOLLAR JUGS OF COOPER’S PALE. I repeat: TWELVE DOLLAR JUGS OF COOPER’S PALE.

It was raining at this stage, and the smoking section at this pub was this shanty-sized cut out with just the one umbrella that didn’t seem to be covering much. I hated it at first, but it grew on me. Especially when we met some interesting locals out there who talked a lot about drugs and buying drugs and taking drugs, but also managed to throw in some chatter about Sydney and where to buy DELICIOUS, CHEAP SHIT. The lady was Scottish, hilarious and I hope to see her again, and the dude lived just above the pub and works there every day, so I know I’ll see him again.

Are you tired yet? Because I started feeling tired here.

We finished our jug, went to the pub on the OTHER corner for some food ($8 steaks!) and some more beer, then made our way back to Bank for a friend’s 23rd birthday.

Many shenanigans ensued there, but who can be fucked going on with this. All I’m saying is there is a lot going on here that I’m in love with.

Also I purchased some ironic city-wide transport in the form of a longboard. I love it, it is so pretty.

My plan for today (my first day of work, which I took off) is to whip it out and skate over to Guzman y Gomez for some burritos and margaritas. But if we’re being honest, I think you know – and I know – that I will probably just go to the pub on the corner ($8 steaks) instead.

Blah blah blah, I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH.

Frank Fanny Fatarse

oh you like it now, just wait..there'll be no "fuck you QLD" in 3 months. THERE IS NO BOB IS ...

1 March 10 at 20:25

Tal

Gomez y Guzman is amazing.

1 March 10 at 21:39

NEW LAYOUT

Good afternoon, malcontents.

I have completed the cyber renovations on my glob, and I have to say that UBERWENSCH has finally achieved its stylistic potential. LOOK AT THIS PLACE.

This morning I received a call from my friend, The Publishing Antiquity, about the importance of the Blogging Impression in the world of media.

Thankfully my degree prepared me for this conversation — in three years of journalism at a tertiary institution I learned two things: there is an inverted pyramid metaphor and YOU ARE YOUR TWITTER.

Blogging is Twitter’s meatier, more worthwhile grand-daddy, and so it was the 101 pre-requisite to Understanding Microblogging in the New Millennium.

I will save you the HECs debt and summarise the whole issue… Without integrated Internet holdings, you are nothing.

Was that 140 characters or less?

So TPA took me aside, telephonically, and explained that my blog was not quite adequate. There was no cross-platform communication, no coherent design aspect, no obvious portfolio.

In a word, my whole Internet presence was fucked. It followed, then, that my future in “this business” was understandably shaky, if not doomed from the bottom up.

I set out to fix this issue. To create a professional, sterile environment that my future employers could drift in and out of at their leisure to decide whether I was a suitable candidate for their money.

My efforts were earnest, if a little brief.

But, just in time, I remembered my stance on the whole idea of image-making.

That’s my QUALIFIED stance, if you don’t mind.

Are you ready?

Are you ready?

Take a breath because THIS IS SOME NEXT LEVEL SHIT.

-

–

—

Okay.

The construction* of artificial branding, be it a personal or corporate matter, is usually a process concerned parties engage in when there is some distinct abyss between the product offered and someone’s idea of that product’s ideal form.

There. It’s on the Internet. It’s on my inadequate Farceblog.

Your gaylord positioning should be symptomatic of your output, not fabricated in isolation of it.

I hate presentation. I hate the industrious, barely-there dullards who stake their claim on it. I hate the puff parts of “the industry” and its brutalisation of mediums that COULD be used to great effect but are restricted by the “HOW DO WE SAVE PRINT JOURNALISM” sect. And I hate every entity that requires leather binding to validate whatever content is bound.

People have told me for years that this is an immature and unproductive position to hold, and that it would either trip me up or destroy me completely.

I have yet to experience anything of the sort, and so I’m sticking with it. Substance is boss.

Forbes.com already listed UBERWENSCH as the greatest website ever hung on the internodian clothesline, and while I always knew there was something to that title, I finally feel like we here at UBERSTENSCH headquarters have properly earned it.

In short, FARCEBLOG RULES.

Love,
Meg White.

*I also hate these words.

Andrew McMillen

This is quite amazing. I haven't seen any other blog do this. Well done! A+ would deal with again

22 February 10 at 16:32

Jesse McCormack

Meg, just found your website and I think it roxxz.

22 February 10 at 17:39

TEZZZZzzZZzT

Testing. Obviously.

View all 6 comments

maggie supremo

SO MUCH WIN

22 February 10 at 12:11

MC Brazilian Trib

ahahahaha. so fucking good

22 February 10 at 12:14

DARK MATTER

Something like 95% of our “observable” universe is made up of a matter we can’t see, a matter we can – at best – infer the existence of. It’s 2010 and we are still trading on galactic implications and inference.

Quantum physics tells us, on some days, that we are the source of the universe. We precipitate worlds with thought. We merge galaxies in the most violent and irreversible way with our minds. Science.

When I was an obnoxious 16 year old my mother and I fought about religion. Quantum physicists do the work of priests. They believe in God. That was her rejoinder.

I go to a Christian school, get fucked. That was mine.

As an obnoxious almost-22 year old I just told two kids to fuck off. Galaxies we conceived of eat each other. It all makes sense, and it’s ugly.

Astronomy is my favourite strand of science. Not just because it turns on an axis of faith, but because it employs the sassiest terminology of all. Dark matter, galactic bulge, doppler shift, stellar evolution, gravitational collapse, Jupiter masses. That is some laureate shit. That is some heavenly shit.

And it is tragic.

When you read up on the skies, you come across sentences like: there is little material left from which to form stars.

What is sadder than that?

There is little material left from which to form stars.

I saw Saul Williams back in two-thousand and x. He destroyed himself before our congregation. Then he got back up and howled — fucking howled — “lift up your voice and sing”. And on cue, prompted and maintained by the most subtle choreography, the congregation responded. One identical utterance, a backbeat and that forward tilt all good backbeats bring: UH.

There it is in text, and how underwhelming.

Uh.

But it was more like a collision. A sold out venue: UH.

A mass of euphoric, drunken strangers: UH.

The floor shuddered.

Saul sucked it dry and soared over it. Back up, reformed and divine.

There is something about Saul Williams you can’t exorcise.

I remember looking at Saul and thinking about dark matter. I read about it in a vodun book back in 2006 and never got over it. It’s a matter of religion for me. It’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a credible God. Dark matter, AIDs, cancer. These things are articles of faith. We cannot solve for x. We cannot explain, and we cannot cure. There are things bigger than our kind, and those things are theological. They demand faith, and hope, and solidarity.

We are a world floating in the sky. Heaven? The destination of the faithful.

What are you, and where are you now?

This is my issue with religious doctrine. Look the fuck around. This is your dogma.

I can do more fruitful work for Christ. So I really don’t know which is better. I’m torn between two desires: I long to go and be with Christ, which would be far better for me.

And yes, there was war in Heaven. And yes, we travel through the air in gigantic metal structures. And yes, 95% of our universe is belief and estimation. And what. The fuck. Are you waiting for.

Think harder, plebeians. There is little material left from which to form stars. What have you been doing in your spare time? What have you been ruminating on? Whatever it is, you’re doing it wrong. You’re thinking too small, too petty.

Exorcisms should be gentle. Something you can lean on. A firm hug, that one smile. Trust in the motions of galaxies.

It should be a warm, resounding “uh”.

Sprawling skies.

Stellar evolution.

Work with Psalms. Work with truth.

Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

And stop pretending.

In my Father’s house are many rooms

HI TEAM

So I’m suddenly getting an influx of new readers from this article I wrote for Everett True/DiS months and months ago. I’m not sure why that is happening, but I thought I’d say hi to the people clicking through.

UBERWENSCH went on an unofficial hiatus for a while there, and though it is slowly limping back towards its former place in my lyf as a mind dump, we’re still a long way off.

As for the rest of you, HEY! I’m moving to Sydney on Friday (the 26th) to take up the reigns as staff writer for Australian Penthouse. I am incredibly fucking excited to be walking in to this job, incredibly grateful for the people I’ve managed to acquaint myself with down there and incredibly concerned about my ability to survive without my mum.

Incredibility aside, I want to spend my last week on the Coast smooching you all goodbye. Keep that in mind.

Tonight was my birthday dinner with family/BFFs/babeface. I am stuffed to painful capacity and beyond exhausted, so.. This is Meg White: signing out.

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MC Womb Raider

we are not going to see you here in the big smoke i assume?

21 February 10 at 23:44

maggie supremo

you big smoke folk are the ones i wanna be smoochin'.

22 February 10 at 07:49