sexual sportswear

Acid Midget: Oxford St gays spotted, moving northbound in pack formation. Over.

_______: Where are they headed?

AM: Can’t confirm that yet. They appear to be high on disco biscuits and are chewing their own faces off.

_______: Sounds serious. What’s their trajectory?

AM: Leaving Oxford St’s cocks-balls-and-butts district and are approaching Pie Face, sir.

_______: Godammit! They have such delicious pies there. What’s their profile?

AM: Sir, aaah, they are wearing red and yellow Speedos, swimming caps and Cons. They also have enough bronzer smeared on their bodies to give Mr. T a hard-on. Sir.

_______: Those assholes! How do they incorporate masculine stereotypes in such an unconventional way?

AM: I don’t know sir. Maybe they’re eclectic.

_______: Yes, I suppose they are. Follow them and report back to me. Find out everything about them – I wanna know their destination and where they’re based. Hell, I wanna know their favourite Britney track.

AM: Understood sir. Over and out.

age

Uneaten ice cream cake. 11 new candles. Days have passed since the celebration.

You know you’ve passed the prime of your youth when this happens. When you can’t even eat your own fucking cake.

Make an excuse to get a bit drunk.

Make an excuse to say what you (really) think.

Find an excuse to make out with a GILF.

“Now, live it, the prime time of your life.” – French Androids

getting to third base

This image is on the Meridian International School’s exterior wall at Waterloo St. It depicts a Surrealist landscape appropriating the Adam and Eve story from The Book of Genesis.

To the right of the frame Eve faces a large hand. She is denoted by her voluptuous figure.

Looking away from this scene is a sombre Adam. Holding a beer in his left hand, he knows Eve is leading him toward death. But he’s a bit pissed and wants to get to third base before dinner.

Then Lucifer, the serpent wrapped around the hand, beckons these kiddies toward The Theme Park of Eden to eat the Toffee Apple of Knowledge.

“It’sss tempting, isssn’t it kidsss?” Lucifer says.

They buy tickets, hop on the ‘coaster and experience the greatest euphoria of their immortal existence.

But they want more.

They keep returning, only to find each time less exciting than the last. That first rush is almost in grasp, but falls farther away.

Now they’re exhausted, it’s getting late and Adam hasn’t even tickled the butterfly yet.

Hold on. Who's that waiting at the rollercoaster’s apex?

slutty hills

This path art was in an obscure alleyway off Crown St, near the corner of Jesmond St. I don’t particularly like it. It has the aesthetic appeal of cured vomit and the poetic meaning of a Shakespearean fart.

But I like the shadow play around the letters and the little 'kiss'. Mwa back at you lover.

Of course it’s difficult for anyone, other than The Acid Midget, to spot this piece during a late night Oxford St drug run.

These prints were found in an alleyway off Lt Riley St, Slutty Hills. The top image looks like Ned Kelly. For the noobs, he was a martyr to hipsters everywhere for his avant-garde 'iron chic' designs.

Beneath this image is everyone’s nightmare – a salesman with a greasy face and a bum chin - with the word `aspire’ inscribed over his neck rolls.

How the artist/s meant for these images to relate is unclear. Maybe it’s commentary on social stratification and its influence on outlaw ideology. Or maybe I’ve had too many beers, and i'm beginning to see ideas beyond the end of my penis shaft.

mail delivery

One thing i like about Surry Hills folk is their hippie mentality. It's refreshingly off-the-wall.

Surry Hillster: "No, Mr Postman, don't put that fucking letter in the letterbox. That's, like, empowering the 'establishment' and shit."

Postman: "Listen here, you smelly little hipster. If you ask me to put mail in your window, play Cowboys and Indians with your Shih Tzu, or offer me a spliff one more time - i'll beat the cunting shit out of you."

Surry Hillster: "Naawww dude, don't be so literal and shit. I, like, speak in analogies. Or whatever."

Postman: "Here, just take this fucking letter. It’s from the Bob Dylan Society. I heard they’re going into receivership.”

Surry Hillster: “Aww damn…well Dylan would probably want it that way, it’s only money. So go fuck yourself mailbitch.”

halloween

So it was Halloween last week, a special time of year for freaks (like you). On Saturday night i got a bit drunk at the Clock Hotel and decided to walk home when it got late.

I turned onto Bourke St just outside Bar Cleveland. I saw a BMW parked on the road and - HOLY. FUCKING. SHIT. IT'S A MUMMY SITTING IN A HIPSTER'S CAR.

I took this photo as i soiled my Calvin Kleins.

stereosonic

I snapped this piece of skywriting on Sunday afternoon at Bondi Beach. I had trouble taking my eyes off the frothy surf, which was like a salty Pavlova filled with surfboards and titties.

Then i looked up.

Gotta hand it to the pilot. His, um, `handwriting' is damn neat considering he's 10,000 feet up and racing against shifts in the stratosphere.

Personally i can't wait for Stereosonic. It hits Sydney on November 28 and will be headlined by Deadmau5, Axwell, Fedde Le Grand and Laurent Garnier.

It'll be another Pavlova, filled with skinny jeans and titties this time.

Image editing by Melvyn Knipe.

hipstergasm

This is a press shot for The Book of Everything, a play showing at the Belvoir St Theatre from December 23 to January 31. One of theatre's publicists sent it to me and i realised, "Holy camel toe! That's the wall i've been shooting at Esther Lane!" In a flurry of excitement i kicked the air and a bright yellow POW! bubble popped from my shoe.

Note the chunk of render missing, as my earlier post depicts. This must've been snapped a little while back, as there is nothing stuck on the wall behind the model. Funny how the wall is now a beacon for hipster artists to metaphorically piss on the lawn.

After this i had to see the wall. I went down there and lazily puffed a Dunhill while studying this new poster that was stuck to it. It depicts a nude man sprawled face-down on a timber floor. He appears to be in a state of pleasurable submission.

How the image relates to the text isn't clear. It reads: "A thirst for the extreme? Adpot one of our kittens now." The artist supplied tabs with a mobile number and web address to the new magazine Sink.

I don't know about you, but fuck the kittens. Tie me up and take me to a land where all i need to worry about is splinters in my chest and the moments between orgasms.

Then i went to a poetry reading at the Brett Whiteley Studio. It was a magic potion of overcast melancholy outside, contrasted with the smooth, sparse whiteness of the gallery. Inside were the shy smiles of polite writers that probably grew up reading books instead of doing drugs and screwing.

That explains why i was at the gallery and not undressing hipsters.

After the reading - dare i say "headlined" by Les Wicks - i explored the gallery. Upstairs was a collection of Whiteley's paintings and sculptures, personal photographs, wall scribbles and a ruffled mattress he would've got high and fucked on. The clocks, pictured above, ('Heroin' is written between them) were part of this collection of oddities. I now love Whiteley in a very depressed way.

Great pre-20th century writers were like rockstars. Look at Goethe, Nietzsche and Shakespeare. These motherfuckers' reputations were preceded only by their splashings of syphillis. But as popular culture changed, in technology's shadow, what could once be called a sex symbol has become reduced to mute markings on isolated walls.

Imagine the Dalai Lama as the face of Calvin Klein underwear. That'd show Chinese hipsters.