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SPFECH PATHOLOGY

9 Dec

We have all encountered this problem. You have hung your favourite Twilight Poster on the wall only to come back home on a hot day and it’s performing some Ouroboros maneuver on the floor, and whats-his-name the vampire dude’s face is now all crinkly. Heat and gravity have struck at your tender childhood heart, to spite your flowering girlish dreams.

Spare a thought for this poor Speech Pathologist. Obviously she didn’t account for extreme sun ray action in her shopfront when writing her business plan or else this delightfully unfortunate blu-tack droop to the letter E would not have happened. But something inside me is glad it did.

Spfech Pathology

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Random Insults Day 15 – This is so not cool!

14 Nov

It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who finds playground defacement with pictures of dicks a little on the nose.

This old school comment stream was scrawled on the inside of a wooden playground train at the M Walker Playground in Cramer Street Preston.

It’s interesting to reflect that the now ubiquitous experience of commenting on people’s messages, ala Facebook Wall, has an earlier counterpart in graffiti on toilet walls & c.

Human’s have always enjoyed leaving their mark, all the way back to pre-literate hunter gatherer cultures. I imagine that there was disagreement even back then as to the appropriateness of what was etched onto the cave wall with charcoal and animal fat. Grug may have coped a bit of flack from his brethren for depicting his own spear striking the wooly mammoth first, or for drawing the mammories on his Venus or the phallus on his Horned God just a little too big.

Perhaps the fact that comment streams are everywhere may make this little exchange seem trivial (compared to the brilliant insights one can read about lunch-time fare and other literate-bowel movements on FB) but this is a slice of insight I feel needs recording, if only to make me nostalgic about the streams of toilet humour that I have seen in pub and public loos the world over.

I also like the second comment, “You right it’s gay” (sic), for its unPC condensation of the issue into a curious psychological insight. Why do some people draw dicks in public places? Purileness? Black magic? Asserting their male vigour in the face of repressed homosexuality? Or just a way to mark an onanistic accomplishment – another day, another wank (metaphorical or literal)? Oh and what’s with the date?

This is Not Cool

Random Insults Day 6 – We gon find u

30 Oct

A definite contender for the WTF file, I snapped these two pieces of gibberish on two separate levels in the adventure playground behind the Croxton School in Woolhouse Street East Brunswick.

What struck me initially was the creepyness of this graffiti. When I saw “We Gon’ Find U” I was reminded of a twilight zone episode where a father trades his soul to become a child ghost haunting a playground in order to spare his son the torment of being teased by bullies. Is there anything creepier than the sound of an empty swing squeeking mournfully on a windy night?

Then I found the response, “This is not Van” in the same hand on the ground level and I could only chuckle at the thought of some disembodied spray can wielding bogey man called Van with a serious identity crisis. Perhaps the author was trying to make a statement like “This is not vandalism” but ran out of room on his/her chosen canvas. Or maybe this doesn’t really bode much more than a juvenile practicing her lines for some serious lame arsed graffiti somewhere even less appropriate.

we gon find u

this is not van

God Woz ‘ere

8 Feb

In the backstreets of Northcote, armed with a spray can and a ouija board, our hero stalks. He is a man on a mission, yet the particulars of that mission are unknown – hence the board. All he knows is that something must be said, and it must be said tonight. Oblivious to the lights of passing cars and the smell of piss from the Friday night tourists, he plants himself on the footpath and begins to summon his muse.

When the spirit infests him it is a familiar warmth – first his groin, then his stomach and finally his heart lights up. He knows what he must do. Impulsively he turns and throws the useless board away… it won’t tell him anything he does not know instinctively. He picks up the can and turns to the metal junction box, or whatever the hell it is, and pours out the contents of his illuminated soul, the great I Am … “God woz ‘ere”.

He does not linger for long to admire or even comprehend what has been written, but he leaves the place knowing others will come to honour their own inner light, or expel their inner darkness – be it with spray can, felt marker or prepared paper – for this is the sacrement they all share, and the city walls are their holy church.

God woz 'ere