Have we become a nation of habitual texters, or is this modern method far too transitory to ever be seriously considered as a worthwhile and enduring method of communication?

Let us examine firstly the problem with SMS translation or “text speak” as it commonly known.

To illustrate the point, consider the following circumstances; would an entire army of British have risen up and fought voraciously to the death for their beloved empire when Sir Winston Churchill uttered “Victory at all costs - Victory in spite of all terrors - Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival.”, as part of his famous Blood, Sweat and Tears speech in 1940? Or instead, should the character-limited SMS medium of communication have been available, would thousands of soldiers similarly have fought heroically to the death, dimly-lit Nokias or Samsungs clutched tightly to their mud-stained uniforms with this somewhat incomprehensible message in their inbox being their only driving force.. “4 w/o victrY ther iz n survivL”...

Secondly, there's the problem of ambiguity.

Consider the phrase “you’re dead!” received as a text.

How many ways can this be interpreted? Is the person jovial?, to what ends have they been involved in your ongoing exchange? Are they now looking forward to grinning, punching you on the arm and buying you a beer after work, or are they, in fact, currently standing in a deserted car park in Fyshwick speaking to a heavyset man named Tony regarding the purchase of a semi-automatic weapon. Were you the recipient of the above text, you may never know until it’s too late.

This, however amusing it may seem, is ambiguity at its most unpleasant, and an ongoing consequence of SMS.

In conclusion, the inescapable fact remains that civilised, lucid conversation is as vital to our everyday communication with others as the actual information we pass on. Though spoken conversations tend to be somewhat less formal than traditional written correspondences such as letters, these conventions of politeness and formality remain necessary in today’s civilised society.

5.Rest assured, the crew member that pushed for this cover shot is the same one that masturbated into the lycra unitard left behind by the drummer in the trailer after the show.
If history teaches us anything, it's that he probably went on to kill him and use his beard as a merkin on weekends.




4.Sure, Joyce might look like someone that would enjoy crashing funerals, is a wizz with a bedazzler and has a porcelain doll collection to rival Waylon Smithers, but honestly, you know in your heart of hearts that she'd deepthroat like a fucking champ.




3."Hey kids, it's your old friend, Mr. Bat! Who wants to sing a song into my special pink microphone?"

Currently still listed in the Yellow Pages under 'F' for 'Fucking Scary Paedophile Clowns, or 'S' for 'Show Me On The Dolly Where He Touched You'.




2.Okay, so we'll assume 'Mongo' at the back there may have been hit with something heavy as a child (possibly a goods train), which resulted in his unfortunate ocular defect and probably suggests that that even on a good day he's confused by the 4 reflections he sees staring back at him from in the mirror.
However, this doesn't explain what the fuck the rest of the cast of 'Toupee Troop' were thinking, with the worst offender being the gentleman at the front left who appears to have bought The Toupee That Elvis Died In, and intends to wear it until the same fate befalls him.
We can only hope.




1.Seriously, what on earth would possess you to put an image of a hairy, disgusting, unkempt, filthy animal on the front cover of your album?

Still, the pig was a good idea though.

I stand, eyes closed, oblivious to nothing other than what some Gen X-ers may call 'The Vibe'; my concentration focussed on an indefinable, intangible aspect of social interaction.

The next choice, all those that have come before it, and all that follow, must be carefully considered. Each must flow, must travel, must have substance, but most importantly, must evoke.

I choose.

Sounds fuse together. A symbiotic relationship is born as each becomes intrinsic to the other. The foundations of one is the basis of the next. For some, hands raise in elated recognition; for others, blissful oblivion. Communication exists via this rhythmic electronic language, and everyone is listening.

Bodies glide together in motion, captured in the white-hot arc of light. Frozen instants of infatuation. Confusion. Flirtation. Frustration.

The tempo rises, all influenced by it oblivious.

This is my passion. My element. Here, I am complete.

In an age where digital data is commonplace, 3-d television is just around the corner and a lifetime of memories are available at the touch of an ergonomic button, I am naught but a Luddite. A technological throwback.

I do not long for my precious memories to be stored on high density DVD and played back with an accompanying dreamy soundtrack. Nor do I have a catalogued and indexed mini-SD tape collection with my children's birthdays in chronological order.
No, I have something far more technologically advanced. My mind's eye.

Before you cut and paste this article into your iPhone for later perusal, consider this. If we, as individuals, are afforded the luxury of total digital recall, then primarily from a neuro-cognitive perspective, we are not regularly exercising that part of the brain (the hippocampus), that allows us to recall these memories effectively. In other words, we're getting lazy. Why bother expending energy recalling that camping trip in year 12 when your best friend realised he had pitched his tent on a fire ant's nest when you can just pull up a few photos instead?
The difference? There's no feeling. No involvement. It's a 2-dimensional image, and unfortunately, so are the resulting emotions.

So you see, I want to hold fast to my version; the real 3-D, surround sound, ultra-high definition version that will be forever embedded in my memories.

I fall off my bike. Feel the gravel on my burning hands and see small birds flying across the horizon from where I lay. Best friend dies. Hate the pointed finality of a silently closing door at a church. The rain on my face as we walk to a car. The windows gather condensation as we sit and hold each other in silence. My first kiss. I sit in a darkened basement. Hear the thud of parent's shoes on the wooden floor above, feel my hands shake and see the half-lit face of a doll sitting perched on a rocking chair in the corner.

The ability to be instantly transported to that mental snapshot, with all the sounds, smells, feelings and nuances that made that occasion unforgettable in it's own way, is something we should strive to never lose. For if we lose this, then what is left? A digital representation of ourselves? These memories are what hold us together, create who we are, our reactions, our ideas, our passions.

Consider for a moment the 'Observer Effect' in physics, which states that "the act of observation will make changes on the phenomenon being observed". Being in a situation where someone pauses, tells everyone to wait while they retrieve a camera, effectively kills a beautiful, spontaneous moment.

So next time you want to capture something, don't rely on your digital toys.
Stop, immerse yourself in the moment, take in the sounds, the laughter, the tears and everything in between, and let it become a part of you forever.

I want to write.

All the time.

Subjects flit in and out of the periphery of my consciousness, to be replaced, overlapped and fused together by others.

I sit, silently cursing my nonchalant, arrogant response to what one could consider the seed of a brilliant insightful piece; the literary equivalent of a butterfly catcher devoid of a net, that awakens to find himself in a field in springtime and can only watch as everything he has ever desired swirls around him, yet can do nothing but watch helplessly.

At times I wonder if the humorous overtones that I so deftly deploy in the majority of what I produce serves not only to avoid serious criticism from the audience, but as a smokescreen to my own flailing self-confidence. A topic of utmost gravity becomes a shadowy figure of it's own possibility, not only in my mind, but the mind of the reader, and sometimes I am powerless to stop it.

The meandering, verbal journeys produced by those butterflies should at times be allowed to roam free, no matter what the subject, or the cost.

At times I want to write for nothing other than the sheer joy of creating. I simply long for the journey. Not for the destination, or the origin, but the meandering sprawl of everything in between. To walk slowly along a stream; to stand silently, omnipotently above a neon city at night; to lay sprawled on dusty, red clay as we did as children and watch ants scurry; to touch someone's hand for the first breathless time, and everything in between.

All I need is a net.

The rest is up to me.

I figured it was time my rather languid-looking LiveJournal got a facelift, so after much deliberation, and a plethora of what were they thinking-type designs perused, here is the end result.


Also, I've just started my own DJ School here in Canberra, so I'll be including all the information about what's going on with this venture here.

More information to follow shortly...