I go about my days not expecting jack shit from anyone or anything. This is not pessimism on my part, but centered and centre-of-the earth personal. I consider my existence an ouroboros: Cyclical, relativist, and sometimes uncomfortably prescient. Let live. Yes I’m a complicated nightmare do not ever go out with me for longer than the sex is interesting. In this way, though, I am free from the type of ambition that sees people destroy one another. I don’t want anything. I will admit – grudgingly, because my star sign says I’m a wanker and I don’t want the zodiac to win – this makes me a good fit for the ides of journalism: No one has yet gifted or grifted their way past my objective graces. I will not leave this world having contributed more harm than heart, and I am cringing at myself too it’s all good go for it.
Subsequently, commendations of any kind have come to mean super little to me, but to witless: I had no idea Vice were gonna play these kind of loud favourites at the end of last year – and I was escalatingly (not a word, but it should be, right?) shocked to see my name come up one, two, three, four times in their Best of the Year series. I was like, “Are you fucking crazy? I am so drunk. This is stressing me. You keep doing this, young people will ask me for advice. No. Under no circumstances.” Didn’t stop ‘em. This is what the big bosses in Brooklyn thought were killer from the overpriced Newtown rental property of Tobes in 2015. In order of appearance:
What. A. Night. I hit the weekend Newtown traps with excellent snapper Daniel Bolt and we let the damage do itself to us. Wrapping up circa 3am, a new Tinderbelle would order me to her apartment in an Uber like some kind of sex pizza and answer the door in naught but a gown.
Some third parties later pointed out the saddest part about doing this piece: the backwater of broadsheets that summarily seized on ‘the Newtown situation.’ Ya’ll wonder why the rot is setting in. Sympathy low.
This guy just won’t die. It seriously will not. I just got another Twitter thing about it. A few weeks after it ran, I went out to some dive bar and there was an entire table of people screaming about these alien dildos. I cried. Even Dan Savage wrote it up with a comically disbelieving undercurrent of “People, people.” The Frisky, too. And Distractify. Hell-o, Gizmodo. The people, Dan, love to suck eggs (quick follow-up does anyone know where this expression originates from? Hate it). Incidentally it was published on my birthday, happy birthday to moi.
VICE’s head of comms had this to say:
They love me over there.
In investigating this bizarre coagulate of people taking music way too far, my world got weird(er than usual, which is absolutely 100% saying something). Thrash is a rash: Post-Snowden, every American seemingly believes they are under constant government surveillance. Calls made through Facebook are allegedly beyond such scrutiny, so my phone did not shut up for weeks with random blue-collar longhairs eager to bitch about each other.
Also: No one is surveilling you. You work at a bakery.
It is super rare that I do an Australian story, even though I live in Sydney. I just don’t find being decades behind the rest of the fucking first world particularly interesting. Quite the opposite, although sometimes the Vice AU office ask me to go local and I do endeavour. I kept seeing the startlingly adolescent and right-wing inclined Caleb Bond around more and more, and though I’d like to say I cornered him, he’s incredibly intelligent and youthful and aren’t those two things that political discussion very desperately needs in this country, regardless of side?
Yeah that’s the spirit.