Asylum Seekers

So here I was thinking, I hav’nae been Enduring much Art lately, been a bit off-the-fucking-cyber-reservation, a bit neglectful of you my dear readers reader. But apparently I’ve been AWOL for longer than I thought – since July 14th. Jesus, that’s criminal.

But don’t let your assumptions run away with you. I may subject myself to bouts of habitual self-medication, I may drop out of communion with the world, and sit dumfounded in front of six straight series of The Shield, railing at the idiocies and antics of a bunch of fictional characters in whose plight I have achieved almost the same level of emotional investment as I have with my immediate family, but not this time. Oh no, this time I have been wworking. No, not that sitting-on-my-arse-in-front-of-this-very-computer-all-day-desperately-waiting-for-the-phone-to-ring-so-I-have-something-to-do kind of working.

I have been writing peeps, writing. Writing the sort of stuff that might one day get me in the sort of position of mild celebrity status – by which I mean literary celebrity status – which is not, we all know, as cool as Holywood celebrity status, but also involves a great deal less selling of the soul – unless you’re Dan Brown – and not half as much liposuction –  the kind of midling celebrity status that might one day lead a few people to wonder who the fuck I am – because let’s face it, no one even knows what their favourite writers look like… unless they’re stalkers… in which case you already know who I am… before you even knew you wanted to know – and in wondering who the fuck I am, they will no doubt consult the Google, and find their way here… and unless I have attained a very different (Dan Brown) style of literary celebrity status, I will still be sitting in front of this very computer all day, and doggedly trying to do some real work after the sun goes down, when they drudgery of my days, and the half bottle of shiraz is trying to stop me doing so… and if that is the case, there’ll most likely be a similar derth of posts here, and the poor little fucker will still have no bloody idea who I am…

Anyway, this is all getting a bit confusing. What I was going to say, way back whenever it was, was that despite the fact that I have been a little absent here, and even though I’ve been working on the wonderful Red Phone Box project (which if you have not checked out, go, now, and do so) I have been thinking of you all, and all the wonderful, insightful, bitter-as-fuck things I want to rant about – and you want, nay need, to read about.

Accordingly I have a whole host of things that I can’t possibly squeeze into one episode. I have been hatching this great plan to write this razor-sharp exposé of the dire state of authoritarian propaganda that plagues Westralia – or at least, it plagues me, and since I am a relatively new arrival, I feel that the place ought ot be making more of an effort to make me feel welcome… but then, I suppose, this place ain’t really that big on welcoming outsiders is it – even those of us seeking asylum from the the trendoid, superiority complex of the “Eastern States”.

The problem, however, is that accompanying my inciteful… er… insightful… rant, was to be a plethora of photographs – evidence, evidence, to be used in lieu of actually having anything particularly intelligent to say about the problems with afore-mentioned propaganda… only when I finally get out to take said photographs, the fuckers have taken all the posters and billboards down. It’s just like them isn’t it. “Be afraid. We are watching you. We will brook no disobedience of our archaic, conservative rules and regulations.”

“Hey look at that?”


“That sign that says sit the fuck down and be a good boy. And while you’re at it, mind your own fucking business?”

“What sign?”

Exactly. They’re sneaky little fuckers. Beat the population, and then put down the stick and pretend you were looking the other way… so, sadly, that particular diatribe will have to await the next round of big brother advertising.

And then I thought that I might jump on the let’s-bash-the-sexist-DC-Comics-relaunch bandwagon. But let’s face it kids, when was the last time you saw an anotomically possible female in superhero comics? A little bulge around the waist? An a-cup, or even b-cup chest? And when was the last time you looked at the chiselled, under-wear-on-the-outside brigade, and felt like a worthwhile male specimen afterwards? You can’t even remember? That’s because it NEVER FUCKING HAPPENED.

Yes, I completely agree, the portrayal of women in the DC New 52 is somewhat disgraceful, but it’s pretty much indicative of the medium as a whole. It has always been one of my biggest criticisms of the comics industry… well… at least since my early-teenage masturbatory bonanza lost some of its zeal.

Are you completely, mind-numbingly, over all this yet? Yeah, me too. I guess the more I think about it, the more I realise that I should leave the tirades to Geoff Lemon, who has wit, intelligence, and eloquence to pull it off. I think I’ll stick to fiction, where my talents (apparently) are better realised…


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on September 30th, 2011.

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