So finally leaving Black Widows at arond 3am, we make our way home so sleep may be had before an important meeting. The Manifest Organising Committee meeting.

Only slightly less corrupt, and with substantially less money than the International Olympic Committee, MOC put on Melbourne’s best anime convention, Manifest, and I am the titular head this year… Go me….

If you have suggestions, or simply like to draw pornography involving our mascot, Peppa Chan, by all means please send that in by email, or just comment down below. Here’s a picture for reference purposes if you’re doing the porn. Preferably somethign with tentacles please.

In the past these meetings have been an exercise in tedium. To most extents, they still are, only now thanks to my iron fist, we don’t spend 150 minutes arguing about who was meant to pay for a fucking P.O. Box.

But the whole point of mentioning this? Seriously. If you like anime, and have some suggestions of what we should do at the largest dedicated anime festival in the country, I’m open to suggestions…
I may also be attempting to rank for longtails in SERP, but that’s a tech joke… or is it?

With the meeting over, I met up with Wade. For those of you that are unaware, Wade is one of my three dopplegangers (see photo). If you are interested in some Dr. Manhattan Action, again, the comment box is below… I’ll be the one still working in the tool shed. 

To explain, Wade is what I would have become if I remained single and never went to university.
Much like J.L. is what I would have become if I gave a crap about career climbing, or that guy in QLD is what I would be if I hadn’t aged for the last decade.
That is to say, amazingly sleazy and with a bizarrely fucked up, yet compellingly hilarious, sex life, which is soon to be turned into a web comic, line of merchandise, and perhaps children’s book.

The comic will be called Wadeing in the Gene Pool. Technically, there is meant to be a site for it, but I haven’t had the time to go through all the shit to set it up, as my hosting has sent me through all kinds of shenanigans lately. Wade & I  sat for an hour, over some Nandos because hot stories require hot sauce, and discussed. I would offer you an excerpt now, like I promised yesterday, only I also have broken my only 3.5mm Male/Male audio lead, and will be getting a new one this weekend… Oooh, anticipation!

We’ll be attempting to make the audio a weekly podcast the moment the site is up. Ladies, or Lady Boys, if you’re interested you can even become part of Season 2.

Finally I decided it being the last night of the Comedy Festival, I should try to get in one more show. I am now horribly horribly morose because there’s nothing, NOTHING, funny in my life now… My art career can now continue apace. This is especially important in light of the show’s title: Comicide.

No, they weren’t killing Communists. It was a series of running sketches about those socially awkward moments that kill your social life and any chance you might ever have at having happiness. Fucking hilarious… Especially the sketch about a guy having to flee to Siberia for getting the Transformers transforming sound wrong. If you have a chance to see these guys, sink a few drinks, and get in there.

And then, home again home again cry myself to sleep…

What time is it? IT’S SATURDAY!

That’s the crazy kinda shit that goes down with OzTAKU. If it confuses Westeners, it’s our bag! And we had a meet up on that Saturday.

Why do I bother mentioning a manga drawing community on a blog supposedly about gawths? Well, the answer should be that obvious, but in case it isn’t, you may have noticed a disturbingly large number of gawths still read comic books, particularly the slightly more “mature” kind, but either way, there are plenty of manga for goths. And if that weren’t enough to convince you, most of the community is full of goths anyway…

Lithe, pouting, full lipped pretty boys consistently mistaken for young women. Metal Heads consistently mistaken for insurance clerks. Supple young women consistently mistaken for Brian Malko. Minors consistently drawing pornography to vent sexual frustrations forced on them by overly restricitve ethnic parents, and others that inform you your facial hair feels somewhat like their nethers. Truly, it is a communicative paradise of comedy, comraderie and consistent face palming.

We aim for consistency you see.We also aim to be sell out whores, but somehow it fails, and we’re still poor. Damn you, starving artist stereotype!

Clearly though, this was getting me nothing but hunger. Hunger for comedy, lest I blow my brains out. So off I went, seeking such from other cartoonists.

Looking for comedy itself, I was sorely disappointed. There was nothing funny about Comic Book Funnies this week, much to my disappointment. What was I not disappointed by then? Why, The Sexy Men of Australian Australian Comics 2009-2010 Financial Year Calendar. Featuring sexy sexy men such as Patrick Alexander. And not only did I get to lust after such pinup material, I got to meet them too!.. Whcih is actually something I could do the first Saturday of every month at the Prince of Wales hotel if I wasn’t busy with other crap

But with that disappointment, I had no choice but to go home and weep… Or y’know, shower and change and get ready to go out to Black Widows.

I’ve got to say, it was a remarkably good night. The music was pumping up until about 2:00am when it became more glitchpop than industrial / danceable metal.

That, however, did not prevent me from being an angsty fuck, because I had not taken a fair does of Fukitol as I should have. The secret to happiness, after all, is self medication. This was qickly fixed with three shots of overpriced Sierra Tequila which I managed to get at a discount. I now recall why I stopped drinking cheap tequila. It didn’t help that people kept coming up and asking if it was Zak. For fuck’s sake, it was not fucking Zak! Leave Zak alone! Those that attempted to cheer me up, appreciated… but don’t do it next time.

 

Rant aside, perhaps the best part of the night was remaking aquaintance with someone who insists she’s a “sex ninja”. It’s certainly more original than “vampire”, and more interesting than “pagan / witch”. I’m leaving money on the dresser in the hopes that she comes some night. Although more entertaining was introducing her to Jaz. It’s always an awkward moment when introducing your partner to someone you met without her, regardless of your intentions. You’re unsure if they will get along, or throw down, and an inflattible children’s pool filled with jelly will mysteriously appear (well, it’s King Street).

Speaking of unspeakable sexiness, I did manage to catch up with my doppleganger and arrange to record his bizarre sex life for the purpose of documenting it as a comic. Said arranged time? Why, the very next day! And you’ll be privvy to the opening of that inanity tomorrow… Eventually, this recording will form the basis for an entire movement in and of itself: Wadeing in the Gene Pool.

To Be Continued… again…

For a weekend in which I was meant to get a whole lot of work done, it seemed I did almost nothing. I only managed to get 3 hours of work on Manifest down, not including the meeting. Fairly relaxing, non-productive weekend… and it all started on Friday night when I started hearing the blingleblingleblingle sound of an inevitable flashback sequence. Unaware of what it was at the time, I assumed it was the last gasp of a dying heroin addict.

You see, I was in Brunswick at time for a friend’s farewell party. He’s off to the US to marry his Texan beau. Most of us think he’s insane. But he met her online, so we know it’s true love, even if she is a man of which we are most assiduously assured she is not. Having actually met her, I’ll reserve my judgement until I’ve slept with “her”.

So there we are at the Retreat Hotel. It’s a hole very reminiscent of that first level of Guitar Hero. It also happens to be right across the road from The Brunswick Green. Another hole that is similarly reminiscent, but it does have the one charming feature of being a regular haunt for the goths that live in the area. If the party had been there, I’d have been able to get a meal more appetising, and had conversation with people who weren’t going to chastise me in the same way they do to the kindergarten children under their care, or like I was some amazingly weird, drunk asian man hitting on them.

Inevitably, it began to rain, and it was no longer my scene. I decided I’d go and hang out with my favourite DJ couple, who are also getting married soon incidentally, only to find out that one half had gone to Sound Tech at the Eltham RSL for some band or other… So there Jaz & I sit, with a certain Pooley ne Brand delivering head scritches whilst we watched the original X-Men movie (with the original Sabretooth) and Dark City, before heading back to the farewell party, which had moved to Noise bar by this time.

It’s at this moment I’m beginning to think everywhere in Brunswick must be a hole, because Noise bar manages to be one such place. In its defence, it has a well stocked bar and a stage with live performance that you can hear perfectly well from the area where you don’t actually have to pay to see the performance. I believe by the time we arrived the Funky Brews & Bastian were long gone, and we were down to Dawn Curfew… A totally vampiric name, steeped in stygian darkness beset by mesmiroh fuck it, I really wasn’t paying attention to the music. I cared that much. I had Care Factor Zero. Amazingly enough, the same name as the band playing at the Eltham RSL.

It was around this time my errant friend ZhengQi had managed to get himself amazingly wasted, and be all over an ersatz friend without even realising it… There is nothing funnier than the look of put upon woman who normally handles three year olds for her day job, and is now being handled by someone in a state of similar mental capacity.

Well, maybe someone with a thick Indian accent telling you about big breasted strap on lesbian porn they watched the night before… I’m amazed I don’t have a link to send you to for that one. Clearly I’m slipping.

As it was I left for the evening, having much to do the next day. Apparently those remaining thought otherwise, and wandered off to the Men’s Gallery. And this is, for me, the funniest part of the evening. About this time, yet another friend was at Red Moon, being abandoned by her friends and asking to meet up with us. I mentioned the strip club plan. There was some hesitation and delay… before being asked which one. In ZhengQi’s mind however, it was none. He insisted that he didn’t want to go somewhere that made you pay without getting to touch… so he went someone where you pay to touch, so I’m told… although no pix, so I guess it didn’t happen.

I decided to have a good night’s sleep as I had much to do th…

To Be Continued… tomorrow…

Let’s try and get this blog back on track.

It’s meant to be about being a goth and what do goths love more than anything else? Why being bastards, schmucks and arseholes to every other goth that’s not as goth as they need to goth about with the gothness of goth goth derpiedidumdigoth.

No, wait, this was going somewhere, really! Fine, fuck you, I’ll just talk to the intermawebs on my own, you douchebags!

As it turns out, the brain actually has a “hate circuit“. These are a number of areas in the brain that seem to flare up on the EEG monitors when the subject is looking at pictures of people they hate. Now, it’s also been proven that we don’t remember people’s faces as such, merely recognise patterns that match their face (why people confuse me for Wade, J.L., and that guy in Brisbane). So when you get agro at someone, and they ask what your problem is, you have every scientific reason to give them to stock standard punk excuse:

It’s your ugly face!

The irony is that angry faces actually take priority in our brains. Ever wondered why you have to rot in queue at the supermarket when some tetchy wanker, that wants a pack of fags, can waltz right up there and get serviced immediately?

This is why.

Survival instinct. We naturally want to please angry people so they don’t beat us to death with the jaw bone of an ass, or one of our own limbs that they just tore off… and then go rape out mates and children, which are possibly one in the same if you happen to live in a more Southern state (i.e. Alabama, Tasmania, Avignon, etc.). It just makes the imperative worse because you’re protecting two family members at once. The point is, if you happen to be Mr. Angryface (see example), people’s survival instincts kick in and tell them to please you or bad things will happen to them.

But wait, the super scientific reason for super schmuckery gets even better, and this one is by far my favourite.

Most people get a rush of dopamine from watching others misfortune if that other is an object of envy and one’s own sense of envy is in the same place of the brain as low level pain reception when observed by electroencephelography.

Think about that for a minute: Envy actually produces the same stimulus response as a kick to the crotch, and your brain rewards you for other people’s suffering when you think they deserve it.

So what does all this scientific crap actually mean and why should you give a shit?

Simple.

It gives you a reason to pay out on Emos, wankers, and other goths who aren’t goth enough, and for you to then be able to prattle on moronicly about how you can’t help it because their face has clearly triggered a certain receptor in your brain that predisposes you to hating them.

Failing that, God wants you to hate them.

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