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<nettime> fwd: Tall Paul: A True Story
n ik on Tue, 23 Oct 2001 11:49:57 +0200 (CEST)

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<nettime> fwd: Tall Paul: A True Story

fwd: from Tall Paul (a cleaner who writes for The Paper - 
http://www.thepaper.org.au amongst other things..)

A True Story

I was having a few quiet beers after work in the public bar of The Rising
Sun hotel in West Footscray the other night, when lo and behold, Jean
Baudrillard, Luce Irigaray, Paul Virilio and the ghosts of Felix Guattari
and Gilles Deleuze stunbled in off the street.

You could have heard a pin drop when this motley crew of French
intellectuals invaded the inner sanctum of the pub, animated conversations
about football, work and post structuralism stopped abruptly, even the
pokies and the Stud testing machine seemed to cease their electronic din.

Intellectual smarty pants from Fitzroy and St Kilda frequently deride
Melbourne's industrial working class as a gaggle of
boorish,illiterate,oafs. Yet we knew a terrible secret far more sinister
than Ray Martin's wig or the little green men at Roswell.  The "official"
truth is that Gilles Deleuze killed himself and Felix Guattari died of
"natural causes." However, all those present at the jelly wrestling that
fateful night ten years ago can testify that Deleuze and Guattari were
murdered by local mechanics and consecutive darts club champions, brothers
Shane and Greg Novachevski.

It transpired that Gilles and Felix, pissed as parrots as per usual, were
trying to organise a threesome with Greg's girlfriend Sharon.  Upon
hearing Guattari inviting Sharon to go outside to check out his "desiring
machine", Greg ably assisted by Shane, glassed Felix in the face with a
broken stubby and stabbed Delueze in the right eye with a sawn off pool
cue. Both died almost instantly. The two intellectuals never stood a
chance against Footscray's hardest street fighters, and it's not like
anyone was going to grass to the cops either, owing to the fact that worse
would happen to anyone who talked, besides Shane and Greg were top
mechanics, and it's not like you can just trust anyone with your VB

Our now ex drinking mates were given concrete socks by the brothers with
the severe anger management problems, and then dumped off the end of
Altona pier to spend the rest of their days with rusty shopping trolleys
and former Greengrocers and members of the Ships, Painters and Dockers
Union. Such was the fearsome reputation of the Novachevski twins, that not
even the most rabid of French journalists dared to publish the real truth
behind Deleuze and Guattari's untimely demise. Hence, the popular accepted
myth concocted by the shit scared pen pushers from Liberation and Le
Monde, unwilling to meet the same fate as their compatriots.

Needless to say, we were all pretty shocked seeing the ghosts of Deleuze
and Guattari waltz into their old drinking haunt, never mind Baudrillard,
Irigaray and Virilio who usually drank at Hearts or The Belgravia.
Indefatigable as ever, Tony the barman asked the ghosts what they were
drinking. Guattari ordered a Bundy and Coke, with Deleuze sticking with
his usual Southern Comfort. Suddenly, Tony's familiarity disappeared
quicker than an unlocked bike at Footscray baths, when he menacingly spat
out; "Sorry Frenchie, but we don't serve spirits here!" Tony's joke
brought the house down and immediately dissipated the nervous expectation
that existed only a few moments ago. Guattari, who could never take a joke
told Tony to "Get Fucked, Cunt!", but Deleuze who was always more good
natured, took the joke in his stride. He was happy to be back in his old
watering hole, even if he was violently killed there all because of his
stupid mate who fancied himself as some sort of poncy philosopher.

Everyone in the West knew that Felix and Gilles weren't really
intellectuals at all. It was common knowledge that they were both Chicken
boners at Perfect poultry in Laverton. The only time they ever got
philosophical was when they blew all their pay on the pokies. I tried good
naturedly slap Delueze on the back to show my pleasure on seeing my mate
back from the dead. Forgetting he was a ghost, my hand went straight
through him and connected with Jean Baudrillard's chin, sending the post
modernist flying against the bar. I never liked Baudrillard that much
because his team always won the Trivia competition, and when he won the
meat hamper in the Christmas raffle fundraiser, he wouldn't even give me
so much as a lowly sausage. However, I felt bad for hitting him seeing I
was a peace punk and all, thanks to CRASS. To make ammends I shouted him a
double absinthe, and ordered two shandies for Irigaray and Virilio.

I got talking to Virilio and asked him what he was up to and why he was
drinking at The Rising Sun when he usually drank at The Belgravia, where
he desperately tried to pick up first year philosophy students. Virilio is
about as attractive as the notion of seeing all the members of the
Spartacist League in the raw. He is also incredibly boring and a
plagiarist to boot. Everyone in the Pub's reading circle knew his book
"Speed and Politics" was really about how the local branch of the A.L.P
financed it's election campaign, not some jumped up wank about photon
carrying waves. That stuff was just made up to impress the readers of
"Social Text", and to throw the Labour party heavies and Toe cutters off
his trail.

The thing I remember best about Virilio, is that he was always trying to
crack onto Luce Irigaray, not that he was the only one. We'd all had a go
at asking her out. I even offered to take her out to Angelino's all you
can eat pizza and pasta restaurant with my half price shopper dockets, but
to no avail. The general consensus in the public bar was that she must be
a man hating lesbian, after all, what valid excuse could any woman have
for turning down the creme de la creme of the Australian working class.
After all, we were all Socialists of sorts, (that is we never reneged when
it was our shout), we all had a plethora of interesting and tasteful
tattoo designs and discrete body piercings, and most of us had all of our
own hair and teeth.

However, most of the blokes went off Irigaray when she successfully
organised the topless barmaids into a feminist conciousness raising group.
Not only did the girls start wearing shirts, they stopped laughing at all
our crude jokes and suggestive innuendo. I was still keen on Irigaray
because she was a top pool player, and could drink anyone, bar Gilles
Deleuze, under the table.

It was a Friday night, and that meant the resident band of the last 15
years was playing. "Bulldog Jihad" were huge in the Western suburbs, and I
was at their most infamous gig where they supported Lubricated Goat at the
"Rock against Kennet" benefit, where they blew the amp stacks and caused
Shane Novachevski to spill his beer, thus ensuing one of the bloodiest
brawls I have ever witnessed. Bulldog Jihad were a great band in their
time, successfully melding the quintessential hard rock rhythm of AC/DC
and Rose Tattoo with the more sublime sounds of Brian Eno and Yoko Ono.
Their songs were anthemic and had something for everyone. Who could forget
the time when Doug Hawkins and Ted Whitten jumped on stage to sing along
to such classics as "All power to the Workers Councils" and "There's no
standing room left at the Western Oval"?

I could see Gilles and Felix moshing up the front, with Gilles repeatedly
gobbing on the band, just like in the old days. Gilles had always been a
rabid Bulldog Jihad fan, he even liked them after they went post-rock and
replaced the lead guitar with a glokenspiel. Ever since Jean Baudrillard
got them the gig supporting Tortoise they got too arty and progressive for
my proletarian tastes. Their last album "Vitesses positive et negative
selon les physiciens" alienated most of their old fans in favour of the
black skivvy brigade who read "The Paper" and drink short macchiato's
instead of instant. However, they were certainly kicking out the jams that
night, even the old diggers who constantly grumbled about "the Japs taking
over Footscray" were tapping their prosthetic legs along to the infectious

What an eventful night it was turning out to be. Just when I thought it
couldn't get any better, Luce Irigaray (who normally never gave me a
second glance) came over and told me she had scored two tickets to the
sold out TISM show that same night. "What about Deleuze and Guattari,
Virilio and Baudrillard? Wouldn't they want to come too?" I asked. To my
great pleasure, Luce informed me that Baudrillard had passed out in the
toilets in a pool of his own vomit, Virilio had gone out to the train
station to score, and Deleuze and Guattari were going cruising for rough
trade in Footscray Park.

Sensing that this was all too good to be true, I reminded Irigaray that
she hated TISM. After all, she did write a fierce polemic about them in
the latest issue of ART FORUM accusing them of being "pseudo intellectual
osphresiolagniacs."  "Sacre blu, that was all a media spectacle just to
boost their album sales" she exclaimed. "I'm actually the president of
their fan club, didn't you know they wrote 'If you're creative, get
stuffed' in honor of me?" With that we made our way out onto Somerville
Road, carefully avoiding the broken glass and rivulets of body fluids that
covered the footpath. We held hands for the first time, breathing in the
crisp night air heavy with the acrid stench of burning rubber from the
tyre factory on Geelong Road.

Happily I thought to myself, "If this is post modernity, then sign me up."
I never really believed all the whingers at the pub who said the post
modernists were about as intellectually stimulating as a bucket full of
arseholes. Luce confirmed my feelings when she managed to burp out almost
the entire alphabet, just before we got into the cab.  I never thought I'd
find true love again after my wife ran off with my best mate, but somehow
I knew in my heart that Luce and I were made for each other. The End.

Next Week - The Mystery of the Artist(s) explained. I reveal the secret
identities of all the members of TISM, except for the bass player.

I was such an optimistic kid. I'm an anarchist because I'm angry 
about not being able to be an astronaut.

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