Date: Tue, 23 Oct 2001 12:45:20 +1000 From: n ik <fragments at va.com.au>
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 Commodore.
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 groove.
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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