a gold star for traffic congestion

recently whilst returning to sydney from a spell away in my secret mountain escape, we were unexpectedly marooned in goulburn for several hours after coming upon a severely blocked freeway. traffic was obviously not budging so with the benefits of my tonka toy 4WD unconventional, err, circumvention of the gridlock enabled an easyish return into ram town.

for those that don't know some of the great delights of goulburn, the rural inland dryland mecca of NSW, it hosts an oversized sheep as some kind of bizarre totem to agricultural prowess. by this token there should really be one in the major port ie. lyttleton, of new zealand standing proud like the grand lady of liberty in new york to welcome arrivals. anyway, i digress.

many hours were tediously killed in this rural anti-hub, an australian counterpart for douglas coupland's shampoo planet, an exposition of mindless mid west misanthropia. not just for gen X.

goulburn is a parched place crippled during drought time by extreme water restrictions. disenchanted youths rev up and down the main drag in hot rods & specced up utes in a dead-end town overshadowed by a maximum security prison, the national police college, a ghost abattoir and a shoe factory with operations long since migrated offshore.

on the back steets in the parks framed by brown grass, right wing family first conventions crackle alive with sausage sizzles on a sunday afternoon as aussie flags fly asunder even on an overcast day.

on auburn street the renovated mall goes off. after loading up on big macs & zesty salads, bottle-bronzed, powder-puffed girls with ironed hair waddle into supre basics. on australia day wknd the store boasted a full window display of a vast range of ozzie ozzie ozzie, & southern cross T shirts & singlets. there's nothing more australian.

after catching up on the various overheard goss in local bars which increasingly fill up with wayward travelers deigning to wait out the pile-up with rumours of overturned trucks on the freeway & no end in sight, we succumb to an extended stay & look for dinner. there's only so many hours one can spend in a pub when there's still another two which could become five or more to go.

enter the golden star. a very brave move by both the proprieters and my fellow shaolin warrior diner. down the road is the remnants of another chinese restaurant which bears the apparent scars of fire-bombing. on arrival this diamond in the rough was a morgue but the service was warm without being suspiciously desperate.

funnily enough by the time we left it was fast filling up with like-minded frustrated nomads, sharing tales between tables in hushed whispers of banked up traffic woes. we just shut up, soaked up the ambience with our fellow pioneers, enjoy the kitsch imagery, baby pink folded napkins, vegetarian friendly menu [featuring a sad but woefully necessary "australian section" starring T bone steak & chips] and the food, which was actually pretty good!

mostly we felt thankful that we weren't stuck out on the motorway immobile without the basics of food water to help alleviate the boredom of extreme traffic congestion which often precedes road rage.

i am reminded of all this because this week NSW roads minister says "fur will fly" after a major traffic delay on the F3. motorists were stuck for up to twelve hours after a fuel tanker overturned and blocked the flow and contingency plans failed with a capital F.

thousands of people stranded for hours in their cars, isolated without news, water or food. it's scary how fast everything can break down and how unlikely heroes are made, jobs are lost, epic tales are told.

once more yesterday i sat in an environment where i was privy secondhand to people relating their experiences to strangers placed in a common bond which broke the unspoken barrier of public non-communication.

and it made me think of the unlikely little shining star which fell off the flag in the town of the golden fleece that day & saved us against the flow.

golden star

chinese restaurant

151 auburn St
goulburn NSW 2580
(02) 4821 0388

gathering moss on rolling asphalt

yesterday it came to my attention that breaking news on new zealand TV was the "vandalisation" of a goat with anti-police graffiti. the town goat now sports fluoro orange lettering "FTP" which is thought to stand for "fuck the police". i wonder if the kids responsible has seen banksy's cow series? or seen the hairdresser's painted poodles up on crown street in surry hills, sydney...

anyway recently whilst cruising the redfern back alleys i came across this wonderful mixed media graffiti which i've been meaning to share but a sabbatical from the daily grind resulted in extreme blog neglect until NOW!

moss typography clinging to wall crevices supplemented by clever pavement stencil work. plan big is an initiative of the adelaide & bendigo banks tapping into the gutter zeitgeist to flog their wares which ultimately is a nationwide mega mentoring program traversing multiple disciplines. personally i despise banks but little banks are kinda cooler. more banksy.

if you do have big plans check out their rhetoric. if it doesn't work out graffiti their asses. they're undoubtedly up whilst their heads are down thinking big. which reminds me [but not to be confused with] of robert muldoon's unpopular interventionist political strategy in the 80s.

one of my most loved gold towns, old cromwell was drowned under the sour deluge of aluminium smelting meets dam construction. perhaps there's a clyde dam goat to tell that story. another time.

lego-rama

after getting all inspired last week by the eliasson exhibition at the MCA in its final hours, i'm now seeing lego everywhere...

grievous bodily harm

gamma hydroxy butyrate and i have a very intense 2 degrees of separation relationship. it changed my life forever. and it wasn't even because i took it. it cost me literally hundred of thousands of dollars but more than that it almost cost me my sanity, my life.

someone i was once close to used it to train-wreck their own life and then consequently bring mine down with it. i still wear the fading scars & sometime my story will be told. just not today.

for those who don't know, GHB which is essentally floor stripper [GBL] mixed with drain cleaner [sodium hydroxide] is not an honorable drug. some drugs are arguably more equal than others and if there was a narcotics caste system, this would have to be down there in the gutter. i think even hammer has more integrity: there's a romanticism about the opiates which comes from historical context & ultimately the natural connection to the earth despite the trail of corruption which is inextricably interwoven in the production & trafficking process.

the home office in the UK finally banned GBL & other chemical solvents such as synthetic cannabinoids and piperazines at the end of last year. up until then there was actually a loophole which although illegal in australia enabled international mail-order B class drugs to be let loose on the date rape scene. remember dianne brimble?

september 2002: 24 hours after getting on a cruise liner she was dead from a fusion of alcohol/GHB which had been allegedly slipped into her drink by an unconvicted ring of sexual vultures seeking to enjoy the benefits of the disinhibition & sense of sexual freedom that the drug is associated with. before she experienced some of the less fortunate effects ie: permanent loss of consciousness, after engaging in multiple sexual activities which were documented on a seized reformatted memory stick from one of the eight involved perpetrators' camera. the men argued the sex was consensual but the retrieved graphic photos of brimble lying unconscious naked between men having lost control of her bodily functions clearly suggest otherwise. the jury was unable to make a verdict & brimble's drug-induced death fell into the quagmire of yesterday's news.

in the last 24 hours GBH re-emerged its ugly head back into my life via a friend & a handful of his pretty young things most probably being involuntarily drugged at a high profile CBD bar party in town yesterday.

after having lost consciousness upon passing out in the gilded confines of the stylin' establishment, they woke up several hours later found themselves at guildford. i don't even know where that is but i know it's certainly beyond the most flexible perception of the inner west boundary. and yes they did have on all their clothes & money. someone probably did spike their drinks for kicks. or just to get the party started...

noone remembers anything, except that they barely drank. but in a dreamlike phase remember becoming inhibition free semi-naked party animals. the rest, a non-existent void where confused re-entry into consciousness was permeated with slurring, amnesia, rambling incoherent speech, horniness. obviously this doesn't sound all bad & ultimately some would use it as a positive reinforcement or advertising, unless you never wake up again or while you were sleeping you mysteriously become pregnant etc. this can obviously happen on alcohol too but then that's your choice.

from my experience drug dealers, sexual predators or party promoters don't care so much about that. it's all about dollar return on the investment and how many tens of thousands they make back from their much smaller initial one. in the end it is just a numbers game, part of the business model.

so watch your drink & trust your instincts re: instant friends bearing gifts. PS. intuition doesn't work so well if already in a sedated state. if you want an excuse to take your pants off or run amok, do it when you're conscious and aware so you can remember all the fine details afterward.

and now the end is near...

malcom mclaren is dead.

party response unit

follow that... van!

catching herpes from a tapas fork

apart from being chronically accident prone to the point of ridiculousness, lately whilst on my deep hermit sabbatical i've been privy to a recent wave of gastro... all around me. sometimes literally in a double M helicopter like sputtering spiral in elevating fits and starts.

what makes me excited is the idea of people doing all sorts of dirty dirty things, then handling food and subsequently making peeps really ill. i've witnessed numerous episodes in bars & restaurants. by staff. true there was no bestiality or strange manipulations involved with three day old dead rats or chickens but...

being a big fan of fundamentally filthy practices [one of my many nicknames is "stinky mummy" - apparently a term of endearment], i'd never be naive enough to suggest there's a time and place. make it forbidden, and i'll be lining up next to you for an all out splatter fest. it seems really obvious but weirdly enough these overtly common sense facts, like safe sex with strangers, seem to have been recently lost in the wash. AIDS like hep A have become diseases of the 80s.

all i'm saying is if you wipe your ass slumdog millionaire style or whatever else turns you on before you head into the kitchen, and then if you're going to then make tapas directly after could you please just run your smegma encrusted finger nails under the tap? that includes changing your tampon before pouring a fresh glass of that new zealand savignon blanc for me. try the soap. don't be shy. the germs you're transferring are not.

because if i get genital herpes as described in the above fear-mongering photo from eating marinated olives, i am going to feel very fucking ripped off especially if i have to spell diarrhoea [because it looks funny everywhere] and will feel it is my moral duty to bring back the free love generation all over your goddam bar counter. perhaps that is what sydney's night life is actually missing?

subway zoetrope

bill brand's 1980 public artwork "masstransiscope" which is animated through the passing movement of trains in the subway was restored in 2008 and can be seen on the Q and B trains from dekalb ave. a mass transit zoetrope. in brooklyn going into manhattan toward canal or grand st. look out the window on the right.

thanks to jack feldstein for bringing this into my life. sydney misses you but we live vicariously through your errant adventures.



here's another example of subway motion art. this time with a more commercial bent from russia.

easter bunnies

don't shave for christ.

despite what gillette say: it won't make your peen bigger or open any easter eggs.

what would jesus do? being an adaptive carpenter maybe he'd focus on the craft & not blame the tools. just saying.

what are you going to do for me?

i'm not crazzzzzyyy

death up close

...from my 32nd floor window. roppongi hills. tokyo.

high tea by candlelight

contrary to popular perception high tea does not bear aristocratic roots. the poor working class of yesteryear could only afford one solid meal per day which was lunch. after crawling back home late at night from the coal mines, factories etc they were obviously hungry.

the kettle would go on, tea would be brewed and what scraps could be gathered and assembled into a snack of sorts supplemented by never-ending cups of tea. it would seem that the institution of english drinking copious amounts of tea is a many headed beast. in far flung colonial outposts the aristocracy would be drinking tea under the mobile shade of their coolies as a symbol of class superiority whilst back home the comfort it provided the poor industrialised peasants was arguably equivalent if not greater. emotional, physical and psychological sustenance is hard to beat.

as standards of living gradually increased then so did the quality and quantity of accompanying tea foodstuffs until eventually the now antiquated english expression "tea" was born. and still they incessantly drink the vile stuff in delicately patterned porcelain cups. i mean even lady gaga does it [this makes me think of my south australian friend dave].

cut to every other thursday. in a semblage of eclectic worlde bric a brac & dark sombre tulle walls surrounded by the odd what not, a wonderful underground movement has been born sprung from the humble building which gave us the original [recently relocated] 505. this is high tea.

last visit we [claire & yours truly] were delighted to find ourselves in a small world filled with strangers punctuated by friends. the wonderful kent eastwood [who was my 13th hour live pianist for my "explorations into the sound mind" installation at the successful punk monk collaborative "multiple personalities exhibition"] was a special guest performer. with renny field. a delightful & unexpected treat. fine company indeed.

high tea is a pseudo secret movement for artisans & lovers of intimacy where unplugged sets are experienced up close with a cup of tea in hand or a bottle of bagged wine. i'm not that traditional & nor is claire, so we float on the periphery of the caste system with lips stained red not black or blue. no china required here.

but RSVP quick.

floating flower

spice temple's green tea keeps friday insanity at bay.

the scales do not lie!

so... i got on the scales earlier today after dusting them off from their lost spot under the pink couch at the corner shop. i don't know what exactly the motivation was but i did start training again this week after an enormously long hiatus. it has been hell.

on the first day i threw up two thirds of the way in. and then continued to work out. that is what you do. today was day two: i hallucinated for a chunk of it, lost vision for a time & my legs became oversized rabbit vibrators. learning to swim by being thrown straight into the deep end. from experience the first three weeks is always the worst.

maybe the weigh-in inspiration was "the biggest loser" the runaway US reality TV franchise produced here by channel ten which is now airing for something like it's 5th successive season in australia. a country obsessed by food [master chef et al] and then how to purge it shows. i sneakily watched two episodes earlier instead of preparing for a video interview. which is still have to do today.

people were losing phenomenal & arguably unhealthily large amounts of weight. like 16 kilos in a week etc... and the cool thing was i was fast tracking even more efficiently than television punters by skimming straight to the weigh-ins. have another tim tam. i'm all over this.

that was my mistake. whilst the cheese and tomato toastie was happily making soft crackling noises from the nearby "hello kitty" appliance in the kitchen i located my inner scan body composition monitor ie. scales & faced a reality served up in a digital interface i wasn't prepared for. being overweight is what happens to other people right? disempowered people with no idea. is this middle-aged spread? domestic bliss? suddenly the whole world spirals...

now those pie in the sky figures & back breasts viewed at 1024 x 768 res don't seem so far flung at all. i am by far the heaviest i've ever been in my life. even more than when nine months pregnant. suddenly all those stories these people are saying on TV whilst half a nation jeers at them for cheap entertainment, strikes a resonating cord. empathy.

all efforts must be doubled. but first let me finish this packet of tim tams & feel a little bit sorrier for myself before facing the rest of the day... and then i remember that the camera adds ten pounds. perhaps we can film this segment after dark?

my friar tuck

sometimes the universe just doesn't want me to go back to the city. and that's OK. then someone irrevocably intervenes... um, thanks.

i am the fly

so i got bitten by a spider week before last whilst playing in my garden off the grid... it may have been a funnel web. possibly a fiddleback. we don't really know. whatever it was, it hurt. initially.

whilst trying to positively ID the spider after an instantaneous short scream of "motherfucker" complete with dance & a nano visual flash of multiple legs & eyes wedged between my finger and the brick i'd moved [just after removing my garden gloves. doh!] in the waning light my arm started to go numb so after applying a pressure bandage, it was decided to face the hour or so drive to the nearest rural hospital. goulburn is lovely at this time of year.

a funnel web spider bite can kill a child in only a few minutes. adult response is a lot more variable & it can take hours if it happens at all. whilst experiencing the hypnotic pleasantness of the half loss of the use of my arms & a soft humming pins & needle sensation through my legs, i have to report after the initial wave of nausea as my body did battle with the toxin it was very very relaxing.

it really seems now that the whole dangerous spider thing is a bit of a misnomer. spiders are being terribly maligned in this country. three days later when i got bitten by another spider, i barely budged & continued to throw rocks into my shiny red wheelbarrow unphased whilst enjoying the slow tingling sensation. my feral bush woman initiation complete.

in fact i'm thinking about patenting spider venom as some new street drug. deliciously creamy. after first bite i was all ready to bequeath with love my juices to the nearest over-sized spider. now i kind of know what it feels like to be a paralysed fly. that movie was all wrong. don't help me, help yourself.

arachnophobes have got it all wrong. love thy spider.

september 11 generation...

matthieu rossat AKA matto is a member of the september 11 generation. his definitive breakfast television was the collapse of the twin towers. hence the expletive.. "FUCK"

like many of us he's concerned about art being blindsided & no longer pushing barriers due to lack of broad commerical appeal/profile.

last week i went to his exhibition opening at a little gallery i occasionally frequent quayside. gallery eight is an intimate but politically aware environment which often houses art with significant social commentary whilst delivering an aesthetic edge.

as usual neither the gallery or matthieu [who has played an active role in previous punk monk propaganda art events] disappointed. in fact i rather liked what i recognised/saw conveniently packaged for my viewing pleasure in a politicised nouveaux tribute to the pop characterisation popularised by banksy meets warhol. no standardised beauty facism here.

tristran mendès france had this to say as a preface to the exhibition. let his words mirror mine.

you can feel ill at ease, have an unpleasant feeling, even feel sick, that’s the objective.

the mechanism rests on some unlikely analogies, you may vaguely feel they are not politically correct, though you can’t actually grasp this.

the familiar pictures deal with our time.

you can recognize its tones, its aesthetics at once. the motives one claims are about our nowadays. they reveal something about the revolution of the media-related order that is taking place. the icons, the screens, which have always had a set place, their own logic, their social or political status can be found here, bare and without a hierarchy. the tsunami of post-modernity has just flown away.

the analogies you are confronted with have lost their structure, they are hybrid, regurgitated, and they question you like an insult.
you would like to know who it is aiming at and what it conveys.
you would like to be offended, to refuse. but it would only mean that you are staring at the finger pointing out to the moon. because these figures, however disturbing they are, convey nothing but vertigo, really. exactly the one you feel when the structure of history collapses.

the vivid picture is facing you. you answer it, but you are stunned. it swallows you up along with your own indignations.

the serigraphy posters can now be purchased online. AND there are these awesome pics which complete the series on matthieu's blog. if you're afraid of naked women you might not want to venture down the rabbit hole... red pill or blue pill? as matthieu says "everything's political."

as tears go by

fresh or perhaps more appropriately somewhat jaded from her rogue escapades for sydney festival after more than a few publicized hitches, marianne faithfull can be found tonight back behind the great curtain of oz up the opera house stairs. i'm so there.

hopefully it won't be the anticlimax i experienced when seeing a very smacced-up washed-out nico back in 1987. it remains to be seen whether or not marianne has already exited stage left with lucy jordan.

under blue moon i saw you

technically it's not the start of the year, but for all intensive purposes according to certain AWOL monks & blog party time it is. anyway i'm BACK! happy new year one and all. january was a false start punctuated by bush & bollywood. february is much more focussed. more internet time. so soon you'll take me up in your arms.

what better way to commence 2010 than a piece of tortured nostalgia whilst tenderly nursing a morning after KINO hangover? unwillingly mine.

last night was KINO #33 [with an appearance by my pseudo 24 hour flick "not beautiful enough" now sublimely edited/sound designed by the wonderful star germans, felix and michael & starring the ever lovely muse catherine davies]. the fat32 myth finally debunked... fate up against your will.

heads up to oliver dickens, dan rossi & dave cheng for shooting, sound recording & capturing awesome stills whilst we illegally ran amok amongst the loading containers adjacent to sydney airport before security threw us out as the sun rose and heralded in the day. we were in and out almost within the hour. except we had to break back in in the dead of night to look for missing make-up & head torches. under blue moon i saw you.

anyway that was yesterday. today is echo and the bunnymen. in sydney. if this is what george orwell's 1984 looked like i could easily move in. and stay. forever. your lips a magic world...

message in a bottle

regardless of the unlikelihood of a user specific message carefully placed in this bottle [i lost count of how many i sent off as a kid but never received], there is some kind of inherent communication with this bottle anyway.

pondering on a bevvy of related tangential manifestations on this bright gleaming day where the sun kisses the ocean makes me partially happy & sad.

one day we may not be able to see/touch the ocean for the toxic waste but for now i cling onto the nostalgic fantasy which accompanies one solitary bottle bobbing on the harbour waves...

and then place a freshly scribed piece of reflected light back into the floating vessel liberating it back into the emerald blue yonder.

life is a cabaret

...and then in an apparent overnight coup my baby duckling turned into this, erm, colorful vivacious swan.

it's so surreal that we just did her 21st birthday party. i'm still pinching myself & assume there was an alien abduction involved. there is no other reasonable explanation.

she seems to have inherited a shy retiring manner & love of dress-ups from her mother [but is much more wise/sensible]. she has incredible friends too. aint life grand?

former incarnations

in a former life this was me. my van was called nettle. hippie much? this was the first house/land i ever bought: a half acre with an orchard & loads of native trees where medicine herbs were grown & organic seaweed/comfrey fed plants ran amok in raised biodynamic beds framed with gathered driftwood. i was twenty. my year off from uni.

leaning against the hedge [which i climbed into & hid just prior to my daughter's birth -- i heard pushing hurt] is my old bike i rode 1 km on to call the midwife after being in labour for over ten hours. on the rural outskirts, there was no landline & this was pre-mobile phone popularisation. aaah, the 1980s.

this is the place where my earth faerie sprite, raen miro, was born. she's right there in that pram. born eventually following a storm which broke a several months long hot drought. i named her for the hopi indian tradition of which i was a student at the time under the guidance of wise woman, susan weed. rain is life, "ae" for faerie, miro for the artist/tree.

twenty years later my beautiful friends, marianne & francois today have given birth to a little boy eliah. taking the essence of the universe into oneself & believing it is one of the many secrets to life. the naming tradition is vital as is listening to the signs from within/without inherently key to many aspects of our journey.

eliah is such a great name. powerful yet humble. he will undoubtedly be blessed as will others around him. along with my other pseudo nieces nehlia & bella he has the best parents i know. lucky them.

onto excrement which sort of segues... hanging out with all the feral hippies at peats ridge has made me all kind of nostalgic. yesterday my GF anna who was also there posted on facebook that she'd acquired bacterial pneumonia as an occupational hazard from being at the fest. she's now riddled with antibiotics after kicking off the year in A & E. joy.

the compost toilets did get beyond epic overflowing proportions at one stage. if one chose to sit on the seat after standing through the queues, one's ass grazed previous attendees recycled breakfast [needless to say i did my squat muscles a favour & used them]. i can talk shit for hours & am happy to go into great depths about the inane beauty of a colonic irrigation, perhaps not changing nappies, but there is a line drawn when dealing with others beyond perhaps one's inner nuclear core. i can't even clean a carnivore's oven/cooking implements & that's prior to digestion.

thing is, those dreadlocked hippies in all their technicolor wonder, tree of life garb & underarm crystals are not so many poles apart from me. if i were to be experiencing anyone's shit outside of my own comfort zone i'd have theirs any old day over the general populace. there is something to be said for peace, love and happiness. even when it assaults the nasal senses or even inner polarity.

no dig, ya dig?

one of the appeals of heading up to peats ridge fest under the guise of work mode was to 1. break my 21st century eco fest virgin bubble and 2. pick up a couple of refreshers in the multi-disciplinary field of permaculture. the good times/peeps which surrounded were a most convenient side-effect. reconnection with the earth & life force around are vital for any sustainable community.

i've been certified as a permaculture designer since 1988 when people outside of the biodynamic community didn't know bill mollison & david holgrem's names [modern day founders of the movement], but i haven't been actively practising throughout. this all changed in the last few years where outside of a limited city practise i now have the opportunity to pursue one of many dreams under challenging conditions: developing an eco community & sustainable lifestyle on a drought stricken temperate forest block just shy of the blue mountains national park. time to infuse new sensory experiences to jump-start old filed knowledge & brush away a few of the more obscuring cobwebs.

i'm currently in the process of building a long planned no dig multiple mandala garden complete with straw bale wintering chook shed after being partially influenced by the writing of australian, linda woodrow who over the last couple of decades has popularised the science/art of chook tractors in a rotational multi-cropping scenario for domestic/commerical application.

the heritage chicken source has been researched [probably going with australorps], the worms are breeding away happily munching down on organic leftovers both within the city borders and without. now all that needs to be done is to gather/harvest raw materials to build an oasis on what is essentially a concrete carpark. an impervious bedrock of hard claypan with no top soil in sight. enter no dig garden. if you want to know more check out esther deans who is one of the modern day matriarchs of the movement. i still have an adorable much thumbed version of her book from yesteryear.

utilising the super powers of chooks & worms there is about to be launched an incredible before and after scenario in the makeover journey of the decade. it doesn't actually take quite that long but there is a lot to do. in fact the cool thing about no dig is essentially after building a bed without technically breaking one's back is that it's almost immediately ready to go in terms of planting. generally it's good to wait a couple of weeks however to allow the microbes to kick in and stuff to break down. just a little.

not unlike a day of compost building no dig gardens are like the opposite of peeled onions -- you just keep piling on the layers laden with moisture between each one. a little newspaper, cow manure, compost, lucerne, seaweed, chook manure, pea straw, lawn clippings etc goes a long way... a delicious lasagna for the outdoor senses. just add water & sit back and watch...

another day, another decade, another song

with the beginning of one year lies the shadow of the last. mine was cast in glorious tribal technicolor beats & imagery surrounded en masse by beautiful people, vibe and scenery. peats ridge festival 2009.

best of all at my side was this similarly solar powered faerie lit chick who i even have a theme song with & a bunch of long distance calls with the man who brings the music. i am fortunate that there is a whole symphony worth of incredible people in my life [hello raen, punk monks & friends] & nothing shows that more than a few trashy self-depreciating new year's eve photos. aaah, out with the old and in with the new.

sadly all my footage is in mobile film this year as we played wannabe rolling stone journos so i rely on the cooperation, read vetting, from my fellow conspirators to provide more of these humiliating time-capsule gems. you know who you are.

apparently there are a lot more where these came from...