even megalomaniacs get the blues

That girl on the radio, if you should drive down there, if you should head on down there to destroy her, make sure you go in style. If you're gonna make your way down, through the gates of hell, you can’t take the Corolla or the Jeep Wagoneer. No. If you’re going through hell on a radio death mission you got two choices of transport my young sir. You got your flaming 1974 Gran Torrino wagon, flat black with the back doors welded shut and the rear window stuck down, that’s number one, then you got your flaming death cycle which looks like Batman’s Bat Cycle except the speedometer is in kilometres and it’s flaming. But not like the Bat Out Of Hell Meatloaf flaming bat cycle, that one was just made up. Some artist made that one up. Meatloaf was too busy making up songs which feel like someone poking you in the chest, songs which bring the roaring and make you want to head downtown, 3 miles past hell, to destroy the radio girl.

She uses too much inflection. She is her own Doppler effect. If an air-raid siren could read an ad for Sleep City Warehouse they wouldn’t need her. Like a fat worm doing the Soul-Train chug-a-chug into your brain. Oops there goes the left side, better head out.

Take the Torrino, on second thought, it’s chilly out there. I taped over the window, it should hold, and when you go through hell don’t forget to toss out a silver dollar so’s they keep the gates open for you. I’ll wait for your call, the signal it’s been done, or you can text me. Or, if the radio girl wins, if she warbles you down, sets up a harmonic resonance within your molecular structure, reducing you to a pool of burst-cell ruptured bio-mass at her feet, well then don’t worry about it, I'll get by.

But I fooled them, I did have the rabies.

One government agency won’t accept the letter another government agency gave me to prove I’m a legal resident of this country. “This letter is from 2004”, they said, “you’ll need to get another one.” I pointed out that I was granted permanent residency in 2004, so it makes sense the letter is dated as such. Let’s listen….

“Hmmf. Do you have your passport with you?”

“No, it’s expired anyway.”

“You don’t have a current passport?”

“No, do you?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Do I?”

“Uh, well, if you plan to travel overseas you do.”

“And you don’t?”

“Everyone does. But I’m not travelling.”

“I’m just on my way home from work.”

“Do you own any property here in Australia?

“Better, I own property right here in town.”

She keeps flipping my driver’s license over in her hands, “What’s this address on the back? Is this your property, the address on the front, or the one on the back?”

“Both.”

“But you can’t have two addresses on your license.”

“The one on the back is the stick-on change of address label they gave me when I moved. You have to put that on.”

“So you… so this one on the back is yours then.”

“No, well yes. Both are mine.”

“You live in two houses?”

“No I live in the one on the back.”

“But… you still own the other one, on the uh (flip) front, is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Well we need a tax notice or something like that to prove you own property. Would you suppose you might have something like that?”

“I’m sure I would have something like that. I got one last month.”

“And we’ll need a new letter from Immigration.”

“But why? I’m already in your system, you just didn’t send me a new [Medicare] card when my last one expired.”

“Why have you waited until now, your last card expired two years ago?”

“I didn’t need to see a doctor until now. And now it looks like I can’t.”

“Since it’s been more than six months you have to re-apply. We need a new letter from Immigration.”

“But I never applied in the first place, you just started issuing me cards. Then you stopped. Well not you. You know. Them.”

“If it was less than six months…”

“Ok so if it was less than six months you would accept the letter dated 2004 but now you want a new letter, saying exactly the same thing, but dated recently because some letters degrade into forgeries over time?”

She unconsciously began to finger the paper of the letter and told me all about the six month thing again and it was clear all was lost. I now have to leave this mildly irritating example of bureaucracy, a tiny local office with a staff of two, and enter the maw of the beast that is the mighty Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs in Sydney. DIMA must hire a lot of the people it processes because every time I call there I get someone who can’t speak fucking English and knows nothing of Australia except their neighbourhood in bloody Redfern (Sydney). I once had to call 4 different times until I got someone who could give me a list of doctors in my (non Sydney) area certified to give me a medical exam for my immigration application, make sure I don’t have the TB or the rabies.

“I live on the North Coast, not Sydney, is there anyone up around here?”

“There’s one in Parramatta…”

Parramatta is to Sydney what Oakland is to San Francisco except there’s no collapsible bridge. Parra-fucking-matta would have saved me 20 minutes off a 6 hour drive.

No I’m not looking forward to this. Also this damn letter is going to cost $100 according to the website. But the nice thing about bureaucracies is that they’re like slot machines, same dollar – different pictures. I might just go try my luck at a different medicare office, I hear the one on the other side of town is paying out…

Seige Weapon Of Mass Destruction

Here's a little something I knocked up over in the lab on the weekend. Something to keep the barbarians away from the gate.