Writing as catharsis

The hounds begin to gnaw: garage chic appeal, magnesium butchers knives, and flee of a football superstar

Posted in Prose, Ranting and rambling by Lachlan R. Dale on February 24, 2011

Things are looking dark for Sydney. Very few venues have been left standing after years of legal red tape and neglect have sucked the life out of local live music. The latest installment if this dramatic saga reads like a movie script – a hostile takeover by your classic wealthy villain: a cocaine-addled super-rich hotelier, who schemes to snatch yet another venue from the grasp of those who still care about music with some crazed vision of turning the unassuming little pub into a safe-haven for the rich and the beautiful. He holds the same gaze of self-affirmed superiority in every single press shot, matched by an impeccably fashionable taste in garage-trash chic vintage apparel as he stands out the front of his $60 million harbourside property – his home base for his various soul-sapping simian machinations and unpalatable plots.

If his pet projects of The Ivy and The Establishment are any indication, our antagonistic, pretentious pal is about to turn one of Sydney’s last bastions of local music into the type of place where you’re guaranteed to see more whitened teeth, orange flaking fake tans and evidence of rampant steroid abuse per square mile than anywhere else this side of Sydney. When you walk through the door of the new Xz (though of course, in reality, your kind will not be permitted to do anything but gaze longingly from street level, sir) and past the VIP pool of Australia’s Next Top Model contestants playfully splashing eachother in a carefully choreographed expressive enactment of measured joviality (with just that ever-so-subtle hint of irrepressible sexual desire as to attract an appropriately wealthy sponsor), you get the sense that behind every picture-perfect rehearsed smile lies a festering greed junkie psychopath, ready to snarl, screech, scratch and claw at the slightest compromise of their grandiose egoism.

Make no mistake; these people will tear you limb from limb for the sake of any minor slight – whether real or imagined. Kyle Sandilands – by now exquisitely ‘primed’ with pupils dilated, teeth clenched, jowls trembling and sweat pouring from his pudgy brow – spots you and aggressively stalks across the room, knocking over several frail-looking models in the process. “Weren’t you that journalist from People who said they spotted me in that repulsive dive The Victoria Room with Bec Hewitt last month? And in a COUNTERFEIT Tommy Hilfiger sweater from LAST SEASON!? I’ll douse your genitals with acid lotion, skin you alive and fashion your fuckscalp into a new travel-bag for my Shih Tzu you inconsequential little cunt!!” For a torn designer dress or slightly-less-than-perfect polaroid that made its way into the press cycle you can just about be assured that your cheque is going to cash in the very near future.

These are dangerous times, this is a dangerous world and – make no mistake – these are truly evil people, fueled by unfathomably sick desires. Their souls are rotten. Their core; hollow. Their thoughts revolve around the self, gravitating towards the super-ego at all times with reckless abandon and no hope of reflection. They feel no remorse – quite simply, if you aren’t at least a B-lister, then you are little more than a gutterworm who has come solely to erode their worthy self-admiration and suck their hard earned lifesblood. You can be an old white woman or an emaciated Ethiopian child, and they would just as soon have you put into a garbage compacter as have you ground into a fine paste to be used in their new designer fragrance if you dare disturb their carefully maintained Feng Shui.

In the back rooms there’ll be the grotesque and sordid remains of high-rolling drug binges turned sour – the rotting remains of horses carved up with magnesium butchers knives by some hopped up ex-Home & Away castmember in the midst of a gratuitous ice binge. Beneath the floorboards peer the bloodshot eyes of a number of rugby league superstars, forgoing all grace in a desperate attempt to dodge the hounds of the lucrative tabloids industry following last Mad Monday’s cult blood-orgy in Star City’s premier penthouse suites.

On the seventh floor he sits, striking a regal pose but clad in dress that makes a statement as to his humility and his approachable, easy-going nature. His throne is made of precious metals – the remnants of various melted down ancient artefacts, sourced from premier museums across Europe. What was once an ancient symbol of empire and power is now a mere indistinguishable component of his own excessive wealth. At his feet lay several severely anorexic models chained to the base of a nearby pyre, gasping in an attempt to inhale the molecules of high-grade cocaine that drift to the floor like so much as lesser lifeform plankton to marine snow. A ceremonial blade lays near his hand, flickering in the light of the full moon. Several hounds growl, almost sick with bloodlust and frenzy.

There is no escape. Soon the hounds will surely be upon us with their incessant, relentless gnashing. Will we find an ointment for this social ailment in time? Or is it ours to be gnawed into nothingness?

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