OK so maybe I am back, maybe not. I'll leave it up to you. Maybe, just MAYBE I traded up my DA addiction to a World of Warcraft addiction. In the meantime I have done next to nothing that can be posted here...still waiting for DA to open a video slash audio segment. Bandwidth issues I am assuming. Because if your band is too wide, they can no longer perform at certain venues.

A friend of mine had a band that was several square kilometres in size, the only place he could book them to play was national parks. Which was not helpful, as due to environmental concerns he was not allowed to play there anyway. After considerable downsizing, the band was pared back to a mere 2700 members, many of whom were percussion. Of course, there ws only one drum kit, which was destroyed at the first (and only) set they played at.

So my friend did what he had to for the good of the band and shot himself in the jaw with a 30.06 hunting rifle. After a little counselling he was able to continue living a normal life as the manager of a punk band, The Gangsters, whose biography is on its way.

Makes a hard man humble.
I remember the first time I was in Bangkok...or I would, if I had ever been there. The closest I have been to the musky jungles of Asia is probably Brisbane. I can see it now- the rickshaws flowing down the road, on their way to Southbank for another fat opium dealer, the squawking of chickens and ducks in their bamboo cages in Queens Street mall. The sandbag barricades out the front of the town hall, manned by shifty looking mercenaries and rag-tag conscripts.
I wandered into a shop where a rat faced lady shouted at me in Cantonese to "buy or get out!" So I did exactly that- I bought a small statue in the hope that it was in some way a mystical artifact that had somehow been misplaced and ended up here for me to find.
I had low hopes of that originated- for one thing, the statue was of a caricaturised Irish man with a putter. There was also a sticker on the bottom saying "Made in Taiwan".
I suppose the fact that it came from Taiwan made it exotic.
I'll never forget the heady scents of that mysterious city. Brisbane is surely a place of wonder.

I hate to say it, but I am losing faith in deviant art.

No one seems to appreciate good comedy lately. I like to think it is because people here are selfish prats who refuse to idolise and worship my devine self, but on a more realistic level it might be because I do not write good comedy.
Or maybe my lack of page views could be atributed to the I've been here little over a month, and my completely arbitrary and unfounded hatred of emoticons.
It takes me back to the time when I was performing some of Billy Conelly's stand up comedy for some friends. I had, of course, smeared my body with a mixture of faeces and blood (as the great man himself was want to do) and was running around the back yard screaming "Billy Conelly" at the top of my lungs.
My flatmates, neighbours and the police were unimpressed, and I was sedated for a number of days after the event.
Once again, art goes unappreciated.

It was a pretty lame party to begin with. The drinks were cheap, the food was so-so, and all the guests were zombies. Certainly not the "life of the party". It seemed my good friend Voodoo Jim had left that part up to me.
So I did my best to mingle with the guests, cracking a joke here, fending for my life there, my martini in hand and a false smirk on my face.
"Hi, my name's Dan." I would say.
"Mrrrrmammrgghhhh." Was the usualy reply. How droll. Oh the witticism. I cornered a girl on one of Voodoo Jim's many loveseats and attempted to force her into some sort of meaningful conversation.
"Come on, why live up to people's expectations?" I asked. "Why conform to the stereotype?"
"Grraaargggggmmmmhnnn." She replied.
"Can't you see that's what they want you to think?" I said, incensed.
"Yes, but being a zombie and having little motor skills rather limits the depths of any possible conversation you might engage me in." She said.
"What?"
"Mmmmmhhhnnhh."
After that she tried to eat my face, but I rather blandly extricated myself on the pretense of needing another drink. I don't think she even noticed that my drink was half-full.
It was at that point in the night that I shrugged off the loathsome duty Voodoo Jim had heaped upon me and stood instead on the verandah, to look out over the town. Voodoo Jim staggered out, a vodka bottle in his hand and a lampshade on his head.
"How bout this party, eh?" He brayed, prodding me with his elbow. I grunted noncommitally. Voodoo Jim took a swig of the vodka, burped, and fell into the garden. At that point the zombies inside all simultaenously collapsed. I breathed a sigh of relief and went to get my jacket.
I really hate Voodoo Jim.