Category : Diatribe

What its not. What it is.

Seriously, it’s not a competition. It’s not about who puts up what first. You don’t have to be the first to put up a flyer. It doesn’t matter if you post your photos before everyone else. I don’t give a shit if I’m the last to get something up, nor the first. Its not about search results, its not about traffic, its not about popularity and its not about being fucking cool and outdoing others.

I write with two words always in my mind, and very little else:

Document. Everything.


Good evening, and welcome to the Fletcher Show.

On tonights show, we show you how to create a unicorn out of a gerbil, a ten centimeter strip of aluminum foil, and a car battery.

We also have a special guest tonight, a girl of mysterious renown, who will be demonstrating her unique abilities with a ping-pong ball. Yes, you’ve all wondered where she was, and we are proud to present to you this evenings “where are they now” exposes on: Ping-pong Girl: After The Desert.

Our chef, Wombstein Cluck will be showing us how to cook a beached seaturtle without having to crack its shell, and demonstating exactly why cashew nuts are deadly poisonous when not cooked.

Our special live guests tonight will be the Dirk Hartog Band, playing medleys of there unique new polka-funk, with very special guest singer Nana Mouskouri.

Our stand up comedian for this evening, is none other than the great, and legendary comedic maestro: Nelson Mandela, who will be presenting us with a new rendition of “How many Zulus fit in a mini-van” joke.

And dont forget, as always, make sure you have your hand next to the Red Button (or in your underwear) in order to answer those all important Top Ten Ways To Make A Guy Cum to be in the running for your chance to blow Fletch as he tells the mid-week weather!

We hope you enjoy the show, and now, the man with a thousand vices, heeeerrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeesss Fleeeeeetcccccccccchhhhhhhhhhheerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!

My deal

Heres my deal. My first name is Fletcher. Fletcher Acton Andersen to be precise. It is not a common name, Fletcher – for a first name. I quite like my name, and am very happy with it – my parents chose right, because somehow, you know how it is – the type of person I am fits my name perfectly. Maybe its the mould that I fell into, and the actual name helped shaped the person – after all, when you constantly get “Sorry, Flciker? Flitch? flinch? Fert? Flunch? Lunch? Lentch? Litch? Flinz etc etc” you kind of begin to be “that guy sitting over there with the weird name” I beleive in the power of the slight, affecting the real. That said – the number of time I have been asked in my life “Ahh, Fletcher. And your first name is?” really is uncountable. (that and Oh! Fletcher Christian! Fletcher Jones! saayy ….FLETCH LIVES!! – seriously, fucking dollar coin every time, I’d be rited on a tropiucal island by now). Now because of the fair uniqueness of my name, I feel a responsibility to it. I own my name. It is my first name. All you guys get called by your fist name, and get vcalled by mine. So why is it, that when someone suddenly has the LAST name “Fletcher” that they are automatically “Fletch”. I mean, whats with that? Its not the name they are born with. Its not THEIR name. Its their entire families name. Its the name of their grandparents. Their ancestros. They are no more a “Fletch” than I am a Rubensteain, or a Pitt or a Speares. Just because they have the last name of Fletch, should not entitle them to use what is MY first name, for their own personal weirdness. When they were in high school, were they ever teased about their name? NO. Why? Because they could always fall back on their REAL name. John. Peter. Douglas. Whatever. Me, I had no fallback – I had “Fletch.” and, I had my middle name – nope, no fall back there “Acton” isnt a fallback, its the kind of middle name that makes me look cool and all arty and writery. Lets face it, Fletcher Acton Andersen is a bit of a fuckin writer/artist wannabe name now isnt it? I didnt plan it like that, but there it is. All you Last Name Fletchers of the world – stop using my fucking name. Its not “cool” because in all honesty, you are no more a Fletch than your mother, your brother, your sister and your entire geneological history is. Me, now I’m a real Fletch. I’m a Fletch by birth. A fletch by trial. A Fletch by teasing, by a mistaken name. By the “Fletch Lives moniker being pounded in to me ever since fucking Chevy Chase made a fuckin dodgy sequel to an okay movie. So here is my deal – its realy simple. Last name Fletchers, you are not “Fletch”. Use your REAL name – use the one you were born with. USe it well. Just because your parents were so fucking boring that they called you Robert or John or Peter doesnt mean that you can steal your last name in order to make you appear cooler than your real name really is. At the end of the day, your name will still be Robert, and mine…well, mine will always be Fletch, there aint nothing else bar a deed poll that will change that. If you stop using Fletch as your nickname, I promise to fulfill my end of the deal, without any form of remorse. Yes, that right – I will ACTUALLY stop calling you a cunt!!

…maybe just one more bit.

Do you remember your first time?

Do you remember, putting your lips to its smooth surface, placing it in your mouth, your tongue probing the sleekness of its surface?

Do you remember, the sensation of your flesh up against it, as you gently slid it upwards, slid it into your mouth, not knowing exactly what it was that you needed to do to make it happen. Not knowing,e xactly what it was that -was- going to happen?

Do you remmebr that first time, after coaxing it, after bribing it downwards, after encasing your lips tight, shit around it like a vaccuum on steroids – and the suction that gave it that seal around those lips – those lips of yours that held it there, held it inside, held it just…just right there.

The tilt. The downwards drop – and do you remember the explosion in your mouth? As it burst forth from its containment, and dribbled down across your tongue – as it slid down the back of your throat. Was it warm? Body temperature? Or cool, as cold as a heart of deceit? Was it bitter? Or sweet? Was it the taste of dried raisins, or the taste of fruit? Was it sharp, that taste – or was it blunt and full of bile?

Do you remember the white around your lips as it clung there? the mixing of cream and white and snowful drops around your mouth as it dripped outwards, as it fell on your neck, on your chest, on your clothes of on the hair that wound its way down from your head. That white, that was on the tip of it – the tip of the taste, the tip of exultancy.

That first time, was it easy to do? did you even like the taste? Did you like the way it slipped down inside you after its release? The turpid monster finally unleashed and swallowed, downwards, clinging to the sides of your mouth, washing it all away, mashed and kind.

Do you remember your first time?

I do.

I remember it with such clarity that I cannot fully fathom why – I remember it as if it were yesterday, even though I was but six years of age – that moment. That bitter, bitter and yet magical moment exploding inside my mouth.

I remember it clearly, that first beer I ever tasted.


“Tracing is reproducing a piece by placing a sheet of paper over it and following the lines with a pencil (on the site they also use the word to denote the action of reusing an existing digital work, but as far as I’m concerned that’s a ridiculous abuse of the word that only confuses the issue). It is a purely mechanical process that requires no effort from the tracer and no creativity. For this, anyone claiming that they trace in order to learn is completely off track. You cannot learn by tracing. It simply doesn’t activate the necessary brain areas. At most you’ll learn control over the pencil, but that’s not an artistic skill, it’s a motor skill that is usually picked up when learning to write. Tracing is good for children and for people who wish to create something but have no ambition to embark on a learning course or to claim the finished piece as their own.”

Firstly, this is a fairly interesting hypothesis. You’ve obviously thought about this – however, you have several major flaws that render it quite unworkable. You have forgotten one basic thing in your thoughts, which should have been the first thing in your mind – indeed, it is so basic a reasoning, that I can understand how you have forgotten it – your mind is too much on modern art – you may be thinking that you are adhereing also to history, however modern art encompasses many, many centuries.

Lets think in longer terms here.

your premise falls down on two basic points:

Tracing – the oldest form of art known to man, are *traced* hand images. Just because they are primitve, do not make them any less works of art.
Imitation – in early primitve art, artists imitated each other – this was how they learnt. This was how they forged new ideas. But to start with, they directly copied each others art.

By leaving out the one crucial part int his hypothesis, involving historical art, you have brought too many errors into your argument – art, is not jsut about the renaissance. It is not jsut about modern art. It is not jsut about painting. What about pottery? Are you saying that Ming dynasty porcelain is not art? but all of that work was copied, imitated – traced in 3 dimensional form.

This is not an attack, because yes, you have thought this through – but you have not thought it through enough, and you have, whether knowingly or not, left out certain variables such as primitive art in order to prop up your hypothesis.

I also disagree with the utilisation of a pencil as being a emre motor skill as opposed to an artistic skill. The co-ordination between hand, mecahnics and imagination is remarkable, and by drawing more,y ou leanr more as to how to co-ordinate those facets of your artist talent. just having the image in your head is not enough – you must artisticalyl be able to render it – you must have pure control over your brush, or pencil and correlate those motions with that portion of your brain that is producing that creativity. To say that pencil control is a pure motorskill…well – I ask you, what of the need to interface that with your imagination?

Artistic talent can not be broken down so easily into constituent parts. Someone may have an amazing talent to wielrd a pencil and draw technical schematics, but that does not make them an artist – it jsut makes them a good draftsman.

Its the coupling of mind to mechanics, that makes pencilwork, or brushstrokes, an artistic merit.


… and in the end, does it matter?

The various personas, the ways in which we segment ourselves our – the work persona, the lovers persona, the friend persona, the asshole, the generous, the compassionate, the vicious – we cant but help tidy ourselves out into various different parcels.

A portion for the instance. The symmetry of our lives is all too often not only an illusion, but a walking hallucination – the core of our thoughts tempered by the multitasking that goes on within – breath, think, walk, ponder, calcuate, disperse – and as we do so, where does that one fine thread that ties them all together actually go? By dividing ourselves, by taking those fragments of whom we truely are, diminishs that which we could only hope to be –

the threads of what we wish for and the life we hope to lead.

Does it matter? Does it matter, that to one person we are one instance, and to another, we are another, and to another we are an other – like virtual machines set up on an operating system based on emotion, accumulated knowledge and hardship – experience, hell, even wisdom makes it way out – and there we are, openjing up another virtual – displaying, all too often, a different system of interaction with another. The sandbox system,t hat thread which all of the others run on – that quantum cusp of bitter, hidden self, is where we all strive to exist – where, we all want to be – because there are no standards. There is a mish mash of diverse languages, protocols, thoughts, whimsys running through it like so much mould through a veined, grey, emancipated thurst of grey flesh – so many algorithms of lust, so many line sof hidden code – so many keranls of hatred and fear and want and need and compassionate drivers intermingled –

So does it matter? Does it matter that we are merely overlay? that for each person we talk to, effect, with-hold from, we take a new template and modify it according to their needs? Are we even aware that this is what we do? That this is what we need to escape from?

Does it matter, that there is no way in which we will ever really know?

Live the Life Unpossible

There are many things int his world that are unpossible. Living the life of the unpossible, is, strangely, also quite possible.

Now, lets not get unpossible confused with IMpossible. I know you are all sratching yor heads like Bonobos with erections, and thinking “No such word as unpossible! Its IMpossible”.

No. no it is not.

to live the life unpossible, you must have the knowledge of several things.


Look in your dictionary. The “unpossible” is referenced to Impossible. Not having its own definition really points out that its true definition is completely different to “impossible” – merely by stating that it means “impossible.

Therefore, beleiving that something is UNpossible leaves it one step closer to possible than impossible. Its all in the definition, really – unpossible means impossible. Therefore, via the semantics of the world, by believing in the Unpossible, you are not believing in the IMpossible – yuore really jsut believing in a reality based, hyper-linked defininition to another semantical word.

Therefore, next time you are on a bus, and you see an object of your desire, never sit there and think “It willb e impossible for me to jsut go over there and kiss her/him outright! Impossible!”

Instead think:

“Its totally unpossible for me to go over there,a nd snog the fuck out of him/her, eventually leading to a date, and fornication and touching of each tohers private bits.”

Living the life unpossible is not impossible, and the possibilities of the unpossible are possibly the most possible thing that you can do in an impossible situation, by dividing your thoughts in an unpossible manner when confronted wityh those impossible situation – possibly, you may realise how possible it is to positively possibilise your rational at the same time.

i mean, hey – its not like its going to be REALLy possible. But i’d rather think of things as “well, jsut a FRACTION away from IMpossible, than UNpossible.

Thinking like that, will enable you to achieve that little tiny amount of reality needed when masturbating over a complete stranger that you’ve never spkken to, interacted with or exchanged phone numbers with.

Give it a shot. With unpossiblity, nothing is possible – but then again, its not as if it ever was, was it?

At least its not impossible.


Okay – I edited this entry a bit – please listen to this song whilst you are reading this next story – I basically used it as a soundtrack for it, and I believe it really fits in when you are reading it…

Colin Meloy – Jack the Ripper (Morrisey)

Crash In Two

You spend your afternoon listening to Morrisey. Not Morrisey as sung by Morrisey, but Morrisey as sung by the guy from the Decemberists – Colin Meloy. you listen to his rendition of the Ripper. The song that lasts and overbears.

So there you are, head to the computer monitor. You’ve been to lunch, had a few beers. You wanted more. Anything to dull the rest of the day. Every so often, you take some of those little turkish delight choc-ettes out of the bag and crunch down on them.

Why not. they’re edible.

You’re thinking of who this girl may be int he song – the one that crashes into your arms. The one who, like a normal regular fucked up Gemini (who the hell invented Geminis anyways? Great to fuck. Head to fuck. Head fucked and fuck you love them, dont you? the oxymoron of them? The Geminisisness?) cant accept and cant decide.

And all it really is, is that song. Oh, you look so tired. Mouth slack and white – but the only light is the light from fluoresence. Your boss is prowling around, and your stuckt here, thinking of imaginary fucking women. your thinking of that girl ont he bus, on the train. You’re thinking of the chick you dfidnt fuckign score with in ninth grade – you know, that embarrassing incident: yeah, you remember? you were both in the park, snogging – you didnt realsie you’d done it, but you’d pulled your own cock out and had it in your hand, and you came in the middle of the kiss. Right on those khaki pants of hers. But instead…

You jsut listen to the song. You dont agree and you dont refuse the words – because well, the real object of your afternoon, doesnt know you.

She sits three cubes down from you. he smiles at you, once or twice – but, but…

You presumje too much. you’re really not at your peak. Your getting older and shes a lot younger – more than a decade and your there, right near your fuckign computer – listening to someone else do the song that the other guy did thinking

“If its the last thing I’ll ever do, I’ll get you.”

There are cd’s on your desk. Paperwork. An empty container with left over bits of fuckin potato in it – left over because you cooked it for yourself. You cooked enough for two – but was there anyone there? Were you pretending to cook for one, two or three? You, Mr Palm and all those other hopes that relegated you to infirm obscurity?

Because, you know. You are. Obscure. You know it, but you cant help it. Your life is slack and white, ill advised – you tried making it. As Artist. As bar tender. You gave being a writer a go once as well, until you realised that no one ever really fucking listens. No one ever reads – and you sure as hell dont change lives, you dont change anything. None of it, ultimately matters. You’re jsut sitting there, in front of your god DAMN fucking computer going through specifications,. going through policies. Going through files upon files of lives and wasted dog eared pieces of governmental jism.

your boss prowls around again, asks you something. You cant hear him. You cant hear his voice – but you answer anyways, you say “Sure mate, no worries, I’ll get it done.”

And as the day wanes, you look forward to going home. You look forward to getting there, to opening the door to your cat. The one that loves you. The one that waits for you – who, in rare moments, gets on his back and awaits his little pats – and you’ll open the half-empty fridge, takea beer and sit outside, by yourself – because the cat has fucked off, and the guy on the television doesnt really count as a mate. You’ll sms a few people, wait for them to sms you back – text in, text out, text through the rain and downt he sewer.

But thats soon. Half an hour. Ten minutes. Five minutes.

You crane your neck around see the girl down the cube and she sees you looking, smiles a little. Yuo smile back, then break contact. You ahve two monitors in front of you, and the minutes tick away. You listent ot he song thats done by the guy who isnt the guy, and you cant help but wonder if you agree to refus.

I mean, its not like you’re hot. Its not like when you get home, anyone will call you. Its not like you’re cookign for anyone but you and maybe the fucking cat.

You get your bag., You begin to exit the building. You enter the elevator,a nd somehow, shes there – and shes crashing into you. Shes crashing into your arms – and for that fleet instance you know “god, I want you” but you cant say much more. you cant get the wrods out real well – and instead, you’re all

“Hey, sorry, hey, you okay”

Shes all like “Yeah, im cool, im good.” and there – right THERe is the fucking opening and your all

“Hey, i’m going to the pub after work tomorrow – you wanna come? Have a drink, have a…”

She doesnt know. She doesnt agree – she doesnt refuse. But you know it. Your no dj. Your no celebrity. you dont ahve a license, a car, a five billion dollar job. You only got that tattoo coz you thought it’d make you fit. You cant even buy your way in, and when you do – it never comes back.

“No worries..” you say, and the elevator door closes.

..and you think to yourself “If its the last thing I ever do, i’ll get you…” but you know that you wont. you know tis hopeless. You’re full of more shit that New Orleans after Katrina – she wasnt even in your arms. Wasnt even there, wasnt even that girl from the song or fromt he dream or from the fantasy you elaboratly constructed int he dead hours of the working afternoon.

You head home. You get the mail out of the mail box, and its some Boys Town bullshit – some competition,a chain letter, a letter from the gas company wanting to extort more moeny. You open the fornt door, and you’re wondering where the cat went – and you realise its been a few days since it got hit by that car, and you buried it under the lime tree. You walk into the house, and you know you havnt cleaned up for a while. The dishes are stacked, dirty, all around. Theres a linger of cigarette in the air. Theres no one to phone, because none of them ever return your messages.

You take a beer from the fridge. You wonder what you should cook for dinner. You turn the tv on.

You smile toy ourself, jsut a little and finish the can – crushing it down, throwing it tot he side.

You tie the rope to the outside patio, tightly wound around the beam.

You kick the chair out.


You said…

…you said “Cant win, dont try”

Cant win, dont try. And you know what? You were right. You were right to not listen to that. Whoever made that fucking phrase up – needs a bullet.

Cant win, dont try.

I, personally, dont want to win anything in life. Its not a competition. Its not something whereby we need to jduge ourselves up against others, or where we need to be the smartest,t he prettiest, the most gorgeous or the life of the party. The ramifications of not trying at those things as to which are unattainable are disasterous. Where would our lives elad to? What, would we have on which to hope?

If man had said “shit, I cant get these two sticks rubbing together to do anything” we’d probably still be eating raw mammoth by now. If NASA has said “No way, we cant get to the moon” – we’d probably all just still believe that man went tot he moon, but the conspiracy nuts would all be right – it would all have been a hoax.

In the absence of “trying”, you are left with only two choices – to admit consistant failure, or to create and fabricate your own mythology or hoax in order to fillt he gaps of your life up with some kind of meaning. And why? why elaborate on your own life, when you dont require it? Why not attempt the impossible, construct the physically improbable, or jsut go and chase the ephemeral lust that you have inside you?

We construct those myths, as I have mentioned, in order for us, individually, and as a species, to hold on to things for those moments where we fail. We fail, not because we didnt try, not because we could not ahve succeeded but because we used only those myths and hoaxes of our own fabrication as the fulcrum by which to attempt to lift ourselves higher!

The proper rephrasing of that disgustingly withered term should be

Cant try, dont win.

You cannot try. You cannot change what has passed – in order to try to do so, would require a knowledge of quantum possibility that none of us have. If you cant TRY,t hent here is only one thing – do. There is another saying “Do, or do not, there is no try” – yes, fucking Yoda. but how basic a tenament is that? You life is full of inconsistencies. Your True Life, and the Self Mythology of your life – whereby both are you – both run parallel to each other – and for every action you take, you ARE doing something – there. is. no. try – because when you act, mentally, physically, you set forth that action in the world – therefore by that action, you are doign soemthing to affect your present, and thus your future, and parcelling out your life to either that True Life, or Self Mythology paths behind you.

Cant try, dont win.

Dont win. Do not win at anything. There is, essentially, no winning. for even if you place first – even if youi beleive that you are the forerunner – somewhere, out there, will always be someone who is one step ahead of you in some way. Most amazing nuclear physicist? Well,y ou suck at golf. Most amazing golfeR? well,y ou suck at javascript. Most amazing JS programmer? Well, you’re bad at giving girls head. Most amazing guy….and henceforth, and so forth. Dont win. Do not attempt to categorise life in such a simple manner – you, are not god. You, are not omnipotent. You, may not ever even attain any form of social or moral heights in relation to tohers -0 ont he ranking and the scale, you may rate low – but who. fucking.cares.There is, however, one thing, beyond all consolation,b eyond “winning” beyong “trying” that you xcan all be assured of. One thing above all others.

You, and the truth and mythologies that comprise your self, are unique.

Cant… Dont..



Try not to make your journey any more complicated as it needs to be – life isnt about the complexion – it is about the simplicity, and you will never see the simplicity, if you can never realise that no, you cannot do anything you set your mind to – but you sure as fuck get as close to “everything” as you can.


There are blatant misunderstandings amongst our reality – and as with any winter, the mysogynistic grey of clouds that band down amongst our thoughts of “otherness” are only viable if we are incapable of witnessing the actual rendition of doubt.

One simple misunderstanding of reality, is that to which we assign mythology. The cusp of saintly beliefs and oral history passed down from one, to another, through time on paper on clay through sister to uncle to grandfather to mother – stories told in the dead of night. Fables created for no purpose but to assign fear. Parcels of wonder and doubt – these are the misunderstandings to which we are witness.

These, are the winters of our reality and the formulation of ouor present – for without the myths of ages, how can we begin to become aware as to our present? all upon which we are built, is a house of cards. To remove and aquitt any portiont herefore, would direct the balance of that unseen future along different paths.

If Jesus. If Buddha. If dragons. If the remarkable fables of the unseen, unheard and remotely unwsahed vagueries of spirit and legend were to apepar – before us, to our very eyes – our presents would thunder. Our future, would become jsut that much more livable. We perusae websites in search of these fables, submit to the vast database of urban legen in the pursuit of that unreachable aspect of wonder – the unfathomable discourse of magic and life.

Without creation, we are blind. Without the traditions, the stories, the unsurmountable wealth of realism blended with the fantastic, we are mutes standing in an ocean of divided wealth – one one hand, certainty. Knowledge. Absolute orgasm of wisom. On the other – the fear. The reluctance,t he wish to know more, to invent and to squander that absolute value with myths that have been nowhere near as whitewashed as certain portion of establish civilization would wish them to be.

Death. Love. Penetration, dissemination and artifical creation – and there, amongst it all, we stand – often lost. Reaching for the tameable sea of fabrication. Wanting, only, to find our place within it – hat Life. This life. The other lives of those around us – simulated or create4d or evolved of imagined in the mind of a child, dreaming its way through the void –

– and there, there is where we stand. Amongst the grey bands – without certainty, without appreciable value and knowledge of allt hings under, over, beanth and encompassing the sun – we live to know. We breed, we fuck, we cry and die and break each other in the seeking of that knowledge.

Life, is a colelction of myths, old and new. It is a summary of all that has come before, all that is, and all that may possibly be – the legends we fabricate stand besides us, their shadows growing longer by the day – for to remove them would be to cast ourselves into the irreconcialbe face of pain and suffering – knowledge without creation. Wisdom, without gestation or links to where we have been.

“Live free, or die” they say – and that freedom, that ability to live as one shall, to die as one needs must do – the cusp, the very nature, of our existence, may lay upon that which we are so warily afraid of – the mythology of ourselves, and the legend of all the doubt that has plagued human kind.

For where do we stand, without the mistakes of our past, and the creation of ethereal mythologies on which to build that veiled future?