Avant garde, no?

Hey Leighikins,

How's the nerd convention a-happening. Anyway, I wrote you a song. It goes a little bit like this:


I got my first real six string, it was the summer of 69, played it till my fingers bled, and so forth.

Okay, I didn't really write you a song. Damn you, Bryan Adams! WHY DO YOU FOREVER FILL MY HEAD WITH YOUR LIES? WHY?

Anyway, guess what.




Dude. No.


LEIGH! God, I don't think I've ever heard the phrase "dancing pack of cockmonkeys" used in such a disturbing fashion.

Jesus, woman.

Anyway, what you were supposed to be guessing was that I am sick. Illness has struck me down. It happened like this.

I was like, "Sup illness."

And Illness was like, "Why you be talking wack to me, fool?"

And I was like, "Hey! I aint been talkin' wack to you, fag."

And then Illness struck my lily-white punk ass down. But I'll be better tomorrow. Worry not, Gentle Leigh. WORRY NOT!

Anyway, this all reminded me of the time in 8 days time when I got thrown out of the political Q+A session for asking the Liberals candidate whether a returned Howard government would be installing poison gas showers in it's refugee camps, and if not, why not?

Oh, wait, that hasn't happened yet.

Something else that hasn't happened? Future music. The music of the future. I have some theories about this. I predict that in 200 years, music will not exist as it does today. Genres such as pop and hip hop and punk and heavy metal will be gone.

Instead I believe people will listen to things like flowers and sunshine and the moon, man. And on the other side of the spectrum, there'll be fucked up heavy music, and people will listen to cancer and death rattles and shit. It'll be pretty fucked up, but I'm sure I'll adjust.

And another thing about the future you should rent out ghost starring patrick swayze AND I'LL SCREAM HI HO SILVER AWAY.

Ha. Kind of snuck that in there, didn't I. No, I'm serious, you should. I know the idea of Patrick Swayze lingering on in the mortal realm after his apparent mugging related death is somewhat disturbing, but really it's a heartwarming tale about the power of love from beyond the grave.

Also, there are fucking hell ghosts, man. And Patrick sucks this little girl into her television set. Or maybe that was Poltergeist.

Okay! Just... just stop what you're doing. I want you to give me your full attention. Stop curling your hair. Stop ogling at the naked and beaten body of Johnny Depp, cowering in the corner, sobbing. Full attention to me.


This is what you need to do.

You need to call up Courtney. The conversation must go exactly like this.

Leigh: Uh, hi, is Courtney home?


Courtney: Sup fag?

Leigh: En em haitch, bitch.

Courtney: Then why call, my dear Leigh?

Leigh: Oh, Courtney, you know wherefore that I must always have my reasons.

Courtney: And those reasons, oh dearest Leigh?

Leigh: In due time, Courtney.

Courtney: Leigh... I love you.

Leigh: Get away from me, fag.

Courtney: I am away from you, I'm in the middle of fucking nowhere. Now what the fuck do you want, you fucking hack?

Leigh: No need to be hostile, Courtney, you cockmonkey brigadoon, it's just that I, and when I say I, I mean Cam, and when I say Cam, I mean, you know, that guy from Australia with the long black hair and the haunting green eyes, have had an idea.

And then you will explain the idea, which is this:

A MARATHON. But not a running marathon. A MOVIE MARATHON. But not a Johnny Depp MOVIE MARATHON. Or a Bud Cort MOVIE MARATHON.


Three movies. Three of the time it takes to watch the three movies which will make up the GHOST MOVIE MARATHON, divided by three. Three people. Or possibly more, if you follow my oh-so-subtle drift. Possibly... more. For instance... Mortney? Am I astute when I sense chemistry between you two? Oh so astute?

Anyway, you shall watch:


And then you shall watch:


And then you shall watch:


The reason that you will watch these films in this order is this. Firstly, you will watch Ghost because you want to get into a ghosty kind of mood, and what makes you wish you were dead more than Patrick Swayze... it's just so frustrating the way he never takes his shirt off, no matter how much you scream at the television screen for him to do so.

Then you shall watch Poltergeist. This will get you on the edge of the seat... flinching every time the sofa starts floating and light bulbs begin exploding. And we all know what FEAR does to chicks. It gets them pretty fucking hot, Leigh. Pretty hot. And when the little girl says, "They're here" in that creepy little voice you'll be all, "OH, Mortney!" And Mortney will be like, "Oh baby, let's propagate the species further." And God will be pleased, and maybe he will spare you come the day of Reckoning. For you do realize, sweet Leighikins, that you are a sinner, and a bad, bad girl. And some people might think bad girls dressed in leather singing and dancing in Funhouses at the amusement park after Graduation are pretty hot, but God doesn't. Because God is a fucking fag.

Then, after all that, you shall watch Ghostbusters, just to bring the mood back down to acceptable PASSION levels. Although I must say... "Slimer... oooooohhhhhhh YEAH!" But that's just me.

Anyway, Courtney will no doubt be astounded by the idea. Positively astounded. She will be, how you say, dumbstruck. This will lead to some confusion as to whether she is still on the line, and you will sound like a total goon saying things like, "Hello? Hello? Courtney? Courtney? Are you there? Did your house just drive under a bridge?"

And Courtney will recover enough to say, "You total goon, of course I'm still here, I'm... I'm just so astounded. So astounded that YOU, YOU of all PEOPLE could come up with such a FANTABULOUS IDEA. You can barely tie your own hostages to the wall, let alone COME UP WITH A FANTASTIC IDEA LIKE THAT. I mean... I mean... I mean.... the thematic parallels and juxtapositions between Ghost, Poltergeist and Ghostbusters... Leigh, you're like some sort of long-haired Australian genius. I could stare into your haunting green eyes for hours while I raped you in my bathtub."

And then Courtney's dad will yell out, "COURTNEY! Come help me collect two of every animal. WE'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME!" and Courtney will be like, "Sorry fag, I have to dash."

And you'll be like, "Bye." But you'll just be talking to the lonely beep-beep-beep of the dial tone. A crystal tear will slide down your now ashen cheek. You watch it... falling through the air, in a poetic ballet of salty emotion, finally landing on Johnny's chest, where it mixes in with the blood like a drop of cream in an ocean of milk, as if it never were.

Johnny will be like, "What's the matter, Leigh?"

And you'll be like, "Oh, nothing JD... I just thought... for a minute... that Courtney wanted me for her rape crew?"

He'll comfort you, "It's okay, Leigh... you still have me." And Mortney will say, "And me... shall I take the moustache off?"

"No," you reply, "Leave it on. Why would you take your moustache off for.... MONOPOLY!"

And the game that followed will be talked about for decades to come. Folly, that's what they called it when you bought Mayfair with your last $350, but every subsequent roll landed on it and who was laughing then... YOU, that's who. Mayfair Michelle, they would call you in the years to come. And they would talk of Mayfair Monday, the day on which Mayfair Michelle became really rich, despite her entire lack of Monopoly skill.

Oh, and you have David Carradine... but THAT'S A STORY FOR ANOTHER DAY.

The End.

Love Cam.