Because I love The People Of Earth, and I want to help you achieve the most out of your lives, I realised a profound truth last night as I strained against my spine which threatened to crush me against the floor, sweat beading on my temples as I maintained a thrust-pelvis, nonchalant-leaning pose on the bar. As I brushed locks of auburn hair away from my forehead and double chins, the room pulsated around me, entranced with my body, which crackled and snapped with sexual electricity, my yellow eyes wide and dripping, and my comically-oversized walrus tusk-like teeth hooked sensuously over my lower lip. Ellen drunkenly babbled at my side like some salivating Girl Sidekick, pausing only to order another frangelico and lime, and to either ramble incoherently about sex/music/The Past, or to join me in yet another rousing, acapella chorus of 'Love Will Keep Us Together'. And as we pondered the Great Questions, the night spinning crazily out of control into a chaotic orchestra of nostalgia, posing, and boozy singalongs, I realised my mission for this weekend. Ellen is an ego-stroking kind of lass, often twice as much when she is in a boozier frame of mind than normal, and she began to verbally fellate me as a way of thanking me on behalf of The Kids for the gift of this very website, which your eyes are currently fornicating with, your brain swollen after a gluttunous banquet of acute social insight and razor sharp wit.
Oh, and we saw a bottle of whiskey which was from 'Knob Creek'. Hah. Knob.
My mission was simple. Today, I am going to show you exactly how Metal City is written, and you will be given the chance to create your OWN Metal City post.
I know. It sounds way out there. But don't be alarmed. Just sit back, put an apple on my desk and skulk away bashfully into the shadows, your three-ring notebook splayed out on your heavily defaced wooden easel, and I will take you through the steps, the methods, and the madness that is Metal City.
So, you have a message. A powerful message. A message that you simply must share with the world. Perhaps it is political. Perhaps it is satirical. Or, far more likely, you just got your end away with some lovely bit of stuff, and you want to tell the whole world how great it is that you're knocking boots with someone. All of these are common reasons for starting a website, and throwing your brain into the World Wide Web, letting it pollute the water like an eight year old boy in a public swimming pool surrounded by a yellow waist-high halo. The web is a strange and mysterious thing - 10% useful information, 10% ego, and 80% hardcore pornography. If you're not going to devote your spare time to the latter, you only have the two formers to choose from - and it is their alchemy which will dictate the final product.
In all likelihood, you are simply an out-of-control egomaniac, and setting up a website is just an outgrowth of your raging sickness. I know that in the case of Metal City, the site's genesis could not be closer to this truth. Obviously, this is nothing to be ashamed of - revel in the fact that you're a narcissistic, self-obsessed little prick. It's your right to be one. After all, aren't you an overprivelaged westerner? It is our RIGHT to cling to the belief that the tinned pie that we ate today is worthy of report through the technologies that are offered by hundreds of years of human evolution. Your trivial bullshit will be the lifeblood of the web, as slack-jawed freaks from across the globe stop by to read your gibberish as though they are being sent a page-by-page update on the progress of the new Burroughs novel. Face it - you're boring, you're irritating, you're arrogant, you're pretentious, and you're lovin' it. Time to hit the web!
So, you've decided to build a webpage, eh? Good for you! You're going to meet exciting new friends on the internet, and you're going to punish them with your ego. Can you say the same for your real-life friends? Let me put it to you this way: If you started reeling off pages of your awful angst poetry at someone you were physically in front of, you wouldn't receive "5 comments", in which they encourage you to "keep up the writing lolz". No - you'd recieve a broken bottle in the jugular, and your book of poetry would find a new function as it soaked up a long stream of warm urine. And rightly so. On the internet, though, you can get away with all kinds of egomaniacal shit - and people simply treat it as par for the course. Excellent!
Firstly, you're going to need a domain name. Remember, your domain name should be either tongue-in-cheek, or deathly serious and artsy. Basically, the extremes are something like "http://www.mypantsareonfire.com", or "http://www.serenityinme.net". Decide whether you are going to play the role of sweary buffoon, or Arteeste, and find an appropriate moniker. Remember, though - it's only one or the other. "http://www.myfeetarestinky.org" or "http://www.solitudeisaprison.com".
Why Metal City?
It's one of the two archetypes above. But which one?
I'm not telling.
Metal City posts are the product of one of two things: Extreme boredom or extreme desire to whine. Yes, girls and boys, accept the simple fact that the path to success as a contributor to the electronic stupidhighway is through avoiding the trappings of the World Wide Web, and instead becoming a part of the World Wide Whinge. Most blogs and websites involve people whimpering pathetically about the insignificant problems in their insignificant lives, and Metal City is no different. Thousands upon thousands of words hosted on this site are dedicated to my unwavering belief that I am a beautiful, unique flower, and that every bad thing that happens to me - A. Isn't my fault, and B. Can be attributed to the fact that the world is a cruel place - too cruel for a fragile teardrop like myself. Obviously, this is total bullshit - but remember, we're not dealing with reality. We're BLOGGING.
Of course, Metal City has - from time to time - included pieces of Serious Journalism. Attempts at legitimate writing on topical issues of the day, drafted in a penetrating voice which attempts to seek both truth and resonance from the complexities of a postmodern world. If you attempt to do anything like this, nobody will read your bullshit. This isn't school - this is a website. Leave the intelligent commentary for the classroom, Mr. Bookworm, and make with the dick jokes and whinings about your shitty love life. You might not sound like the emo-glasses wearing intellectual that you dreamed you'd be percieved as while you watched your computer in the mirror during a goatee-grooming session - but what do you care? You get to talk about how that guy who cut you off on the ring road last month really upset you and made you reconsider the fundamental good in people - and your audience will take your horseshit seriously!
So, Metal City presents a litany of masturbatory odes to my own whimperings. So far, so normal. Remember, boys and girls - you're special, you're fragile, you have feelings, and the world wants to hear about how Gareth dumped you and you just never got over it and here's a poem you performed last week at the X-Chrome Cafe's Poetry Slam Night. This is your chance to say all of the conceited, arrogant, tedious crap that you keep to yourself for fear of being slapped around the jowls and testicles.
"But how do I WRITE it?", I hear you cry.
How, indeed?
The short answer is - "Keep it simple, stupid."
The long answer is - "Keep it simple, stupid. And stop asking me your bullshit questions."
Nobody is impressed by your multisyballic language. Nobody wants to hear the studied rhythms of your words - the elegantly crafted phrasing that elevates your work above everyone else's. They want to hear you say 'fuck' a lot.
In this sense, Metal City gives the people what they want. In mixed company, the phrase "Fuck, this fucking cordial is giving me the fucking shits. Couldn't you have put more fucking flavour in it? It tastes like fucking camel piss!" could be misconstrued as being a little offensive and off-colour. In tiny ascii lights, however, it is the stuff of Flaubert. A blog without swearing is like a 17 year old from Dandenong without a V.D. Metal City, then, doesn't shy away from salty talk - and it understands that a lot of people feel that naughty language is only acceptable if it is done with a certain modicum of taste. It does, however, disagree - and instructs all you clean-mouthed sissies out there to go and brutally fuck yourselves. Metal City can also be known as Mr. Sweary - a place where filthy words are not something to be feared and used sparingly, but instead, are a part of the everyday language:
"Excuse me, could you pass the FUCKING BUTTER, you PRICK?"
".. I said I want TWO LARGE FUCKING PIZZAS - one HAWAIIAN, and one SUPER FUCKING SUPREME..."
".. I just want to say thank you on behalf of the FUCKING GROUP and ourselves, and I hope we passed the FUCKING AUDITION.."
"..Use the FUCKING FORCE, Luke, you FUCKING GIRL.."
And, again, Metal City IS an extremely pretentious ode to both arrested development and ego - and as such, is littered with references to pop culture, literature, film, art, and music. They are gratuitous, they are designed to go over your head, and they are designed to make both the writer and those who recognize the references feel all smug. But don't fret - because when you start your blog, you can do exactly the same thing, and know the joys of secretly feeling better than other people, just because you fished the biography of Kenneth Anger out of a bargain bin and had nothing else to read on a long road trip to your aunty's third wedding.
See? There I go again. Kenneth Anger.
I bet that right about now, you want to smash my teeth in with a sockful of manure, just for being such a smug, arrogant little wanker.
Likewise, Metal City strives to be pointlessly aggressive and violent. Sure - I could simply write lilting, melancholy odes to my own ennui and existential nausea, wrapped in poetic language, and illustrated by photographs that are chilling in their savage honesty, but frankly, that's a bunch of artsy shit. Why bother with such twaddle, when you can write violent fantasies about the losers that you've taken to with a blowtorch and tyre iron?
"But I'm a pathetic, pasty-faced wuss! I was literally crucified on a large wooden cross when I was at school! I couldn't hurt anybody! I love people!"
Me too. I'm a total sissy, with fatty girl arms, and a punch that closer resembles someone lazily reaching out for the last fistful of smarties in the bowl. In school, I became Melbourne's pinyata - I am incapable of physically damaging someone. At least, not without a gun. And, believe me, it's not for lack of desire. It's just that I'm built for neither speed NOR comfort - I'm built for wearing furry slippers and falling asleep with a blanket over my legs.
But that all ends when I get near a keyboard. And it will end for you too. With my QWERTY nunchakus, I become a deadly ninja - I take no shit, and I kill without provocation. In Metal City, life and death rests in my powerful palm - and it is that knowledge that fuels my textual bloodlust.
When I tell you good people about how I went shopping today and the lady at the butcher's forgot to give me my fifty cents change - why end the story with me simply showing her the receipt, taking the coin from her, and putting it towards a pie and a carton of milk, when I can end the story with me kicking her head off with a well-timed aerial spin kick, before stuffing the remains of her corpse in the grinder, and flooding the rest of the shop with poisonous gas?
Which would YOU rather hear about?
Exactly.
When I go for a walk and a kid on a bike bumps into me - why would I end the story with a stern talking to and gravel-rashed elbows, when I can - instead - help you to imagine the smell of cordite in the air as the little fucker's head explodes in a fine mist of crimson spray, and I slip the .50 calibre Desert Eagle back in my hip holster, my fingers tingling and the beginnings of an erection in my leather pants?
We're taught that mindless violence is the stuff of thuggish simpletons and fans of white-guys-who-rap. While that may be true, it is also the domain of the NEW intellectual - the thinker who accepts his bestial nature, and allows his art to reflect it. Or, on the other hand, is violence simply entertaining?
Of course it is.
The last thing that you must remember is that you are full of self-loathing. You ooze a profound hatred of everything you are - from the tips of your fungus-coated tootsies, to the tip of your fatty head. And you must constantly make self-deprecating references to your physique, relationship status, and employment/education. Look through Metal City's archives, and witness how much of a self-pitying pigfucker I am. See the endless references to my bad back, my love handles, and my rubbery, inner-tube-like lips.
But what's the point? The point is that you'll come off as that much more human and endearing - which will make your whimpering seem more like a cry from the heart, and less like puke from the belly. Whereas once you may have come across as a whining sack of shit who needs to grow up and get a hold of themselves, as you textually stare at your boots and try not to cry, you'll be perceived as a peacock with faded plumage - an ugly duckling who will soon be a beautiful swan. Of course, you probably ARE all of the things you're saying, and as such you really are just a whining, whimpering tub of shit - but who cares? Remember, this is the INTERNET, and this is your EGO SPEAKING. You are IMPORTANT, and so is your PAIN. And remember, always... ALWAYS end a post with a single sentence on it's own line. It's like a really big full stop. But cooler.
You can see that.
Can't you?
I'm glad you asked.
For the first time in the history of the world, I am throwing open my site to you - the people. Today, the 13th of June 2004, there IS no Metal City post. At least, not one by me. There is, however, one by YOU.
Take the lessons you've learned above regarding the methodology behind Metal City, and venture forth as YOU become a full-fledged member of the weblog community! Your debut webpost appears HERE and NOW.
I'm going to hold your hand, though. Simply read through the template, and fill in the blanks with the responses you deem most appropriate for a Metal City post. Print it out and show your friends! Read it to your loved ones over dinner, and watch as their faces fill with awe! Recite it at your next church meeting, and preface it by proclaiming in a proud, steady voice: "I wrote this for Metal City, least read blog in the whole world."
Just choose A, B, C, or D - and watch as your very own Metal City post is built before your very eyes. It's not magic - it's just your creativity coming to life!
First: A title.
A) A note from your webmaster...
B) When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me...
C) I'm gonna kill you all, you motherfuckers.
D) Penis : The Strange Odyssey of James Woods.
"So, I was talking to <.......................> the other day...
A) Myself.
B) Ellen.
C) Bronnie.
D) David Lee Roth.
... and it struck me just how <.................> people can be.
A) Fucking irritating.
B) Fucking sexy.
C) Completely stupid.
D) Truly beautiful.
We were walking through Greensborough, and we noticed that <...............>...
A) We were above everyone else.
B) We really hadn't been laid in a while.
C) We really needed to get me a new pair of glasses.
D) Greensborough sucks.
The thought had crossed my mind that I was being unfair, until it was pointed out to me that <........................>..
A) I'm retarded.
B) I'm flat-out nasty and unpleasant to be around.
C) If Springsteen was here, he'd probably agree with me.
D) Greensborough sucks.
I tried to laugh about it, but I just couldn't shake off that feeling. It stayed with me until I got home, and I sat down to <.......................>...
A) Masturbate.
B) Play Virtua Fighter 4.
C) Watch something that is probably banned in Australia.
D) Masturbate.
... and it was then that I realised that I may have been onto something in the first place. I started to ponder something from my childhood. Something profound. It was <.....................>...
A) My Commodore 64.
B) My copy of 'Judgement On Gotham'.
C) My cat, Sophie, who I miss dearly.
D) Masturbating.
... I felt unsure about it, but on days like today - days when the world seems off balance, and one is liable to lose one's mind beneath the opalescent sun of Melbourne town, it is better to close your eyes. Shut down. And if you have it in your power at all, to concentrate on <............................>.
A) Pornography.
B) How fun it would be to hit someone in the face with a shovel.
C) How much you want to die.
D) The new Van Halen songs.
I grew tired of my listlessness and ennui, and I rose to my feet. Grabbing Bronnie's leash, I quickly led her outside, and as she ran around in circles, gleefully salivating, she looked up at me and said <....................>.
A) "Why are you so fat?"
B) "Why are you so stupid?"
C) "Why didn't you leave me some of that pie, you fat bastard?"
D) "If I was actively aware that this was a lame attempt at comedy on your webpage, it would be the most pretentious meta-humour in the world, and I'd be forced to kill you in your sleep."
I scratched her behind the ears and smiled down lovingly, not responding to her question, but instead leading her up the street. We walked around Greensborough, and everywhere I looked, I noticed a memory lurking in the shadows. Memories like... <.......................>..
A) The Kalparrin barbeques, where my good friend Cameron cooked his own excrement when we were 13.
B) Burying gay porn beneath the Williams St. overpass because my adolescent sexuality was not something to be trifled with by the adult film industry.
C) The stormwater tunnel on Yando St., where we covered the walls in gasoline and petroleum jelly, lit the whole thing on fire, and ran away when the cops showed up.
D) The roof of Greensborough Plaza, where I dared my friend to drink two litres of Pepsi in twenty seconds, and cheered with glee when he succeeded - and promptly vomited all over himself.
I sighed, feeling my age, as I told Bronnie the tale. A tale of boyish fun. A tale of a young man's rite of passage in the dangerous backstreets of Melbourne. A tale of growing, and changing, and of the challenges that we all face in life. Bronnie giggled and looked up at me, exclaiming: <....................>.
A) "You're a fucking idiot."
B) "That was the most boring story I've ever heard."
C) "You're even more pathetic than I'd at first imagined."
D) "What? I wasn't listening."
I shrugged. I guess memories really are the property of their owners - nobody can take them away, but nobody can really share them either. We pressed on, moving through fields and blocks of houses, the sun warm on our backs, and the air smelling faintly of a storm. I guess John Lennon was right when he said - <.................>
A) "Strange days, indeed."
B) "Paul, you're a fucking arsehole."
C) "I always knew I was a fucking genius. People like me know from an early age."
D) "Now Yoko's gonna do her thing.... all over you."
... a statement which gets truer and truer every year. Maybe I'm just getting old.
When I got home, I realised that I forgot to buy the bok choi for the evening's dinner. Sighing, I saddled up the Torana and sped into the Plaza. When I arrived at the greengrocer.. <........................>...
A) There was no bok choi.
B) The bok choi smelled funny.
C) The girl at the register wouldn't stop looking at my crotch.
D) The bald guy who was restocking the onions said "We don't serve your kind here."
I immediately assessed the situation, and reached into my jeans for the nunchakus I'd stashed before I left. I whipped them out and hefted them experimentally in the air, listening to them cutting through the atmosphere with a deadly 'swishing' sound. I felt the anger rising up in my chest - the hatred thick and cloying, and I leapt in the air... <............................>
A) Decapitating the check out girls and other staff members with a single 360 degree spin kick.
B) Landing a blow with my weapon on the nearest patron, listening to their ribs crack as they coughed up a gob of blood.
C) Destroying all of the cash registers with some well-timed karate chops, smiling as the people around me cowered in fear.
D) To get a better view, just in case I needed something else for dinner, but I forgot to write it down.
It took ten minutes to destroy the shop that had at least twenty years of history in the area, but as I walked away, dusting my hands off as the ruins smoked and burned behind me, I was satisfied. I looked down, blood and teeth smeared across my Iron Maiden shirt, and I nodded. A valuable lesson had been taught here, today: <......................>.
A) Don't fuck with me, you motherfuckers.
B) The world is a beautiful place. But sometimes, it's painful too.
C) I need to get some from a chick.
D) I'm fat.
When I got home, I sat down and pondered the day. It was a complicated day, which seemed to gleam with all the colours of the rainbow - spires of coloured emotion slashing their way from my heart and rising up into the azure sea of the Melbourne sky. I shook my head, smiling at the memory, and then I settled down to... <..........................>
A) Masturbate.
B) Watch 'The Dirty Mind Of Young Sally'.
C) Sharpen my katana down by the ancient waterfall in my garden, where it was forged thousands of years ago.
D) Stare in the mirror and remind myself that I'm fat, unemployed, and I need to be killed.
Ah life. It really is the beautiful alternative.
Posted by David at June 13, 2004 02:21 AM | TrackBack