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Like Hannibal we crossed the pass and crossed the Alps (okay, the Brynderwyn Hills) and a bridge too far on north-west passage. From out of the Valley of Mizpah to the fires of perdition at the gates of Sodom down Port Albert Road till at long last… Tapora on the Kaipara Harbour. Land of pixies, eunuchs, and banjo strummers - home to flat-earthers, doomsday-preppers, bootleggers, desperados, and sheep-buggerers! Yet we were on a pilgrimage, and behold “the Eagle had landed” or in our case the Red Falcon to burn in its fires and rise from the ashes like the Phoenix (no, not the pub, Einstein, the great flamin' mythical bird!). And so the winds of folly did fan the salty sea air on ruttin’ sodomites and nervous sheep. Soon night falls on the dunes in No Man’s Land - the Southern Cross high in its galactic belt, and constellations of Gods and sacred beasts gazed at by ancient Babylonians and Greeks and Maori shimmer in the heavens - the maps and lights of all antiquity flashin’ across the Milky Way! Now I’m no Copernicus or space ninja of the cosmos but I too was seein’ stars - I’m always seein' stars - the curse of deja brew! As we played darts and music played I confess I was wise to not much I fear - joyfully I was blind and mute to sublimations and dumb to the ideology of civil obedience. Gandhi I’m not - more like Mau, yep, Chairman Skeet! Actually more akin to Marx (Groucho, not Karl), author of the “Up Yours Manifesto”. And unlike Marx (Karl, not Groucho) truly wisely deaf to the bullsh-it of my own speak. I am zen to the ancient art of mind over matter - if Skeet don’t mind it don’t fu-ckin' matter! The cache of hooch is a target rich environment, and as self-appointed quartermaster and rankin' officer of this rabble I must do what I must, for Skeet is an ideas man (yep, bad ideas) and my master plan was indeed a bad idea - to drink the merry lot till I saw the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse or the face of God. I was hopin’ for God! No, these were not the banks of the River Jordan, but I did see a pale horse in the wilderness! Soon by the glow of the midnight sun conspire the fates to rid me of all conscience - and when I can drink no more I am the last man standin’ (leanin’) in the dark, and nothin’ stirred, not even a mouse till lappin’ waves upon the shore lull me to sleep. And as the mornin' light on the Kaipara breaks so too my mojo risin’, but my long runnin' battle continues with vertigo and the Earth’s centrifugal force and gravitational pull. To cure my bottle flu I skoll an early DB corpse reviver and I’m alive again - not hungover…still pissed! In my addlemania I dry ringin' wet clothes from my baptism of sand and sea fallen in the dunes. The estuaries and mudflats whisper yonder. Bugger! Kaipara Harbour’s great inland sea at its low ebb, a remote ancestral place of myth and legend. Those haunted banshee badlands echo in the wind and echo a man’s soul. Later under cover of darkness, Regiment covert Black Ops! Left base camp HQ at 2100 hours. Helter Skelter Company! Cursed by howlin' wind more eye-rollin’ drunk than before - dug in on the shiftin’ sands of Iwo Jima, bivouacked on the beachheads and foxholes of Omaha Beach under a great umbrella of stars. Behold seal team Victor Tango Charlie in the long grass with “all guts ‘n glory” Bowden (twice mentioned in dispatches) at my side stalkin’ a local frontier girl as she danced the dance of the seven veils. Meanwhile seal team Delta Zulu Bravo deployed on recon for cockles and mussels, but the blokes under my command had heads like Romulans so we had to bug out - bid a retreat lest toothless villagers wavin’ pitchforks appear (hey, in these parts a cowpoke is a verb!) Yo, is that Deulin’ Banjos I hear? Banjos sh-it me! Returned to HQ and debriefed in our madness to sleep off my funk as grunts frenzied on cockles. Out of nowhere an enemy patrol rained incomin’ shellfire on the tin roof, stoned us with their hit and run not so smart bombs and vanished like the voices in my head. Just kiddin’! No voices! Not psycho! Before I could say “ho lee fuk!” they disappeared in the wind up the local Ho Chi Minh Trail - not exactly the Battle of Long Tan but eerie sh-it. But alas worse was still to come at Camp Crystal Lake when my Blood on the Tracks tape sh-it itself. The ghost of Dylan died! O’ but there was an Idiot Wind blowin’ through our Shelter From the Storm, and in my cabin fever I did become yep, Tangled Up in Blue! Sunday, alas low on hooch - more precious than the Ark of the Covenant. Was then plotters plotted in the pampas grass on the Kaipara shore. Thus it is written in the Book of Skeet that I saw John the Baptist and Paul the lay missionary with the Virgin Jillene (okay, virgin is a stretch!). I saw Three Wise Men: The Good, The Bad and The Coyote Ugly (or Rob, Rich and Craig boy) - better known as the Wit brothers: Dim, Half, and Fuk! One was fishin’, one was drinkin’, and one was suckin’ on a fagg (cigarette that is, lol!). And so with jellyfish in my jacket and mischief in my heart I was on a mission from God. As I rolled back the bedcovers I felt good and just cause. As I laid my slimy jellied friend down the stars and planets aligned. I had prayed for Deliverance but I think God misunderstood, so like Jake and Elwood we smoked that Monaro outta there before insurrection in the ranks and before any pig squealin’ dumb hillbilly mountain men showed up to take a bride!<em/ Written: August 1994

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Tapora

Like Hannibal we crossed the pass and crossed the Alps (okay, the Brynderwyn Hills) and a bridge too far on north-west passage. From out of the Valley of Mizpah to the fires of perdition at the gates of Sodom down Port Albert Road till at long last… Tapora on the Kaipara Harbour. Land of pixies, eunuchs, and banjo strummers - home to flat-earthers, doomsday-preppers, bootleggers, desperados, and sheep-buggerers! Yet we were on a pilgrimage, and behold “the Eagle had landed” or in our case the Red Falcon to burn in its fires and rise from the ashes like the Phoenix (no, not the pub, Einstein, the great flamin' mythical bird!). And so the winds of folly did fan the salty sea air on ruttin’ sodomites and nervous sheep. Soon night falls on the dunes in No Man’s Land - the Southern Cross high in its galactic belt, and constellations of Gods and sacred beasts gazed at by ancient Babylonians and Greeks and Maori shimmer in the heavens - the maps and lights of all antiquity flashin’ across the Milky Way! Now I’m no Copernicus or space ninja of the cosmos but I too was seein’ stars - I’m always seein' stars - the curse of deja brew! As we played darts and music played I confess I was wise to not much I fear - joyfully I was blind and mute to sublimations and dumb to the ideology of civil obedience. Gandhi I’m not - more like Mau, yep, Chairman Skeet! Actually more akin to Marx (Groucho, not Karl), author of the “Up Yours Manifesto”. And unlike Marx (Karl, not Groucho) truly wisely deaf to the bullsh-it of my own speak. I am zen to the ancient art of mind over matter - if Skeet don’t mind it don’t fu-ckin' matter! The cache of hooch is a target rich environment, and as self-appointed quartermaster and rankin' officer of this rabble I must do what I must, for Skeet is an ideas man (yep, bad ideas) and my master plan was indeed a bad idea - to drink the merry lot till I saw the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse or the face of God. I was hopin’ for God! No, these were not the banks of the River Jordan, but I did see a pale horse in the wilderness! Soon by the glow of the midnight sun conspire the fates to rid me of all conscience - and when I can drink no more I am the last man standin’ (leanin’) in the dark, and nothin’ stirred, not even a mouse till lappin’ waves upon the shore lull me to sleep. And as the mornin' light on the Kaipara breaks so too my mojo risin’, but my long runnin' battle continues with vertigo and the Earth’s centrifugal force and gravitational pull. To cure my bottle flu I skoll an early DB corpse reviver and I’m alive again - not hungover…still pissed! In my addlemania I dry ringin' wet clothes from my baptism of sand and sea fallen in the dunes. The estuaries and mudflats whisper yonder. Bugger! Kaipara Harbour’s great inland sea at its low ebb, a remote ancestral place of myth and legend. Those haunted banshee badlands echo in the wind and echo a man’s soul. Later under cover of darkness, Regiment covert Black Ops! Left base camp HQ at 2100 hours. Helter Skelter Company! Cursed by howlin' wind more eye-rollin’ drunk than before - dug in on the shiftin’ sands of Iwo Jima, bivouacked on the beachheads and foxholes of Omaha Beach under a great umbrella of stars. Behold seal team Victor Tango Charlie in the long grass with “all guts ‘n glory” Bowden (twice mentioned in dispatches) at my side stalkin’ a local frontier girl as she danced the dance of the seven veils. Meanwhile seal team Delta Zulu Bravo deployed on recon for cockles and mussels, but the blokes under my command had heads like Romulans so we had to bug out - bid a retreat lest toothless villagers wavin’ pitchforks appear (hey, in these parts a cowpoke is a verb!) Yo, is that Deulin’ Banjos I hear? Banjos sh-it me! Returned to HQ and debriefed in our madness to sleep off my funk as grunts frenzied on cockles. Out of nowhere an enemy patrol rained incomin’ shellfire on the tin roof, stoned us with their hit and run not so smart bombs and vanished like the voices in my head. Just kiddin’! No voices! Not psycho! Before I could say “ho lee fuk!” they disappeared in the wind up the local Ho Chi Minh Trail - not exactly the Battle of Long Tan but eerie sh-it. But alas worse was still to come at Camp Crystal Lake when my Blood on the Tracks tape sh-it itself. The ghost of Dylan died! O’ but there was an Idiot Wind blowin’ through our Shelter From the Storm, and in my cabin fever I did become yep, Tangled Up in Blue! Sunday, alas low on hooch - more precious than the Ark of the Covenant. Was then plotters plotted in the pampas grass on the Kaipara shore. Thus it is written in the Book of Skeet that I saw John the Baptist and Paul the lay missionary with the Virgin Jillene (okay, virgin is a stretch!). I saw Three Wise Men: The Good, The Bad and The Coyote Ugly (or Rob, Rich and Craig boy) - better known as the Wit brothers: Dim, Half, and Fuk! One was fishin’, one was drinkin’, and one was suckin’ on a fagg (cigarette that is, lol!). And so with jellyfish in my jacket and mischief in my heart I was on a mission from God. As I rolled back the bedcovers I felt good and just cause. As I laid my slimy jellied friend down the stars and planets aligned. I had prayed for Deliverance but I think God misunderstood, so like Jake and Elwood we smoked that Monaro outta there before insurrection in the ranks and before any pig squealin’ dumb hillbilly mountain men showed up to take a bride!