AAYL Janet Jackson's right boob at the Hyde Park hotel.

Talking about Janet and the Superbowl. Da-ted. But this definitely happened, the woman was definitely wearing a string-bikini singlet. This is back before the Hyde Park hotel was renovated and all my happy memories were destroyed. Back when there were the four pool tables when you could get a game for only forty cents. I swear this was the same woman who flashed us at the Bob Log III gig at the Charles Hotel. My companions shouted me down at the time but I swear I swear. 

In hindsight; there's some body horror going on in this piece. Written before anyone had to label anything anywhere. Why do they got to do that?

Please note: I'm guessing by electronic hardcore I was referring to the happy hardcore scene that was a'going on in Perth at the time. I wouldn't have known any better. 

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Tuesday 3rd of January

Janet Jackson's right boob is an insult to common decency? To be perfectly honest, my dear Michael Powell, I can't find anything insulting in a right boob. To me a right boob is a remarkably harmless object. The right boob should be placed on a high pedestal and worshiped, not mocked and feared by millions. All forms of nudity should be embraced. Shock over the human body in its purest form is one of the key reasons for humanity's problems. Clothes are an anchor; they fuse us to the moral majority. A fold of fabric is a greater threat to the mind than a naked right boob will ever be. Instead of asking why a flap of black skin, replete with areola and nipple, is insulting; question who would be insulted by such a thing? How can you know yourself when you don't know your enemy. We're in the dirty pub. We're playing pool against two drunks. One of the men presses a hand up to his neck to talk. He's wearing a metal talk box in his throat. There's a buzz in his voice whenever he speaks. My skin crawls as my imagination runs through the accidents that would have resulted in him needing that device. I overcompensate by trying not to stare and giving him a nice smile whenever I hand him the cue. There's a girl, a mature woman in her late thirties, across the room playing on another table. She has greasy, unkempt hair. Her face has been hardened by years in the sun. She's wearing a white string-singlet. I can see her breasts. Her nipples are the public domain's nipples. The string shimmers against her skin like scales. There's a beautiful thin girl standing in the doorway of the pub. This girl has a wart on her right knee. She is completely oblivious to this protrusion on her beauty. To me this bulbous piece of skin is all that is wrong in the world. It is all the itching, dry diseases centered upon the point of her knee. Early 90's electronic hardcore pumps into the room from a DJ rig down the hallway. Oh sweet baby jesus, I can't deal with this freak show tonight.