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A Suburban Bukowski Solo at Sally's Sound Hole

by Suburban Bukowskis

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1.
“Life Is A Gateway Drug” Life is a Gateway Drug, to whisky and cocaine Life leads to heroin, and then you're dead again. Life is a Gateway Drug, to whisky and cocaine Life leads to heroin, and then you start again. I first met her down at the Townie, As the bouncer she did berate, As I offered to call an ambulance, She said, F-you I'm feeling great. I didn't have very high standards, So I asked her on a date. She laughed at me halitosisely, as this mantra she did relate. And it went – Life is a Gateway Drug, to whisky and cocaine Life leads to heroin, and then you're dead again. Or in French La vie est un gateway drug, à whiskey et cocaïne La vie mené a l'héroïne, and then you're dead again. She turned up the very next evening, at my AA meeting place. She stumbled in with a gallon of gin And a coke straw in her face. As the circle got to her, we asked what she needed to say. She spun that bottle on the floor and sang, Let's hit our low points again, let's hit them low points people because – Life is a Gateway Drug, to whisky and cocaine Life leads to heroin, and then you're dead again. Or in Frenglish La vie est un gateway drug, à whiskey et cocaïne La vie mené a l'héroïne, and then you're dead again. She's gonna eat every bit of the weekend, And leave nothing on her plate And when it comes to alcohol she’ll leave nothing up to fate. She hasn't slept for three nights now She’s beginning to hallucinate. When you ask RUOK her mantra she’ll relate. I think we all know it out there - follow the bouncing ball. There's be bouncing balls along the bottom of the screen I'm sure. It goes - Life is a Gateway Drug, to whisky and cocaine Life leads to heroin, and then you're dead again. Life is a Gateway Drug, to whisky and cocaine Life leads to heroin, and then you start again. Let's take it up to the top shelf! Life is a Gateway Drug, to whisky and cocaine Life leads to heroin, and then you're dead again. Life is a Gateway Drug, to whisky and cocaine Life leads to heroin, and then you start again.
2.
"interwebs fucked up everything" The interwebs fucked up everything, and that’s the truth you know? Yeah the interwebs fucks up everything, I wish we could just let it go. Before the interwebs, we all lived in a world of harmony and peace. All was perfect – the sky was forever blue. There was no racism. Sure there was civil wars, slavery, and colonialism, but there was no racism because there was no interwebs. It's true! And everyone who wanted to had a job because their job hadn’t been replaced by an app on the interwebs. All was perfect, and the people we voted to be President of the free world could read and do basic mathematics. Wouldn't that be special? But then the interwebs fucked it. Because the interwebs fucked up everything, that’s the truth you know? Yeah the interwebs fucks up everything, I wish we could just let it go. And the children ate of the candied air that grew on the trees, as the birds sang Led Zeppelin songs. And all the beer was free. Then the interwebs fucked it. Made us all watch porn twelve hours a day, or maybe that’s just me, it’s hard to be objective there. There’s this thing Red Tube, but anyway I've gone off the point. And Facadebook made us all friendless because we’re all competing for friends on Facadebook, like Twits. And we have to join the groups, and the people still crying about Prince. I mean David Bowie sure, but Prince? Move on. Get over it. And George Michael - I've not faith in that argument, I’m not going there, I'm not touching that. But when Daryl Somers is gone we’ll know it the interwebs is to blame. When David Hasselhoff is no longer with us we’ll be able to say that the interwebs fucked up everything, again. And then there’s that whole thing with Putin and Trump and Cambridge Analytics and Qanon and the death of journalism and the fake death tax. Because the interwebs fucked up everything, that’s the truth you know? Yeah the interwebs fucked up everything, I wish we could just let it go. Well the interwebs fucked up everything, that’s the truth you know? Yeah the interwebs fucked up everything, I wish we could just let it go. I should have had a Wikileak.
3.
“(You're My) Coronavirus Baby” You’re my, coronavirus baby, you make me crazy. You’re my, coronavirus girl - don’t wanna touch, anybody else. You’re my, coronavirus baby, you make me hazy. You’re my, coronavirus girl - wash my hands, of everybody else. Please isolate with me, I want to be beside your, antibodies. Sans you I’m all at sea, I need a friendly harbour - my ship is shoddy. 'Cause you’re my, coronavirus baby, you make me crazy. You’re my, coronavirus girl - don’t wanna touch, anybody else. You’re my, coronavirus baby, you make me hazy. You’re my, coronavirus girl - I wash my hands, of everybody else. I want to be home-schooled, I know you can teach me, to be pandemic-free. We’ll lockdown from the fools, Both biochemically, and academically. You’re my, coronavirus baby, you make me hazy. You’re my, coronavirus girl - don’t wanna touch, anybody else. You’re my, coronavirus baby, you make me hazy. You’re my, coronavirus girl - I wash my hands, of everybody else. You’re my, coronavirus baby, you make me hazy. You’re my, coronavirus girl - The only one in the world.
4.
Kiama Kimono 02:20
“Kiama Kimono” Bought a kimono in Kiama, and a dildo in Dundas, a can of Mr Sheen down in Engadine, then we spent the night in Wallaby Flat. You had the nasi goreng in Nowra, and Ballarat’s best long black. You finally came good down in Collingwood, so we cabbed it to St Kilda and fucked. This song needs more wobbleboard This song needs more wobbleboard This song needs more wobbleboard We bought a box of bungers in Burwood, rode the Hay Plains on a hunch. We had more than we could handle down in East Fremantle, and in Springwood put your hair in a scrunch. You tried to hock your husband in Hobart, had a Launceston long lunch. We found a dog and tried to flog her in Wagga Wagga, drank a punnet of your Ipswich punch. This song needs more wobbleboard This song needs more wobbleboard This song needs more wobbleboard Bought a kimono in Kiama, from some dildo in Dundas, a can of Mr Sheen down in Engadine, then we spent the night in Wallaby Flat. We bought a box of bungers in Burwood, rode the Hay Plains on a hunch. Found more than we could handle down in East Fremantle, and in Springwood put your hair in a scrunch.
5.
“Sunday Mourning” Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning. Yeah the sun's coming up on Sunday as I stumble out of Stanmore, and the cabs crawl out like cockroaches onto Enmore Rd. As I steer myself down the spirituous sidewalk I see them search the soiled streets like Sirens for lost sailors to entice with their warm vinyl Islands, and directions to their cousin Abdul's in Surry Hills, where you can purchase a gram of Turkish delight to lull away the recovering day. Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning. As I pedal my feet down the street, my blindman's brain riding my body like a battered bicycle, the sick sweet stench of beer and kebab swims towards me from the bent over boy in the Commodore door as he attempts to kiss the tarmac with his intestines, like a Pope turned inside out. The Bank Hotel’s bouncer, his bored broad shoulders bursting sluggishly through his suit, looks as fresh as the apathetic kebab that you purchase next door, as he sways from sole to sole, wishing some young Goth would get smart with him, allowing him to expel that pent up energy that bubbles inside of him like a nun's libido. Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning. And I veer right and roll towards Erskineville, where outside The Imperial a cornucopia of subterranean scenes, blend like Bailey's and cream, as a boy with a beer glass embedded delicately in his face boldly refuses an ambulance as he floats painlessly on beer, battery acid and testosterone, then falls flatulent and flat at the fatigued feet of a paramedic, like a drunken fish. Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning. And I veer right and roll towards Erskineville, where outside The Imperial a cornucopia of subterranean scenes, blend like Bailey's and cream, as a boy with a beer glass embedded delicately in his face boldly refuses an ambulance as he floats painlessly on beer, battery acid and testosterone, then falls flatulent and flat at the fatigued feet of a paramedic, like a drunken fish. And I dive through my back door as the pre-dawn clouds, black & blue as a boxer’s brain, change hue to glaring bright blue, and I escape the segue into day. Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning. Sunday Mourning.
6.
"Hep Cat Ballad" Them Liberal-National coalition, Right-Wing Christian superstition, climate denialist men and women, are gonna be the death of you and me. Us inner-city, cheap-wine-sippin’, bleedin’ heart, asylum giving, kitsch clothes wearin’, alternative livin’, lazy-arse hippies like you and me. It’s them Scomo-lovin, Bible thumpin’, talk-back radio all over it comin’ Xenophobic fear-mongering, Reef-mining millionaires of misery, Versus us beatnik, poem-writin’, unionist, bludging, Medicare lovin’, dole form lodgin’ drug legalisin’, peace pipin’ guitar strummin’, LBGT lovin’, lazy-arse hipsters like you and me. But eventually they’ll win by making Earth an unlivable place until then we’ll live in torturous, humourless, violent times led by mindless mobs with their shirts tucked in and shoes all shined because… Them Liberal-National coalition, Right-Wing Christian superstition, climate denialist men and women, are gonna be the death of you and me. Us inner-city, cheap-wine-sippin’, bleedin’ heart, asylum giving, kitsch clothes wearin’, alternative livin’, lazy-arse hippies like you and me...
7.
"Last Chiko Roll in a Run Down Tuck Shop” This is a story about a grill, a story about deep fried nations, notions, and aspirations. We were snap frozen and deported before we were born, destined to end our days in this linoleum gulag, down here on the the lazy corner of Lonely and Forlorn even them little cockroaches, they don’t drop in, 'cause I’m the last Chiko Roll in this run-down tuck shop. 'cause I’m that last Chiko Roll, in this dirty bain-marie I’m the last Chiko Roll, longing to be free well I been stuck here since 3rd June, 1983 take a bight out of me please, put me out of my misery The scallops are dry as cardboard, the salad bar’s dead as the old Galaga machine and the milkshakes taste like 1977, and are the texture of cottage cheese, but me I’m still here - the last Chiko Roll in this run-down old tuck shop, struggling to stay warm amongst the flies under this dirty bain-marie. 'cause I’m that last Chiko Roll, in this dirty bain-marie I’m the last Chiko Roll, longing to be free Lord I been stuck here since 3rd June, 1983 take a bight out of me please, put me out of my misery. Well there's no sense of camaraderie, and the old queen who runs this joint, she's has forgotten about us her big-eared brat’s not interested in flogging oily chips, but I’m still here, me - the last Chiko Roll in this run-down tuck shop called Australia, just struggling to stay warm amongst the flies and 'roaches in this dirty old bain-marie. 'cause I’m that last Chiko Roll, in this dirty bain-marie I’m that last Chiko Roll, longing to be free I’m that last Chiko Roll can’t even got on the dole watching the poster of the bikie moll blu tak peeling off the wall I’m the last Chiko Roll in this dirty old, bain-marie.
8.
"I'm Not Quittin' Drinkin', I'm Just Quittin' Hangovers" This was inspired by a friend of mine who said he wasn't giving up drinking, he was just giving up hangover. It was also inspired by my inhospitable time in hospitality. I was working the taps one night when there was this clown holding a drinking competition with himself in the corner. He was swaying like a Manly ferry, demanding another round, determined to beat his personal best. I said, Hey Buddy, I know life can get ya down, man, but you might wanna pull back on the sauce a little. You might wanna waylay from the from the wet stuff for a while. He said, Don’t worry I’m quitting after this. I said, What, you’re quitting drinking? He said, No – I’m not quitting drinking, I’m just quitting hangovers, and the best way would be if I were to die tonight. If I drink until I’m dead, I’ll avoid that morning head, now I can’t see how this can’t work out fine. Well I felt it behoved to point out some flaws in his theorem. First off there’s the whole being dead bit, that had to go in the cons column, that had to be in 'against', that had to be seen as a negative, but he said it was outweighed by so many obvious positives that it all worked out even in the end, he said, Ya see the way it works is, right. Then he got out his whiteboard and his non-permanent marker and he drew some venn diagrams, then he just picked up a guitar and he sang - I’m not quitting drinking, I’m just quitting hangovers, and the best way would be if I were to die tonight. If I drink until I’m dead, I’ll avoid that morning head, now I can’t see how this can’t work out fine. Well surely responsible service of alcohol is a fluid concept, so I poured him another and a couple for myself, and in time the logic of his thesis began to appeal – No more mornings feeling like the sweet bird of youth has OD’d in the bathroom of your soul. No afternoons where the ibuprofen wears off and the neighbour in your cerebellum starts banging the floor again. And there's no sympathy for you, as my old boss used to say, It’s a self-inflicted wound Benito, there’s no sympathy for you here. Here, no sympathy. But this way I could drink as much as I like and I’d never have a hangover again, I just had to die in the end. Brilliant! I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it ago! So I grabbed a couple of bottles of top shelf, jumped over the bar and joined him on the other side, poured us a couple of quadruples and sang, I’m not quitting drinking, I’m just quitting hangovers, and the best way would be if I were to die tonight. If I drink until I’m dead, I’ll avoid that morning head, now I can’t see how this can’t work out fine. Yeah I can’t see how this can’t work out fine. And then he joined me and we sang, We're not quitting drinking, we're just quitting hangovers, and the best way would be if we were to die tonight. If we drink until I’m dead, we’ll avoid that morning head, now we can’t see how this can’t work out fine. No we can’t see how this can’t work out fine. Now we can’t see how this can’t work out fine.

about

Hi,
So during the first big lockdown I got a gig through a grant from the City of Sydney to Sally Mae, booker and sound person for the Townie, to record some songs at her nascent studio, Sally's Sound Hole in Marrickville.

Sally filmed and recorded my set and mixed it for her Recovidry project and here it is! I'm solo, just a single ol' Suburban Bukowski, with an audience of a few people (basically the members of Cloudbird, Sally, and anyone else standing around.)

I'd been drinking Philter Red in the backyard, behind Sally's van, with Pete from Cloudbird, so was fully professional in my preparation.

This has some songs that I've not as yet got to record with the band (with only three of the songs from our debut CD) so I hope you dig it.

Your Sin Celery,
Benito Di Fonzo
AKA Suburban Bukowski

credits

released August 16, 2021

All songs written by Benito Di Fonzo except track 7 (Benito Di Fonzo & Shannon O'Connor)

All tracks performed by Benito Di Fonzo

Recorded and mixed by Sally Mae at Sally's Sound Hole, Marrickville, NSW, Australia, 2020/2021 for Recovidry

Cover art by Benito Di Fonzo

To learn more about Recovidry go to www.facebook.com/Recovidry/

To learn more about Suburban Bukowskis and Benito go to www.benitodifonzo.com

To learn more about Sally's Sound Hole go to www.facebook.com/Sallyssoundhole

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Suburban Bukowskis Sydney, Australia

Upbeat, folky, funny neo-beatnik tales of failure, fun, and excess in the wild inner-west are trademark of the narrative poem-songs (or pongs) penned by award-winning playwright and poet, Benito Di Fonzo. Accompanied by veteran bassist Mike Sheehan, drummer Justine Wahlin, and lead guitarist Pete Fenwick. Rhum.org.au called Benito's writing, "Clever, witty, sharp and surreal.” " ... more

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