Live from Sydney, Australia…

…The greatest pub city on the planet… it’s…

[b]Sarah Luna![/b]
Yay! Cheers! Woooohooooo! Yeeeehawwwwwwww!
[b]*random person throws not so random person’s underwear on stage while the not-so-random person wonders how the hell the random person got the underwear off of them while they were wearing it without noticing*[/b]

Yes, we are Sarah Luna. We being [url=]Michael Stark[/url], [url=]Boris Lerner[/url], and myself, [url=]Leigh D. Stark[/url].

Mike takes the lead vocals and guitar, Boris takes the drums, and I take the bass, and tonight we played an 8 song set at [url=]The Lansdowne[/url]… another one of Sydney’s notorious pubs.

Pubs in Sydney are generally notorious. Notoriety, however, isn’t necessarily a good thing. For instance, Tantra, a club which no longer exists but did at one point exist near Taylor Square on Oxford Street was notorious for being over priced and absolutely shit.

While out with some mates, I found that one of the “Irish” pubs on George St. was to become notorious for having quite possibly some of the dumbest security guards on the planet. Either that or they were just discriminating. Bastards. It’s not my fault that I don’t have breasts or a cunt. Do you really don’t think that I do want one of each? Shit, I wouldn’t need to go outside. I’d just sit in my room, stark naked, playing with each as if it’s some sort of Meccano set.

The Lansdowne is notorious for it’s $5 steak, which is pretty good for the price. Sure, you have to buy a drink for 3 bucks to get the $5 steak, but in the end, paying 8 bucks for a steak that’s cooked better than most over-priced steak-houses is probably worth it.

I, however, missed the kitchen tonight. Instead I went to Oporto’s with [url=]one of my really close friends BJ[/url], who was there to support me and my band with some of her friends… cousins… family… one of them. It’s all probably the same. Who the hell knows. Certainly not me. I can rarely tell the difference between family members and a sheep. New Zealanders are funny that way.

BJ’s not a Kiwi, though. She’s a Philo… Philopeanean… I know I’ve fucked that one up, I just know it, and yet the bringing of 2 am makes me so lazy that I’m just lazy enough to NOT run through a spell checker. So she’s Philo and possibly Philo-pastry. That can be my new term for Philo… oh you know what I’m talking about.

Anyway, so I’m wearing my low-cut jeans tonight, the type that you’d be able to see the long line of crack that adores my regal backside if I wasn’t wearing my [url=]Mr. Men-Mr. Grumpy boxer trunks[/url] with them.

And we had friends that turned up. I’ll name names and I’ll try and remember all those that came so in case they get called up by a court for something, you’ll either have an alibi or a memory as to “yeah, I attended the first REAL Sarah Luna gig!” Hell, maybe it’s a fond memory. Fucked if I know…

Mum, Dad, Brad, BJ, BJ’s crew, Ralph Davis, (I think) Linda Klarfeld, Wendell Teodoro, Sam, Aviva, Sonja, Nick, Aeden, Anna, Anna’s percussionist friend, Rob Prior, John Prior, and whole bunch of people I’ve never heard of and will probably never see again… if I left out your name and you came, or if I didn’t mention your name because I had no idea what it was and no one told me, you can apply the following words just as those people who I did list should:
[b]Thank you for coming. It was great to play for such a great audience and I know that I can’t wait ’till I do it again, as I’m sure the rest of the band feel the same.[/b]

Anyway, we all made some mistakes but all in all, people said that we played pretty well. A few people told us the songs they liked and the sort of things we should do to change ourselves and make our band better. One guy apparently told Mike that he’d like us enough to pay for us. That’s gotta count for something.

BJ’s crew were probably the coolest to me. I still don’t know who they are… BJ probably told me at one point, but with my hopeless memory, I’ll be lucky to remember what I was going to write in place of this line here as a sort of joke to get a laugh. See. I’ve forgotten. I’m that good! At… something… I guess… anyway…

BJ’s crew were probably the coolest to me, with people I can’t remember the names of (if I was ever told) telling me I looked cute while I was playing bass, that they liked our name Sarah Luna (even though apparently it’s a girl’s clothing label… who knew?!), and that my Stitch and Gollum voices made them laugh.

Woohoo! Possibilities? Probably not, but it beats trying to remember lines that make me look like an arrogant dickhead.

By the way, I’ve so far got a few photos from the event. There were two photographers there tonight. [url=]Wendell Teodoro[/url] and [url=]Gary Stark[/url] (yep, Mike’s and my Dad). There could’ve been more, but these were the only two I saw.

Some of Wendell’s shots can be found below.

Photography by Wendell Teodoro, [url=][/url]





Low-cut jeans

One of my clients has given me some low-cut jeans.

These jeans are cut low at the waist… and… while I’m wearing them… I just don’t get it.

I mean why… why would anyone want to have a cut of jeans that specifically aims to show off their crack?

What sort of idiot in marketing or design one day went “Hmm… well, since jeans are all the rage… let’s try something completely unexpected. How about this… a pair of jeans where an inch or two is cut off from the height of the waist line so that no matter what happens, at all points someone can see part of your ass crack when they look at your ass!”

These pants bring new meaning to the word crack addict.

Hi. My name is Leigh and I’m a crack addict… and I’ve never taken an ounce of crack in my life… but by wearing these low-cut jeans… I feel like such a fucking crack addict that the rest of the world probably won’t be able to stop commenting on my crack.

Even wearing these boxer trunk thingies, you may not be able to actually see my crack… BUT I KNOW IT’S THERE!!!

Plus, they’re slim leg… which means they cling to my leg like ink-jet printouts and cum-stains cling to fourteen year old boys in the basements of their parents home in middle America. Jerk jerk, “Oh Sarah”, jerk jerk, new stain.

If anything, these new pants will kickstart me losing weight again.

New goal, Leigh… new goal: change your weight so you don’t look like such an idiot in these jeans.

For anyone that wants to see what I look like in low-cut jeans, our band will be playing at [url=]The Lansdowne[/url] at 7ish pm tonight.

White Children

Little Jack.
Little Jill.
So small.
So young.
So innocent.
What would they know about the real world?
More than you and me.
The faces are gleaming with the smiles they’re streaming and they experience more than me.
The bags in their pockets cause they’ve sold all their rockets and now they’ll be as high as a tree.
As they hold the spoon and light the flame, their eyes glisten in delight.
As they insert the needles and get very happy, they couldn’t care if they got into a fight.
Little Jack.
Little Jill.
So small.
So young.
So innocent.
Yeah, you’d think that wouldn’t you?
You’d be wrong.
For Jack removes his pants and Jill does a little dance and they try to figure out what a condom is for.
And Jack pushes in making Jill’s head spin as they go and have sex on the kindergarten floor.
As Jack yells out loud and Jill screams in delight, the teachers burst in for their daily raids.
Jack and Jill go to the doctor cause they think something is wrong and they find that they each have AIDS.
Such a shame for the white children who like to play.
There’s little Jack.
There’s little Jill.
So small.
So young.
So innocent.
We make so many stereotypes of other people.
We make so many others feel bad.
We need to stop.

‘Why don’t we learn anything in school, Daddy?’

It’s a question of knowledge, boy; the type of knowledge you need for life,
It’s teachers, you see, that give us that type of knowledge you need for life —
History, well, that’s what started it off —
And if they also give us a high level of boredom
That’s their job, not a fringe benefit, a game of Russian roulette
Likely to hand out a victim a trip to the morgue.

Without teachers, let’s face it, a school is completely hopeless,
And these days, it’s bad for a kid to be completely hopeless in
Anything at all —

Well, son, you do need to know how to count.
One woman plus one woman plus one woman does equal five women and a lot of
You do need know how to speak English so you can tell your girlfriend how beeeyouteeful she is.
Boy, let me tell you that you don’t want to mix alkeehol and fire together.
Who gives a damn about those old buggers in the past that you have to learn about?
No one! Ignore it. They piss me off anyway.
You do want to learn about how good jigsaw puzzles look once they’re finished, don’t you?

It’s an annoying school, son.

You not learning anything in school? Oh, well the teachers
Are on the advice of their big brother, the principal,
That they can’t teach you a damned thing or else they’d
Slap the shit out of each other.

Darkness Calls

It flies above you
Swiftly, gently, calling the wind to it’s power
It flies with a great risk, into the song of danger
Claps of thunder, lights of lightning, and a great stream of color
Your eyes watch the sky for a few minutes
A tear streams down your eye
“That’s life,” your head tells you
But to yourself, you think there’s something more you can do
You take a newspaper out of a rack, go to shelter, and read carefully
It takes you a while, but soon you realize it
The song of World War III was never meant to be
Your life was never meant to be shortened as it is right now
You call each leader, and try to speak to them
Each leader is out, trying to fight a war that will never be over
Running, you head to a helicopter
Pain strikes
You grab your arm to find out that it’s been shot
Without turning your head, you start the engine to the helicopter
Pain strikes yet again
This time, to the helicopter, not to you
The fuel tank has been shot and is now leaking
There isn’t much time
The helicopter flies into the middle
Your voice, hooked up to a loud speaker, is projected in a 50 mile radius
Everyone hears you
You look down at the fuel gage
The helicopter starts to fall
A child sees the stream of color arise from where you died
A tear drops down their cheek
The war has been stopped
And your name, was called into the darkness

**This poem received 3rd place in the Dallas PTA chapter of the Reflections program in 1997**