I wanna see Carlo Sands on a motherfucking stage! How do I see Carlo Sands on a stage? Plus other crucial Carlo Sands news

Yeah, I know. It has been, like TWO FUCKING MONTHS since I last posted shit here.

And I know what you are thinking: You finally deign to post for us once more and it is to fucking PLUG a a fucking handful of almost entirely of forgettable open mic stand up gigs in FUCKING SYDNEY?

That's right. Exactly.

And I know what else you are thinking. You're thinking: "You've changed, man. This is it then is it? Your blog is just some fucking nearly totally neglected occasional bulletin board for whatever random shit you are doing in the next month? HUH? TALK TO US CARLO, WE YOUR FANS DEMAND A FUCKING ANSWER!!!!!!!!"

Alright, Jesus. Calm down.

Fuck. I know, yeah? I get it. Thousands of you wanna know: Where is the Carlo Sands who produced such uncompromising pieces of social criticism, such as the widely lauded, if pretty much never reposted, "Dear Motherfuckers: An Open Letter the United States Government". What happened to the author of "Could This Be The Wall?", a serious and detailed examination of the all-too-often overlooked question of *where* to line up the capitalist fuckers destroying all life on Earth in order to most effectively pump bullets into their worthless, parasitical planet-destroying bodies?

AND WHAT OF THE CARLO SANDS WHO DEFENDED BINGE DRINKING WITH SUCH SCATHING POLEMICS AS "DRINK MOTHERFUCKERS DRINK: AN ALTERNATIVE WAY FORWARD FOR THE NSW GOVERNMENT"? Huh? HUH?

Fuck, seriously, go get a beer. And stop shouting, you are freaking me out.

And shut the fuck up, anyway. It is my goddamn blog. Go write your own, you useless ungrateful little gits.

No. Yeah. Where was I?

Oh yeah. They let me on stages these days. I mean... not BIG ones. Tiny ones, in cold rooms in the basements or outside of suburban pubs. But I wanted to let you know *when*. Because I can, having a blog and all.

So, let me see, where *can* you see Carlo Sands in Sydney?

* Tues. August 7 Comedy at the Edge. 8pm. The Pub Formerly Known as the Shannon. (I will never type its so-called new name out)

* Fri. August 17 Comedy Court. 8pm. Star Bar. Book here!

* Sat. August 25 Green Left Weekly/Socialist Alliance council election fundraiser: A night of comedy, music and politics. Newtown Neighbourhood Centre.

*new* Mon: August 27 Comedy Lounge in Surry Hills.*new*

* Thurs. October 11 Mic In Hand. 8pm. Friend in Hand Hotel.

* Roxbury Hotel some time for prelim final of Quest for the Best.


See? Exciting no? NO? Fuck you.

Actually, of that list the only one I really give a fuck about people going to is the Green Left/Socialist Alliance fundraiser -- also with stand-up comic and Newcastle Greens councilor Hannah Gissane.

You know, coz the Socialist Alliance sorta stands for not letting the corporate fucks kill the *entire* fucking planet. And Green Left -- they gave me a whole goddamn "Carlo's Corner" column to rant in. So I am all for giving these bastards as much cash as possible.

The rest of it just seems cool to list. Like, to someone who doesn't know any better, it might look like I actually have some sort thing going here. You never know, one born every minute, as they say. Speaking of which, you can donate to Carlo Sands at the Pay Pal button on the right hand column.

Anyway.

So what have I been up to then, you ask? Well, you know me, busy, busy, busy. These hangovers don't generate themselves! Well actually, now I am in my mid 30s they kinda do. But anyway.

I have been very busy watching with horror as Essendon's AFL season crashes into a brick wall. They are falling down that ladder faster than Labor Party polling figures in Queensland. Or, just Labor Party polling figures.

My last post, I was whining about how hard it is to watch a goddamn game of AFL in this fucking city. I spoke of how I went into some dive in Redfern and asked politely if maybe ONE of their dozen screens playing a rugby league game so I could watch Essendon play Melbourne. Finally, they agreed to change over the smallest screen 0ut the back in the cold, with the sound turned down so the pool players could watch the rugby league on the bigger screen near by -- only, at a crucial part of the game, just as a Melbourne player lined up for goal, the rugby league finished and EVERY SINGLE SCREEN in the joint changed over to music clips and starting playing "Things that Make you Go Hmmm."

It took about 20 minutes of pleading and looking like I was going to cry before they finally put a screen back to the game, in time for me to see the Bombers lose to Melbourne by a goal.

So, give all that, you can imagine, when I recently found myself in Adelaide for a weekend, just how excited I was to be in a an AFL town once more. My visit coincided with Essendon's Friday night game against Geelong and, sure enough, it was the easiest damn thing in the world to find a pub screening it on a huge screen.

Far harder, as I discovered, was finding a pub that *wasn't*. Because the Cats slaughtered the Bombers in a debacle of a match. And it was impossible to escape. I found myself in a dive at midnight surrounded by huge screens replaying the fucking match, and in every direction I looked there was an Essendon's player missing some fucking easy set shot for goal. I ended up pleading with the bar staff to change it over the rugby league -- to no avail.

I also done some stand up stuff. Last post, I described what an open mic gig was like, based on my experiences that week at Comedy on the Edge at the Merton Hotel -- a night on which almost no one but the comics showed up. Well, a week later I was on at the Laugh Garage. This time, only the comics showed up. Not even guy running the evening bothered. So we all just decided to go home.

As well as being cold and wet and dark and in the middle of the CBD, it also coincided with the second State of Origin match. So it was maybe not surprising. But I actually had some shit I wanted to try out ahead of the Quest for the Best heat I had coming up. I was reduced to wandering the streets accosting strangers and shouting at them: "So have you seen those Drinkwise ads??? I can't relate to them!"

Then, a bit over a week ago, I was back on at the Merton. It was just like the last time I was on at the Merton, only minus the handful of audience members. Asides from the six or seven comics, there was the bloke who runs it and the girlfriend of one of the comics.

About half way through, an old bloke who had been to some of the other nights rocked up and sat in the "crowd". But that was after I had been on. It is an interesting experience trying to make nine people laugh. The main thing I took from it was jokes about horses go down well. Unfortunately, I really only have one.

But in between those gigs, I had some good experiences. For one thing, on July 4 I won the heat in the Quest for the Best competition at the Roxbury Hotel. It is by audience vote, and it helped that I stacked it like a desperate Labor Party hack seeking pre-selection for the nation's last safe Labor Party seat. And that it coincided with the State of Origin decider (I was beginning to wonder if there was a policy of only letting me rant on a stage if it coincided with a big rugby league event), thus keeping general numbers low.

But the point is I won. YEAH! VICTORY WAS MINE!!!!






'I just can't relate to their Drinkwise ads...' I'm attempting stand up comedy, so I can't show you my face.



Also, while in Adelaide, I got to rant on stage at a fundraising gig for Green Left Weekly, put on by those young people involve in the socialist youth organisation Resistance.

I have no footage of that event to show you, but I *can* tell you I made jokes about Clive Palmer. I have since read that the mining magnate billionaire wants to clone a dinosaur in his own personal Jurassic Park. And as soon as I read that I swore off Clive Palmer jokes for good. Seriously, there is no point trying to compete -- Palmer does them so much better himself.

However, there *are* pictures.

Here, I teach the youth how to do the robot dance.

And here I do my famed zombie impersonation.


Anyway, so that is me. I'd *love* to stay and chat, hear all about you, but I gotta run. Essendon's game against Adelaide, in Adelaide, is about to start and so I gotta find out if Essendon will score a badly needed upset win by a narrow margin, or whether they will thump the Crows. In the meantime, here is Texas country singer Hayes Carll, singing my song.




'Go tell your momma I done paid my dues ... I gotta gig, baby...'

The true story of why I have never been to Brazil

I get asked this question all the time. Especially from all my Brazilian fans.

Well, the true story is, I did once very nearly end up in Brazil.

Rio de Janeiro to be precise.

To start this story, I have a confession to make. I don't believe I have every made it before, at least not on this blog.

I know rumours have been circulating for some time. And yes, I can, with a heavy heart, confess they are true.

I did grow up in Perth.

And I can confirm that Perth is barely one step up from a graveyard when it comes to looking for a "good night out".

Perth pubs tend to divide into two categories: those that cater for rednecks (decreasing in number) or white-collar yuppie scum (taking over everything).

One horrible offshoot of this is that Perth has a sizeable Goth community, made up those horrified by everything else around them.

I understand their grievance, even if I cannot approve their solution.

I mean, I'm all for people's right to freely choose their own fashion statement/sub culture. But, I mean c'mon on, unless you look like a) Johnny Depp or b) Helena Bohnam Carter — and you happen to be staring in a film being directed by Tim Burton — I really don't see the point.

That aside, there is little in Perth.

If you live in Kensington, as I may or may not have (why the fuck do you want to know?), then sooner or later you will end up (unless you are one of those weird teetotaler freaks) at that bastion of faux-Irishness that is Rosie O'Grady's (South Perth franchise).

I may or may not have been drinking there one evening (you demand a lot of information don't you?) with a friend (or so I thought).

We got talking to some white-collar worker who hated his job and was drinking to forget it.

He was determined to buy us whatever drinks we wanted, as impoverished bums. (Art students, I think, at that stage of our degeneration).

My so-called friend was going through a weird "health kick" that involved not destroying himself with booze at every opportunity and left early because he had to "drive home".

(Last I heard this guy got married — you see where that sort of attitude leads you?)

Anyway, our new found friend (let's call him Jason because it rings a vague bell) was propped up at the bar and keen to adopt us as his drinking partners for the night, happily plying us without whatever booze we desired.

He was also something of a prat.

If, for example, racial politics happened to come up in the natural course of conversation and you happened to say something perfectly obvious like: "Well, I don't think Aboriginals are incurably lazy alcoholic scum of society, but I do think they are subjected to systematic oppression", he would reply with a drunken lean forward, a raise of the eyebrow and, on a number of occasions, a point of finger, as he declared: "Touche!"

He also regaled us earnestly with tales of his past life as a DJ on Adelaide FM radio.

I mean it hard to imagine anything lower on the social ladder than this (and he was in Perth drinking in Rosie O'Grady's) but he seemed quite proud of it.

He told us stories of the Beastie Boys coming into the studio and being completely obnoxious and smoking cigars — and just how cool that was (fair enough).


He also insisted on talking to us about Miles Davis and the significance of jazz.

Like I said — a fucking prat.

But, like I also said, he was buying the drinks.

With my so-called friend fleeing from the free drinks (for fuck's sake), the two of use were left holding up our respective end of the bargain. I laughed, oohed and generally fawned as required, and he kindly kept the gin and tonics flowing.

At a certain point he decided we should go and try and "pick up some chicks". (Insert vomit here).

This being Rosie's in fucking South Perth on a fucking Tuesday night, it wasn't exactly a likely proposition, but he was buying the drinks so I wasn't about to cause any trouble.

The inevitable disasters followed, but he never seemed disheartened. I loyally followed, looking embarrassed and awkward, but clutching my g + t with what was genuine gratitude.

The more we drank, the more the concept of just, you know, escaping from Perth. and all these petty things like jobs that pay rent, took hold of us.

He was determined to go to Rio.

I tried suggesting Amsterdam ("It's got everything you could possibly need!"), but it was the middle of winter in Europe and his heart was set on sun.

Plus, it was his credit card.

He was determined, "You gotta come with me, it's all right, I gotta credit card. We'll hang out on beaches, drink rum and try and pick up!"

After the pub closed, we retired to his apartment just down the road, where, on his balcony with Crown Lagers in hand, we sought to make our plans reality.

He actually called a taxi for the airport, with the plan of stopping of at my place on the way to pick up my passport. (As I still lived at home, this would involve not waking my parents, a difficult task given the state I was in).

We suffered our first setback when he realised his credit card was back in the pub, now well and truly shut.

We started planning our break in.

However, I think our plans were ultimately scuttled by him passing out.

Which, in hindsight, was probably for the best as he did have to go to work in just a couple of hours.

I think I slept on his couch for an hour or two, let myself out and made my way home.

And that is real the story of how I have never been to Brazil.