Urban Decay 10

Part 10: Ashes To Ashes, C*nt To Country.

Oh, catch up.

I can’t believe it’s been a year.
I can’t believe he’s gone.
Mostly, I can’t believe Nicole didn’t show up. What, she doesn’t have a black frock?

On Saturday past, a few of us gathered at the Hong Kong Rock Room at the Annandale Hotel (thanks, Kristie Kristofferson) to say farewell to Keith. The dress code was formal. The atmosphere was reverent. The beer was cold. The telly was begrudgingly tuned to the Country Music Channel, which was counting down the ’30 Best Country Driving Songs’.

At one point, I was sure I saw Russ wipe a tear from his cheek, but it turned out he just had a shard of plastic in his eye from some last-gasp destruction efforts. Amazingly, when we looked closely at the shard, we noticed that it contained a special message, completely un-manipulated by Russ. Cough.

Looks like it was written by Prince, but.

It was a surprisingly touching and emotional affair – Keith has been with us through thick and thin. Through blood, sweat and tears. Through mud, toads and cake.

We thought it was only fitting to construct a shrine to Keith, celebrating our favourite moments and allowing mourners to pay their respects to his remains. Plus, they totally had a special on photo frames at my local two dollar shop.

Even though we were at his funeral, we still thought Keith was looking a little too together for someone who was supposed to be at the business end of a destruction project. So I decided to add some rip to his R.I.P, because I’m so bloody clever with words and letters and that.

Speeches were kept brief due to the intense emotion making our voices all wobbly and the tears making the words all blurry, but they included an absentee telegram poem by Shellity, and a toast with beer in chilled champagne glasses because we’re classy as all get-out.

We are gathered here today to agree that my frock is awesome.

Then it was down to business. We basically had two big shards of CD plus a whole mess of broken-and-torn-up crap. First, we took one of the shards into the ladies’ toilet.
Keith whispered “I’ve never been in here before”.
Russ whispered “I have”.

I don't think my prom date's going to make it through the night.

Like throwing a handful of dirt on the coffin.

One.....

Two......

PSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

Next, Russ took the second shard into the gents’. I think the pictures really speak for themselves when describing what happened to Keith there. Suffice to say, beer in chilled champagne glasses just goes straight through Russ.

Oh, you know what's coming.

Imagine you're the guy who walked into the gents' at this moment.

Whilst preparing for the cremation with a few more beverages, we were “entertained” by the Top Five Country Driving Songs blaring at us from the big screen. Magically, as if smiling down on us from the big S-bend in the sky, Keith was number one. NUMBER ONE. And the song was called… um… something. What am I, Glenn A Baker? Sheesh. We celebrated. We danced. We saluted.

Time wore on, and we reluctantly headed outside for the final cremation. For those of you who want to visit Keith’s final resting place, it’s here:

Like Haight/Ashbury, but WAY more relevant.

All was silent, save for the distant sound of passing traffic and the subtle rasp of a lighter flicking furiously into funereal flame. Thanks to the help of some toilet paper accelerant, Keith was soon on fire. We watched him burn. We inhaled his seriously foul smoke. We looked outrageously attractive bathed in his infernal glow. It was touching. It was beautiful. And, admittedly, taken out of context, it was fucking weird.

And now he’s a pile of ashes. A smudge on the side-street of life. A smudge with a suspicious-looking dribble of liquid beside him. Jeez, Russ. See a doctor.

Bye, mate. We’ll miss you.
Sort of.

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Urban Decay 9

Part 9: Can’t… Keith… Going… Much… Longer…

(See Keith’s journey here, if you haven’t already. Start at the bottom. Keith did).

Well, Keith’s time on this earth (the non-plumbing-related parts of this earth, that is) is nearly up. The Urban Decay project was always just going to be a year long, and his days, just like his twelve steps, are numbered.

We discussed this with Keith, and in between sobs and consolatory Chocolate Paddle Pops, he asked if he could write his own ‘bucket list’ – a list of things he wanted to do before he died.
We gave him a piece of paper and a pen, and he started with:

When I wake up in the mornin’ light
I pull on my jeans and I feel alri…

NO, Keith! No lyrics! Don’t make us tell you again. Now, do it properly.

We figured that since Keith has been so co-operative over the last twelve months, the least we could do was indulge him, so we got to work from the beginning of the list. We didn’t want to get in trouble with Nicole by giving him an actual drink (she kind of looks like she could shoot angry ginger lasers out of her eyes, you know?), but we did let him swim around in the swill we found in the bottom of a beer-tray.

Mmmm. Drippy. Brown.

We couldn’t really find a celebrity on such short notice, but we did stumble across Kirk Pengilly, so we split the difference.

You should look worried, mate. I’ve got a copy of Welcome To Wherever You Are somewhere that’s just gathering dust.

The hairy man-love thing was easy. Luckily, we routinely keep our hairy mate Threaders nearby for just such an emergency, and he took surprisingly little coaxing.

Tastes like denim and regret.

So that’s almost it.
Almost.

We’re planning one last farewell for Keith in Sydney this Saturday. If you feel that you need or deserve to come and say goodbye, email me at the address up there on the top left of the page (cleverly hidden in the words “Email Me”), and tell me about it. If your heart is true, you can come along.

I’m not crying. I’ve just got something in my eye.

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Urban Decay 8

Part 8: Where Did I Put My Car Keith?

(Confused, or reminiscing about what Keith Urban looked like before we subjected him to a thousand indignities? Go read parts one through seven. Yes, SEVEN. That’s how long we’ve been doing this ridiculous shi… er, worthwhile and culturally significant project for).

Keith adores a bit of a drive. He likes nothing more than getting behind the wheel out on the open road, window down, breeze ruffling his bleach-frosted, artfully tousled hair, song ideas looming in the rear-vision mirror, closer than they appear.
Unfortunately for Keith, with his track record, hardly anybody will let him behind the wheel anymore. So when Keith asked my mate KJ if he could drive her car, she said no.

“How about if Russ drives, and I sit on his lap?” asked Keith.

“No” said KJ.

“Passenger seat?” whined Keith.

“No” said KJ.

“Boot?” nagged Keith, scratching his nose and letting out a small fart.

“No” said KJ.

Then we had an idea.

First part of idea: put Keith in a shopping bag and tie it up with yellow ribbon.

Second part of idea: tie Keith-In-A-Bag to the tow-bar of KJ's car. Give Russ the keys.

Third and easily best part of idea: Let the fanging commence.

Play Video.

All in all, Keith came through it pretty well.

Stay tuned. Keith clearly needs you.

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Urban Decay 7

Part 7: The Urban Babysitter.

(If it’s your first visit here and this doesn’t make sense, you might need to go back and read parts one through six. If it’s your first visit here and this does make sense, then… y’know… congratulations).

Keith Urban became a father recently, and he’s commendably committed to the job. Keith believes that, like playing guitar and drinking, the more you practice, the better you get. So when my mate David had a barbecue a couple of weeks ago and invited about fourteen thousand children, Keith was only too happy to help out.

Hey, kids!

Uncle Keith is here!

First person to shoot him off the top of the bin gets a new bike!

Urban Decay 6

Part 6: Happy Australia Decay!

Keith. Cake. Japan. Pool. Pizza. Guacamole. Beer.

If the above words make perfect sense to you all together like that, then you either:
a) don’t need to go back and read Urban Decay parts one through five; or
b) you’re totally my kind of person and we can party anytime.

Either way, this isn’t really about you.
It’s about Keith.

See, even though Keith was born in New Zealand, spends most of his time in the US and didn’t call his daughter Sharon, he’s about as Australian as you can get. For this reason, he insisted on being included in my mate Russ’s Australia Day celebrations in Queensland.

Because of his nagging and his threat to sing us a song about jeans, we eventually agreed to bring him along, but first we made sure that he was fully aware of the rules and regulations that go along with the responsibility of attending a two day booze fes... er, typical Australia Day barbecue:

1. Ensure you apply plenty of sunscreen.

There's nothing worse than a burnt Sunday roast.

2. Do not overload the barbecue.

Perfect number of sausages. Way too much electric mandolin.

3. When playing bocce, ensure you throw your balls at the jack with as much force as you can (Gympie) muster.

Jack, meet Keith.

4. When playing cricket, ensure the bails are securely balanced on top of the stumps.

If not, bails may break in half.

Howzaaaaaaat!

5. Do not feed the kookaburras anything inedible, even if you’ve wiped it with meat.

Odd. He thought this was hilarious earlier.

6. If the kookaburras don’t eat it, the cane toads might.

Nope.

Will eat dog food.

Will not lick meat from a Keith Urban CD.

Huh.

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Urban Decay 5

Part 5: Cooking With Keith.

(This might be a little confusing if you haven’t yet wandered around the articulate background stylings of parts one through four. Go on. I’ll wait.)

You know what Keith Urban likes more than songs about denim and tall ginger women?
Cake. Keith likes cake.

Now, because I’m such a diabolical diva in the kitchen department, I thought I’d make a cake especially for Keith.
He told me I could give you the recipe:

1. Recipe reference: Martha Stewart’s Baking Handbook – Chapter Two: Tarts, Turnovers, and Rectangular-Chinned Country Singers

Keith, meet Martha. Martha: Keith.

2. Ingredients: Eggs, Flour, Milk, Baking Powder, Butter, Sugar, Keith Urban’s Greatest Hits.

Don’t get your eggs too close to Keith, ladies. You’ll end up with a child with a stupid name.

3. Whisk sugar and butter together until light, fluffy, and rocketing up the charts in Nashville.

See, Keith? Some women can cook and act.

4. Crack in two eggs. If yolks break, write a song about it.

Preferably in the key of shut the f*ck up.

5. Whisk all remaining ingredients together, making sure to blend the ballads thoroughly with the country/rock fusion.

That silhouette ain’t getting any less impressive, Keith.

6. Pour mixture into a well greased 20cm cake tin, ensuring every shiny, gleaming corner gets a good dose of your soft, creamy butter. Yes. Yes. Right there.

I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

7. Shove into a moderate oven for 35 minutes. Suppress urge to cackle with maniacal glee.

Ironically, still not hot, Keith.

8. Wait. When housemate arrives home and asks what smells good, change subject.

Mmmmmm. Burning hair.

9. Remove from oven and cool on a wire rack. The strings of a steel guitar soaked with a poor man’s tears will also do.

Full of carbs I’m afraid, Nicole. Have a carrot or some air or something.

10. Enjoy with a cuppa.

Mind the belt buckle doesn’t get stuck in your throat.


We’re not finished with you yet, Keith. You’re still essentially intact. I just have to figure out the best way to attach you to my car.

Stay tuned, y’all.

Urban Decay 4

Part 3: Tonight We’re Gonna Urban Like It’s 1999.

(You might want to catch up by reading parts one, two and three first. Then again, you might want to rub butter on your torso and slide down a hill. Go nuts.)

Keith loves a party. Parties contain all of Keith’s favourite things: alcohol, pale women, and people so drunk they’ll listen to any old crap.
Recently, my mate Russ’s girlfriend had a birthday party, and I brought Keith along as my date. After all, he’s a bit grotty with a hole in the middle.

Have you ever noticed that all Australian parties have a handful of fundamental things in common? Keith did. Keith noticed. He’s asked me to list them below, because whenever he tries to type something himself, it always turns into a bad song about the bush or jeans or beer or something.
They are:

1. Nobody knows the way to the party in a cab.
Keith and Lorin were arguing about which was the quickest way, but the driver insisted that there was no road to Gundagai in Stanmore.

2. You spend more time in the bottle-shop than at the actual party.
Keith offered to buy vodka for my mate Butters, but the guy behind the counter had to verify his credit card. Nicole had spent all Keith's money on Boto… er, nappies.

3. The laundry or bath tub becomes the bar.
We tried to make Keith cool. We failed.

4. One of the chairs breaks.
This one obviously couldn’t bear the strain under the weight of so many hits.

5. ‘Preparing gourmet canapes’ means ‘Peeling the top off the tub of guacamole’.
Keith totally double-dipped. A couple of days later, half the people at the party came down with a horrible case of blonde streaks.

6. People smoke.
Butters discovered that using Keith as a filter means less tar, but more carefully-manicured stubble.

7. People drink.
Say when, Keith. Keith…..?

8. Somebody always drags a guitar out (and in special cases, a piano accordion).
Keith was crushed when he forgot the words to The House Of The Rising Sun.

9. Somebody always gets felt up by a dirty old perv.
There’s no Stairway To Heaven at this party, Keith.

10. Somebody always gets a pash.
No tongue, Keith. Not after it’s been in the dip.

And finally:
11. Somebody always vomits.
We feel the same way, Keith. We feel the Same. Way.


Stay tuned. There’s more. I know. Me neither.

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