Gecko Bloggle

I’m the administrator (and one-seventh of the membership) of the John Burton League on Facebook.  The only rule (and single requirement) is that all members be named John Burton.   Caitlin wanted to join, ’cause that’s how she rolls, and I rejected her, and here’s what happens:

Allow me to plead my case:

Raised in the swinging 60’s by a pack of wild dingoes in the remote northwest of Queensland, I learnt early on the importance of self-sufficiency and also that, really, dingoes don’t taste THAT bad.

It was some point in my early teens that I noticed I was ‘different’. Firstly, I had a distinct lack of fur. Secondly, I felt quite comfortable spending long periods of time on my hind legs. Thirdly, I possessed what can now only be described as an ‘amoebic’ quality. And alas I can only describe it as such because my vocabulary is distinctly (some might even say devastatingly) lacking.

Please, a few moments more – I shall expound. This characteristic seemed unique to me. It was difficult to explain even to our family’s patriarch and my mentor, Papa Dingo. The poor fellow was mono-syllabic at best. His only real conversational pieces involved the prospect of ‘tucker’ and to a lesser extent, his unbelievably debilitating paw rash.

But back to my…uniqueness. What I’m talking of is the ability to change form constantly. And not only in the sense of the present world – I mean across time, space, etc. I possess the remarkable ability to become any type of entity, both living and…inanimate, I suppose? It sounds interesting and perhaps even a desirable gift to possess but at such a young age, John. Never knowing who you truly are. Your name. Your background. Your true self!

Such a burden upon such young and fur-less shoulders! A young lass forced to traipse the outback, vainly attempting to hide her depression at being misunderstood behind the face of a clown, John. (No, really. I found a clown mask on a dead man’s body that my good friend Willomina Dingo had savagely torn apart, and the mask became a part of me. So much so, that when I was shot in the face by a vacationing Dick Cheney several months later, Mr Cheney actually shot me in the face again, and then in the heart, because he was convinced I was ‘It’ from the Stephen King movie of the same name…Don’t worry, I publicly apologised afterwards for causing Mr Cheney so much pain and heartache…After I’d mastered the English language, of course.)

It was a tough time – and it still is. I get by with the help of my friends, and a chronic heroin addiction. I am telling you all of this (and leaving big, conspicuous blank spots) so as to let you know that I am worthy of your exclusive club.

Spike Lee, Moll Flanders, Spartacus, Jupiter – I’ve been them all. (I also spent a brief period as Che Guevara, although only in screenprint form – it made me feel terribly anarchic, and hackneyed also).

Am I making sense, John? I AM John Burton. That is to say, I have been before, and will be again.

Let me in please, sir. Or may God have mercy on your soul.

The *only* thing that’s stopping me from letting her in is the danger of her NOT sending more things like this.