A new film about giant dildos taking over the world. People running terrified through the streets because if they get you they fuck you up real bad.

(C) Frank Howson 2017



I don’t usually remember my dreams, well the in-your-sleep dreams I mean. Maybe three in my life. But the other night I was awakened in the middle of one and it’s a little bizarre to say the least.

Anyway, in this particular dream I am arrested for killing Ayn Rand. Still with me? Not sure if I actually did it or not but as we know newspapers are only interested in the charges and not so much in the final judgement, so, pretty soon I am in big hot water. Boiling in fact. And as if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough they are throwing the book at me. Perhaps The Fountainhead, I was too busy ducking to check. I then remember going through a very lengthy trial that was straight out of Kafka. I have to say things weren’t going well for me as the cavalcade of witnesses were called. Drunks, the heavily medicated self-published, real estate agents, Mormons, one armed guitarists, fortune tellers, gypsies, tramps and thieves.

My court appointed lawyer was an elderly Chinese gentleman who appeared to be about 500 years old and dribbled from the mouth when he got excited. Still, he had his wits about him and had he been able to speak or understand English he may have been quite effective. His cross-examination of the witnesses had to be seen to be believed. If the Judge had’ve been awake at the time I’m sure he’d have called a halt to the circus.  He did wake a few minutes before the end of proceedings and grumpily pronounced Hemingway to be “…a cunt!”  I wasn’t quite sure how this applied to me or my case but was too intimidated to enquire. My Chinese representative seemed to take it in his stride and smiled in a knowing way. Perhaps this was a good sign? Taking the positive angle I smiled at the Judge who smiled back at me. He then announced in a disappointed tone that the jury weren’t very well hung and adjourned the case until they could be re-cast. On that note everyone went home to be greeted by their loved ones and a hot meal, followed by re-runs of classic football matches, while I was beaten to a pulp in my holding cell which the guards took literally and, having no TV set to watch football, they attempted to kick a goal with my head. In all objectivity some of them did show promise as league players. I did at one point attempt to convey the news that the football they were using had a migraine but this was met with increased hostility and I was accused of using too many big words.

Hence another three quarters were played. This time I kept quiet and assumed my role. Finally I threw my voice and did a very convincing imitation of the final siren which they bought, hugged each other, shook hands, copped a feel of each other’s bums, and left the field complaining about the lack of good umpiring decisions these days. I couldn’t, in spite of my intense pain, help thinking what great sportsmen they were. Dreadful human beings – but great sportsmen. This was the last thought that stampeded through my mind before I lost consciousness.

I was shaken back into this world bright and early the next morning, in dream time, in order to return to court.  I told the guard, who smelled of cheap bourbon and herbal cigarettes, that I had to postpone my court appearance before our esteemed Judge as I was fairly convinced I was in the initial stages of a brain hemorrhage, but this was met with “well who gives a fuck you dumb fucker fucking your way through life and fucking every fucking thing up for every other fucking dumb fuck!”

I took that as a “no”.

I found that if I tilted my head till it was resting sideways on one shoulder it relieved some of the pain. So, that’s how I appeared back in court. Looking like an amateur theatre version of Quasimodo. I’d fretted needlessly over my appearance as the Judge looked past me and mistook a nun in the next row to be me, stating that he was going to take into account that I was a lady of the cloth and not to worry.

My lawyer, the very learned Mr. Dim Sim, gave his final impassioned summation, in Cantonese, to a silent ovation from nonplussed creatures inhabiting human-like bodies. The Judge finally broke the stunned silence by burping and muttered, “Better out than in” and the really hung jury and those in attendance took this to be the final judgement and a deafening uproar broke out in the courtroom, along with several fistfights, a rape, a child birth, and a scattering of small time thefts.

As everyone had lost interest in me, and noticing the open door,  I slowly made my way best as I could, considering my head was still laying sideways on my left shoulder, through the crowd of rioters and those with an axe to grind. Soon enough I found the sunshine and a busy city street awaiting me.

Within seconds I was lost in the crowd. Well, as lost as I could be given my new appearance.

I bear no grudge against anyone who mistreated me, but if Ayn Rand was still alive, I’d kill her.


(c) Frank Howson 2017.


My birth was a bit messy from recollection and ever since I have been flaying around like a man drowning in gasoline. People have come and gone in my life, some leaving an impression, others facial scars, but still, I wouldn’t change it even if I could shoot them.

Life is funny isn’t it?

Sometimes you win and sometimes the cards are stacked against you. Still, it keeps us occupied doesn’t it? I mean, otherwise we may turn into animals and attack each other thinking there was no purpose to it all. But the good news is, there is. I can say this with all certainty now as only a few weeks ago I was stirring my pot of porridge when I saw God’s face on the surface. He said unto me, “Listen, go forth and tell all the fucking morons that I have spent a fortune on this human experiment and have nothing to show for it. Other than one lovely Jewish boy and he doesn’t count because he is related on his mother’s side. All I ask is that you scumbags make a little effort and be nice to each other. It’s not brain surgery y’know? Oh, and your porridge is ready.”

I have since taken to the streets spreading the good news that God is alive and still loves us. And that we need to be kind to each other. In return I have been beaten, spat upon, cursed, betrayed by friends, had my sex tapes made public by Billy Bush, been blacklisted by Hollywood, been lectured by Robert DeNiro on morality, and treated by the media worse than Donald Trump. It could’ve been less kind, though. I could’ve been treated like Joan of Arc and roasted like a chicken as a public entertainment. Thank God I wasn’t a woman.

These days I keep to myself and have stopped eating porridge lest I get any more messages from you know who. I mean, I myself, even, don’t know why God chose me to be the bearer of his good news although he does have a history of choosing flawed messengers. Life is complicated enough without all that.

Father, forgive us we know not what we do.

(c) Frank Howson 2017


Imagine, if you will, eternity in darkness, with darkness all there is in front of you. That was God’s lot in life. Those of you who’ve experienced short periods of meditation may be able to grasp just how chilled and cool God is. Sometimes His mind can wander for centuries. He apologises profusely for any inconvenience this caused during the Spanish Inquisition and the Crusades.

Anyway, at some point during an eternity of darkness and nothingness, God got really bored. Really bored. So bored He created stars. Diamond pinholes in eternal night. Some of them he gave names to like DeVinci, Beethoven, Lincoln, Chaplin, Welles, Tesla, Bell, Hawking, Turan, Picasso, Einstein, Elvis, Beatles, Dylan – oh, and Kanye West.

When interviewed by Neale Donald Walsch, God stated that His “…greatest creation was free will.” He gave it to us as His gift to make our own way through the darkness as best we could and to experience, hopefully, in a smaller way, the joy He experienced in creating something from scratch. Trouble is, He said, “…although I’ve given you complete freedom to make your own decisions, as soon as something goes wrong, you blame me!” God is now in therapy thanks to us. And, like a poor person, Hs only option for therapy is to talk to Himself. Sometimes in that magic hour, in the silence just before dawn, if you listen closely you may hear Him.

When asked why He invented suffering, He replied, “It is necessary to pass through hell before you can fully appreciate heaven.”

During that same interview He, a little impatiently, addressed the concern regarding apathy and boredom for those of us who toil below in the wastelands, “Look, I gave you music, Broadway musicals and Bob Dylan didn’t I? You think you’re bored, try living alone in total darkness for eternity!”

Yes, He has lost his patience with us on many occasions. Read the Old Testament and you will find God in a very bad mood who, like all youth, is angry, impatient, revengeful, and quick to judge. By the New Testament, with the help of some therapy and much soul searching, we have an older, more understanding God who’s able to look past our ignorant day-to-day mistakes and embrace the bigger picture. He sent His son to herald this new age and inform us of the “good news” but unfortunately there were those amongst us who weren’t ready for the outrageous and angst-making concept that “we should all love each other and try to get along for the betterment of all” – and they killed him. God has sent us many other messengers in the years since who’ve attempted to give us the same message, ie., Gandhi, Martin Luther King, John Lennon, etc., but, unfortunately, we killed them too. It seems if you preach hate you’re as safe as milk and will die in your bed of old age. But have the audacity to peddle love and understanding and your days are numbered.

This loss of his own son caused God to withdraw from the world and to distance Himself from us. It is indeed a revealing fact that any ensuing visions to bring us messages from the other world have been in the form of Mary. Not Jesus. And, just like a woman, she still attempts to see the best in us and loves us despite our flaws and hurtful, destructive actions. The miracle of unconditional love.

In contrast, Jesus thinks we’re a bunch of idiots with a thirst for blood who haven’t learnt a thing from the past 2000 years, or his death. Word has it He has given up on us and spends most of his time gardening.

For those amongst us who hate God because they didn’t get what they wanted for Christmas, spare a thought for His suffering. He had been alone for eternity, living in darkness with no one to love. Knowing full well what it was like to feel like an orphan, God gave birth to a huge family and tried to send us to school to learn a few things to prepare us for our final home. He now knows the pain of having had that family, in main, disown, slander, and hate their father for being the cause of their existence.

Perhaps that is why God created a miracle called forgiveness. He lives in the hope that we will all find it. As He has.

When asked if He ever worried about our future, He replied, “No. Not at all. I worry about your present but never the future for the I know outcome and what, ultimately, awaits you. You see, at the end of your journey all roads lead to me. And, like any parent that loves their child, regardless of what you’ve done, you are greeted with forgiveness and abundant, unconditional, love. And welcomed home.”

Jesus, on the other hand, although a lovely soul, may take some time to warm to you.

(c) 2015 Frank Howson


A friend asked me to pick my 10 fave books of all time. The 10 best of anyting is a hard ask but here’s goes. I have chosen those 50 books that moved me the most and had the biggest influence.

1) THE GREAT GATSBY by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

2) GREAT EXPECTATIONS by Charles Dickens.

3) THE DISENCHANTED by Budd Schulberg.


5) NODDY IN TOYLAND by Enid Blyton

6) A LIFE by Elia Kazan.


8) CHRONICLES by Bob Dylan.

9) THIS IS ORSON WELLES by Orson Welles & Peter Bogdanovich.

10) A FAREWELL TO ARMS by Ernest Hemingway.

11) THE LITTLE PRINCE by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

12) IN COLD BLOOD by Truman Capote

13) A TALE OF TWO CITIES by Charles Dickens

14) HUCKLEBERRY FINN by Mark Twain


16) DEATH OF A SALESMAN by Arthur Miller


18) TENDER IS THE NIGHT by F. Scott Fitzgerald

19) POWER WITHOUT GLORY by Frank Hardy

20) PETER PAN by James M. Barrie

21) DIARY OF AN UNKNOWN by Jean Cocteau



24) SCOTT & ERNEST by Matthew Bruccoli

25) THE POWER OF MYTH by Joseph Campbell & Bill Moyers.

26) ERROL FLYNN – A MEMOIR by Earl Conrad

27) ON THE STREET WHERE I LIVE by Alan Jay Lerner

28) DON’T LET ME BE MISUNDERSTOOD by Eric Burdon with J. Marshall Craig

29) OLIVIER ON ACTING by Laurence Olivier

30) THE MUSIC GOES ROUND MY HEAD by David Johnston

31) FREE ASSOCIATION by Steven Berkoff


33) MARILYN by Norman Mailer


35) A MOVEABLE FEAST by Ernest Hemingway

36) JOURNAL OF A NOVEL by John Steinbeck

37) PICTURE by Lillian Ross

38) HOME BEFORE DARK by Ruth Park

39) TINSEL by William Goldman

40) PORTRAITS by Helmut Newton

41) THE NAKED CIVIL SERVANT by Quentin Crisp


43) TEN GREAT PLAYS by William Shakespeare

44) FINISHING THE HAT by Stephen Sondheim



49) IN HIS OWN WRITE by John Lennon

50) THE ENTERTAINER by John Osbourne


I could have been a hero
But I stayed at home
I could have been a star
But a star shines on its own
I could have been something
And I let it slip away
I could have been a hero
Could’ve saved somebody’s day

I could have been a winner
But I chose to lose
I should have found a love
Instead I found the blues
I could have had success
Could’ve sold them something new
I could have been a hero
If you’d shown me what to do

My ambitions all lie dead
Circus geeks laugh in my face
I might’ve been a prophet
If I’d been born some other place…

I could have been a poet
If I’d faced the night
I could have been a king
One who talks and doesn’t fight
I could have been a legend
But my life has been too long
I could have been a hero
But my timing was all wrong

Recorded by Frank Howson.

(c) Frank Howson 2014


It’s easy to be brave when you’re young because you’re totally naive about the cost to oneself. You also have no idea about mortality and the fragility of life. I guess that’s why wars are declared by old men, the decision-makers, but are fought by boys. And now, of course, young women.

Hanging out in Kings Cross was a real eye-opener to a young lad. It felt like Luna Park for grown-ups. All the music pumping out from the bars and nightclubs, the flashing coloured lights, the friendly girls, the drag queens, etc. Of course, once you got over the initial excitement and your eyes adjusted to the lighting show, you glimpsed the circus up close with all its thinly veiled seediness, human despair and danger. Still, to a young guy, away from my home for the first time, it was an adrenaline rush. Illegal casinos, prostitution, organised crime and police corruption were at its height during this era. Heroin had been brought in by American servicemen on leave during the Vietnam war years, and soon became the drug of choice by many Australians. Soon after the major drug rings took its import over and the influx into Sydney of this “product” was huge. Much of these illicit activities were allegedly linked to businessman Abe Saffron, known as “Mr. Sin” or “The Boss of the Cross”. Police were paid off and the most notorious illegal casinos seemed to operate with an impunity. Business was booming and everyone was in on a cut.

I spent many hours in the bars, clubs and strip joints during this time, soaking up the atmosphere and observing how they were run. I guess it was always an interest to me how such places operated. Especially the successful ones. Me and my buddies paid through the nose for drinks so we could sit and be entertained by the, mostly, beautiful strippers. But what’s youth if you can’t mis-spend it? Meeting these girls in private was an extra negotiation and a frustration for young boys on a limited budget.

While I was coming of age and getting a taste of the night club scene, another young man named John Ibrahim had his sights set on becoming the King of Kings Cross. A Lebanese Australian boy John started out working security for a Cross nightspot but was fueled with an ambition to become the top dog. He worked his way up the ladder learning everything there was to know about the running of successful clubs and making all the right contacts.

At the age of 16, John had witnessed the brother of Bill Bayno, a power broker of the Cross, being attacked by two men and went to his aid. During the ensuing shuffle John received a large knife to his torso. He was rushed to Sydney’s St. Vincent’s Hospital and placed in a coma for three weeks. Due to the extensive damage to his liver, lungs and intestines, it took John six months to recover. To this day he still bears a large scar from the incident. He was tough, fiercely ambitious, very intelligent and possessed razor sharp instincts about people and situations. Operating in Kings Cross, with the cast of characters who held power at that time, your instincts were your lifeblood. One misjudgment or sloppy decision could get you killed.

By his eighteenth birthday John Ibrahim had acquired a 20% share in his first nightclub, Tunnel Cabaret, By the height of his career it’d be alleged he was involved with a minimum of 17 clubs in the Cross. The media dubbed him “Teflon John” and “The Teflon Man of Kings Cross” due to his knack of avoiding conviction of any illegal activities.

Eventually we would meet and I found John to be a very charming and savvy man. I was brought up not to pre-judge people on hearsay but rather on how they treated me, and I found John to be a very classy guy. He now manages the career of TV and radio personality Kyle Sandilands.

In the 70s and 80s there seemed to be a very thin line between legal and illegal and this line was usually defined by who your friends were. Corruption in New South Wales was rampant and ran all the way from the cop on the beat to the State government. Certain activities seemed to be in the blind spot of authorities.

One brave journalist, Juanita Nielsen, decided to do something about it by writing a series of expose articles regarding a certain property development in the Kings Cross area. One day she received a call from a gentleman who wanted to have a secret rendezvous so that he could give her some explosive inside information. She kept the appointment but was never seen again. Speculation was that she had been killed and her body put through a meat mincer. A colonial inquest determined that she’d been murdered and the case remains unsolved.

The meat mincer disposal of bodies has long been a favoured solution for the Mafia and other gangland czars. I once asked Chopper Read why he never ate dim sims to which he replied, “I have too much respect for the dead”.

One beacon of light in the darkness of the Cross in those years was the Reverend Ted Noffs whose church, The Wayside Chapel, was open 24/7 as a drop-in inn and counselling service to the many itinerants who’d found their way to the Cross only to lose it. He helped save many lives and kept families together, guiding young runaways, as well as drug, drink and gambling casualties back onto a responsible path in life. Although Ted has passed on now his Ted Notts Foundation still continues today giving a helping hand to those who find themselves in desperate situations.

I was shedding the skin of a young lonely kid and being turned into a man, and the rebirth was at times painful. But that’s another story.

(c) Frank Howson 2013