In the default world, Star Puncher goes by the name “Travis”; a wealthy beneficiary to a parental fortune and an amateur psy-trance DJ that knows the real meaning of freedom is crashing on his mate’s futon and refusing to pay rent.
Every year, he dips into his “dont embarrass the family by living in a van at South Beach” fund and forks out for a ticket to Blazing Swan – essentially a collection of people who are happy to pay $300 to go camping because the real currency in life is “good vibes” or some shit.
Before Star Puncher scabs a lift to Kulin, he uploads an old photo of himself looking whimsically at an ocean sunset, “this is all from me for a week, off to disconnect from the electronic world that keeps us from knowing ourselves, sometimes going off grid is the only way to be truly connected to the world ;)” Yeah, righto, Deepack Cuntra, looks like you’re conveniently leaving out the whole “getting fucked up in the desert” for a week part of your spiritual pilgrimage.
In anticipation for Blazing Swan 2019, Star Puncher hasn’t washed his whiteboy dreads in 18 years. To help tame his mummified goat-dick hair, he rocks a Dickensian top hat, steampunk goggles and an immodest tutu. Sure, the tutu is in the spirit of self-expression, but it also allows everyone a good eyeful of his easy breezy doof donger that serves as a temperature gauge that always seems to be set on “evidently, cold”. Essentially, he is nailing the “no closer than 2km from the nearest primary school” chic.
A core value of the festival is “gifting”, and fortunately, Star Puncher is no stranger to having his hand out. He slimes his way from theme camp to theme camp leeching of the rich deposits of other’s generosity. Full of pay it forward booze and weed, Star Puncher decides to give a little gift of his own – a 10minute YOHO Diablo performance that he will later tell some shroomed up sparkle-pony was an ethereal celebration of his efforts to stop the Adani coal mine project.
At the sunset applause, Star Puncher sidles up to an old hippie who is cooked as a slow Quasimodo. They hoot & holler at the setting sun as Star Puncher allows himself to be gifted a tab of acid. This is when things truly get “spiritual”.
Star Puncher gets spooked by the effigy of the giant swan going up in flames and before long his journey to find himself had become his friend’s journey to find him. Alas, it was like finding a needle in a strawberry stack and they figure he’s just off lighting a little fire of his own: in some moon unit’s urinary tract.
Morning dawns and Star Puncher emerges smelling like a Leach Highway sheep truck. You know what they say though, is it really a spiritual journey if you don’t spend the night fucked off your face and pissing on your legs to stay warm?
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?