Thursday, December 9, 2010
Then, from the dark recesses of the park a cynical, yet all too familiar voice announced "pffft, Salad grinds? Are you serious? Who even does those anymore?"
Billy and his bro's were a little taken back by the attitude of this slightly older quarter pipe critic and immediately asked him what his beef was with Eric Dressen's legacy grind. "Really? You're asking me what's wrong with Salad Grinds? How about......they're the worst trick ever? Don't you guys read the Slap forums? Seriously, if you're going to do Salad Grinds you might as well cut to the chase and shove your board up your arse and slide down the rail on your newly exposed sphincter, because that's pretty much what a Salad grind looks like".
Billy never did another salad grind and now works night fill to support an unplanned child and an even more unplanned smack addiction....
Ahh, good old fashioned Hate. The very mention of the word may have lost it's initial impact over the years due to hip-hop's unintentional redefinition (the 'hater' epidemic)or the tendencies of teenage girls to associate it with pretty much everything that isn't Robert Pattinson, but the act of hating is still as necessary as it is unnecessary in humanity's increasingly critical nature and more importantly, our favorite four-wheeled pastime. A few decades ago, the word HATE could have incited war on a global scale if placed in the wrong context. Today, I can sit here and safely say that I hate Kyle Sandilands, the wind and eggplant and not even flinch in doing so. I hate eggplant so much that my vision blurs whenever I think about it. Kyle Sandilands has a similar effect.
Hate's primary appeal lies in it's ease of execution. Unfortunately, It's much harder to think of and express a genuine, heartfelt compliment then it is to highlight the shortcomings of another human being or entity. Well, it is for me anyway, and I'm writing the goddamn article so you could probably just shut your goddamned, uninformed mouth and stop interrupting me..
See? So much easier than complimenting you all.
In practice, hate might be fun and all when it's dropped at the right moment (in the safety of your own home on Xbox Live or a Transworld premiere), but it can also be an incredibly ignorant, jealousy-driven form of expression reserved for those of us who are just plain jerks. As skateboarders, we've all been exposed to the big H at one point or another, be it for pushing mongo, mobbing your kickflips or signing a lucrative endorsement contract with an energy drink reserved for jock douchebags and lorry drivers, which is why it brings me great pleasure (or sadism) to bring you the most comprehensive and thoroughly researched 'Most Hated' list ever concocted. Now get out of my face and enjoy!
How do you go from the most promising new talent on arguably the best board company in skateboarding to the laughing stock of the industry in the space of a couple of years? First things first, spend all your royalty checks on big, iced out DVS pendants and crosses and wear them to as many video premieres and annual award ceremonies as possible. Then, you'd be wise to get a couple of really meaningful tattoos on your face and arms, treble clefs and god-fearing self gospel is encouraged. Right, now you need some shrooms and a rooftop. Easy. Here's the clincher though, announce a premature retirement from skateboarding and pursue a career as the whitest rapper ever, imitating guys like Lil Wayne and Young Jeezy and talking about all the fancy shit you have, which you most certainly didn't earn through rapping and definitely wouldn't have if it wasn't for skateboarding. Congratulations, you are now amongst the most elite stable of skateboarding's most hated. You can also announce a comeback shortly after all that, start your own board company called 'Selfish' skateboards and sign an unhealthy looking Brian Wenning as your first pro. But that's only if you REALLY want to piss everyone off.
Not sure what happened here. When I first started skateboarding in the early 2000's Mike Vallely was always known as skateboarding's personal bodyguard thanks to his arrogant, staunch demeanor and that clip of him beating up about 5000 jocks in some carpark somewhere. As the years fell off the calendar though, so did Mike's reputation. Somewhere along the lines we decided as a collective that it wasn't cool to quit skateboarding to become a professional wrestler, front a band called 'Revolution Mother' and get your arm broken after starting a fight during your minor league ice hockey debut. We skateboarders are a reasonably peaceful people and there's only so many faces you can crush before the kids find a new role model, someone clean cut like Torey Pudwill or the likes. God I hope Mike Vallely doesn't read this.
May or may not have recently gone and got the Monster Energy Drink logo tattooed over his entire back. If it actually went down like that, Rob Dyrdek may have just secured himself the title as skateboarding's biggest ever sell-out, a position previously fought over by the likes of Ryan Sheckler, Bam Margera and Rob Dyrdek. If such is not the case and the video is actually a contrived attempt at viral marketing by Monster, consider my previous statement equally applicable. Rob Dyrdek is sponsored by Axe deodarant, this does not help matters.
Where skateboarding is an individualistic passion and against-the-grain means of self-expression, A-Mac is the clean-cut devil in a yellow t-shirt reminding us all the skateboarding is a competitive sport and nothing more. His x-games track record is immaculate, he has his own video game and a list of sponsors that resembles a K-Mart catalog. No-one cares though because he's a big dumb jock and therefore, the anti-christ.
Steve Berra is pretty great for the most part. I liked his part in THE END and he's entertained me a fair bit with his little Berrics thing he's got going over there. But if I have to sit through one more fu**ing minute long advertisement to watch a 20 second clip I'm going to smash my keyboard over my own face and send him the hospital bill and also request that he replace my keyboard. Seriously, one ad per visit. I came to see some futuristic skateboarding, not to be spam-fed boring advertisements about ABD's or how much change PJ Ladd keeps in the boot of his car.
Another stair-counting casualty of the Osiris regiment. Josh Kasper achieved hater notoriety through his refusal to adapt to skateboarding's quickly shifting fashion climate and his uninviting interpretation of the frontside flip, the phantom flip. These attributes, coupled with mid-line benihanas and a cover shot on Big Brother's Worst Issue Ever (executing said benihana over three scantily clad Jenny Craig dropouts wrestling in fake blood) and Josh Kasper's career quickly turned sour. Chad Muska is another well-known phantom-flipper, but he hangs out with Paris Hilton and wears futuristic shoes so it's cool.
You'd think the release of your first pro shoe would be not only the highlight of your skateboarding career, but also a fitting object of legacy for the generations that follow you. Unfortunately this was not the case for Dave Mayhew, the man responsible for the most hated shoe in skateboarding, the Osiris D3 and it's obnoxious big brother, the D3 2001. When it first came out, the D3 was an object of desire as school kids and urban fashionistas alike salivated over it's obese silhouette, comical lace holes and innumerable layers of nu-buck, suede, leather, Teflon, Honda Civic passenger side upholstery and nylon. The triple stuffed tongue was big enough to sleep a family of five and if you needed to, you could fit a week's worth of shopping in the right shoe alone if you didn't have your license yet. The D3 2001 was inevitably released in light of the D3's success and, if it's even possible, was bigger and even more reinforced than the original and could actually briefly block out the sun when thrown at the right angle. Dave Mayhew has since retired from skateboarding and is now living comfortably off of the proceeds from his frowned-upon design.
Aside from possessing a head of hair you could clearly identify from outer space, Chad Fernandez made a legitimate career out of nose-grinding tall handrails and then nose-sliding them. After a disagreement with a fledgling BAKER team in the early 2000's over who brought cut-off sleeves back, Chad was hastily escorted from the professional ranks and re-situated himself as a zany presenter for locally broadcast Under 14 jam sessions. Moral of the story: Don’t beef with the boss.
The only professional skateboarder with a personalized number plate engraved into his back. Ryan Sheckler is without a doubt the most commercially hated skateboarder of all time and the unquestionable grandmaster of corporate sponsorship. We hated him as a child prodigy (those fu**ing kickflip indy’s over EVERYTHING), we hated him as a developing teenage butt-kisser (long hair, skinny jeans, big shoes, bringing his mom on tour, kickflip indy's) and by god do we hate him as the rich, successful, model-pulling, luxury car driving, home-owning, conglomerate-building jealousy sponge that he is today. Perhaps what upsets us all the most though (aside from the pimple cream, MTV, deodorant, subwoofer, energy drink, wheel-barrow, Tupperware and baby wipe endorsements) is that Ryan Sheckler not only feeds off of Hate, but actually uses it as currency and motivation to prove to us all that he is actually a great guy and that we are all irrelevant to him; a thought process that will no doubt lead to a mutually beneficial relationship in which we can continue to criticize his every move for many years to come, and he can continue jumping down 30 stairs dressed like a week’s worth of junk mail.
Thanks to Youtube and Monster Energy Drinks, every thirteen year-old across the world can freely critique the godfathers of our craft with no repercussions whatsoever. This critique is then amplified by other thirteen year-old’s who share a similar outlook and in turn puts them under the impression that they are correct. If you’re thirteen and another thirteen year old agrees with you, that doesn’t make you correct, it makes you thirteen. If there was ever one golden rule pertaining to hate, it’s that you do it properly, or you keep your prepubescent pie hole firmly closed. In short, if you’re not of legal drinking age and have ever mentioned Rodney Mullen’s name in association with style or a lack thereof, consider this paragraph your indisputable banishment from skateboarding and it’s related pursuits of which you are no longer a part of as of now.
Greg Lutzka is a skateboarder. Greg Lutzka is sponsored by K-Swiss and wears fedoras ALL the time. K-Swiss is a tennis shoe brand. There is a tennis tournament called the French Open. The term Fedora was coined by a French Dramatist by the name of Victorien Sardou. Greg Lutzka is not French. Greg Lutzka has his own pro model car and shares a similar sponsorship resume to Ryan Sheckler, which never helps. If someone asked Greg Lutzka to do a totally epic burnout in his pro model car, he'd only be able to spin it 270 degrees.
Due the forever-burning inferno that is Shaun White's hair, it was guaranteed from birth that he'd encounter his fair share of torment from anyone that didn't possess a similar genetic makeup (pretty much everyone). It's common knowledge that teasing people with Gingervitis produces vast amounts of satisfaction, so when the "Flying Tomato" started climbing the ranks as both a professional skateboarder AND snowboarder, he had us seeing even more red than what was situated on his dome. Under the watchful eye of Tony Hawk, Shaun White now has more investors than a discount abortion clinic and has won every competition ever. But that's not even why we don't like him, well, it kind of is, but those Rolling Stone covers and Olympic medals have to count for something right?
Went from a respected Philly local with one of the best switch back tails in the game to a make-up wearing prankster for Earth's very own interpretation of hell, also known as MTV, quicker than you can say Viva La Bam! Some of the early CKY videos were good for some mindless hangover entertainment, but it seems as though anything he's touched since has rubbed skateboarding as a whole the wrongest way possible. After pledging his soul to Finnish rock outfit HIM and adopting their Heartogram symbol as his own personal trademark, his innumerable mindless followers (top hats, gloves, wallet chains, Heartogram tattoos) have become much easier to identify and thankfully, easier to avoid all together. If the gloves and Adio's don't immediately give it away, keep an eye out for an unscathed Element complete in the captivity of a textbook mall grab.
Now get out there and sk(h)ate!!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Anyway, so this Epicly Later'd thing is an internet-based means of insight into your favorite professional skateboarder's personal lives. Results have definitely varied, but the general vibe is that professional skateboarders are pretty laid-back individuals who deal with personal demons like everyone else blah blah blah let's all just skate etc etc. Unfortunately, when it came to the highly anticipated Antwuan Dixon files, it may as well have included a live intervention or at least an emotional piano soundtrack floating about in the background because each installment of the four part series was more confronting than the last and by the end of it all I was sitting there fearing for Antwuan's health and safety instead of grabbing my board and hitting the streets all inspired and shit. Is this actually Antwuan's life? Or has the whole thing been hammed up by the producers of the show in an last ditch effort to alert Antwuan and his team-mates up of his self-harming reality, or to simply attract more viewers? What you take from the following clips is completely up to you. However, discretion is advised, Antwuan likes to party.
This whole thing left a pretty sour taste in my mouth and judging from the responses I've read online in the wake of the final instalment, no-one else is really tasting the rainbow either. It's been well known since day dot that Antwuan never did and will continue not to give a fuck. As soon as the booming instrumental dropped on that first 360 flip from his debut part in Baker 3, you could tell that he was going to do things his way, with every successive piece of footage dripping with that lazy, effortless swag the likes of which hadn't been seen since a young Stevie Williams.Off the board though, I think there's a difference between not giving a fuck and NOT giving a fuck, if that makes any sense whatsoever. Antwuan can run around and puff as many L's and swig as many 40's (I'm white) as he likes. There's absolutely nothing wrong with a young man living his life the way he sees fit or unfit and I'll admit right now that if I could get away with it I'd probably lead a pretty similar existence, only you wouldn't catch me going near a fing weight bench at any point in time ever.
However, if you're being paid a wage or generous endorsement royalties by a company whose target market is situated between impressionable 10 year olds and wayward adolescents, you should probably stop giving a fuck about how little a fuck you give. Being a waster is fine; aside from the elderly and people that trip over all the time, I think wasters are damn near the greatest form of impromptu live entertainment one can view. Developing a reputation as a waster and becoming a side-show for everyone around you on a consistent basis, when you should be out earning and maintaining the respect of the people that helped bring you out of a negative place, is not so fine.And it's not even Antwuan's demeanor that concerns me the most. It's that of his team-mates and supposed homies, all passing the buck and side-stepping the real issue with self-assuring rhetoric and 'whatevers'. Instead of say, kicking him off the team until he gets his shit together or (god forbid) actually intervening, these guys are all "i'm not going to sugar-coat the actions of our team members" and "that's the BAKER/DEATHWISH lifestyle". Are you serious? When did condoning drug addiction and sapping the talents of your team members become the BAKER/DEATHWISH lifestyle? So what started out as mutually beneficial agreement between a kid from the projects and a multi-million dollar skateboarding company has become a poisonous relationship through which this kid has been given access to all the vices he can get his hands on and will be promoted and marketed accordingly as 'the guy with all the tats that straight doesn't give a fuck and also skates sometimes'. Brilliant!
This is only my interpretation, maybe since all this Epicly Later'd business someone has taken Antwuan aside and given him the positive wake-up call he needs, but I doubt it. It really kills me to see someone with so much talent have his reckless actions condoned by the very people making bank from his actions, the people that are supposed to have taken him under their wing and AWAY from a supposedly pre-ordained life of crime and addiction. It seriously looks like the guys at BAKER/DEATHWISH picked Antwuan up on his talent, saw his gradual fall from grace and said "you know what? This is pretty cool as well, lets feed into this and see what happens". I really hope I'm wrong though.Moreso, I hope that amongst all the attention and praise Antwuan gets for being skateboarding's favorite side-show, that he can find the help that he clearly needs and doesn't appear to be receiving from those closest to him. He is one of the most naturally talented skateboarders I have ever seen and possesses more than enough potential to be remembered as one of the best from his era. Hopefully the people sitting back and watching the destruction will take it upon themselves to help him realize this.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
It's recently come to my attention that while this blogspot is probably the best thing to ever happen to anyone that's ever visited it, or anyone that's ever walked past or been in the vicinity of anyone that's ever visited it, I need to start administering these extremely concentrated doses of knowledge and skills to other avenues, namely the ones that I don't know of at this point in time.
Don't call Suicide Watch or your relatives just yet, I'll still be posting on the same inconsistent basis you've become accustomed to, just in less inconsistent measurements of consistency. I've written a metric ass-load of stuff on this blog, stuff that has helped people deal with the things in life that they previously assumed they couldn't deal with before reading this blog, sort of like a chilled out humanitarian, and I've had a wonderful time doing it even though no-one ever gave me any money ever and I clearly hinted at it several times.
If you'll kindly bare with me and go visit some other blogs (crazy I know but there are some pretty cool ones out there), I can get back to focusing on the more important things in life, like becoming so rich that I can buy actual human beings (Angelina Jolie) and so enlightened that I can hover at will. Given time, my ability to buy people and hover will no doubt benefit you guys in ways I can't even imagine because they probably don't exist, but they do.
Meanwhile, I'll be doing some stuff over here and I still use my twitter account @wacksauce because I never said it was lame or that I was deleting it so I still have every right to use it and you have every right to contact me there.
Thanks for nothing and remember, blogging is what happens when you're making other plans and you want to write about those plans at a later date.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
During the day it was Oxford estates, vintage Ferrari's and fine dining and when night fell I was on my West End shit, sitting in the VIP poppin' bottles with models and celebrating (my lack of) success with the kinfolk. Due to some mutual friendships between my girlfriend and the model-by-day-promoter-by-night types responsible for keeping the rich, flaccid businessmen in the area surrounded by beautiful young women at every club they go to, I was given a two week insight into one of the most superficial and extravagant party scenes in the world and literally having fire extinguisher sized bottles of Grey Goose shoved in my face every step of the way.
As hard as it was to not completely lose myself amongst the opulent mayhem I was surrounded by, I made sure to take a minute every now and then to observe the characters around me and how this whole scenario operated. Bouncers accepting four figure bribes, models flocking to private tables like wilder beasts migrating from one watering hole to the next, millionaires dancing awkwardly to fast-paced electro bangers, wealthy youngsters comparing car keys and the quintessential crime bosses watching it all unfold from the curtained security of their private booths. As I maneuvered through this eclectic ecosystem of mirrored walls and self-importance, I found solace in my usual method of dealing with other people's ignorance, and that is to just imagine them all pooping.
Now, I'm not really huge on the whole fighting thing. I tend to avoid physical confrontation by keeping good company, watching my mouth around the company that others keep and being polite to everyone regardless of their background and how many Ed Hardy tattoos they may or may not have. It's not so much the me getting my head boxed around thing that bothers me about fights, I've been skateboarding for six years and I eat Mexican food at least once a week, I know real pain. It's just that it's kind of awkward. I can barely handle standing in an elevator for five seconds with someone that I don't know, let alone running up to some guy I've never met before and bludgeoning him with my huge fists because he pissed me or one of my friends off. It's like humiliating a stranger, with your arms, like a faux pas sign language of sorts. Sure, if you're the victim of some kind of un-provoked attack or it's in defence of your honour or your system of beliefs, swing away. I'm just saying that I'm not forcefully applying my hands to some guy's face unless it's absolutely necessary.
Unfortunately, as stated above some altercations are unavoidable. On one particular evening of living large in the West End I was a little more intoxicated than what had become the standard during my trip, which ranges anywhere from absolutely smashed to "why do I have a garden shovel and a chessboard?". It was close to 3am and I was at my new local, Luxx, which is basically just a runway lined with couches that offer it's wealthy patrons a vantage point to relax and ogle models and affluent daddy's girls as they shake their collective frames on it's illuminated floors in the hope of attracting someone that can buy them nice things whenever they want, which would be all the time.
The venue was wall-to-wall packed with the usual suspects and I was on my way to the bar for vodka shots with my best new promoter friends when I had an epiphany. I asked myself what could make this night even better than it currently is? Perhaps I could go out to the smoking section and watch two ridiculously attractive ethnic girls eat eachother's faces by invitation for five minutes? Hmm, already done that. Maybe I should go and reload on some complimentary cologne at the restroom? Nah, I smell amazing as it is. No, what would really top this night off was if I were to punch someone in the face. It can't just be anyone though, it has to be someone that takes care of themselves. Someone so big that they could take the entire venue down with one well-aimed swipe.
My mission was clear as clear as the vodka I'd been swilling as I subconsciously decided to look for the biggest, meanest looking dude at the club so I could subconsciously smack earth, wind and fire out of him. I walked towards my friends who were at the bar when one of them turned around for a complimentary bro embrace. I had no qualms with this, he was one of the promoters that had so graciously poured expensive liquor down my throat on so many occasions and if a little appreciation was all it took for more, I was ready to support the cause. As I opened my arms to connect, I realized I was going in a little more aggressively than predicted. It was like the alcohol was telling me to get these formalities over and done with as quickly as possible in order to acquire more alcohol. As my arms flung toward my target at speed, something stopped my left hand dead in it's tracks, namely the face of the biggest, brownest, angriest looking Argentinian bodybuilder to ever exist. The physical manifestation of fear. In a split second my night had gone from Neverending Story to Final Destination.
By the time I realised what I'd done my friend was already back at the bar passing lime and salt around to anyone in his vicinity. I looked down at this mountainous accumulation of muscle and anger lent over the couch, actually holding his face and reeling from my blow. He was even bigger than what I'd first assumed, he looked like he arrived via monster truck and had eaten a live Komodo Dragon to keep the alcohol down. This meant one thing, that I was stronger than I'd previously assumed. I did some quick calculations and realized that I now stood somewhere between 6400 and over 9000. This didn't matter though. After further calculations I also understood that I was now dead man walking. I had two choices, try and apologize for what was clearly human error combined with sheer power or flee the country and build a bunker somewhere below the equator. I didn't have long. My kind nature got the better of me and I walked towards him and put a hand on his back, being careful to manage my new-found muscular output. I asked him if he was ok to no avail. He just stayed there, slumped over the couch's expensive leather arm like a freshly wounded Cyclops would a cliff side.
This was it. In 24 years I'd never provoked a soul to the point of hand to hand combat and here I was about to have my clock cleaned because of a miscalculated gesture of friendship. This beast was going to turn around and Dragon Uppercut me through a solid object. As concerned as I was for my life, I had a momentary lapse of conscience and thought that if I just turned around and walked to the bar he wouldn't even see me, thus significantly slimming any chance of rebuttal/death. This was my second miscalculation. As I cautiously applied the salt to my now shaking hand and my friends prepped for a communal shot, I feel a light tap on my back.
As much as I hoped it was the bi-sexual models I'd seen earlier that were currently requesting my attention, such was not the case. It was Goliath, and he was pissed. His nose was bleeding, his fresh white shirt was tainted and his pride had been shot by some tourist who was really strong. I screwed my face up and prepared for impact as all the nice things I'd seen during my time on this planet played through my mind like a pre-flight slide-show before my subsequent ascension to Valhalla, where all good vikings live on for all eternity.
Goliath: "Why you hit me mang?"
Me: "Look, I'm real sorry, my friend came in for a hug and you happened to be walking past. It was a complete accident".
Goliath: "Why you no say sorry mang? You just hit someone and walk off like it nothing?"
Me: "I tried to apologize but you weren't responding (because I'm clearly stronger than you are), then my friends dragged me to the bar".
Goliath: *Glares directly at me and clenches his fist*.
Me: "Umm.....Can I get you a Corona?"
Goliath: "You don't owe me nothing! I want an apology right now (?)".
Me: "I tried to apologize before but you didn't listen. Ok, I'm sorry again.".
Goliath: "Now shake my hand"
*I shake his hand with a solid grip to deter him from trying any funny business afterwards*
I was about three heartbeats from a stroke when he finally walked away and I breathed a sigh of relief as I'd been granted a second chance at life. My friend Jamie grabbed me, asked me what happened and warned me that if I didn't have a shot with these guys they'd take offense, an offer I couldn't refuse. I pointed to my nemesis and said "just punched that guy in the face didn't I". Jamie then asked what he said and I told him we shook hands and I offered him a Corona. "Shouldn't have offered him anything mate. If that guy touched you he'd be put in hospital by every bouncer in the club" replied Jamie.
God I love London. Not long after, we raised our glasses and downed the novelty sized shooters, shortly followed by cheers and the general jolliness associated with a post-shot celebration.
I was celebrating for a different reason though. After what had just gone down, I'd never felt more alive. Not only had I narrowly escaped critical injury AND gotten away with punching a man that was possibly raised in the Andes Mountains by a herd of steroid abusing Alpacas, but I was at a guestlist club in Mayfair, spilling drinks on girls with contracts and showing very little remorse whilst belting out Alicia Keys' chorus to Empire State of Mind with some genuinely good people.
Not even Goliath's continued disposition throughout the evening could sour my last night at Luxx and I may not have exactly said it there and then, but now that I'm back home, 15,000kms from London, I know well and good that I could've beaten the shit out of him anyway.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
As innocent as Ash's text was, the weekend-defining undertones it held could not be questioned. I'd never been to Supanova before and I had no idea what to expect besides a high concentration of nerd and cosplay in one place, which is an equation I have no trouble getting down with. The satisfaction I gained from the prospect of actually attending a sci-fi convention only grew stronger when I mentioned it to people that wouldn't dare set foot inside a Gametraders, let alone a convention full of costumes and hardcore anime experts. It seems as though regardless of how much the internet and video games and technology in general run everyone's lives, the general public (or 'norms' as they're now referred to) are still afraid to accept that unless you're in a varsity jacket and a soft top jeep with Maroon 5 on full blast, it's no longer kosher to persecute someone because their general interests differ from yours or because they happen to enjoy dressing up as Japanese schoolgirls with ridiculously large swords once a year.
Doesn't matter, I went and they didn't so I win by default.
I got there a little later than the group I was meeting. I put this down to the debaucherous evening prior and an extended mini-ring dunk session that went longer than extended. That, and Transperth. Of course on the one day of the year I actually need to be somewhere on time the fucking trains aren't running. The replacement bus was useless, the driver had no idea where he was going and the only reason I ended up remotely close to the Claremont showgrounds was an old lady sat next to the driver who happened to know Perth's entire geography street for street. Everyone on the bus was yelling at her and disagreeing with her directions but she just sat there like a trooper, channeling her inner google maps and simultaneously shutting down the ignorant passengers with her extra-terrestrial knowledge of the Western Suburbs. She actually started glowing at one stage, which got me even more excited.
After an inconveniently long walk I entered the showgrounds and was immediately greeted by a very convincing Mario, Luigi and Princess Peach. They were just walking around like whatever, carrying showbags and chatting quietly amongst themselves. I imagine they were discussing the benefits of flower power and how much of a jerk Bowser is when he's drunk. As I ventured deeper into the grounds things became even more surreal. The effort these people had gone to with their costumes was admirable and envy-inducing. I seriously can't describe how entertaining it is to see all your favourite cartoon, video game and film characters all just hanging out smoking cigarettes and acting out epic battles with inflatable swords. So much better than walking through the city and seeing all your favorite cartoon, video game and film characters all just hanging out smoking cigarettes and acting out epic battles with inflatable swords.
I saw my friend William in the smoking section and he informed me of the $25 entry fee and the pointlessness of parting with said fee considering my late arrival. William's a resourceful fellow though and managed to fashion a brand new media pass out of an old media pass and a little teamwork. As soon as we entered we had to go straight to the cosplay finals because that's where everyone else was. With this weekend being our collective first or second supanova experiences I expected the group to be sitting cautiously in the middle-back rows. That way as you become a more recognized member of the cosplay scene you can move a few rows forward every year. I was wrong. William escorted me to the very front row where Ash, Benny, Eliott and Tim were all sat on the floor, completely mesmerized by the dedication of the finalists on stage. We finally realized the meaning of life and went to heaven at the same time.
Even more mesmerizing though, was the zany and equally charming MC for the proceedings. He was a short guy with the most epic sideburns I have ever seen. Considering the fact I was at a sci-fi convention, the sideburn competition was stiff and this particular MC's cheek warmers were probably the reason he got the job. He was wearing a totally sweet purple blazer and some skate shoes as well, which perfectly accompanied the aspiring comedian/common forum moderator vibe he was laying down. Armed with the words 'awesome' and 'great', he was a capable host and had all of us rolling in the aisles with his unique mix of inside jokes and anime knowledge. He even got some flowers from a couple of swedish maids. At the end of the ceremony we all agreed that he deserved them.
Afterwards we were free to roam the grounds and checked out a few stalls before squeezing into Ash's car (I pretended it was his mum's minivan for effect) and making our way home, being sure to make as many references to pop culture as possible whilst planning our costumes for next year. So impressed by Supanova 2010 I was, that I made a return trip the following day for a second dose of euphoria. The second day was even better than the first (not possible, I know). Ash had taken a similar initiative and I located him and Sean (who was possibly more blown away by the convention than all of us put together, he was actually convulsing at one stage) who were both standing in line to see the master of human produced sound effects, Michael Winslow. I don't even want to talk about how amazing that was. I will say he reproduced the sound for an the entire Star Wars episode IV tie-fighter attack scene using only his voice box and a fine grasp of topical comedy. He did so much other amazing stuff but you weren't there so I'm not going to tell you what they were. I brought my other friends Tim, Matt and Blake to the second day as well, they fainted 14 times each which was understandable.
With an Eliza Dushku sighting towards the end and a few more gasps at even more incredible costumes, we were spent. I had officially reached nerdgasm. To balance the weekend out we went skateboarding at the nearby Claremont park and our status as life all-rounders was re-instated. Supanova is now my new favorite place in the world. The only time I've ever felt so surrounded by genius and universal culture is any time I play video games, which is great because that's a huge part of the Supanova aesthetic. There were no businessmen there, no bus drivers, no football players and only a few babies, but they were in costume as well so I gave them a pass. If any of you have an ounce of interest in pop culture and awesomeness, I suggest you book the next Supanova weekend off. Single men would especially be encouraged to attend on the strength of the girls in attendance, most of whom are dressed as scantily clad comic book characters ftw. There's seriously something there for everyone at Supanova, granted you aren't a businessman, a bus driver or a football player.
*All photos courtesy of Ash and his newly formed cosplay photography company, CosVision.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
I knew what he was up to, so I applied the white-on-rice defense in order to counter his technique. He went left, I went left, he went right, I pre-determined a fake and went left again. He wasn't expecting this and drove straight into my left leg. It was an odd manuevre that saw both of us lose our respective footing and my right knee coming into direct contact with the gritty concrete court with the same motion of a hammer missing a nail. The scores for the game may have been tied, but the play-off between my knee and the concrete stood at one nil in favor of the concrete. Almost instantaneously, what seemed like litres of blood began making it's way from the cut to my fresh white socks. My primary concern was no longer disinfecting the cut, but saving those fresh whites by any means necessary. I blood-ruled to the sidelines and fashioned a temporary bandage out of the seam of my polyester-mesh shorts and little else.
Over the coming weeks the wound slowly healed itself as platelets and blood cells weaved a rustic brown shield over the cut. The depth of the cut ranged between 'probably need stitches' to 'can't be bothered getting stitches' so this particular clot took longer than usual to reach it's defensive peak, which was a new experience for me considering I generally heal quicker than most (I'm no medical expert but I think it's scientific title is 'Wolverine Syndrome' and I've had it since birth). As this wondrous, man-made tapestry manifested below my right knee i came to appreciate the cut as it blossomed into a beautiful, sizeable scab. I'd had plenty of scabs before but due to the circumstances and the uncertainty of how long we'd have together it became somewhat of an extension of my leg, and I came to love it like I would any of my other limbs.
The scab and I did everything together. We ate, played video games, slept and partied together, his presence constantly reinstated by the sharp pain he'd produce any time I knelt on him or moved my right leg in general. Love hurts and I was willing to suffer if only to prolong the healing process and subsequently, our time together. I even introduced him to my girlfriend and my most esteemed peers as a sign of respect and to show him that he was more important to me than every scab before him. I know he felt the same by the way he'd tickle my knee. The temptation to pick, play with or scratch never crossed my mind and not once did I cover him with any pharmaceutical bandaging or disinfectants. I was proud of my scab and how well I was taking care of him.
Everything changed this morning though. I'd just collected my routine morning coffee from the cafe around the corner and was commandeering my skateboard through the usually smooth back alleys of my route to the train station when an unfamiliar entity came into contact with my front wheels. Some genius had left a hose running across a driveway DIRECTLY AFTER A SPEED BUMP. It was as if someone had been watching my journey for weeks and found the most strategically beneficial location for a trap and was possibly watching from a nearby gum tree, cackling to themselves as the urethane supporting my person came to an unplanned stop. Normally, any other hindrance could be avoided with a quick step off the board but this time was extra special, being a Monday morning and all. As I was launched from my vehicle, flashbacks of my scab's short life played through my mind in HD and for about two seconds, I was at peace with the circumstances currently surrounding me. I hit the ground knee first, slid for half a metre and I didn't even consider the fact that i'd just paid for a coffee which was now a 3/4 tarmachiatto. My focus immediately shifted to a sharp pain below my right knee, the exact spot where an old friend once resided. The familiar feeling of cold blood crawling down my shin confirmed what I feared most.
The scab was gone. My knee was fucked again.
It hurt me to know that something i had cared for so meticulously over such a long period could be destroyed in a matter of seconds through the careless actions of another. It was like my first Tamagotchi. I fed it, played with it and woke up at the most ungodly of hours to clean up it's accidents for several months. All it took was one sleepover and I had to come home the next morning to a digital devastation that no 10 year old should ever have to endure. This morning was no different. As I sat on the train in my blood stained jeans i came to the realization that life is not a right, it's a sacred privilege. I vowed to live life to the fullest from that point on, it's what he would've wanted.
While the sun had set on one scab, a new scab would soon appear under a new dawn. As I mourned a brief smile touched my face and i remembered that while scabs may come and go, a scar lasts forever and whenever i gaze down to my right knee, I'll always be reminded of that one time I totally owned an Asian point guard.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
What can't be forgiven though is the outlandish tagline for the movie in question. In case you missed it:
A tagline's job is to give the potential viewer a brief synopsis of the film being advertised, whilst leaving enough to the imagination to entice them into paying a fare to view it. For example, Ridley Scott's 1979 masterpiece Alien adopted the now iconic "In space, no one can hear you scream" tagline. This suggests that the film takes place in outer space and the possibility that an other-worldy presence is preventing whoever it is in outer space from doing whatever it is they want to do in outer space. If i was around in 1979 i would've been convinced to see Alien if only to discover exactly what this presence was and how the human protagonists dealt with it. Having since viewed Alien on several occasions i can say (without any film student snobbery) that the tagline did a damn good job enticing me to pay a fare to view it. Not that i paid for it, i watched it a my friend's house pretty much every time i went there.
Then there's the inevitable sequel Aliens and it's equally effective tagline "This time, it's war". We've seen what happened in the original and now that the protagonist is aware of the Aliens and their characteristics, they are going to do battle with them on more equal terms than in the first film. Again, simple, effective and with the placement of the words 'time' and 'war' comes a responsibility to continue following the story in order to gain some closure along with the protagonist and her crew of stereotypical soldiers.
The tagline 'one gun, many lives lost' is as ludicrous as it is misleading, ticking all the boxes for a box office flop regardless of it's all star cast (Curtis Jackson and Val Kilmer). I racked my brain for potential metaphors and hidden meanings within the blurb and after about 30 seconds i came to one conclusion. This movie is about 50 Cent killing ALOT of people, with one gun. This is where it gets even more confusing.
Now, i suck at math and i hold an immense, deep-seeded hatred for anyone that is good at math. The way i see it, we don't speak in numbers, so why the hell should i learn about them? It would appear as though Curtis Jackson has applied a similar thought process to this poster. For those of you playing at home, the tagline discusses the prospect of one gun and an insurmountable number of lives lost, which is fair enough. What isn't discussed is the number of guns Curtis himself is holding in the photo, namely, two. Seeing as this is the only image we can associate with the movie and tagline in question it appears as though someone has made a crucial error in relation to not only the tagline, but the name of the movie as well. 'Guns' clearly would have been the more effective title to run with as the demographic this movie is clearly aimed at would definitely appreciate multiple guns over a single, less gun with a predetermined amount of ammunition. Keeping in mind that i suck at math, the following equation springs to mind:
Amount of lives lost ≠ Amount of guns.
However, being the marketing genius that Curtis Jackson is, in some twisted, logic-bending fashion, he's convinced me to go and see Gun when it comes out in 2011. I simply must see how this possibility of more than one gun will affect the plot and it's surrounding characters. Yes, the movie is called Gun and the tagline leads me to believe that the number of guns on screen will be limited to one at a time but as previously mentioned, the number of guns Curtis is cradling and his suggestive facial expression could convince me yet. Gun is set for release in 2011 and stars Val Kilmer.
Tagline suggestions for future Gun spin-offs and sequels:
* In space, nobody can hear you gun.
* In Vietnam the Gun doesn't blow, it guns.
* There is nothing in the dark that isn't there in the light, except Gun.
* You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll gun.
* An adventure 65 million guns in the making.
* So many guns, so little time.
* Everyone has one special gun.
* Not every gun is a blessing.
* Nothing on Earth could gun between them.
* He is afraid, he is alone, he is three million guns from home.
Bonus points for anyone that can name every film i've blatantly ripped off here.
Monday, June 7, 2010
I think people don't get down with Chokito because they don't see it advertised enough. Name the last advertising campaign for Chokito. Exactly, you can't, and even if you can, you're a nerd and should probably lay off the Chokitos, nerd. It really grinds my gears when something awesome (namely, Chokitos) isn't getting exposure because people make me feel like a stain for enjoying it when in reality, Chokitos are better than a-lot of people i know and they can't even talk.
So what would chokito say if it could talk? It would say NO NO NO to things that apparently ruin other things. I could be wrong, but i think this is a clever play on words pertaining to a popular Amy Winehouse song in which she disagrees with some people's stance on her drug dependence and the consideration of rehabilitation. Which is a shame because she's now a crack whore.
But if there's anything Chokito hates more than rehab, it's Sunday drivers. Sunday drivers on a Monday, when it isn't Sunday. I was on the train this morning when i saw the ad so i couldn't relate but i'm sure there's nothing more frustrating and mainstream then people driving on a Monday with golf clubs in their boot or even worse, doing the speed limit. I don't really understand this concept. There's normally heaps of traffic on a Monday morning so aren't we all technically Sunday drivers on a Monday? Doesn't matter, this angers Chokito. Chokito is punctual and Chokito doesn't play golf like all those other Sunday drivers.
Err. If you're sick on a sickie, isn't that why you took the sickie? Or is this referring to all those times you've booked a sickie a week in advance and then coincidentally fallen ill on that actual day? What, like a holiday? Don't you book a holiday in advance and a sickie on the day? If I called my boss and said i was going to have a sick day before i was actually sick i'd get handed a slip of the pink nature. Chokito sure is a weird guy. The chances of falling sick on a spontaneous sickie are pretty slim, but Chokito says NO NO NO just in case.
Have you ever been at a party and there's some accountant walking around? I HATE THAT AS WELL CHOKITO! They just walk around like they own the place, those accountants. Don't even ask them what they do for a job, they'll probably tell you that they're an accountant and it'll totally break the crazy vibe of the party in progress. I know when I send invites out for a party i specifically request NO ACCOUNTANTS. There's nothing worse than rocking up to a party only to find that there's someone there that works for an accounting firm or even worse, a firm in general.
Texting is for queers. If you're absolutely trashed at 3AM in the morning, you don't text your ex. You call that bitch and make sure they can't ignore you. Chokito likes it's booty calls compliant and semi-conscious. If your ex isn't in bed at 3AM and is out and about, the phone call is a great means to make sure they feel guilty and awkward while they try to do other things, like getting on with their life without you calling them at 3AM for the most forgettable sexual endeavor since the last time you had sex before 3AM, which was never.
I'm a little torn when it comes to this particular campaign. On one hand, it's great to see an underrated chocolate getting some much needed recognition, but on the other hand, Chokito's attitude seems to be a little askew. I always pictured Chokito as a Chuck Farley kind of character. Big, jolly and a great guy to have at a party because he doesn't just associate with the people he likes, but spreads himself around and gives everyone a bit of face time. He wouldn't overstay his welcome either, making sure he's not the first person to leave and not the last either, sort of bidding farewell just before the closest friends of the hosts.
This Chokito sounds like a drunk, leadfoot jerk with an unjustified disdain for accountants and an inconvenient longing for ex-partners at preposterous hours of the morning. Seriously guys, Chokitos are actually great, please buy them. Biting into one is like giving birth to your own tastebuds without having to wait 9 months or even copulate. The crunchy rice soldiers under the chocolate shell will let you pass with minimal fuss and once your teeth come to rest on the soft caramel fudge pillow, all the oil spills and celebrity deaths in the world won't be able to bring you down.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
For starters, cats are useless. I've already discussed and proven this fact in several other posts but seeing as cat owners are the most denial-driven sub-humans on the planet i'll reiterate once again. Cats have no place in modern society, they contribute in no way to our economy, well-being or environment and their little faces with their sharp, unsatisfied features are a constant reminder of their incapacity to promote anything but evil tendencies. Yet, as useless as cats are, they stroll around like they own whichever place they are strolling around in. Their owners are slaves, brainwashed by a secreted psychoactive hallucinogen known as 'asshole'. 'Asshole' is stored in little sacs beneath the cats fur coat and is released by the stroking motion known as 'petting' or 'being a gay'. Once the hallucinogen is released, it is known to cause the following:
* A false sense of self worth.
* A false sense of ownership over the cat.
* Love under false pretenses.
Thankfully, I was born with a natural allergy (or gift) that prevents me from being affected by this toxin and should a cat ever enter my personal space, an outburst of small, localized sneezes will let it know that i'm not one to be brainwashed so easily. I'm not allergic to cats, cats are allergic to me, which is why Sony's proposal is a cause for concern. Before now, a cats only form of communication was that hissing noise they always make when you spray water at them. If this innovation takes off, the cats will be given access to an entirely new means of control over their owner and will be able to reach a wider audience as their movements are inevitably discussed over the internet and hip Whiskers ad campaigns. Who the fuck wants to know what a cat is doing anyway?
Oh wow @TabbySlash. You were a manipulative, sadistic bitch for a week straight? Who would've thought a cat could be so evil?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
I had no idea what they were talking about. Did this Debrahlee Lorenzana have a temperature problem? Was she emanating a level of body heat so unbearable to her colleagues that she was excused from her duties as an entry-level Citibank employee? Better look to the professionals.
Hot - Adjective
1. having or giving off heat; having a high temperature: a hot fire; hot coffee.
2. having or causing a sensation of great bodily heat; attended with or producing such a sensation: He was hot with fever.
3. creating a burning sensation, as on the skin or in the throat: This ointment is hot, so apply it sparingly.
4. sharply peppery or pungent: Is this mustard hot?
That couldn't be it. From the photos I'd seen so far, Debrahlee doesn't look like she has the flu, her throat doesn't appear to show any signs of strain or burning and for the most part, she doesn't look sharply peppery or pungent. It was time to dig deeper. I remembered that a-lot of news websites these days like to use clever puns and common slang to appeal to a wider audience, so I directed my research to a more urban form of dictionary to find out what the fuss was all about and why this piece of news was plastered all over the front page of every news website on an international scale.
Hot - Adjective
1. someone thats EXTREMEMLY (sic) good looking but not like (sic) cute, more like (sic) sexy. when they walk by u (sic) turn ure (sic) head and wish u (sic) had a pause button or something.
2. something that is in some way attractive
Of course! Debrahlee wasn't fired because of her temperature or unbearable body heat! She was too attractive! This is way more interesting. I don't know how anyone could strive to work in a bank to begin with (all the numbers and monitors would make me ever so sleepy), let alone a bank where there is a girl that is way too attractive for you or your colleagues to handle! Imagine how hard and job threatening that would be.
Jim: Hey Tom, how'd you go with that McNamara finance?
*Debrahlee sits at her desk, typing*
Tom: Oh, hey Jim! Yeah, still working on it. Carvalho's got my balls in a vice grip, he wants it done by the weekend. Might have to cancel golf again!
*Debrahlee sits at her desk, typing*
Carvalho: Hey, Tom, Jim. Is it lunch time?
Tom and Jim: No sir.
Carvalho: Then why the fuck are you standing around like it is? Shouldn't you be sorting that McNamara file out Tom?
Tom and Jim: Sorry boss.
*Debrahlee stands up to use the fax machine*
Carvalho: Right, you're both fired.
Tom: I said I'd have the file done by the weekend boss!
Carvalho: You're not fired for slacking off. Look at how hot Debrahlee looks right now in that pencil skirt and turtle neck top with matching heels. There's no way either of you are going to get anything done around here so I'm going to have to let you go.
*Debrahlee sits back down, knowing her own job is now at risk*
It's pretty amazing that someone can get fired from a bank for being too attractive. What's more amazing though is the fact that Debrahlee herself is claiming that is the sole reason for her termination, not the fact that she is incompetent, which is Citiblank's own claim. This could really set a new standard for females and job security the world over.
"Oh yeah, they said I single-handedly sent the company bankrupt and that i was the most unprofessional secretary in the history of the company. It's all bullshit though, I know it's because I was too hot for them. They can't handle this body and they know it. I'm thinking about sueing."
Here's some photos of Deb in a work situation. Where the photos came from I have no idea, but I can only assume they're an accurate portrayal of an average work day for her:
So, what was Deb's job description? Director of posing with book and glass of water? Head of the department for leaning provocatively over files? Personally, I think Deb's flattering herself with these claims against Citibank. Anyone that poses for a photoshoot in an office to back up her claims of being fired from a bank for being too hot is clearly trying to break into modeling, a guaranteed RALPH photo-shoot or a wild card entry to "I'm a celebrity, get me out of there!".
"Man, did you see that girl over there? Dude, she's like a combination of J.Lo curves meets Jessica Simpson rack meets Audrey Hepburn elegance. She's so hot she couldn't even hold a job at Citibank!"
It looks as though not even the monolithic likes of Google can deny the temperature-related attractiveness this woman is oozing right now. Fired for being too spicy? Oh, I think so!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
During my teen years however, i came to appreciate the calming atmosphere and artistic applications of the hair salon. That, and it was the only instance during those years in which semi-attractive girls would willingly touch my head and spray water in my face without apologizing. As i grew older, my fondness for hair cuts grew older as well. I don't even know what that means. The only time i'd ever wash my hair was before i got my hair cut and i'd always be sure to make whoever was cutting my hair aware of this for brownie points and maybe an extra 30 seconds of head massaging at the end of my trim. "You know, i washed my hair especially for you this morning" was always a hit with the girls down at Floreat Forum. It helps conjure up an image of you in the shower for them and makes things less awkward all round.
Nowadays, the hair cut has become less of a necessity and more of an excuse to go and get my hair played with and read trashy gossip mags in a safe place surrounded by people that won't accuse me of being gay, or just really switched on. I've swapped salons a few times for a wide range of reasons (out of date magazines, bad music, inelegant conversation) and have only in the last few years realized the benefits of the old home salon. What's better than getting your hair cut by someone you don't know in a public place? How about getting your hair cut by someone you sort of know at their house? Yeah, thought so. Now while you simmer on that, allow me to highlight the benefits of getting your follicles fussed over by an independent hairdresser in a private environment.
1. You control the music. Public salon's don't take kindly to requests, especially if they involve the words "wow, this music makes me want to kill myself". Private salons are generally home to iPod docks, which means you can bring your own music and the hairdresser can't do anything about it because you're paying them to cut your hair, not to DJ.
2. You don't have to listen to other people's mundane exchanges. Why do i want to hear about how unfair your daughter's netball referee was last sunday when i could be discussing whether or not Robert Pattinson and Kirsten Stewart are going to last or if their relationship is one big publicity stunt without any interruptions?
3. The floor isn't covered in human hair from other humans. I never really noticed how much trudging through millimeter thick layers of other people's hair offended me until i experienced my first private trim. The only hair you'll be trudging through is your own, which is only as offensive as you make it
4. I'd say that thought i told you to simmer on before is well and truly cooked by now.
So, being the proud supporter of locally owned businesses in this city (particularly those operated by my close friends) that i am, i figured i'd be doing my good will a major injustice by not shedding some light on Perth's latest (and by default, most awesome) private salon, Peggy Sue's. Did you know that in Latin, Peggy Sue's actually translates to the best haircut you will ever have and good snacks as well? Look it up if you don't believe me. Don't look it up.
Peggy Sue's is located on the upper floor of the highly regarded 'Last Chance Studio' at 456 William Street, Northbridge. Upon entry you'll find alpine walls decorated with the Last Chance collective's latest works and if you happen to be traveling with a certain lady luck, you may even catch them in action, applying paint to raw materials and discussing the finer points of Chess or the social implications of entering nightclubs with a vintage walking stick. I actually became so sidetracked by the outlandish array of art and good vibes floating about the studio that i forgot what i was even there for. Then i remembered, hair cut, which is good because i happened to require a hair cut at that point in time.
I was directed upstairs by Miss Bee Rizzi, who is the sole employee at Peggy Sue's and also the most accomplished. The studio is perfect, it's a cosy little room with a cosy little chair and a mirror and even more artwork. I was most stoked on the mirror, i figure if you need anything in a salon, the mirror is at the top of the list. I've known Bee for a while now and i can safely say (with no bias) that she knows her way around a head of hair. Every strand is treated with the same respect as the last and her scissor control is not of this world. So smooth was Bee's work with the clippers and so fixated i had become on June's issue of FAMOUS weekly, that i once again forgot what i was meant to be doing there until Bee kindly reminded me of the hair cut, which was convenient because i actually happened to be getting my hair cut at that point in time.
Even more impressive than the quality and precision of the cut was the vast array of snacks at my disposal during the proceedings. There was a heavy Japanese theme running through the selection as i indulged in wasabi peas, weird little soft/hard jelly things covered in sugar and chocolate coated sesame sticks. It was definitely a more attractive spread than the public hairdressers i'd frequented in the past, most of which don't serve snacks at all. I pretty much ate her week's supply in one sitting and Bee didn't even get upset, which is another rare quality that i always look for in my hairdressers.
All in all, it was the best haircut experience anyone will ever have ever. Refreshing, cultured locale, engaging staff, unique decoration and intimate customer interaction. Haircuts are available by appointment only so if you're thinking of just rocking up out of the blue, don't. Peggy Sue's prides itself on maintaining exclusivity with it's customer base, a direction that will only improve the quality of the cuts and the odds of Bee remembering your name whenever you go in there.
After the ceremonial brushing of the collar and application of talc, i looked in the mirror and told Bee that i looked incredible. She agreed not by obligation but with regard to her personal opinion, which was great because i actually happened to look incredible at that point in time.
*Word on the street is that Peggy Sue is currently plotting some super extravagant, turbo classy opening party in the near future. Keep the date free. You're not invited yet.
You can keep your fingers on the Peggy Sue pulse at peggysueshair.com
This site is also relative to your interests: last-chance-studio.com
Monday, May 17, 2010
I kept to myself for most of the journey, only looking up to check for potential fisticuffs between the aforementioned Dockers fans and the severely outnumbered supporters of whichever team were playing the Dockers that night. Much to my dismay, they were all getting along, which i didn't really understand. For a country as passionate about sports as we claim to be, the lack of rival club related fights on the notoriously violent F-Line that night was embarrassing and, well, a little bit gay. As the train reached the end of it's journey (as far as football is concerned) at Subiaco train station, the unified wolf whistles and team chants faded and the general dick-pulling and bromance came to a halt, i noticed a kid decked out in a third, unrelated team's colours with his head down and a face painted with shame, and black with a little bit of red.
This kid couldn't have been older than 10 and was nearing the doors when some asshole in a beard calls him out for supporting 'that' team. This guy literally stopped dead in his tracks, directed the entire train's attention to him and proceeded to let loose with some immensely uninspired regional diatribe, somehow managing to convince his friends, a few complete strangers and even this kid's family to do the same. His dad was actually APOLOGIZING to the instigators and joked that his son was on the way to the airport and got lost. Hilarious! Better sleep with your eyes open for the next ten years, friend. I've seen some pretty lame shit in my time, but this particular occurrence was up there with the smelliest. Any pride the young victim had for his team and any hope of an affirmative upbringing by anyone without a striped scarf and a rear window 2010 membership sticker was dismissed in a few seconds by the braindead taunts of a bunch of silverback, redneck, yellow-bellied, pillow-biting chimney sweeps.
Now, this all made me wonder. If i was in Modern Warfare 2 right now, would the Commando Pro Perk be beneficial right now? It'd definitely give me the increased melee distance that i wouldn't normally get from say, the Ninja Pro perk, which only really silences my footsteps and still leaves me vulnerable to anyone in my peripheral. Hang on, none of these guys look like they even know what a UAV is which renders Ninja Pro even more useless. And even if i do take all these guys out with knife class, is the ACOG sight on my M164A going to hinder my close range firefight abilities? Should've chosen ACR with the holographic sight. No Marathon Pro, so my escape is probably going to be a little slow, but i'm Lightweight Pro so if sprint in short bursts i should at least make it to ground level wounded. Then once i'm on ground level, those four previous frags have earned me a care package, with the potential for a Harrier AirStrike being a solid 1/9. Do i even need a care package? Another five down and i'm up to my elbows in killstreak rewards. Pave Lows, AC130's and Chopper Gunners, more than enough rewards to teach John a lesson for camping on every fucking map and Tim going AWOL on party chat so he can get more throwing knife titles. Yeah nice one guys, way to make me rage quit before i try and eat my controller out of childish anger and blind fury.
You hear that John? STOP CAMPING!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Where: At home silly! Or anywhere for that matter!
It'd been another big weekend for Trish and I, making sure we were seen at all the hot new restaurants and mixing with Perth's edible elite had taken it's toll by Tuesday night. We decided to commit a little suburban blasphemy and skip the half price Tuesday night pictures to treat ourselves to a little down time with Charlie Sheen and Natalie Bassingwaithembergerstrom. How middle class chic!
Now, just because we were at home it didn't mean we had to eat like we were! Trish was in the mid-stages of a breathtaking Coq Au Vin ('chicken and potato' for the public schoolies) and I was busy setting the programme timers for our blue-collar night out, taking the occasional sniff to make sure Trish wasn't skimping on the Brandy! I felt like one of the characters from the sitcom i was watching, Trish was in the kitchen and i was on the couch watching shows about men that sit on the couch while they're wives are in the kitchen! It was all very chauvinistic and funky. 15 minutes passed and i became slightly suspicious in regards to the whereabouts of our Coq Au Vin when a familiar shriek sounded from the kitchen, a shriek generally initiated by either a shortage of peeled eschalots (french shallots for the public schoolies) or even worse, an empty bottle of pinot noir!
Things weren't as bad as they seemed, it was in fact the eschalots that hadn't been taken into account and we still had enough wine to get absolutely legless beyond all human comprehension. Alas, i was a little bit upset that Trish had failed to retrieve one of the more essential ingredients in the dish, but resisted the urge to enforce any kind of discipline on her due to a court summons last year after a funky incident at Balthazar's involving myself, a steak knife and a spilt bottle of red. Without indulging too much, i'll just say i got a little bit too zany on that particular evening! We reluctantly bagged up the half-prepared meal and began scouring the cupboards for something quick, sharp, zany and totally funky. They say necessity is the mother of invention, but we were far too paralytic to invent anything at this point in time so we opted for a good old fashioned cup-a-soup and some fermented sourdough ('bread' for the public schoolies!).
We found a cute little pack of Chilli Con Carne flavoured Continental soup that Trish had picked on impulse at the local supermarket. We had a good few minutes before Two and a Half Men started so we indulged in a few more glasses of red, plugged the microwave in and within 30 seconds the scent of blue collars and middle class crashed our nasal passages like a group of rowdy, un-invited baby shower guests. As we sat down to our impromptu meal and the theme music to Charlie Sheen's cash cow filled the air, i had a premonition. Sometimes it's really funky to just come home from work, drink red wine like it's water and eat dinner in front of the television like a peasant. Sure the soup was absolutely terrible (it somehow managed to smell like authentic Chilli Con Carne and taste like the armpits of a unemployed Mexican foundry foreman) but the price was right and Trish learnt a valuable lesson about the importance of a fully stocked pantry, this time without me having to get the old steak knife out again!
*If any of you funky readers would like your restaurant or dishes judged, drop us a line at firstname.lastname@example.org!