Monday, December 19, 2011

Things I wrote but forgot to submit: Part 1

I've been contributing my intellectual property to a few noteable skateboarding publications over the last year or so and when I remember to send the complete articles to them before deadline they get published and it feels great. However, sometimes I forget that I'm meant to be writing the article and, in some bizarre twist of fate, they don't get published because I forgot to send the complete article. I was meant to complete this article for a new magazine that came out last month but I forgot to finish it and before I knew it the first issue was out, sans my intellectual property. Below is said article with a bonus tacked on conclusion:

Have you ever sat there and thought about how lame and boring water is? I do all the time. I mean, aside from keeping us alive and being the foundation from which all things are born, it just sits there. Pour it into a cup, it sits there. Pour it into a bowl, still sits there. Go and have a look in your toilet right now and see what your precious H20 is doing, go on! That’s right, it's just sitting there, doing sweet fuck all like it always does. The only time water ever does anything is when it’s at the beach (boring) or when it’s keeping us alive (….zzzz). In the face of these completely factual realities I think we can all agree that if it wasn’t necessary for our existence, water would be irrelevant and we wouldn’t need taps anymore.

It’s for this very reason that an empty pool will always be way more exciting than a full one. We’ve all seen full pools before, we know what they look like, they’re boring. It’s only when you take water out of a pool that it can be truly appreciated for what it actually is; a concrete, alien landscape comprised of smooth contours, harsh transitions and a wealth of entertaining applications, the default and most significant being skateboarding. Unfortunately, not everyone skates. Some people were just born with that part of their brain missing and therefore the majority of pools in your general radius will be filled with water, only to be enjoyed by infants and rehabilitating paraplegics. An empty pool is a blessing, and unlike a new skatepark or a front yard flatbar, it’s one of the only circumstances in which certified OG’s and revered oldheads will associate with the younger crew, creating a rare unison bound by mutual respect and a unanimous hatred of water. Pool skating is raw, full stop. It’s like taking all the best parts of transition skating and injecting them with chest hair and buffalo flesh. Look at Duane Peters for crying out loud, he looks like he has an engine where his internal organs should be.

Western Australia is notorious for it's hot winters and hotter summers, so it's no surprise that there's pools everywhere. Some are full, some are empty, most are full though. Enter the illustrious Ellenbrook or 'Tortoise' Pool, a textbook example of skate heaven hidden amongst our city's arid outskirts. The Ellenbrook Pool is what you’d get if a pool started a world famous punk metal group, developed a crippling heroin addiction, boycotted the band and eventually overdosed in a bushland clearing in Ellenbrook after a failed solo career.  Boasting all the necessary traits of a skateable pool (needles, graffiti, broken glass, condoms, extensive back catalogues of Domino's vouchers) it's the peculiar front end of the landmark that provides it's flamboyant charm and possibly the grounds for it's discovery. For starters, the house itself is pink. Not the subtle salmon pink that has become commonplace in newer developments, but more of an awkwardly bright, rosey, pink that gives nods to a short-lived 1970's progressive midget porn studio or a safe-house for baby boomers that never quite lived down that one LSD binge. Today, it exists as a gallery for some noteable graffiti artists, a clubhouse for colorblind bmx'ers who also do graffiti and most recently, a perfectly transitioned paradise for awkward virgins wishing to lose their love-seat virginity to it's tight curves and deep lower ends or a familiar, unprotected thrashing for the veterans of yonder.

Of course, what would an abandoned pool in the middle of nowhere be without it’s local lore? For example, did you know that the reason the house was abandoned all those years ago was because the daughter drowned in the creepy lake nearby? Oh yeah the father was a total pedophile as well. Apparently, if you grind over the deathbox at exactly one minute past midday during the fifth month of a leap year, the bottom of the pool shifts into a reverse vortex that leads to a tangent universe where pools skate humans. Jesus Christ, can you imagine how epic that session was? What about the time Suicidal Tendencies filmed a music video there? That actually happened, there's photos and everything.

More current local tales involve Perth’s more street inclined board members rolling their pant legs up and reveling in the spirit of teamwork through manual labour, finding whatever they can to remove the stagnant bong water from the pool’s nether regions while confused redneck motocross riders would watch on and rev their whiny little engines, much to their own elation and no-one else's. Once the cleaning was done, these young Vikings would spend hours navigating the unfamiliar territory with their decks and their fancy wheels while local photgrapher’s flashes applauded the proceedings and the mini DV’s captured every moment in the highest of definitions. Supposedly a young buck by the name of Harry Clark innovated with his incorporation of a surrounding rock as an extension of the coping. Other Chinese whispers involve an enigmatic figure known by most as Nannup, whose knowledge of the curves and effortless carves lead many to believe he was involved in the construction of the pool and is therefore, anywhere between 20 and 200 years old.

As far as I know the tortoise pool is still fully functioning, providing reality checks and broken wrists for anyone that approaches it with even the slightest ignorance and treating it's more courteous admirers to a Dogtown retrospective that is seldom replicated and eternally appreciated. Be sure to take a six pack of monster energy drinks and a few Ralph magazines to distract the bmx'ers and watch out for the homicidal pedophile that totally lives there.

Oh my god have you been to.....

That other little Mexican place.

Heaps of people I know have been talking about this funky and hot new Mexican restaurant in Northbridge called 'La Cholita' so I decided to go there with my buddies Justin and Jeri because we were hungry. I got there a little bit after them because all the drivers between the city and Northbridge were dickheads so it was a pleasant surprise when I saw they'd already secured a table in the corner near some girls with tattoos. Cholita in Mexican translates to 'streetwise female with tattoos who might be carrying a gun' and aside from all the musicians present there were heaps of cholitas around which helped carry the theme.

As far as interiors go La Cholita had a pretty nice interior. As soon as you walk in there's all these crazy square holes sprinkled across the floorboards except for that they're not holes, they're just glass cut-outs revealing some kind of basement or something below. Justin mentioned he became disorientated by this feature and said that he thought he was going to fall through as soon as he walked in. Imagine falling into a basement as soon as you walk into a restaurant! Aside from the holes in the floor other highlights included low hanging mood lights whose wires traversed the roof in a carelessly quirky fashion, a huge mirror providing a spatial illusion that multiplied the area by two and made the place look even more busy than it was (it was stupidly busy), tiny little midget tables and chairs made out of crates and other tables, some super exclusive booths lining the front window for people that like to be seen eating in a booth and opposing that was a burning heart/barbwire/handgun mural that reminded me of Romeo and Juliet and forbidden love and some other stuff. The venue was shaped in a right angle that wrapped around a central bar area that split the entree section and the main course section. If you want a more detailed description there's probably a tumblr or something about it.

This guy is excited to be at La Cholita. I think he owns it.

We started with a few selections from the extensive tequila and cocktail list. I've never seen so many different types of tequilas on one page before, I didn't have any of them though because tequila tastes like ass. However, if you're a fan of taking shots to the face then La Cholita is probably the finest establishment for such endeavors. After we'd ordered our drinks we talked about heaps of different topics to pass the time. We started running out of topics after about 20 minutes which is a pretty good effort for me and our drinks were still absent from the proceedings. Another 10 minutes passed so Justin and I went out for a cigarette because we were stressed out about the drinks.

When we came back in our drinks were sitting on the table all innocent and proud, completely oblivious to how hard we were gonna pound them. I had a cocktail with lime, apple juice and passionfruit and some other stuff. I can't remember what it was called but it was bloody darn fantastic. Justin had one with cinnamon and Jeri rocked the margherita like a boss cholita and they both agreed that the cocktails were well worth the stupid wait. The stool I was sitting on started getting less and less comfortable so I started hawk-eyeing the booths so I could enjoy myself and make a mess while I ate. The cholitas in the corner were doing the same thing and as soon as one of the dining parties left I sprinted over to it with the quickness, a bold move considering the unpredictable nature of a hungry cholita. It was kind of cool sitting at the booth, separated from the street by nothing more than a regulation size restaurant window, I felt like I was in some kind of culinary terrarium, pushing my eating skills to the max for the various urchins and backpackers that inhabit the greater Northbridge area.

I didn't get this drink but it looks nice.

We were served by a lovely young lady who, while overwhelmed by the amount of patrons and it's subsequent workload, was all too happy to serve us and smile at the same time, a concept many Perth establishments fail to grasp. When asked what size the entrees were she put her hands out like the amnesty international logo and made a little bowl shape. I went to give her some change but I realized she was referring to the size of the bowl our guacamole and salsas would be contained in, she was spot on as well. The wait for the entrees was of a similar length to the drinks (long) but once they arrived we were again forced to forgive the staff on the grounds that it was stupid busy and everything was tasty. After we'd finished ordering Justin made a hand signal that could've easily been interpreted as an ushering off of the waitress. He'd been pointing at the menu and motioned his hands in a 'ok thanks now get out of here' kind of way with a visible double pump but was actually only meant to single pump to confirm our order. I don't think the girl noticed as much as I did but it may have been the reason we were forced to watch several newcomer parties granted dining tables after we'd requested one 20 minutes prior. That, or they were friends of the staff, which really grinds my gears. Either way, I recommend the Market Cerviche, it sounds hyper sophisticated when you talk about it and was delicious to the power of divine.

I was equal parts confused and upset about the whole 'refreshments and entrees section' thing, call me Glen Davis but it seemed a bit silly to have secured a perfectly good dining booth only to be informed that we had to eat at a designated area, especially considering that we'd risked our lives by snaking the cholitas to said booth. There was also another lengthy wait for a table in the other half of the restaurant (made more frustrating by the previously mentioned newcomer interjections) so I occupied myself by alternating between watching a tree grow outside and interrogating Justin as to why he was so rude to the waitress earlier on with the whole hand gesture thing and he continued maintaining his innocence, hopefully he can just own up to it one day. The tree I was watching didn't grow a whole bunch but it's nice to appreciate nature every now and then. Instead of waiting to be offered a free table we took control of our own destinies and claimed one of the two empty ones available. When our meals came out one of the waiters almost falcon punched me with the plate because he wasn't looking at me, eye contact is always important when you're serving someone. Also this other girl who might've been one of the managers or something kind of chucked Jeri's plate onto the table and it made a noise.
I hate tomato so much.

The smallest taco I've ever had in Perth. Also the cheapest.

I'm getting pretty bored of this review and it's already more in-depth and informative than anything that the Sunday Times or SuburbanSpoon would publish so I'd like to leave you with the following rhetorical question:
If you were really hungry this one time and you like Mexican food heaps and there was this new restaurant that opened up in a pretty central location with a nice fit-out but you had to wait ages for your drinks and meals and didn't know where the hell to sit but once you got the meals and drinks they were pretty delicious and refreshing, would you go there again?

The answer is yes and no. Yes because on the return trip you'd be able to just walk in like a boss cholita and not have to worry about sitting in the wrong place and also because they've surely hired a few more chefs to deal with the overwhelming amount of musicians that frequent the place. No because, well,  it's a rhetorical question and you're not supposed to answer them, ya dickhead.

Photos courtesy of Jujichews.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

I got sassed

So I went to this cafe the other day that shall remain nameless (Cantina if you wanted to know) and I ordered my food and got sassed straight out of left field and then out of the fucken ballpark as well. For the uneducated, getting sassed means when someone vomits their attitude all over you but it's also really cold and calculated and bitchy. It's not a coincidence that 'sassed' also contains the word 'ass' due to the people that do it being fucken buttholes. Girls are really good at it and the girl that did it to me may have even invented it.

So anyway it was about 8am in the morning and yeah, granted I wasn't at maximum mental capacity as I'd just woken the fuck up and as a result had forgotten that this place has table service and it's a cardinal sin to order a scrambled eggs on toast and 3/4 long macchiato at the counter (SORRY). I thought everything was going well but as soon as I had politely concluded my request this sassquatch just stops what she's doing all of a sudden, lays her little sassy pen on the counter and looks at her little fucken notepad for a second before letting out a mega sarcastic "uuummmmmmmm, yeeeeaaahhhh....." and slowly looks up at me (she hadn't been looking at me the whole time). I stood there for a second and gave her a few moments to regain her composure because she'd obviously lost her mind thinking she could speak to me like that and then she drops this on me, "See, it's actually table service here?" She said it like it was a question, her sassy little voice rising with every passing syllable, like every fucken sassy sonofabitch does.

I can't stand people like this. They think they have some kind of interpersonal high ground because of the way they talk and the way their beady little eyes roll around inside their sockets. You can't do dickall about it as well because they're so sincere in their ways that you can't do anything but write a blog post about it days later. Dear Sassquatch, here's what I think: You're 8, plain and simple. You don't know how to interact with adults so everything you say rolls up an incline of cheap sarcasm and highly visible self-doubt. All 8 year-olds ever do is ask for shit, so whenever you open your sassy little cake-hole it ends up being a question not only in the literal sense, but also a question of your role in society, of which there isn't one. You got me as well. I walked in expecting the same level of professionalism that I usually receive when I go to Cantina, but you falcon punched those expectations with such precision and experience that all I could do was nod my head in defeat and walk to the outside table. However, what I really wanted to do after our little exchange was suplex you over the counter and into the nearest lava pit.

Lucky you're 8 though, you fucking dropkick.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Kronic: Alternative or Replacement?

As I sit here completely immersed in this man made tapestry of equal parts bake and tuna; attentively reveling in it's thrifty wholesomeness and blatant holiness, a philosophical process of considerably larger implications fills my cerebral passages the way a rushing flood would a highly populated metropolis.
If I wasn't so monumentally high right now, would this tuna bake be just as tasty?

In short, no, definitely not, that's ridiculous.

At length, no, that really is ridiculous. Let me break it down for you in the easiest way possible because it's the only method I know of. Getting high is heaps of fun, it's so much fun that I can't even remember. When you're high everything is great and everything becomes hilarious, even cats and some people as well. Take this example on for size, say you have to go to a movie or something boring and annoying like that and you have to sit there and watch the whole thing without being high. I know right? That'd be the complete worst. That's why getting high is so great, the evidence is undeniable, don't look it up. "But, guy whose blog I'm reading right now, how can you be high at this point in time when when the purchasing of Marijuana and other hallucinogens is a criminal offense punishable by nothing or sometimes a lecture?", I hear you collectively query.

Two words, Kronic. Read em' and weep.

This one day my buddy Scott was all "man, so, this guy just gave me this crazy pot, except for that it's not pot". I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about and wanted to get it out of him so I asked him what he was talking about and he said those same two words, "it's called Kronic, and it made me stay on my couch for aaaaages". I was blown away and glad that he'd finally told me. But I didn't really believe him at the start. No one gives away anything ever. The only things I get asked when I'm walking around is to fill out a god damn petition or to pay for some guy to practice his guitaring in the middle of the street. Practice at home man, you're pretty bad at guitaring.

So I slept on it and had totally forgotten about it all day and then that night my other buddy Charlie was saying 'gamechanger' heaps. I've always liked the term 'gamechanger', it sounds like something with the capabilities of changing whichever game it is a derivative of, like an outside influence that rides in on a motorbike and says "fuck this, I'm changing all this bullshit in here" and the other components and regulations just sit there in awe of his sweet steed and his suave, yet completely commanding demeanor. I weasled my way into the conversation by not listening as much to the conversation I was currently engaged in. People do it to me all the time, call the wahmbulance if you like but it's true. He was talking about this crazy synthetic marijuana that gave him what-for's the night prior (I'm not 100% if it was the night prior or a couple of nights before, I'm just going by what I could hear ok). I interrupted everyone and started asking him all these questions about it and he was just throwing convincing statements back like "man, it's the greatest thing ever" and "this shit is changing the game, it's a gamechanger". What was this crazy ganja everyone was talking about all of a sudden and why wasn't everyone around me smoking it already if it was as capable of changing the game as Charlie had professed not five minutes ago?

By now I was more hyped on Kronic than anyone I had ever met. I told everyone about it, I told everyone how intriguing it all was and how it's legal and how we should all just go get some already. I have a few friends that like getting high, I refer to them as my 'other friends', it's like a code so when I'm hanging out with my healthy friends and they ask me to hang out for longer I can just say "sorry, I have to go and see my....stoner friends". They never suspect anything and the friendships last a lifetime. One of my 'stoner' friends (who shall remain nameless on account of my healthy friends might be reading this) called me up the next morning and was all ".......maaaaannnnnn". That was all he said! He sounded like a combination of comatose and going down a waterslide. I called him back to make sure his phone didn't cut out the first time and then he answers and is all ".........maaaaannnnnn!", a little more enthusiastic than the first time, like a slightly faster waterslide maybe? I caught on and cleverly responded, 'Kronic?' and he replied ".......yep" and then started laughing so hard the little speaker sprung out of my phone and hit my earlobe so I said bye and hung up.

I was pretty jealous but luckily an hour prior I'd already gone and got some! It took me and my gf so long to find it, about 45 minutes in total including having lunch in between. We went to __________ in the city and they were completely sold out! Can you believe that? Joynt Venture sold out of synthetic weed? I almost fell down the stairs in shock but when we safely got to the bottom I mentioned that my other friend who called me up before and laughed said he got it from some sex shop somewhere. It didn't sound sketchy at all so we drove to the nearest sex shop and opened the door because the air conditioning was on/the owner was beating it behind the counter. I was already pretty goddamn unhappy about being in there all it was was a shitload of scat magazines and second hand vibrators. They were cheaper because they'd been used already and in a little wicker basket by the blow-up domination cradles. The place was gross! My embarrassment subsided a little when I saw the Kronic packages clearly advertised on the counter so I didn't have to awkwardly ask him about it. I'd already walked out of one shop because I didn't want to ask and the second shop I asked, you should have seen the girl's face when I asked HER about it. It was like it was a pandemic or something, she just went all blank and said "....Kronic?.....Yeah....Sure.....We've got it......Just let me grab it out of this invisible box and I'll put it through on my invisible till for you.......*cackle*", so you could imagine my relief when old man scat revealed the last two grams of it in a modestly decorated point of sale box. Even though I wanted to jet, my curiosity got the best of me and I started asking him all these questions about it. He'd printed out a sales report instead of the receipt for the gram so while he was panicking and trying to jam it back in he told me it was a 'gamechanger'. Well ok, he didn't necessarily say gamechanger but you could tell he wanted to. He said he used to smoke 20 ounces a day out at this hippie commune where they grow the real shit and he had a little bit of this stuff and within about three minutes he found himself mathematically analyzing the distance between his outside couch and his inside one and whether or not he was of the physical capacity to transport his person from one to the other. It was hilarious but I was bored and wanted to go so we went.

So we got home and everyone was sitting around bored out of their brains and I waltz in with this shit and needless to say everyone was still pretty bored but slightly intrigued as well. Me and my gf had the first ones (cones) and then my housemates wanted to be a part of history in the making so of course they had some as well. It was like smoking Wanneroo Markets and it's scent was mosquito coils and late December. Super smooth but not so smooth that you don't forget what you're doing and start doing other shit like washing or going to work. It kicked in pretty much straight away and we all collectively agreed that this shit was the shit, bitch. It was pretty crazy that 20 minutes ago I was in a sex shop surrounded by vaginas and butts and now I was eating heaps of corn chips and telling everyone about Kronic and the chronological variables responsible for our current situation in detail so explicit that it would be refused classification in Australia. It was funny and serious at the same time.

Then out of nowhere, I had a huge epiphany. I was like "imagine if this is a government sanctioned substance manufactured to put drug dealers out of commission?". I normally hate it when people that are high get all political but I thought I was definitely onto something. Everyone agreed with me and looking back it was a really great epiphany that got everyone involved. I think someone even came up to me afterwards and said "great epiphany just before". It was awkward and reasonable at the same time. The wastedness lasted about 45 minutes and the after-effect was less Mary Jane shipwreck and more smooth 747 landing. I didn't feel groggy or spaced out afterwards and even wanted to play basketball straight after. I didn't though, I just got high again and watched the X Files.

What was the question again? Oh right, the tuna bake. There is no way tuna bake could possibly taste better than it does when you've smoked Kronic. Every bite becomes a pleasant surprise as you constantly forget what it was that you were eating because you get sidetracked by a leaf or someone else asking for a taste of your pasta bake. I might even go ahead and say that Kronic makes life taste better. That's actually a pretty good slogan for Kronic, it makes your life taste better *jingle*. I haven't even tried the other flavours/strengths yet but I know what I'm getting for my birthday and Christmas now.

Kronic if you didn't already guess.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

I don't even.

It's no secret that commercial radio has become nothing more than an audible cesspool of disposable/recycled compositions and poorly executed attempts at merging genres that are singularly repulsive and even worse when combined. No one can sing, no one can dance and everybody loves it. I hate it. Every time I try and let commercial radio explain itself through controlled listening sessions I find myself asking questions like 'why?' and 'I wonder how my ears would look underneath the tyre of that poorly decorated Hummer?'. I'll tell you how they would look, they would look better than commercial radio sounds and I would benefit hugely from the situation through never having to listen to Ke$ha or the Black Eyed Cunts on account of my ears being underneath the tyre of a poorly decorated Hummer. How did my ears get under the tyre? I cut them off when Casey Donovan asked me to Listen with My Heart. Not possible Casey, I looked it up.

When the music stops the hosts pipe up and that's when things turn really ugly (for them, because they are). They shouldn't even be called hosts. By definition a host is someone who accommodates and acknowledges another party's presence through manners and an extension of generosity. Hosts go above and beyond the Call of Duty to ensure the comfort of whoever it is they are hosting. Radio hosts go above and beyond the Call of Annoying. They sarcastically make light of national disasters and the struggles of others and punctuate their shortcomings with signature cackles and camp sound effects designed to bury into and embed themselves in your self-conscience like some kind of tumor that doesn't actually kill you, but instead turns you into one of those people that discreetly puts John Butler Trio on when everyone's hungover as fuck and lightly breaches a topic or keyword that relates to something zany they did so everyone suddenly remembers that you did something zany. You're not zany, you listen to John Butler Trio. You're grounded.

What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, this:

This is exactly what I'm talking about. This is the kind of shit you rub that little red Nova 93.7 character's face in and scream "LOOK WHAT YOU DID! SEE WHAT HAPPENS YOU LITTLE SHIT? LOOK! THAT'S A BAD NOVA! VERY NAUGHTY NOVA!".

So, VEE4Vanessa. You want to make it in the music biz? You want to capture the hearts and imaginations of the working public and give them something to escape to once they've relieved themselves of the shackles and hurdles that plague their work-a-day lives?


I think it's great that Vanessa let her friend with Parkinson's film and possibly edit the clip for her, even though she knew it would result in a shaky, epilepsy-inducing clusterfuck of, well, Vanessa and, hmm, what exactly in Blake's name is going on in this clip?

As I was bludgeoned with the above imagery my theories concerning it's meaning and message became a giant knot of contradiction and self doubt, I'm normally really good at pigeonholing stuff like this is. Then I thought to myself 'maybe, just maybe if I turn the volume up a little bit and listen to some of the lyrics I'll be able to make sense of this stunning visual production. Here are some quotables:

'Summer is here, get into gear'.

Summer has come so fast, now let's go boom boom have a blast.

Bam bam, boom boom all at the beach.

You have the little prancy girls, who sit on the shores, they spy on the boys, the boys with the boards, you have the boys who want to play, with the girls in bikinis on a hot summer's day.

'Turn it up up, become a beach bum.

'In contrast to this, the emos sittin' on the shore all day, teasing their hair and slicing away'.

'Creepy guys with their cameras on, sand in their speedos, oh so wrong'.

'Let's party party party party'.

'Let's go go go go'.

Of all the seasons, summer is best, hot weather, hot times, hot fashion dress.

seinfeld gif Pictures, Images and Photos

The most telling sign of the disintegration of Australian entertainment values is that Vanessa and her gaggle of sun-damaged buttkissers are destined to achieve the F-Grade fame they have so desperately appealed for with this project and they'll be hailed as hero's for having a go. Watch as this video goes viral to the point where she's convinced to produce another track, Channel 10 hits her up for a reality television series, Seafolly hits her up for their next 'hot fashion dress' bikini line and Brendon Fevola just straight hits her up.

"But blog guy, how can you project such specific occurrences?" I hear you collectively shout. Don't take my word for it! One only needs to quickly scan the hundreds of brutally honest youtube testimonials to see exactly where Vanessa's star is headed:

Vote for Vanessa's song at Triple J's Unearthed page and support local music. Then, go and drink bleach.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Bulletstorm will kidnap your firstborn.

I’m exactly one minute in to the Bulletstorm demo, I haven’t even taken control of my character, but have already come to master an entire volume of new curse words; Butterdick, dick-tits, fuck-ton, poop-passage, bean-bag and spud to name a few. Unlike a-lot of other demos I've played recently, instead of appealing to the potential customer with promises of innovative gameplay, futuristic weapons and vast environments, Bulletstorm whips open it’s trench-coat to reveal a vulgar, violent and vilifying sample of it’s complete form.

Not since Conker’s Bad Fur Day on the Nintendo 64 has a game succeeded in lassoing my flighty attention span with explicit language and violence in such perfect doses. From the moment you fill the boots of the protagonist (a textbook disgruntled marine by the name of Grayson) it becomes quite clear that Bulletstorm knows it’s place as a tongue-in-cheek, almost satirical, romp through an unknown landscape loosely tied together by a plot that makes Starship Troopers look like a touching glimpse into young love and the prospective benefits of life on other planets. Seriously, I’ve played through the demo 8 times now and all I’ve gathered is that Grayson is PISSED and therefore his comrades are also pissed by association. I think they’re after someone, or they’re trying to save something, but it’s hard to focus on such minutiae when you’re leashing intergalactic mohawked tribesman, launching them into the skies above and blowing their groins out in slow motion with a gun that looks like a car engine. Mind you, these are only impressions gathered from the opening cut-scene, the demo itself is set in a game mode separate from the actual campaign so I'm sure to have my face rocked even harder when the full story is revealed.

The points-based battle system is a much-needed return to the days of yonder when, you know, games were based on accumulating points as opposed to sitting through weeks of cut-scenes, and as those +100’s, +250’s and kill variations filled the screen I couldn’t help but be reminded of the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment that sparked my love for video games all those years ago. The action is frantic but never overwhelming, a formula assisted by the exotic weaponry at my disposal which ensured that at the most hectic of times I felt like I had full control over the situation and that progress was only a few headshots around the corner. It felt like Bulletstorm wanted me to experience it's charm without convincing me to tear shreds from my controller with my teeth; this is how I feel all First Person Shooters should present themselves. If I wanted to solve puzzles and become enveloped in the pasts, presents, and futures of intricate characters and be blown away by shocking plot twists, I’d go get a rubik’s cube and watch Twin Peaks.

After spending only a short time with the unfortunately brief demo, I foresee Bulletstorm enjoying a cult status shared by the likes of MDK and XIII, two massively under-appreciated shooters whose success was hampered by poor sales and snobby critics who just didn’t get it. As stated prior, Bulletstorm knows exactly what it’s meant to do and who it’s meant to appeal to. I can not fu**ing wait for this game to come out next month and in the meantime I’ll no doubt be filling my time by mastering the demo and referring to my close friends as butterdicks, dick-tits, bean bags and spuds.