WackSauce

Dropping the SOPA

2012-01-18T21:10:00.000-08:00

Imagine if you walked into a music shop to get hot new dance compilations and amongst all the racks of price tagged and security coded products there was a little section down the back with a sign displaying 'free music in here, no questions asked!'. Would you excuse yourself from the burden of guilt and moral standard to grab as many dance compilations as your heart desired? Or would you take the moral high ground and legally purchase the product for the benefit of the industry and the (already loaded) artists who selflessly toiled (paid ghostwriters and engineers) day & night to create (recycle) their art?

It doesn't matter, the SOPA movement is already waiting outside the establishment with a sack full of explosives and the blessings of the US government, kind of like Iraq or Afghanistan, but with dance compilations. Your ability to evaluate risk and reaction is now irrelevant, you are no longer burdened by the concept of choice and the powers that be have their fingers firmly placed inside you. Whether or not you were there to steal the readily available free music or just wanted to innocently browse the dance compilations, the music store is now a smouldering block of contradiction and Morrissey posters because a bunch of suits and caught a particularly contagious case of sandyvagina nervosa over the fact that the free music was there in the first place, EVEN IF THAT FREE MUSIC WAS MADE AVAILABLE BY A THIRD PARTY (user: freEdAnCeMusiC1987) OR OFFERED BY A PARTY THAT SHARES NO AFFILIATION WITH THE SHOP IN QUESTION. That shop should've known better, that shop should been rigorously policing the intent of these third parties to make sure the artists didn't lose out on any profits so they can attend their gold plated rehabilitation clinics and pay off gossip magazines to 'spy' on their 'secret' weddings.

I'm neither surprised by nor interested in the motives of the US government regarding this proposed bill. Governments by definition are shady, self-contradicting and immensely powerful clubhouses whose primary purposes range from running entire countries to covering up or awkwardly justifying the fact that their very existence is abrasive to the concept of governing and running entire countries. Blah blah blah rage against the machine. What I am confused by is the method of protest by the sites that these bills will immediately effect and even the ones that they might not. Again, these sites don't even have to be aware of the fact that piracy is occurring within it's darkest reaches to be shut down, hence the panicky nature of the blackouts. It's like a chandelier store in Pakistan shutting it's doors because they were thinking about banning the sale of light bulbs in Australia.

Wikipedia was the first site of note to announce it's protest, imposing a 24 hour blackout that would deny it's millions of daily users access to it's plethora of (mostly accurate) information, implying that those responsible for imposing the bill rely on it or wouldn't be able to access it's pages externally. Google, Reddit, Twitter and millions of previously irrelevant blogs and forums have since advertised their support, being sure to provide links with their arguments should anyone feel the need to visit their site before they close it down. Blackout page views are still page views it would seem....

So the U.S government are attempting to outlaw web-based sources of information due to increased piracy and for the protection of intellectual property by threatening to eradicate these sources of information with no warning. Aka, pretending to look busy. So what do these sources of information do out of protest? They eradicate themselves from the web. Ace! That's like giving everyone a preview of what the internet would be like withou.........wait a minute! By blocking information from the general public you're also giving the government a preview of what the world would be like without readily accessible information! It all makes sense! Students, confused parents, the elderly, the sick and the unintelligent can now all join in the good fight by knowing fuck all and being denied of their usual sources of information and/or entertainment.

Whether or not this remarkably backward approach to protest has made or will make a difference to SOPA's progress will remain undetermined until the bill is actually passed or passed and then slightly altered or not passed at all. Until then the sites in question will no doubt continue doing the government's job for them and then no doubt claim it was their actions that prevented the bill from coming to fruition and not the actions of the millions that are actively protesting it through the normal channels, like sending letters, signing petitions and occupying landmark financial districts for days on end whilst getting tear gassed and arrested for their contributions.

Thankfully I'm here. In light of the blackouts and the large percentage of Earth's population that rely on the ctrl+c and ctrl+v functions of their keyboards for assignments and plagiarized intellectual property, I've gone to the liberty of providing several proven alternatives to help you brave the shitstorm that is currently the internet:

1. Google.com

The most popular search engine known to man and the Internet's shining beacon of knowledge and the subsequent power that comes from it. Type your query into the magic box and watch as Google's all-knowingness floods your cerebral core with the answers to the questions that matter, questions like 'what are sea monkeys?', 'how big are double beds?' and 'why is my poop green?' to name a few.

2. Dogpile.com

Absolutely pathetic excuse for a search engine that was relevant for about five minutes back in 1998. You won't find what you're looking for, but you can sure as hell still access the site.

3. Public Libraries.

If you were born before 1991 you probably remember what these things are, but you probably haven't been to one for a while because you have an internet connection and a username for ebookdirectory.com

If you were born after 1991, imagine tumblr, only the content and information has been composed and researched by actual people as opposed to copied and pasted by millions of template tattooed post-goth, pre-hardcore teenage girls with bleached hair. It's knowledge without the irony, and you can hold it in your hand.

4. Sports

If ESPN's brilliantly directed 30 for 30 series has taught me anything, it's that sport has either influenced or extinguished some of the most important political events in history. You don't even have to participate in sports to learn from it, which is perfect if you happen to be a template tattooed post-goth, pre-hardcore teenage girl with bleached hair.

5. This blog.
I only post original content that is relevant to my interests and I'm allergic to sharing and reblogs. The fact that you're sitting here reading this means that we share the same interests so let's learn together for pete's sake!

For more information on the SOPA bill and it's effect on your knowledge and power, be sure to check out the Wikipedia page, it's easy to find on account of it being the only Wikipedia page that is excused from the protest.

Things I wrote but forgot to submit: Part 1

2011-12-19T21:09:00.000-08:00

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.....

2011-12-19T00:31:00.000-08:00

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.

I got sassed

2011-04-17T21:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Kronic: Alternative or Replacement?

2011-04-04T11:11:00.000-07:00

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.

I don't even.

2011-02-09T20:11:00.000-08:00

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?

LIAR! YOU WANT TO CASH IN ON EXACTLY WHAT I'M HARPING ON ABOUT IN THE FIRST PARAGRAPH AND BECOME RICH ENOUGH TO COMFORTABLY LIVE THE LIFE YOU CONVEY IN YOUR VIDEO OH WAIT YOU ACTUALLY DO LIVE THAT LIFE I'M SO SORRY I HAD NO IDEA HOPE THINGS PICK UP FOR YOU.

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.

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.

Bulletstorm will kidnap your firstborn.

2011-01-25T22:47:00.000-08:00

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.

Dick-tits.

Most hated skateboarders of all time in no particular order

2010-12-09T19:57:00.000-08:00

As the collective battlecries and the slapping of ply's filled the skatepark and it's immediate surroundings, little Billy rolled away from his 7 stair f/s salad grind as if he'd just delivered his first born child. His friends were equally stoked and Billy was excited at the thought of leaving the park with a new hammer under his belt and the right he'd earnt to claim the execution of aforementioned salad's to anyone that came within his radius the following week.

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!

Jereme Rogers
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.

Mike Vallely
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.

Rob Dyrdek
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.

Andy Mac
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
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.

Josh Kasper
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.

Dave Mayhew
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.

Chad Fernandez
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.

Ryan Sheckler
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.

Rodney Mullen
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
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.

Shaun White
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?

Bam Margera
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!!

The Antwuan Scenario.

2010-11-16T21:54:00.000-08:00

For those of you not up to the ever-increasing speed at which skateboarding gossip travels, over the last few months the guys at Epicly Later'd have been shining their soul-exposing spotlights and lenses on skateboarding's very own Bobby Brown, a young man by the name of Antwuan Dixon. Ever since his debut part in Baker Skateboards' 2005 full-length visual obligation Baker 3, I've been an avid follower and awe-struck supporter of Antwuan's ridiculous ability as a skateboarder and the breath of fresh hood air he brought to an otherwise stinky, hessian landscape. When all hope was almost lost and all my friends started wearing corduroy nut-huggers and fitted American Apparel t-shirts, Antwuan came along and made skateboarding hip-hop again and I couldn't have been more thankful.

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.

1/4

2/4

3/4

4/4

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.

God Speed.

BRB

2010-08-22T05:27:00.000-07:00

Dear 38 39 Followers and lost Google searchers,

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.

Never been chipped.

2010-08-15T20:00:00.000-07:00

As this once biblical blogspot flaps about on the html soaked decking of the HMAS GOOGLE, I figured that instead of trying to save it I'd go out with a bang in the form of a blockbuster yarn about the first time I busted someone's block. As none of you probably know, I was in England for a few weeks recently for a well-deserved holiday from all the hard work I do contributing to my community and my tireless efforts as a great guy. It was an eye-opening experience and far from the usual hostel-to-hostel "let's tour London!" fare that the general public would generally experience due to the fact that I know people who know people and these people had obviously been made privy to how much of a great guy I am prior to my arrival.

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.

Perth Supanova 2010 to infinity.

2010-06-27T19:20:00.000-07:00

"Saturday. Sci fi convention."

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.

Mein skabf.

2010-06-20T18:44:00.000-07:00

First 30 seconds of the first game, the rock is dished out to a wild-card point guard and I'm faced with the menial task of keeping him and the ball on the outskirts of our heavily guarded tarmac real estate. I'd been watching him warm-up. He was small, wearing a beanie cap and Asian. Anyone that has ever played basketball knows that small Asian players are extremely diligent when it comes to on-court intimidation techniques. Crossovers, pump fakes and spins are used in excess as a means of lulling their defense into a false sense of athletic inability so they can safely drive, only to get swatted or pass the ball to a more vertically-abled player.

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.

One tagline.

2010-06-16T21:50:00.000-07:00

Well, everything seems to be in order here. It's not an album cover, which isn't surprising since 50 cent the rapper no longer exists and Curtis Jackson the IMDB accredited has taken his place. He's pulling his 'grey steel' face, an oral contortion that has become synonymous with the 50 Cent brand and he's within close proximity to splatters of blood, which is another recurring theme for anything associated with his image. Upon first glance, one would be forgiven for reaching the conclusion that a healthy level of ignorance has been maintained on this advertisement and 50's position as a certified gangster has once again been solidified.

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.

Chokito says bro bro bro.

2010-06-07T21:37:00.001-07:00

I've always liked Chokito brand chocolate bars, i've never had a bad one. They're like the more attractive but still ugly as sin second-cousin of the unsightly Picnic brand chocolate bar, which i also like. Plus, they're pretty underground as well. Sometimes when i eat Chokitos my friends are like "WTF are you eating man?" and i'm all "duh, it's a chokito" and then they have a bite and they're like "cool :)". They actually smile after tasting it, Chokitos are just that good. However, i never see them eating them again after that. Whenever we're in the chocolate isle at the supermarket or the milk bar they always grab something lame and mainstream like MARS or Summer Roll. Who eats a Summer Roll in 2010? Oh that's right, retired dairy farmers and pregnant women.

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.

C@ts.

2010-06-03T18:51:00.000-07:00

Sony, the internationally admired technology powerhouse and manufacturer of all things handy (aside from the PS3) have just announced their latest time-wasting innovation, Cat@Log. Essentially Twtter for cats, Cat@Log simultaneously keeps you informed of your cats every move and infuriates me to the point of no return.

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.
* Nausea.

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?

Pencil Case.

2010-06-02T18:26:00.000-07:00

Fired for being too hot.

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.

Dictionary.com states:

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.

Urbandictionary.com states:

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!"

HOT UPDATE!
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!

Click clack get your hair trimmed back.

2010-05-18T19:13:00.000-07:00

Hair cuts. You all get hair cuts don't you? I used to hate them when I was younger. Getting dragged to some small room full of mirrors in the middle of a shopping mall while some girl (gross) touches your head with her long nails and sprays water in your face with no intention of apologizing or telling you to move your face out of the way. I was a crazy fidget when i was younger as well. If i sat down for longer than 30 seconds i'd start sweating and panicking because i always thought i'd miss out on whatever was going on wherever i wasn't sitting. That was my biggest fear as a child, being stationary. That, and Tori Amos. This one time, i was getting my hair cut and that Tori Amos song 'Professional Widow' came on the little radio by the hair gel display and i started physically crying. So, not only was i stationary, but Tori Amos was in the building as well. It was the most traumatizing 4 minutes and 31 seconds of my life and every time i hear that song now i get slow motion flashbacks of hair falling to the ground and red-headed girls submerged in bathtubs with their eyes open.

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

Bang.

Team Sports.

2010-05-17T23:52:00.000-07:00

As soon as i walked onto the train i knew it was all on. Senior citizens, babies, women, adults, children, the disabled, bikies and businessmen, all garnished from head to toe in 2010 Dockers paraphernalia talking about how awesome the Dockers are because of how well they're doing this year compared to how they were going last year and whether or not it will affect the franchise next year and the performance of any rival franchises with which they have no association with on account of them being rival franchises. It was so enthralling that i put my headphones in and dragged the volume knob to an intangible level through fear of becoming overstimulated by the epic conversations i was surrounded by.

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!

Pretentious Dining Guide 2: A big night in with Alex and Trish.

2010-05-13T20:13:00.000-07:00

Dish: Continental Cup-a-soup's exciting new flavour: Chilli con Carne.

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!

Whimsical!

*If any of you funky readers would like your restaurant or dishes judged, drop us a line at pigeonencroute@hotmail.com!

Fisherman's friend.

2010-04-28T18:36:00.000-07:00

I've never been to a rave before. There's something about the tempo of the music combined with the tempo of the transformer pants everyone wears that has never really meshed with my current lifestyle choices, which currently don't include trance-nation-climax and deceptecon overalls. Everything is really fast and turbo and i just imagine heaps of sweat flying around and people latching on to each-other and dancing like it's the last night in the history of the world even though they clearly know it's only another four hours before they'll all be together again outside Central Park maccas, practising their shuffling and bumming cigarettes. I don't have anything against it personally, i'm just glad they're all babies and don't enforce their culture too relentlessly unlike some other sub-genres of dance (goth, christianity). Plus, their pants are actually pretty cool in a creepy, steampunk, i-wish-i-was-Neo-from-the-matrix-oh-thats-right-i-already-am context.

Obviously you could imagine my excitement the other night when seemingly out of nowhere, but actually right in front of me, i was approached by an old friend with whom i used to party down at my local watering hole that i never go to. The topic? Hot action sweet rave parties. The subject matter? Me. The verdict? Why not. I figured it was early enough in the night to experiment with new things, but still have that chronological safety blanket should i feel the need to leave early and get a good night's sleep. Before we'd even entered the party an unimpressed patron was making an early exit due to an apparent "lack of bitches". We casually countered his statement with "perhaps you weren't raving hard enough?" The proposal appeared to strike him harder than expected and in that instance he realised he probably could have raved a little bit harder and continued on his journey shaking his head with his glowstick between his legs. The lesson was punctuated by the omnipresent squeals of the abundant bitches as we arrived.

As opposed to most parties, where it's considered tradition to stand around drinking and discussing subjects you wouldn't dare breach during sobriety, the rave party follows a strikingly different itinerary. People were standing around drinking and discussing subjects they wouldn't dare breach during sobriety, only they were doing it whilst clad head to toe in glow sticks. It was a confronting and appealing image and i soon learned that it was commonplace at a rave party for the guests to drape themselves in sticks of the luminescent nature and/or air-conditioning ducts. I put this down to the fact that the party wasn't very well lit and the glowsticks help everyone recognise each-other for ease of introduction and conversational initiation. I immediately thought of how awkward it would be if someone wasn't wearing glowsticks and you started talking to them only to find you don't even know them!

I saw some people i knew and addressed them with (what i thought was) the obligatory rave greeting. "Sweet rave" i announced. "Yeah, real hot rave" they all replied. I was in. We stood around awkwardly for a few seconds when one of them asked me "have you been to the rave cave yet?". I assumed they were talking about a new rave bar that had opened up in the greater Northbridge/Highgate area and replied "Nah, i haven't been there yet. Where abouts is it?". They looked at me, perplexed by my actions yet somewhat intrigued by my ignorance. One of them had been waving their arms around in the air throughout the whole conversation and suddenly stopped to proclaim the rave cave as "only the hottest, sweetest cave at the whole party". I felt bad for not knowing about this cave by default and immediately scanned the expansive backyard for any cave like rooms i may have missed when i first entered. After a solid 345 degree rotation i noticed a brightly lit shed, shooting out what appeared to be lazers coupled with people letting all their inhibitions go in the name of upper body movement. The group i'd arrived with had dispersed for the time being and i carried on conversation with the group i was currently conversing with, not once letting this 'cave of raves' leave my sight. I had to find out what it was about this seemingly normal shed that had all these people in such a rhythmic, almost cult-like trance.

I regrouped with my clan not long after and we were just maxed out having this totally chilled out conversation when one of our other friends approached us in a totally un-relaxed manner. He was really pumped and paying heaps of attention to us while we spoke but every time we looked to him for contributions he'd be looking somewhere else. He was moving around heaps and his pupils were about 80% bigger than when i'd seen him earlier on but he didn't really seem to mind that much. He was just that pumped! The he started talking about the rave cave and how it's pretty much the best place in the world right now and that we were all pansies for not being in there and this one time when he was really young he went swimming in this lake on a camping trip and he got bitten by what felt like a piranha but not quite and he swam back to the shore and it was the single most enlightening experience he'd ever had and he'd never forget it ever again and we were the only people he'd told and not to tell anyone else. It seemed as though our inevitable encounter with the rave cave was now more inevitable than ever. We all took one last sip of our respective beverages, gathered as many glowsticks as we could and started our journey to the point of no return, which was the shed in the corner of the backyard.

The rave cave was sweeter than expected. There were lazers everywhere, there was smoke coming out of nowhere like there'd just been some totally hot explosions and the music tempo was too fast for me to enjoy but too slow to be lame. It was like walking into a techno version of the final housing estate scene from 'Children of Men', except instead of everybody getting shot and maimed, they're all just embracing the music and expressing their friendship. As expected, our friend that was more pumped than anyone was enjoying himself more than everyone and there was even a point during the rave where we made a coat of arms with the glowsticks and he flipped out on the ground below us for what seemed like about 80 seconds. It was one of the most explosive displays of movement and music appreciation i have ever seen and everybody else at the rave just stood there in awe for what seemed like about 80 seconds, absolutely devastated they hadn't performed a similar ritual but totally appreciative that someone else had done so. Inside the rave cave it wasn't rare for random partygoers to loudly proclaim their love for the song that was playing at that point in time and it seemed as though this announcement was like a mating call for any other ravers that felt the same way, a mating call to make love to the music, if you will. It was the hottest, sweetest, most explosive five minutes of my life and if someone asked me to trade it for anything in the world i'd think really hard about it for a few minutes and then decline.

I was just that pumped.

Update: It has been recently brought to my attention that the above rave was brought to you by Soul NRG, which is a subsidiary of the conglomerate. Not sure what to do with that industrial sized drum of glowsticks you ordered before last New Years Eve? Out of touch with the burgeoning Perth fixed gear scene? Check their blog at www.kasiconcepts.blogspot.com

Sam Worthington is versatile.

2010-04-11T23:48:00.000-07:00

I saw Clash of the Titans last week and was completely blown away by how i wasn't blown away by it. Months before the release i was promised a quality film by the life-size cutouts of Sam Worthington screaming at a freshly slain Medusa head atop a mountain in the rain. There was no explanation as to why he was screaming at her, i assumed that it was tradition back then or maybe that they'd had an argument on the way to the mountain and Sam Worthington was like "if you don't stop hissing at me you're going to have another date with my right hand and some sideways rain/lightning and i know how much you hate that" and she just kept hissing at him and taunting him about how he can't play any roles outside of the surly, screaming action hero that spends most of his role in the air with a weapon aimed at the camera from the perspective of whatever it is he is slaying at the time. That's why i wanted to see the movie, i needed these questions answered and i also wanted to see a big screen adaptation of the most feared creature in Greek Mythology, the Kraken. I hadn't seen a Kraken in real life yet and i figured with all the technological advancements modern man has commandeered, ('Real-d' or 3-d to those that don't work in the industry) it would be pretty close to seeing one in real life, which i haven't seen yet.

Newsflash: Don't see this movie in Real-D.

Real-D by definition is a projection of imagery from a flat surface that gives said image dimension. That's probably not the real definition but it's my blog which by definition means i can do what i want. Real-D has worked wonders for recent computer generated outings like 'Up', 'Bolt' and the new Toy Story which, much like the Kraken, i haven't seen yet. However, human actors were never meant to undergo the Real-D makeover. Every time one of the actors moved, you'd be given first class tickets to millions of layers of that actor behind them which resulted in headaches and regret in that order. You'd think a million Liam Neeson's could save any film but this is not the case when he has to battle with a million Luke Treadaway's. I decided to be a smart ass and take my glasses off. This resulted in two outcomes:

1. I got to see how stupid everyone looked with their glasses on.
2. More headaches.

I didn't pay for this. Literally, someone else actually paid for the ticket and i was dangerously close to asking them if i could rain-check their free ticket for the next movie we go to, effectively doubling their expenses and leaving me at an even zero dollars outgoing. I figured we were past the halfway mark and this would be a pretty unfair request even by my standards so i bit my tongue on a rogue portion of popcorn, which took my mind off asking for another ticket. From what i'd gathered up to this stage, Sam Worthington is pissed at Hades because Hades accidentally killed his family. Hades is pissed at Zeus because Zeus made him ruler of the underworld which is like getting stuck with Old Kent Road on Monopoly, no matter how many hotels you throw at it, it's never going to make you any real money. Zeus is pissed at Hades because Hades is pissed at Zeus and then there's a scene with these massive scorpions and some asshole tries to kill Sam Worthington, the asshole later turns out to be his dad. This review may contain spoilers.

The scorpion scene was pretty cool for the most part, however, the battle went on for so long that i started wondering whatever happened to stinkbugs. Remember those smelly little insects with the shields on their back and the shields had symmetrical tribal patterns on them? They smelt like a combination of licorice and vomit and i haven't seen one for about 15 years. After the stinkbug scene Sam Worthington and his homies have to go and kill Medusa because she's so ugly that she has to live in a cave and hasn't been laid for god knows how long. Apparently she used to pump heaps of guys but Athena got crazy jealous and turned her hair into snakes. The movie taught me heaps about Greek Mythology.

Sam Worthington is from Rockingham. He has an Australian accent that he couldn't seem to shake for this movie or Avatar. It wasn't too bad because he only had about eight lines of dialogue but when they were about to go into Medusa's cave he heartily announced that none of his comrades should "look this bitch in the eye". It was the most Australian thing i'd ever heard. He may or may not have said 'mate' afterwards. It was definitely a high point for me and got me wondering if there was any Australian heritage in Ancient Greece that would justify his accent. As far as i can remember, Australia wasn't even around during these times, nor was the barbecue, it's accompanying shrimps, the Collingwood Magpies or the famous Australian made 'Fuck off we're full' stickers. I pictured one of the stickers on the back of Sam Worthinton's pegasus and these guys getting offended.

After the Medusa encounter Sam and his remaining posse go back to their home town, only to find that it's getting it's shit ruined by the film's crown jewel, the Kraken. The Kraken is a mythological octopus summoned by Hades himself and could probably benchpress more than most. I was like, "this is it, epic full profile shots of the Kraken in all it's glory". Throughout the movie any mention of the Kraken was met with epic orchestral background music and a sense of apocalyptic catastrophe should it ever decide to leave it's volcanic stronghold. So during the final battle there's all these high speed pans of the Kraken and it's surrounding tentacles and it was pretty well animated and all that but not once did i get a full profile of it. Why do movies always do that? You've got these awesome beasts whose immense scale is hyped up throughout the entire movie and all you get is a bunch of close ups on it's mouth and dumb citizens running away from it when they know they should've not gone into the city that day or at least headed home when the colossal, destructive, end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it monster newsflash was broadcast.

I'm not going to say don't see Clash of the Titans, because you'll see it anyway. Do yourself a favour and don't watch it in Real-D though, it's the equivalent of sniffing petrol and trying to concentrate on a Dragon Ball Z fight scene.

Hamburger Hill.

2010-03-29T05:18:00.000-07:00

What has multiple levels, lots of fat and comes at a price? Society? The Woodside building in the city?

For those of you playing at home, both of the above answers would have sufficed if the correct answer wasn't actually Hamburgers. That's right, Hamburgers. Lip-splitting, heart-stopping, artery-clogging hamburgers. The multi-layered cop-out meal for all those times you were in the kitchen thinking "why did i start making this homoerotic casserole when i could be making a hamburger instead" and then you realise you can make a hamburger anyway because hamburgers are everything and they are nothing, all at once. This one time, i was totally starving and on a first date with about twenty models and they were anxiously starving as well. There was literally no food around aside from a half a jar of pitted olives, a box of mouldy vita-crisps and a left over bowl of frosties from the morning prior. Where other men would have curled up into a helpless ball of sobbing and celebasy, i rolled my sleeves up, pulled out the chopping board, got in the car and went and got some burgers. I never saw the models again and it was the coolest afternoon in recent memory.

But where does one go to acquire a burger should they feel the need to satisfy that little voice in the back of their mind that requests the acquisition of a burger? Sure, you could make one, but that would entail manual labour and going against the very essence of the hamburger. Why slave over a hot stove, sweating and burning yourself constantly just so you can eat something that is readily available at least once every five kilometres between your house and the nearest burger joint? Did you know that the latin translation of Hamburger is actually, 'eat, i am ready'? Didn't think so.

As of about a year ago, the only burgers i knew of were Zingers, Whoppers, Big Macs and Gummi. If i felt like a burger, i'd god damn well go and get myself one, always being sure to maintain a strict rotation of the above varieties to avoid any overlapping or digestive clashes. I knew nothing of these 'gourmet' burgers that are so prevalent in our city nowadays and the closest i'd ever been to a 'rocket' or 'tomato' was this one time when i ate a meat pie and watched Apollo 11. Now, you've got seeded buns and aioli at 'Bilby's', grilled chicken with avocado at 'Jus Burgers', pear and parmesan at 'Flipside', angus beef at 'McDonalds' and most recently, tzatziki and harissa at 'Grill'd', all of which i have tested in chronological order.

Speaking of chronological order:

1800's - European immigrants place meat patties between bread. They name them 'Hamburgers' as a play on words attaining to 'Hamburg', their place of origin and 'ers' because there was probably more than one of them. All significant world wars come to an end and Jesus Christ himself regrets not creating them on the 7th day.

2010 - Perth catches on after 200 years. More than 10,000 separate gourmet burger franchises open for business to give the impression that we always knew about them.

With Grill'd being the most recent entry in the race for burger supremacy, i figured i'd go and check them out on account of being hungry and Grill'd being within a 50 metre radius of my being at that point in time. I'm not joking when i say that my friends and complete strangers alike wouldn't stop getting in my face and telling me how good their burgers are, the aromatic wafts of their garlic lamb breath assaulting my senses as they did so. "They've got these buns, man!". "Holy shit, the meat is so succulent and delicious! It's like biting into a newborn calf!" Having become accustomed to such claims whenever a new burger spot opens up, i politely rolled my eyes and refused to pass judgement until i had tasted it for myself.

Upon entry to Grill'd, you can see they take their aesthetic very seriously. They've got tables, walls, a counter and a menu. Having ticked the necessites off the list i approached the counter, dodging a sea of ninjas that i later found to be nothing more than staff members dressed in the unique Grill'd garb; and by unique i mean they wore headbands and by garb i mean a trendy word for uniform. I was greeted by the head ninja at the till and instead of receiving a bow staff to the grill (unavoidable pun), i was politely greeted and asked which burger took my fancy. This being my virgin, make or break visit to Grill'd i ordered their workhorse burger, the aptly titled 'Simply Grill'd'. Beef, salad, relish, mayo, cheese. I asked if the burgers came with tomato inclusive of the salad and the head ninja replied "Yes", to which i responded, "can i have it without tomato please?".

If there's anything i hate more than tomato, it's tomato. Slippery, sour, stale, cretinous weed, ruining everything it comes to rest upon.

I was told my burger would be ready in ten minutes and i immediately felt sorry for whoever it was that had to spend such an unnecessary amount of time on something of such hasty foundations. I walked out for a sneaky cigarette, but not without noticing the uni students and in-vogue eaters who seemed more intent on being seen at Grill'd then actually stuffing their faces full of meat and bread. Eating burgers is the new black, i suddenly felt contemporary.

The burger itself was good without trying to be. I chose the Panini bread because i didn't want to look like a rookie, the decision paying off later as i bit through the sturdy roof crust and gentle insides. Once i'd breached the soft entrance, tender beef greeted me as if i'd been there before, lightly seasoned with highly visible herbs that assured me what i was eating didn't come from a plastic bag. The relish was tangy and fresh, the tomato chunks large and recognisable enough for me to discard without causing a scene. The serving size was absolutely perfect as well, i didn't feel sick like i thought i was meant to after consuming a burger, but i was full to the point where the pre-burger jitters i had were but a distant memory. At $10.90, i didn't feel ripped off, but i couldn't help but wonder how i would've felt if i got the burger for free. All in all, i didn't hate it, which is great because i try and hate new things whenever possible.

Don't take my word for it though! Here's a testimonial from someone who may or may not be a representative of the Grill'd conglomerate.

Me: First of all, what do you think of this gourmet burger fad sweeping our quiet town?

Anonymous: I can't complain, it pays my bills.

Me: I understand you've been employed by one of these burger spots recently?

Anonymous: I have, although i find the workload given to me is far too heavy.

Me: You have to be happy while you work. Did you ever taste a Grill'd burger during your brief tenure?

Anonymous: I tasted many a burger. Every five hours worked is one free burger and after that they're only about four dollars each.

Me: Are you serious? That's like an Alf Barbagallo salesman getting a free hooker for every car sold. And of all the burgers tasted, what was your favourite and why?

Anonymous: Luckily I get to make my own burger so I can pick and choose what ever I want, but I'd say Baa Baa + bacon takes the cake.

Me: And what about the headbands? How do you feel about the headbands?

Anonymous: Personally I find it degrading of the other staff members.

Me: Do you think gourmet burgers have already gone mainstream? Or is it still underground?

Anonymous: I'd like to think it's underground but I feel the local burger joint is definitely going the wrong way.

Me: We'll leave it there.

So not only are Grill'd excelling in the realm of what they specialise in, but they also give their staff free burgers ALL THE TIME, which is pretty much the most important and vital piece of information gathered from my interview. The only thing better than a free burger is getting paid to eat one, which is essentially what all Grill'd staff are doing if they eat while they are working.

As far as marketing goes, Grill'd goes the extra mile. I've never heard of a burger joint with a twitter account, a facebook page, a regularly updated website and a flickr account, but in these tech-savvy times where life is lived online, Grill'd know exactly where their customers hang out and haven't spared a single drop of html letting them know just that. You know what would be totally sweet though? If a burger was running the twitter account and the facebook page.

At the end of the day, you really do have to imagine a little burger just sitting in front of a keyboard replying to messages and posting status updates like "wow, i'm a Grill'd burger and i'm so damn tasty", typing with some little capsicum arms.

Grand Theft Auto: Swan Andreas

2010-03-17T23:05:00.000-07:00

Consider this an official proposal for Rockstar Games to release a GTA IV add-on titled 'Colin Little Test Drives Some Cars and Runs Really Fast'.

Spare Change: Part 1.

2010-03-16T18:21:00.000-07:00

I was just standing around thinking about awesome stuff the other day and this thought popped into my head pertaining to baddies. I'm not talking about villains or people you know and hate for reasons legitimate, I'm talking about REAL baddies.

REAL baddies: A grown or growing adult permitted by the state and it's various laws and sanctions to stop me at any point in time during my travels and ask me for money, blood, semen, more money, my soul or participation in a survey. REAL baddies are unlike homeless people in both appearance and the way that they are sponsored by a collective and given actual incentives to pester me for my income or bodily fluids instead of working purely on commission, like homeless people. REAL baddies are professional beggars for hire who will stop at nothing to strip you of your right to walk anywhere for their own financial gain. They are the real life manifestation of Lucifer himself. They do not care about the cause they are promoting.

You've all encountered one at one or more stages of your lives. Blood donations, deaf appreciation societies, disability recognition, war widow organisations, heart foundations, seeing eye dog chew toy sponsorship, chew toy repair monthly installment plans, World Vision. If it exists, there is someone out there asking you to come out of pocket for it and if you aren't quick enough you'll soon find that your entire weekly wage is paying for new hearing aids for disabled war widows with bad hearts and unsatisfied seeing eye dogs that live in third world countries. Not that there's anything wrong with that. There is so much wrong with that.

Having dealt with real baddies for most of my life (I recall being stripped of my first ever pocket money by a clown with balloons disguised as a member of Telethon, the distribution of balloons a noticeable absence from the transaction) and have gained what some mortals would refer to as a 'seventh sense' for dealing with these snakes in the grass. You can't just walk past them, they'll follow you to the ends of the earth. You can't iDeny them with your headphones, they'll shout, knowing damn well that you can hear them and making you feel like a human stain for not hearing them out. Cross the road? Congratulations, there's more on the other side. I once tried to cross the road after seeing a band of Greenpeace beggars in my path and one of them signaled to a female one and she actually crossed the road and followed me. She was stocky in appearance, her bulging leg muscles a testament to how long she'd been in the begging business.

"Trying to avoid me were you?"

I threw everything I had at her, my kids were in the car, I only had a five minute lunch break, i'm on my way to visit a dying relative, i already work for Greenpeace, i'm deaf and can't hear you. My words bounced off her like Nerf darts on a Challenger 2 battle tank.

"Do you know about Greenpeace?" she casually queried.

I spun quickly and directed a roundhouse sweep towards her shins, she jumped as it rushed past her lower body, leaving me open for a response of the left jab nature. Greenpeace had trained her well, this was not going to be a simple transaction. As i repositioned myself in wake of the roundhouse, I saw a split second window to dodge the fierce left, it's slipstream brushing the right of my face with the speed of an endangered Asiatic Cheetah. In the midst of her attempt I took advantage of her vulnerability, not to launch a second attack, but to locate a point of weakness. As I scanned her short, generous figure I noticed a small cylindrical object cradled under her right arm akin to an emptied out Golden Circle peach slice tin, only covered in pious Greenpeace paraphernalia and slogans in place of Golden Circle's usually approachable imagery. Atop this tin was a small slot fashioned for the deposit of currency no larger than a $2 coin but no smaller than a 10c piece. If i could somehow distract her for long enough i'd have clear view of the tin and a direct shot at her life force.

We were both facing each-other in the middle of the road now, the scene set for our final showdown. A crack of thunder announced an impromptu forecast of rain, lightning and an epic metal soundtrack that was completely necessary. As tumbleweeds rushed past us through fear of becoming caught in the onslaught, Greenpeace lady casually asked me "Do you know the story of the endangered white collared lemur?". Before i could even muster up a thought-provoking response, our swords clashed in an explosion of sparks and sharp sound effects. We had swords now and it was epic. We both jumped back, separated now by two metres of cold, wet tarmac and endless sheets of face-melting sideways rain. We were now strafing to our respective rights and lefts in a circle of instinct and longing for upper hand as I serenaded her with a riddle of my own.

"Do you know the story of not stopping me in the street and asking me for money?".

A powerful wail of the guitar punctuated my statement more than any exclamation mark could ever hope. My words of truth penetrated her shield of denial, sparking blind rage and the fury of a thousand Peter Garretts. Another clap of thunder triggered what would be her final attempt at my demise, her vision clouded by the A-game i had brought to the table on this particular day. As she viciously and carelessly swiped at my being I timed a perfect left roll and before she could even say "dreadlocks" i was on one knee ducking, directing a barrage of currency missiles towards the silo that was her coin tin with unfathomable accuracy. As the coins penetrated the sharp metal mouth of the stronghold, her gun fell to the floor (she had a gun as well), the skies cleared, the guitars faded and the eternal struggle between extinct animals and my weekly income had been dissolved for the time being.

Don't you hate it when people ask you for money?

I love the smell of scandal in the morning.

2010-03-10T17:06:00.001-08:00

As i stepped out into the morning's cool embrace like i had done so many times before, an indescribable feeling of loss and unfamiliarity swept over me as a broom would an autumn leaf collage. After a quick examination of my surroundings and a light scan of my memory bank, i realised this sensation was coming from a foreign, yet suddenly life-threatening variable. It was as if i was still the same person, but something terrible had occurred on a universal scale, something that not only affected me on a personal level, but an event of such immense proportion that it had momentarily paused space and time and threatened to send the human race into a downward spiral of conflict and eternal damnation. I felt sick to my stomach as the contents from last night's meal threatened to flee my digestive tract, somehow excusing itself of the moral implications i soon found myself contemplating. I slumped against the cold brick wall of the carport in a sweaty, trembling mess and in one fell swoop the truth hit me like a tonne of the very bricks that were supporting me.

Michael Clarke and Lara Bingle are no longer together.

I awoke to the sounds of chaos and human suffering, the rushed drumming of high heels and leather oxfords on a background of assorted cries for help. Most of the surrounding buildings were now ablaze, the light downpour of unsent faxes a ghastly reminder of human reflex in the face of danger, abandonment of all hope and a single, overpowering instinct for survival. Smoke entered my lungs and nostrils with no remorse as it reduced the once almighty sun to a faint downlight in the black noon sky. My visibility was minimal, an ironic benefit as i was blinded to the omnipresent desperation and fear that had attacked the peace so stealthily, so ruthlessly. The faint scratching of an abandoned car's stereo carved it's way through the surrounding ruckus and pierced my ear as if to deliver a message constructed only for my awareness. It was an Australian accent, not unlike the rambling, truth-dodging rhetoric of our Prime Minister.

"...in the wake of this tragedy.....imperative...remain calm....do not leave your.....once again...confirmed......Bingle.....Clarke have......separated"

The pieces, while broken, formed a crystal clear picture of the truth. Cricket star Michael Clarke and supposed model Lara Bingle had divorced, bringing with them the apocalypse and the most historically significant event ever to occur during our time on this planet. The thought of tribes gathered around campfires and telling the story of this fateful day brushed my conscience, the concept of future generations existing after this providing some relief in the face of impending doom and the collapse of our society. Voices broke my daydream, they were frantic, yet somewhat assertive and echoed reason amongst overwhelming surrender.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, BRENDON FEVOLA TOOK A PHOTO OF HER IN THE SHOWER AND IT SURFACED JUST THE OTHER DAY" a middle aged man announced.

"WAS SHE NUDE?" another, younger voice bellowed.

"APPARENTLY. AS IT SEEMS, MICHAEL CLARKE CAN'T PLAY CRICKET ANYMORE, HIS CAPTAINCY WAS QUESTIONED AND HE ACTED OUT OF ANGER!" the middle aged man replied.

"SO THEY'RE NOT TOGETHER ANYMORE? WHY DIDN'T SHE JUST DELETE THE PHOTO?" queried the young man.

"LOOK AROUND YOU MAN! DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A WORLD WHERE MICHAEL CLARKE AND LARA BINGLE ARE TOGETHER!? IT'S THE END OF EXISTENCE, THE PALE HORSE HAS STRUCK HUMANITY WITH THE SHARP SCYTHE OF THE APOCALYPSE. FORGET THE PHOTO AND LARA BINGLE, OUR MAIN CONCERN NOW IS SCRAMBLING TOGETHER WHAT LITTLE BIT OF LIFE WE ALL HAVE LEFT!! WE MUST TAKE TO THE OCEAN AND BIDE OUR TIME UNTIL THIS ALL BLOWS OVER!!" the middle aged man concluded.

The two men brushed past me, their intention to preserve life an almost selfish ambition amidst the scores perishing around them. The ocean i pondered. When all else fails, look to the ocean. With my last ounce of strength, i wiped the dust from my face with blood-soaked hands. I stared at them for a moment, the focus leaving my sight in waves of blurriness and nausea, the fatigue becoming almost too much to bear. Life or death, the decision a man should never had to make was now the only certainty in my thought process. As i scanned the once bustling metropolis that was our city for one last time, taking in what i could withstand through the thick smoke, i became aware of my destiny.

It's one thing to prosper in the face of death and destruction, but a world where Michael Clarke and Lara Bingle are separated is a world not worth rebuilding.

Thought for the day.

2010-03-07T16:35:00.000-08:00

Liking stuff that is cool, but unnecessarily hyped = Conformist.

Something you're into is being hyped up with millions of dollars worth of advertising, explosions and morning show banter? Stop liking it. Because of all that advertising reaching out to the general public whom were once unaware of this particular thing, you're only conforming by enjoying it as well. Time to move on and start liking something that is cool, but still underground.

Liking stuff that is cool, but still underground = Conformist.

Think you're killing it by being aware of something that others aren't aware of? Fill out your membership and join the club, conformer. If you aren't responsible for it's conception or not directly related to it, there's a high probability that you aren't the first person to ever like it. You're the guy that listens to a pop group, reads their biography, finds out who their inspirations are, reads their biography, and evenentually tunnels so deep into the background of said pop group that you end up back at world music, which is the most conformist brand of music of all time. May as well go back to hating everything that you and everyone else used to like.

Hating stuff that everyone likes = Conformist.

It's a little known fact that if you enjoy something, you'll tell five people, but if you hate something, you'll tell ten people. Way to advertise that thing you don't like, conformist douche. Take the easy way out and stick to what you know, hating stuff that begs to be hated on.

Hating stuff that sucks = Conformist.

You know what's more original than hating something that is shit? Not being a conformist chimney sweep butt cleaner.

Liking stuff that sucks because no one else will like it because it sucks = Conformist.

Damn, you almost had it. In your journey to become a non-conformist supremist shitdick, you made one elementary mistake. Liking ANYTHING is conformist, even if it sucks and no one else likes it. You know why it sucks? Because there is a hatred collective that has made it so. You're part of that collective and conforming harder than the kind of conformists that claim non-conformism to appear non-conformist.

Hating everything/Emo = Conformist.

By associating yourself with the Emo lifestyle, you're admitting that you have emotions to begin with, or enjoy music that celebrates and/or shows disdain for emotion. Associating yourself with something that everyone else experiences makes you a conformist sheep asshole. Ps. Emo's aren't even around anymore so not being an Emo is also really conformist.

With all that said, i thought Alice in Wonderland was really good. Johnny Depp is a great actor who is really versatile.

Countdown to sadness.

2010-02-25T17:15:00.000-08:00

Who doesn't love a good countdown? Initially invented by NASA as a means of bringing an element of anticipation to their otherwise unbearable shuttle launches, countdowns have evolved into an essential part of every day life, so much so that some people actually stop breathing while they watch them. Top 5 plays of the week. Ten things i hate about you. Triple J's hottest 100. It's a timeless method of sorting the weak from the strong, bringing instant embarassment to whoever is mentioned first and unlimited spoils for the final contestant announced, much like a reverse running race where the competitors have to run backwards from finish to start. There's something really magical about sitting on your ass, relishing in the fact that whoever compiled the list is even more of a time waster than you are, having sifted through a vast collection of songs, videos, reasons to hate something or viral youtube clips and then compiling them in an orderly fashion from the ones that suck the hardest but still somehow made the list, to the ones that are responsible for the list's existence. Once the holy grail is announced, you can walk away satisfied thanks to information that you know you didn't need, or knew already anyway. If the number one isn't what you expected it to be, you've got a conversational cache that'll last as long as the attention spans of you and your friends, which is about as long as an episode of 20 to 1.

Speaking of 20 to 1, i watched it this one time. Supposedly it was an Adults Only special edition because it was a countdown of the scariest movie villains from the horror genre of film. Excited at the prospect of free gore, i willingly sat through the entire episode as Bert Newton and his perfectly round face announced the entrants in a horrifically un-entertaining fashion. What i didn't realise at the time is that the episode in question would feature zero to no gore and i'd have been way more terrified if they just filmed Bert Newton walking around the stage reciting old monologues from his morning show. Then he looks at the camera with that sinister grin like "you know i could eat the world if i wanted to, don't you?". Bert Newton is scary and hilarious, that's why he's been on television for so long.

It's a shame i can't say the same for the long list of forgotten or currently unpopular celebs that throw in their two cents in between every clip. Celebrities whose careers are like that of a freshly caught salmon, jumping around on the cold wet ground as they breathe their last breath and cling on to their final moments in the spotlight. What sane commercial television producer would take something as serious as a countdown and let a bunch of nobodies run rampant through the proceedings, flapping their cake-holes about that one time they hid behind a blanket during that one scary scene they saw that one time? Douchebags, that's who in case you were wondering. There's no comic relief or insightful trivia to be found here, just litres and litres of rage.

Bert Newton: "Swimming in at number 16 is the most feared creature of the deep, on steroids, and i'm not talking about -insert extremely homosexual innuendo.....-"

*Plays JAWS footage, leaves out best bits*

Over-opinionated and crabby ex-news reporter - "Oooohhh, a shark, i'm really scared. Worst movie ever".

Some senior from Woman's Weekly - "After i watched JAWS, i never wanted to go to the beach again! Come to think of it, I went to the beach yesterday, so glad i didn't see JAWS!"

Blonde radio presenter and/or ZOO weekly model - "I was like, oh my god that shark is so plastic. Not back then, back then i was like omg so realisitc! But when i watch it now i'm like, get out of town, that shark is so plastic! Did you know i've been in RALPH magazine?"

Zany host from canned music video program - "That music killed me every time man! How did it go again? *Attempts rendition of JAWS theme, gets notes wrong*.

Some guy i have NEVER seen before - *Attempts rendition of JAWS theme, gets first note correct, bombs on second*

Big Brother contestant - "You're just sitting there and then BLAARRRRRGGGHHHH, something happens! *makes voluntary arm movements towards camera, generalizes disabled people*"

And then you've got the hacks that reveal the end of every movie in between the clips, which is a real shame if you haven't seen every movie ever made and are a general fan of cliffhangers, twists, plots, conclusions and the reasons why you watch movies in the first place.

Bert Newton - "Oh dear, slicing his way into number 8 this week on 20 to 1 is Jason Vorhees, the hockey player from hell, or is he?" *Homoerotic glance at cameraman*.

*Plays footage from Friday the 13th with really bad music over the top that doesn't even suit the theme of the footage or the theme of anything*.

Staff hairdresser from Home and Away - "I didn't even watch this movie. I heard there was a really big twist at the end or something?"

Someone that was famous in the 1970's - "You know what i loved about this flick? The fact that it was his MOTHER THE WHOLE TIME! I can't believe it was his MOTHER THE WHOLE TIME!"

Cue 20, 000 people sighing collectively knowing they'll never be able to watch Friday the 13th for the first time. Thanks mysterious actor that was on a Hills Hoist commercial that one time! Ruining things for people is fun, but only if you're completely aware of it and you do it with precision and tact. It's not fun when some guy that knows this will probably be the last time he's on television decides to spoil a work of art to show the population that he 'knows heaps of stuff' and should be getting more work than the occasional appearance on a countdown show hosted by Bert Newton.

Here's a 10 to 1 of entertainers that would not only make better commentators, but are also much more worthy of a comeback, if not their own programs all together.

10. Duke Nukem. This womanising, rocket-launcher abusing diplomat for sex and violence has been in the lurch for a while now and with the official announcement of his comeback game being canned for good comes a chance for default stardom on a countdown show.

9. Dil from Stickin Around.
One of the most deserving characters for a spin-off series, Dil never really got a chance to shine. With his loud voice and obvious mental handicaps, Dil would run laps around 20 to 1's current list of interruptions.

8. The Great Deku tree.
Old, wise and never actually dead, this giver of life to all things Hyrule needs to know that he's wanted. What better way than to let people know that you still exist than to appear on an episode of 20 to 1?

7. Inanimate Carbon Rod.
Not since since episode 96-1f13 of The Simpsons has Inanimate Carbon Rod been given the screen time it deserves. Having become a social networking sensation through it's numerous fan pages and versatile casting range, this seemingly pointless entity may just have a use yet.

6. Agro.
Troubled by gambling and alcohol addiction since his early retirement, Agro's deep-seeded little man issues and permanent psychotic grin have limited him to brief Telethon guest appearances and the odd lowly blog post. His aggressive nature could definitely bring a zingy, controversial edge to the current roster, particularly in regards to any women that should find themselves in his radius.

5. Gazerbeam from The Incredibles.
Another career that ended before it took off. Aside from a brief stint on The Incredibles as a soothsaying superhero incapable of adjusting to the civilian life, Gazerbeam hasn't had much in the way of actual work, possibly because he doesn't actually exist and only got a place on this list because of his hilarious name.

4. Shawn Bradley.
Not just because he's a 7"6 mormon ex-nba center who has six daughters and listens to country music, also because i haven't seen him on t.v. since the mid 90's. Subs indeed.

3. A Stegosaurus.
I've never seen one before so i guess you can't call it a comeback or a guest appearance. Regardless, i think out of all the dinosaurs that a Stegosaurus would have the most charming disposition and is definitely worthy of an audience. His plates say "i'm pretty much defenseless for the most part", but the spiked tail proclaims "say something about my plates, i double dare you". Dinosaurs also have bigger brains than most 20 to 1 contributors.

2. The fish from the SAFCOL tuna logo.
Completely ridiculous and utterly irrelevant, the fish from the SAFCOL tuna logo still has a better understanding of film and literature than anyone i've seen on the two episodes of 20 to 1 that i've seen. Because it is incapable of anything but sitting there and being a logo, it avoids awkward faux pas like annoying me on national television and spoiling successful film franchises by revealing the endings.

1. Petri Hawkins-byrd.
His real name might be Petri, but we'll always remember him as the bailiff from Judge Judy, or if you want to get technical, 'Jesus Christ in the Flesh'. If a wrecking ball and a Centaur had sex, they'd both be cheating on Petri Hawkins-Byrd. His ability to resist head-butting Judge Judy whilst standing next to her for hours on end is only equaled by his penchant for standing so still and upright that he would eventually camouflage into whatever background the cameras had in frame, only to re-appear if any plaintiff's acted out of line or to say the funniest thing you've ever heard. He's the reason you are here right now reading about him, he is the enforcer of all things fair and just and he is a secret grandmaster in the realm of trivial pursuit, which makes him the grandmaster of everything.

If he ever does decide to come back to television, i've already started putting together a pilot episode called 'Black belt rebuttal' and it basically features him walking around and answering people's questions with unprovoked suplexes.

Shutter Island.

2010-02-21T19:31:00.000-08:00

Being someone that viciously judges any form of media on the strength/weakness of it's front cover and advertising campaign, i can say that seeing Shutter Island as soon as it came out had been a matter of the utmost importance since i first laid eyes on that billboard. It contained all the necessary imagery for a successful apprehension of my interest and was only made more convincing by the fact that it was everywhere i turned. How am i not going to see a movie advertised in multiple convenient locations with an image of an extremely sinister island asylum for the criminally insane spotlighted only by a lit match and a concerned Leonardo DiCaprio at it's header? It also helps that it's directed by one Martin Scorcese, who's last venture with Dicaprio resides at the top of my all time favourite films list, which is subject to change any time i bring it up.

I haven't seen Casablanca. This isn't for any particular reason aside from it's lack of awesome billboard advertisements and the fact that it was made before all of the stuff i currently enjoy even existed. I've seen stills for it though, stills and so many parodies and references to it that it takes no effort at all to have a general understanding of it's premise and why people talk about it like it's their first born child or something. For some reason, Shutter Island's opening scene reminded me of a parody scene from Casablanca that i'd seen on the Simpsons and several other cartoon sitcoms and not of a scene from the actual movie because i haven't seen it yet. It's 1954 and two detectives are standing at the bow of a ferry, smoking cigarettes and generally remaining invisible due to an impeding fog that helps set an unsettling foundation for the rest of the film. As our protagonists, U.S. Marshals Teddy Daniels (DiCaprio) and Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) first lay eyes on the dock of the otherwise impenetrable island asylum, dramatic, overbearing strings slowly build as the viewer is introduced to this mysterious stronghold and it's disturbed patients. The haunting and scarcely present score for Shutter Island seems to drift in and out between the more intense scenes and also serves it's purpose as a spine-tingling backdrop for the dark and desolate island scenery Scorcese seems so intent on portraying to his audience.

From the beginning, the plot is a seemingly one way street. Teddy, an ex-army official haunted by memories of Nazi concentration camps and Chuck, a mostly unknown detective from Boston, are partnered up to investigate a missing patient/prisoner on the island asylum/prison. For the most part Shutter Island never announces it's true cause and could just as easily be defined as a prison for the criminally insane as it could a therapy centre for the mentally unstable. As soon as they dock at the port the detectives soon realize that this will be no walk in the park, made evident by the obviously edgy local law enforcement that begrudgingly greet them at the foot of the ominous island. As they are guided to the main quarters by the head of security and eventually introduced to the patients and staff, the threads of an elaborate joke begin to show and Teddy begins to question the sincerity of his investigation and eventually, his own story. Their entire plan begins to fall apart quite early in the film due to the lack of co-operation from the passionate head psychiatrist, Dr. Cawley (Ben Kingsley) and his staff, who seem to have other agendas unbeknownst to the detectives. Without a means of exit from the island as a wild storm approaches, Teddy and Chuck soon become wise to what they feel is a conspiracy against them, straying from their orders in an attempt to uncover the truth behind the facility's purpose. In classic Scorcese fashion though, expect some surprises as the story progresses.

One of the primary attractions of this movie aside from the story is the mysterious island and it's surrounding scenery. The story is played out during the course of a violent storm that threatens the facility that the detectives have been sent to investigate, allowing for plenty of frights and a constant feeling that things could go pear-shaped at any moment. The asylum/prison is divided into three sectors, the lesser women's and men's blocks and the 'C' block, where all the most violent, irreconcilable patients are kept. Surrounding the facility are jagged mountain edges, endless forrest, open fields and a mysterious cliff-side lighthouse that only comes into play towards the film's conclusion. It's dark, it's atmospheric and the plot gives each set piece just the right amount of shine, keeping things fresh whilst still providing a thorough insight into the establishment and it's surroundings.

Unfortunately, this film may not be for everyone. If you're a pussy or someone's girlfriend, you'll be spending a-lot of time behind your hands during the plentiful flashback sequences and there's an overall feeling of doom throughout the film that some might not be able to deal with. Beyond the scares though, you'll discover an engaging story exploring personal loss, identity and the intricacies of the human mind, played out by an exceptional cast lead by a director that clearly knows what he is doing. Don't go and see this movie at Event Cinemas Innaloo, their candy bar is undergoing refurbishments and i had to drink coke out of a bottle, the lousy 600ml inconvenience lingering in the corner of my eye for the entirety of the film and it's lack of storage almost soured the experience for me.

Now i need to read the book that it's based on so i can tell people that "the book is sooo much better than the movie".

Snakes on a train.

2010-02-18T18:43:00.000-08:00

Remember how whenever you suggest public transport to people they piss and moan like you're asking them to crucify themselves and not resurrect afterwards? They aren't opposed to public transport as a whole, they're opposed to Perth's brand of public transport/livestock shipment. I haven't really experienced any other public transport systems as consistently as i have Perth's and therefore have absolutely nothing else to compare it to or any solid foundation for my conclusion aside from some loose statistics gathered by myself and shitloads of personal experience. With that said, i can confidently state it as the worst in the world, if not the entire country. It's so bad that asian students fall into comatose as soon as they sit down and the train starts moving.

Unfortunately for me, It's not even the trip itself that i find so offensive. Well, it is, but that's not the only thing. How come when people are complaining about something they go "that's not even the worst thing about it!". If it's the first thing you mentioned and you go on to mention something else about it, shouldn't you list your grievances in order from the ones that upset you the most to the least upsetting? It's like ripping on a restaurant and saying "oh dear, the pasta was so dry but that's not even the worst thing! My wife actually choked on a Ciabatta crust and died".

An essential part of all train rides is the ticket purchasing process. Normally you walk to the ticket machine, insert the correct change and a ticket comes out, granting you access to the second level of the train station and a wealth of new benefits like a metal seat with no empty spots and crying babies. But what if i'm a little off my game one morning? What if i woke up thirty seconds later than usual and carrying an extra 50 cents over the price of my ticket? I'll tell you what! As i'm cautiously and effortlessly sprinting down the steps, dodging homeless people and school kids, i see a 20,000km line at the ticket machine. However, the line isn't full of people that are as keen to get their tickets as i am, it's full of war vets and other snooze button victims who can't seem to grasp the concept of the fucking train is coming and i'm going to kick the shins out of whoever is in front of me at the ticket machine if i miss my train. As the screeching of the train's brakes near the station, i'm standing at the ticket machine, fumbling awkwardly for my change as beads of sweat begin to congregate around my forehead. Here's the clincher though. Once i've paid my dues, the ticket machine takes on the form of a fucking prehistoric Epson dot matrix printer and every second of the thirty it takes to print is another pin in the loosely threaded cushion that is my patience. As i hear my train take off with me not on it i contemplate two scenarios. A). Breaking down in tears as the camera slowly spirals away in birds eye view or B). decimating 12 separate shin bones to the point of decimation.

After five of the most inconvenient minutes of my entire life i alight the next train and the platform turns into a multicultural bloodbath. My personal space was invaded by every country on the map. I didn't even have to walk onto the train, i just stood there and allowed the tide of jerk to sweep me into the mobile sardine tin full of more jerk. When you are on a packed train, the worst traits of humanity are laid out in front of you. Bad breath, gingivitis, protruding nose hair follicles, embarassingly oversized briefcases, backpackers, the clinically obese and school children all form together in a gelatinous glob of skin and leather and i'm trapped in it for the next 15 minutes. There's a human male standing next to me, sweating it out in his business attire and reading some lame book about even lamer issues by an author with a full degree in lameology. He drops his book once and as he bends down to pick it up, his backside rubs against my male, heterosexual human leg. It's uncomfortable the first time but then he does it again for reasons unknown and it reaches a completely different level of discomfort and all of a sudden i feel like i'm in one of those club videos where the rapper is yelling "DROP THAT ASS TO THE FLOOR BITCH, NOW PICK THAT MOTHERFUCKER UP etc etc", except it's not a girl dropping her ass and picking it up all over me in the club, it's a fat businessman and his bible of lame on a train full of other sweaty businessman.

It's not all bad i guess. I did get to listen in on an enthralling conversation between some Scotch College alumni about the size of their school bags and the contents of their lunch boxes. They were quite articulate considering their age and how stupid they were but what really blew my mind was that the token Asian friend's nickname was 'Short Stack'. Seriously, how pleased would you be during the ceremonial nickname delegation at the start of the year and you got 'Short Stack'. The kid had his nickname proudly displayed on the front pocket of his medium sized school bag in permanent white-out accompanied by a totally sweet checkerboard print in the bottom left corner, which was also composed with white-out and some black artline 70. Stack was also rocking a PSP slim on a heavy duty Yu-gi-oh key chain and had it carelessly dangling out the side pocket like he didn't even care, like a PSP ain't shit. It was the greatest thing i have ever seen on a train.

If you tried mugging a guy named 'Short Stack' all your homies would probably be like "yo, i don't think you know who that is, duke. That's motherfucking 'Short Stack".

Go away for now.

2010-02-11T20:03:00.000-08:00

Been gaming a-lot lately. As much as i'd love to blog about gaming all day, that's my special time and is really none of your business except for when i post about it and make it your business. My blog/real life friend Jimmy hats on the other hand, has been leading a relatively tumbleweed-free existence this week, particularly on one Wednesday night/morning during the week in which i'm posting this post in.

He was just maxing at his house like "whatevs, this is pretty chill i guess. Maybe i'll get a phone call from Gracey and go play chess with a founding member of Hip-hop's most iconic group who is just as well known for his production and rapping skills as he is for his chess-playing skills. I'll just act like it was another day for me because it was and i'll let him win because i'm a nice guy and then i'll make him read my journal and write raps in it while blonde-haired peasants orally pleasure his entourage in the hallways of the hotel i played chess with him in".

Jimmy plays chess with RZA.

When i heard about this, i shat so many bricks that i could have built an entire brick shithouse with brickshits to spare. The remaining shitbricks could've been deposited in the brick shithouse i'd constructed from said shitbricks.

Shit.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

2010-02-08T22:56:00.000-08:00

It's a sad day for styrofoam cup manufacturers and rap bloggers alike. Forever the trend-setter, Lil Wayne took advantage of current technology this evening and live blogged his final hours before a 10 month reputation building holiday at the well-known Riker's Island resort. It was an emotional and heart-warming address, hosted by Weezy's protege 'Lil Twist', as Wayne touched on important issues like Lil Twist's sex life, the lack of women in the studio and his hair. Almost as entertaining was the live commentary box on the side which allowed Weezy's semi-literate, completely delusional legion of fans spew all sorts of entertaining rhetoric that had me looking left and right throughout the entire video.

Wayne will be sadly missed in particular by myself as it's another month or so before his next mixtape drops and i'm running low on rap metaphors to apply to daily life and females in particular. In between wiping the tears from my eyes and blowing my nose, I took the liberty of copy and pasting a large portion of the broadcast to tide myself over until he is released.

"We at 20,000 baby, we at 20,000".

"If you out there lil baby, hey lil baby".

"Shout out to the girl in the club the other night with my name in her mouth.....i forgot her name".

"Shout out to the other white girls, .....colour.....you gotta be specific in this world".

"This is the last time you gon' see me for a long time. This is history actually".

"This lil wayne featuring my hair".

"I'm really feelin' my hair".

"Sheena say, when i do my hair like this, i look like Sha-nay-nay. It's not a good thing to look like".

"Look at my shit sticking to one side like Milli Vanilli though."

This is Lil' Twist, he was pretty cool for the most part and was wearing a 'Matix' hat. Matix is a popular skateboarding brand, which i'm sure is more a tribute to Terry Kennedy's brand of skate-rapping than say, Alex Olson's brand of actual skateboarding. Not sure why i picked Alex Olson, he's probably the whitest actual skateboarder i can think of right now.

Wayne knows fuck all about computers, but he managed to find the camera to give his viewers a glimpse of that shiny, $100,000 smile we've become accustomed to.

I think he was reading the comments here. He's probably amazed that his computer-savvy fanbase are able to even create an AIM account with all the horrendous spelling mistakes and abbreviations they were advertising to him and the other 20,000 people watching the live feed.

'Soldrboyy' here actually believes that crashing a car and possibly dying will do his career more justice than going to jail. What else do you expect from someone that spells 'boy' with two y's?
Parker felt it necessary to comment on the lack of females in the video. Video vixens don't normally appear in pre-jail blog announcements but what's more amusing is the lack of females in Parker's profile picture. I found this pretty amusing. CAPS LOCK ALWAYS LOOKS FUNNY BECAUSE IT LOOKS LIKE THE PERSON IS SCREAMING AND LAUGHING AND HAVING A GREAT TIME AT THEIR COMPUTER.No you don't. You don't even have a face or clothes on.Of course it's residing. What else does hair do? Recede, perhaps?No comment. Your name is juicy.You have to give it to this guy. He's currently under the impression that Lil Twist is going to see the comment and be all "holy shit, Wayne come look at this guy! I think he's for real, let's get him in the studio even though you're about to go to jail for a year!"
Fat Joe made an appearance to promote his music and also hug Lil Wayne twice. Fat Joe looks like a really nice guy in real life.

Only Lil Wayne can get away with departing for jail in a fucking Bugatti. This freeze frame alone pretty much justifies my love for the Cash Money paper machine.

:(

Tender moments.

2010-02-07T18:35:00.000-08:00

It's a known fact that if you ever plan anything, your mind sends invisible shockwaves through the time/space continuum and immediately alters your future to the opposite effect of your initial idea. Much like the time travel bible, Back to the Future, if you try and manipulate a present that doesn't exist yet you're guaranteed to get your shit ruined in the future for messing with something that seems pretty content on running at it's own pace. Take a look at where planning got Johnny during his weekend.

Friday night: "Fuck yeah. I'm going to drink 80 beers tonight, go to the club and take home a female will proceed to willingly have sex with me without the application of money or begging. She will then leave before i wake up tomorrow morning and message me later that night when i'm back in my comfort zone."

Big mistake Johnny. Now that you've sent those shockwaves out your night isn't quite going to pan out as you'd planned.

Saturday morning: "Wow, i really should have made some dinner before i drank all that beer. Probably should've gone home and changed the shirt that i vomited on while i was in the taxi as a result of all the beer i drunk, then i might've woken up with that girl i like instead of two of my best friends (who are both dudes and also covered in vomit).

The best times are the ones that aren't planned. Everybody loves ninjas because they rely on the element of surprise and are completely unpredictable and undeniably precise at the same time. Spontaneity is like chilli sauce, you're not sure where it's going to take you, but you know you'll be satisfied later on in one way or another. It was this age-old axiom that saw me unexpectedly partaking in the best concert i've ever been to during the weekend just passed. Aside from not being pre-meditated, this throwdown made all other attempts at festivals look like attempts for a wide range of reasons, which also weren't planned.

1. It was free.
Before i turned 24, i was blind to the unadulterated pointlessness of spending upwards of $150 to go to an un-furnished block of land, wait in a bunch of lines and have my ears blown out by poorly engineered speakers and free spirits dripping in sweat, bourbon and urine. Leaving a venue with a full wallet is only bettered by leaving with a venue with two full wallets.

2. I was drinking for the event's entirety and it cost me $12.
Of all the concerts i've been to, my favourite type would have to be the ones that have a single alcohol stand in a really convenient position at the back of the venue. Nothing gets me more excited about being outdoors than waiting in a line full of paralytic assholes for 3 hours to be met with another less paralytic but more deaf asshole who can only give me two light beers if i pay the equivalent of a carton of full strength beers and submit a piece of my soul upon exit. I definitely don't hate it and never wish bad things on everyone there.

3. I got to climb up and sit in a tree without feeling like one of those assholes that tries to climb a tree to recapture his youth.
I never see climbable trees anymore. Maybe as i've aged my eye for sturdy branches and level up potential has faded, or maybe i just don't care anymore. Regardless, i can't describe the convenience that the tree i climbed yesterday provided. The branch that myself and the tree climbing collective were perched on was not only extremely comfortable, perhaps even moreso than the ground we were previously seated on, but it also gave us a perfect view of the peasants on ground level and just enough distance for us to pass judgement on them without being heard.

4. At any given moment, there was about 13-15 attendees max, perfect weather and a that whole sunlight through the green canopy thing going on.
It's pretty simple really. Because there was less than 50, 000 people there, the odds of me encountering any assholes was cut considerably and i made two successful toilet breaks within record time. There was also no wind. This was especially convenient because wind ruins everything, including windsurfing, which will never look stylish.

5. There was no bad music.
For some reason, people like to cry about potential clashes of artists during their concert exploits. I didn't have to worry about this because while there were multiple DJ's present, they all got along and shared the equipment provided. There was no one running around stressing like "OMG if i go and see DJ fuckshit now then i'm going to miss MC Buttface and his totally irrelevant lyrics that i can totally relate to!" The only clashes i've ever dealt with are calendar clashes. If i'm at point A when music festival B is proceeding, i will be this many kilometres away from it, with my satisfaction determined by how many kills i get on whichever game i choose to play.

All in all, it was one of the better Sundays in recent memory. I chilled so hard that i almost reverse stressed myself out and no-one annoyed me. Here are some photos.
Not a punter in sight.

Bayonetta: Jesus in cd form?

2010-01-26T20:18:00.000-08:00

I've been playing this game called 'Bayonetta' for the last few weeks and after a few weeks of deliberation i've come to a conclusion regarding it's subject matter, graphical quality, soundtrack and completely fair ratio of explosions to boners.

Bayonetta is the greatest game ever made. Any game made before Bayonetta is now null and void and any games released in the future, regardless of technological advancements, will suck immensely in comparison to Bayonetta. The only exceptions to these findings are games i have previously referred to as the best games ever. If you disagree with this you either haven't played Bayonetta yet or you quietly wept in your girlfriend's lap after watching The Notebook.

I could write a bible-sized publication discussing the pros of Bayonetta and it would be just as relevant as the bible and possibly more successful, but that isn't the Bayonetta way. Instead, i'll keep it short, explosive, stabby and as non-descriptive as possible.

Bayonetta doesn't discriminate.
Before Bayonetta the only themes video games explored were war, street fighting, romance and teamwork. After playing Bayonetta, these themes look stale and uninspired in retrospect and when i look back at all the time i've wasted contributing to the above causes, i feel simple-minded and uneducated. At any given moment, Bayonetta explores witchcraft, magic, religion, breakdancing, identity, parenthood, hair management, weapon customization, geography, fitness training, different flavoured lollipops, air combos and scarves. This leads to a unique experience in which you'll be riding a motorcycle at 500km/h, upside down on an exploding freeway, ducking axes swung by monolithic demi-gods, taking pop shots at mythical armor-clad angels and dropping seriously sassy one-liners amongst all the destruction like it's an everyday occurrence which, for Bayonetta, wouldn't be far from the exact truth. This all happens while you learn about European geography and religious theories completely made up by the developers of the game, which is all much easier to digest when you realize that they themselves are gods for creating such a perfect product.

Bayonetta is sex on legs/wheels/invisible floating scripture platforms.
I remember the first time i saw Lara Croft crawl through an inhumanely tight cavity during the early hours of Tomb Raider 2. The camera purposely zoomed straight onto her backside as it shuffled left and right and the whole experience was made all the more erotic by the moaning sounds she made as she traversed the unrealistically long tunnel. The tunnel in question served absolutely no purpose in the game (unless you count a pointless artifact as purpose), aside from making the player feel uncomfortable for lusting after a bunch of carefully placed polygons and a pair of hip-mounted pistols with unlimited ammo. Since then, games featuring outrageously proportioned female protagonists have come and go, but none have managed to capture the beauty and perfection of the female form like Bayonetta has.

Do you like bi-sexual, pistol wielding, black-haired librarian ninja experts in leather jumpsuits? Me too. Look at how she defiantly perches atop that infant angel statue in a union of religion and sexuality never captured before on any medium aside from xbox 360 and Playstation 3. She's not all guns and angels though, the developers spent just as much time on a few other vitals that serve as intriguing interruptions during the quieter moments of the game, of which there are zero.

The first one being her lower back region.
If i was to make an estimate, i'd say the creators of this game spent just as much time creating Bayonetta's backside as they did the entire structure of the game. Time well spent considering i spent so much time watching Bayonetta strut (her walk will soon be emulated on catwalks around the world) around the opening levels that i didn't even notice the amazing architecture surrounding her strut and completely forgot that i was meant to be saving hell from renegade angels and buying weapons from the demonic doppleganger of Samuel L. Jackson's long lost brother from Pulp Fiction while he drops one-liners that would convert a room full of feminist lesbians to his religion of cool.

The other just as important attributes being her hair and her heels, both of which i'm yet to distinguish in terms of awesomeness and convenience.

Some girls like to do their hair before they go out at night or after a shower. That's kind of cool i guess. Bayonetta on the other hand prefers to use her hair for more worthy causes, like morphing it into demonic, restaurant-sized limbs and creatures specifically summoned for the disposal of other demonic creatures. For some reason she turns naked while all of this happens, which is marginally cooler than aforementioned summoning. Bayonetta's choice of footwear is gun-mounted high heels that aren't out yet. When she isn't transforming into a panther or a peacock blackbird, Bayonetta does a-lot of running and jumping. Whilst high heels may not be the most ideal form of footwear for her lifestyle choices, the guns attached to them are more than capable of mutilating any foes that try and interrupt her sexy travels. Fashionistas pay attention, gun-heels are the next must have item to heat up that winter wardrobe.

Bayonetta actually has a storyline. I'm dead serious.
It's true. I didn't notice it myself, but apparently Bayonetta is set in a fictional European city called 'Vigrid' during an inter-dimensional war between 'Paradiso' (heaven), Purgatorio (purgatory) and 'Inferno' (hell). Bayonetta's own past is shrouded in mystery and she has no idea who she is or why she's so attractive and the game is based around uncovering these minor discrepancies. There's a love interest in there somewhere as well but the guy is a total pussy and i wish he'd just leave Bayonetta alone to her devices. I would have been just as satisfied with the game had it not come with a plot and more weapons in it's place but the cut-scenes do serve as a vehicle for high levels of sexual innuendo between Bayonetta and her less attractive nemesis, Jeanne.

Oh, you're still here.
Fine. As i strolled through the winding, cracked path of another golden sanctuary surrounded by exotic flora and ancient architecture, the heavens above shot luminescent rays of sunlight onto the pebbled floor, doves chirped gleefully in the trees above and angelic hymns echoed in the distance, a soft breeze kindly ushered me towards an unfamiliar portal that i was currently unfamiliar with. I remembered that i was Bayonetta and i do what i want so i stepped through the portal and found myself immedieately confronted with a medusa-faced titan the size of the planet i was currently inhibiting, covered sky to ground in an impenetrable ancient stone that i would soon have to penetrate. He had an impressive crown on and was really pissed off at me for some reason and before he even gave an epic speech, his spiky vines of hatred flew towards me at unidentifiable speeds and i knew it was go time. As i dodged his unreasonable onslaught, he produced and then extended what looked like a miniature version of his head attached to his ancient oesophagus with intentions of doing me harm. I had other intentions for this unannounced entry. As i disposed of his spiky friends and their sharp teeth, i slowed down time for a few seconds, jumped onto and sprinted down his stony offspring in slow motion and laid the finishing touches to his face with my swords, guns and hair. As his blood and ancient entrails filled the skies and he apologized for the inconvenience, I was suddenly at peace and totally glad i'd left that fucking boring old garden.

10/10.
That's right, perfect. Sell your current library and buy it. If you already own it, fuck off, she's mine.

I'm a whiny little baby.

2010-01-21T19:43:00.000-08:00

I'm going to apologize in advance for this post. I love that the Sleep Talkin' Man is bringing all these people happiness and fulfilling their presumably empty lives through seemingly comedic one liners and cheap merchandise displaying said one liners, but as one Neil Godwin famously reminded David Brent, "Beware of false prophets".

According to Wikipedia, "Sleep is a naturally recurring state of relatively suspended sensory and motor activity, characterized by total or partial unconsciousness and the inactivity of nearly all voluntary muscles.^[1] It is distinguished from quiet wakefulness by a decreased ability to react to stimuli, and it is more easily reversible than hibernation or coma. It is observed in all mammals, all birds, and many reptiles, amphibians, and fish".

True for the most part, but what Wikipedia and it's user-friendly database fail to mention is that Sleep is very much the best thing ever and comparable only to Modern Warfare 2 and hibernation in terms of playability and application to every day life. Sleep is why i go to bed at night and the reason i get up in the morning. It is the only bodily function that allows me to simultaneously exist in a state of complete comfort and have a perfectly legitimate excuse to not interact with anyone or do any chores. Sleep is what happens while you're not making other plans.

Then you've got dreams, don't get me started on dreams! It's like, sleep is awesome enough by itself and then a dream comes along and says "hey, want me to take that enjoyment and relaxation you're currently experiencing and supersize the shit out of it for no extra cost or labour?". I would actually pay for dreams given the proposition, i would physically put money into a coin slot on my bedside table and be able to sleep at night knowing that i'd contributed to a worthy cause. I mean, i've been getting all these lazers, dinosaurs, explosions, celebrity encounters and babes for free all this time. You probably wouldn't steal a handbag, but i know you'd legitimately pay for a good dream about a lazer-mounted babe who escorts you to a Hollywood awards ceremony on a Stegosaurus in a tuxedo, narrowly dodging carefully placed explosions the whole way there and even a bit on the way back.

But what about sleep-talking? That's awesome too right?

Only just. According to me, sleep-talking is the mysterious and mostly absent cousin of dreams. It's mystery lies in our lack of knowledge regarding it's implications and the fact that (aside from sleep-walking, which is just ridiculous) it is the only action that can safely traverse between the realm of the living and the kingdom of sleep. The problem is, this divine occurrence is a little inconsistent when it comes to the relevance of it's messages to whoever should be fortunate or conscious enough to hear it. I could count the amount of times i've heard someone talking in their sleep on one hand and i could count the amount of times i've been told that i've done so myself on the other with a few fingers to spare.

I've been alive for just over 24 years now and from what i can gather of that 24 years, the only things people sleep-talk about are swans or requests for whomever they are interacting with in their dream to stop doing whatever it is they are doing. Ask them the day after and they'll deny all knowledge in an attempt to be cute, or to cover up how deranged they actually are. Swans aren't mythical creatures and you got molested, just admit it. Amazingly enough, any other interactions with sleep-talkers have consisted primarily mumbled conversations and nonsensical jargon, both of which lead me to the conclusion that while sleep-talking is hilarious and pointless, it has no worthy application in the realm of the living and any claims otherwise are generally presented with no evidence and the craving of attention.

Along comes the Sleep Talkin' Man. This blog has been getting in my face every time i open my internet browser for the last couple of weeks now. Through fear of feeling like an un-popcultured douchebag in the real world, i went and checked it out this morning to educate myself on this man and his apparent harnessing of talking while he sleeps. The concept is pretty darling and simple, wife marries husband, husband talks during sleep, wife enjoys and records on internet, world laughs and I become suspicious.

Here are some of the things he's (hasn't) said in his sleep:

"Just look at yourself. Yeah, now look at me. You don't stand a chance. It must suck to be you, I'm sure."

"I am awe-some. Deal with it fucker!"

"Yes I'm sad, but if you stood further away, I'd be happier. No, further away. Well, let's face it, just fucking CUNT OFF! Thank you, I appreciate it."

"I haven't put on weight. Your eyes are fat."

So where's "I go from zero to bitch in 5 seconds" or "Horn broken, watch for finger"? I will say it once, then i'll leave it be, there is no way this man is saying these things in his sleep. The quotes on this page are the brainchild of two or more people sitting in a living room and concocting one liners based on randomly generated objects and entities or just straight ripping off popular rear window decals and passing it off as some guy sleep talking and then merchandising the fuck out of it.

"sO whAt iF it fAke?? at lEasT its mAking LarFs!!

Which brings me to my second and least important point. It's not funny. It's arrogant without the bite, it's vulgar without the strategically placed expletives, it's childish , it's sexist without being good at being sexist and it's intangible without being imaginative, which is why i can totally understand that it's so annoyingly popular. The movie Idiocracy instantly springs to mind. Don't slingshot the porcupine, it's cunt spikes will pop your round balloon face, actually, do it, i'll look better as a result. Please do it. Otter alliance! Sabotage the dolphin's pasta recipes, they can't win! Can you hold my anus please? Don't steal it, it's my anus. Blah blah blah, slingshots, blah blah blah, farm animal, blah blah blah, Nevada, blah blah, random verb.

It's not even the lack of humour that dissapoints me. Sure, when i landed on the page i was expecting some kind of laughter induced cardiac arrest because that's what was advertised to me by it's sizable readership, but that's not why i'm complaining today. Actually, it is, and more. Not only are Adam and Karen making some serious bank by creating happiness under false pretenses, but soon enough i'm going to be seeing people walking around in shirts that say "I can't control the kittens, too many whiskers" or "fuck off and let me bask in the glory of being me", which in turn puts an automatic 'F' on society's 2010 report card and shoots any chances we had of being taken seriously by the rest of the universe.

Which reminds me:
The aliens are laughing at me! Fuck. Get me an ocean anenome so i can scare them off! Anenome the enemies! Jam on dashboards and sandy goblins with illuminated extremities!

Omegle, Street Fighter and racial enlightenment.

2010-01-17T17:46:00.000-08:00

I was just driving around the other day, minding my own business or whatever and out of nowhere this d-bag in a matte black Toyota Hilux pulls in front of me and makes a huge scene about the fact that he's a reckless d-bag in a Toyota Hilux. I did what any normal person would do and stewed in the car, swearing to myself and imagining what i'd do if i had a cache of heat-seeking missiles waiting for him just after the Vincent St dismount, when i notice a rather medium-sized sticker carelessly placed somewhere between the bottom and the left of the Hilux's back windshield.

"Fuck off, we're full".

Haha. This guy is awesome. He doesn't want anyone else in his car, even though he's the only person in it which is totally ironic and means that he prefers to be by himself. I wonder what that Australia decal around the saying means though? Oh that's right, it means that he isn't being ironic, he's being an overtly racist redneck shitdick. The sticker actually means that matte black Hilux is of the belief that his current country of residence is at maximum capacity and can't possibly accommodate any more residents. Remember when you were a young boy in primary school and you derived great satisfaction from the exclusion of girls from activities and/or secret clubs because you thought they were of lesser hygiene quality and therefore unable to adapt to the living conditions of said clubs or activities? You were actually being more mature than matte black Hilux.

It's like when i play Street Fighter 4. Some people just pick Ryu all the time because he's Japanese and a good world warrior, whereas i like to apply an even spread mentality to my character selection and on any given day you could find me riding with Ryu, Ken, Dhalsim, Sagat, Zangief or even Chun-Li (who is a girl), not because i'm anti-racism, but because i am pro-humanity and also because i hate people that only pick Ryu in Street Fighter (wow, you've mastered the fireball and all it's functions and applications, you are a boring world warrior). Not only do i get to master all of their technical retaliations and combo ranges, i also learn a little about each culture and become a better person after each game. Imagine if Ryu, Dhalsim and Zangief pulled up behind matte black hilux? I think after all the 17 hit Hadouken's, spinning piledrivers and yoga flames, they'd be pretty sad.

They wouldn't leave the country though, which means that matte black hilux's sticker is not only racist, but also especially pointless. To realize that these mobile racists actually believe that someone is going to leave a country because they saw a sticker on someone's car is to realize how mentally and socially incapable they actually are. "Oh man, that guy's sticker says "we grew here, you flew here", better call Damayanti, we're heading back to India". Well done, matte black hilux! That's one less quiet, hard-working Indian family for you to worry about! Let's do some bog laps around Curtin University and see if we can't clear out some Japanese students!

Don't take my word for it though. I'm hardly the first and final word in diplomacy and race relations, take these Omegle confessions as the final nails in the coffin to matte black Hilux's cause and why his efforts are completely in vain.

Here's a conversation i had with a lovely chap from Greece who had recently migrated to the U.S. Before he started getting gay on me, he actually made a valid point.

You: if you were driving around in the U.S. and you saw a sticker on the back of someone's car that said either "fuck off, we're full" or "if you don't like it, leave", would you be offended?

Stranger: No. I'm not easily offended

Stranger: I feel as though it's a waste of time.

Stranger: i have better things to consume my time with and engulf myself in

Stranger: get me?

You: couldn't agree more

Stranger: hahahaha did you ask that because i'm technically a foreigner?

You: well, i would have asked regardless, the fact that you're technically a foreigner does make for a beneficial variable.

Stranger: I concur.

Stranger: I love the fact that you're not intellectually deprived.

Stranger: We are soulmates <3 hahahahaa

Here's a statement from a young Hispanic fellow, who shared a similar view to myself on the application of these stickers to one's Hilux.

You: no. what i want to ask you is, would you display a sticker on the back of your car saying either "fuck off, we're full" or "if you don't like it, leave", as a stance on other races migrating to your country?

Stranger: uhm no considering that i am hispanic.

You: ok, so if you saw a born and bred american citizen displaying the same sticker on their car, would you be offended?

Stranger: most likely

Stranger: why do you display a sticker saying "fuck off we're full"?

You: Absolutely not. I live in Australia and i see these stickers all the time. If i was strong, i'd uppercut anyone i saw with one of these stickers.

Stranger: ohhh, whew, i thought you were some white supremacist

With this one i just went straight out and played the victim. The results speak for themselves.

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

Stranger: aloha

You: thank god you're here!

Stranger: ??

You: the last guy i spoke to was such a dick

Stranger: why wad he say to u

You: he said he has a sticker on the back of his car that says "fuck off, we're full".

Stranger: wow hes a fag

Couldn't have said it better myself.

2009 stole my wallet!

2010-01-12T00:57:00.001-08:00

As i gallivanted around the last 24 hours of 2009 in a drunken stupor with whoever else was around me at the time, one constant factor made itself known at every given opportunity, which was pretty much 25 out of the 24 hours i spent gallivanting around with whoever else was around me at the time. I do not speak of the stench of yeast and tobacco or the aromas my body produced after the addition of said products to my person, i speak of the inescapable pot pourri of hatred the entire human race appeared to harbor for the last year of the recently elapsed decade, which was far smellier and way more annoying than any products containing yeast and/or tobacco.

News desks, movie stars, the elderly/disabled, babies and billboards all pushed their slight differences aside and rejoiced in the blaming of an entire year for their shortcomings and collective erectile dysfunctions. 2009 wasn't the first time this has happened, (the transition between 1999-2000 was held accountable for every human error made for the 2000 years before it) but it was definitely the most recent and by far the most ruthless. From a personal perspective, I complain better than anyone i know (I once complained my way out of my own baptism and then complained about the fact that i never got baptised) but when i'm going about my daily business and hearing things like "gosh, i can't believe how shit 2009 was!" and "bring on 2010! 2009 is the devil and it even stole my car!", it's time to get someone else's side of the story. Namely, 2009.

I managed to catch 2009 before he left for a much needed holiday in an attempt to understand it's conviction and the reason why everyone is blaming him for their self-inflicted failures. The following interview was conducted under a strict no bias policy pertaining to myself and any affiliated companies or government bodies with whom i am afiliated, which is none.

Firstly 2009, i'm a huge fan and i really appreciate you taking the time out to speak with me today.

Not a problem! I was actually just ducking out for a beer with 1999.

Oh really? Do you and 1999 hang out often?

Well, not so much when i was younger. Definitely towards the end though, we found that we have a-lot in common.

What's 99' doing now? Do you mind if i call him '99?

Nah, he's cool with that, he's just started calling me '09 actually. I call him 'Agent 99' sometimes and we joke around about him being older than me even though i'm ten years older than him!

Kind of like a little inside joke?

Yeah, no-one really gets it though. I think we're a little misunderstood.

Definitely, we'll get to that soon enough. So is '99 still complacent being lost in the ages? Any plans of a comeback?

He's doing his thing. I don't think he'll be coming back any time soon though, those aspirations are kind of frowned upon in our culture on the basis that it disobeys the laws of time and physics.

Oh yeah, the whole time going backwards thing.

He could do it if he wanted to though. You ever get the feeling that time is going slower than usual?

Pardon the pun, but all the time actually.

Well, that's '99 having a laugh. I love puns by the way!

You're welcome. So, you seem like a nice enough year, what went wrong?

I've been racking my brain for the last 367 days and i honestly can't understand the mean things people have been saying about me these last few months. I mean, i'm being blamed for celebrity deaths, recessions, acne, swine flu and Avatar and i'm sitting there thinking "hey humanity, i'm just a year! Why all the beef?"

I loved Avatar!

Me too! I left that cinema wishing i lived in Pandora, man. J.C really went to town on that one!

You know health experts are blaming that movie for depression and suicide now? Like, people are leaving the cinema and killing themselves because they can't live on Pandora.

That's exactly what i'm talking about! It's like, if Michael Jackson dies or Wall street crashes, blame James Cameron! Blame 2009! It's all their fault!

Whereas you see it as more of the individual's fault when a problem occurs?

Damn straight. That's one of the things i learnt during my tenure. People are always happy to blame the person or the year next to them. I copped it the hardest because i'm a finite entity that can't be touched, heard or smelt and therefore supposedly devoid of any emotion. You can all pass the buck as much as you want, you're the reason you had a shit year and you're the reason the economy crashed, i was just there in respite.

Do you hold any remorse towards the population under your care at that point in time?

I'm TIME magazine's worst year ever. 1997 called me a 'cunt' the other day. What do you think? It's like '99 was telling me just the other day of all the flack he copped for the millenium bug drama. That wasn't even his problem!

How so?

As soon as that calendar ticked over to the year 2000 his responsibility for that bug was null and void. People act as if 1999 took a shit on the moon and left it for 2000 to clean up.

I never thought of it like that.

And now look. 2000 walks around like the king of the century because he's the "dawn of a new millenium". What did 2000 ever do for anyone? What, the Olympics? Give me a fucking break!

Lifehouse's 'Hanging by a Moment' was Billboard's overall number one song that year.

Fuck Lifehouse! That shit wouldn't slide during my time. I'd tsunami a Lifehouse concert given the chance.

Speaking of which, weren't you blamed for the Indonesian tsunamis?

Yeah, even though i'm incapable of controlling the weather and it's related elements. That's Mother Nature's doing and i'd love to see you people talk about her the way you've been talking about me.

Back to music, what caught your attention during your time in office?

Actually, 2008 lent me a copy of that Lil Wayne guy's album just last week.

The Carter 3?

That's the one! That's been on heavy rotation. I just found out that his 'No Ceilings' mixtape came out during my time so i've gotta get my hands on that!

There you go! Not everything about you was bad!

That's not funny. I do like Lil Wayne though, he's misunderstood, just like me and '99.

I think we'll finish on that. Any last words or shoutouts?

Yeah i'd like to give 2012 a shoutout. He's already being labeled as the apocalypse and that's pretty heavy for a year that hasn't even started yet. I saw him just the other day and asked him about it and he's all "whatever, i don't even like the Mayans". It's rare for a year to talk like that before his shift. I think even if he does bring the end of the world, he's going to do it in style, which is important.

Beautiful. Tell Agent 99 I said hi.

He'll love that, he reads your blog all the time.

Heterosexual.

2010-01-03T16:53:00.000-08:00

"As the energy is escalating around the MMA culture, TapouT is taking on a life of its own with an attitude so American and Arrogant that the demand for the brand has gone global".

There's a brand called TapouT now. This intrigues me.

The first time I was confronted with this label was during a casual stroll through the foodcourt at Galleria Morley, not quite the catwalks of Milan but definitely a suitable environment for my introduction to this striking brand and it's loyal customer base. As i strolled through the court's international array of five star eateries, a family of five caught my attention as they brazenly strolled between McDonald's and that health store that only seems to sell beefcake protein shakes and nuts. Galleria Morley is full of families eating cheeseburgers, so why did this family demand my attention moreso than any family before them? Was it the way they walked, shoulders protruding, slightly pigeon-toed and neck tensed to the point of vein pulsation? Was it their similar hairstyles, short up front, i'll kill you out the back? Or was it the fact that anyone in their line of sight would immediately scuttle to the side as a declaration of defeat or fear of being defeated?

Yes, it was. But it was also because every member of this family was wearing a TapouT t-shirt and/or TapouT boardshorts and accessories. The father had chosen the Frank Shamrock signature series, the mother preffered the clean imagery of the Amir Sadollah range, whilst the two kids spoke their minds in matching Kimbo Slice tee's with gold foil emblem and a +5 staunch bonus for the wearer. Their new-born was representing the infant collection, but due to the shelter provided by it's pram i could only make out half a bleeding crushed skull and the words "babies never back down".

Now, as we all know beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Fashion is not a straight line, but more a vacumous zig-zag that bounces back and forth between eras, sucking in those lucky enough to embrace it's unique variables and 'collective individual' mentality. Everyone is going to hate what everyone else is wearing out of one side of their mouth and praise those whose style is enviable out the other at one or more stages of their life. Meanwhile, an impressive 99% of these people actually have little to no idea why they take such a vested interest in the appearance of others and eventually become so concerned with the materials on one's body, they either turn gay or not alive anymore. So why, of all the endless beauty and mystery of our home planet, would i dedicate my valuable time to a brand called TapouT?

Don't ask stupid questions.

People wear surf brands because they like surfing (or they're too lazy to make the transition from child to adult), people wear suits because they probably work in an office or are under the impression that women like guys in suits, which is completely false because only sluts and gold diggers are attracted to men in suits and now, people wear TapouT because they like to crush skulls or view the crushing of skulls from the safety of their favourite couch on their flexi-rented 900 inch home theatre package whilst wearing a TapouT shirt.

*wailing guitar*
"WHEN YOU'RE WAITING FOR SOME DIFFERENTLY DRESSED WEAKLING DWEEB FAG TO LOOK YOU YOU IN THE EYE WHILE YOU LOOK HIM IN THE EYE AND WAIT FOR HIM TO CATCH YOUR EYE, MAKE SURE YOU'RE WEARING THE BROCK LARSON FOIL TAPOUT SHIRT AS YOUR VICTORY SWEAT DRIPS DOWN TO HIS BEATEN NAKED BODY!! WHY IS HE NAKED? FUCK YOU AND YOUR ANCESTORS, THAT'S WHY!!
*fading guitar wails*

Ok, fighting is cool now, it's on foxtel and you don't have to think or get confused about stupid plots and conversation while you watch it. I get it. What i don't get is that while the brand promotes victory and the beating of those that you don't understand, is a tap out not a gesture of surrender? Like, in wrestling or UFC or whatever, if a grown, sweaty man is getting pummeled by another man from behind (it's not gay because they're hitting each-other) and he taps the ground a couple of times, is that not a tap out?

Doesn't matter, look at this!

These are the three masterminds behind the TapouT machine. One guy is named MASK and there's another guy named SKYSCRAPER.

In case you didn't know:

"Skyskrape is the jester of the TapouT Crew and every fighter's best friend (they have the privilege of calling him “Skrape” for short)".

also:

"Some may say his silence is a veil for his super-size ego, but Punkass will take to the streets solo with no remorse for those who cross his path."

Am i the only one who sees this as the possible downfall of middle class society as we know it? The owners of this brand have made up personalities for themselves and promote beat-downs as a form of expression and an alternative to the otherwise saturated mainstream ideology. People actually wear a brand now because they can relate it back to that one time they saw a guy get kicked in the front of the head, then jabbed in the ribs a couple of times and eventually rocked so hard in the face that his feet left the ground and he subsequently forgot his surname and the last ten years of his life. Are Mask, Skyscrape and Punkass actually business-savvy entrepeneurs who don make-up and killer nicknames to appeal to the juvenile mentalities of UFC fans worldwide? Or is TapouT the apocalyptic entity the Mayans spoke of when they predicted a 2012 upset for Planet Earth?

An open letter to the devil himself.

2009-12-20T18:11:00.000-08:00

Dear Vagina full of sand,

I would hastily cast my reservations and religious beliefs aside for the opportunity to falcon punch you in the face with both of my fists and one of my legs. You don't just rub me the wrong way, you are a novelty sized cheese grater to the entire system of human relations, furiously tearing strips from it like a cat on heat does the shins of it's owners.

Perez Hilton. I mourn your existence.

The problem is, you're everywhere. You are a dyslexic troll, the spam sperm that somehow survived it's journey from a 2bit gossip email to a fully fledged wasteland of sparkles and sin. You reside in a demountable sector of the internet founded on lies, tasteless quips relating to death and crude abbreviations, yet for reasons unfathomable and at the same time, completely understandable, you are fucking everywhere and people can't live without you. Teenage girls form their opinions on trivial matters by scanning your coarse brand of celebrity critique while grown men and women preach your reverse gospel around office water-coolers on an international scale. They take this information on board as important and relevant and spread it throughout the real world like a modern day plague that feasts on it's hosts brain cells. The pink colour scheme of your stronghold is not dissimilar to that of a freshly ripped, reoccurring scab.

Unfortunately you're launchpad is the least of your concerns at this point in time. Sure, there are millions of publications, online and print, that do what you do, albeit with more tact, and the general public's fascination with celebrity is a guaranteed constant because the grass is always greener, especially when the grass on the other side is dead or struggling. However, the difference between you and the majority is that you possess a rare quality allowing the capitalization from and humiliation of the deceased whilst somehow retaining clout as a source of information. All the cute captions and witty commentaries in the world can't save you from the fact that you promote death for web traffic disguised as condolences. You're the grim reaper in a turquoise jumpsuit and an Apple laptop is your chariot.

Look how this sack of shit gets down:

These were all posted within hours of Brittany Murphy's unfortunate passing this morning. The word 'dies' in capital letters, the accusations against her husband and the unnecessary comparisons to other celebrities whose drug addictions have actually been proven are all the signs of a man with no soul. The same man who was more than happy to throw child molestation and Britney Spears' name in amongst the announcement of Michael Jackson's death and then had the audacity to turn around months later and accuse others of capitalizing from his demise.
You are not only a piece of shit, but moreso an entire industrial district full of infected colons manufacturing the most potent fecal matter known to man at least 10 times a day.

In celebration of your official loss of all ties to the human race, i've constructed my own Perez Hilton style post that i hope you see before your own demise, which i will approach in a similar fashion.

PEREZ PREFERS WHITE!
WTF!? We're not sure what's going on here, but it looks like Perez had a little run in with a big trouser snake! He was spotted leaving this grey curtain yesterday having just been blasted by a supposed 3 litres of pure semen! Whether or not his cheeky smile is a front to hide the disappointment of having to walk around as a baby batter canvas is yet to be found, but what we do know is that this isn't the best look for the aspiring actor/musician/celebrity blogger.

By the way P-rez, loving the blue hair! You look like a pregnancy test!

I hope you get punched in the face again, significantly harder and with more surface area covered than last time.

Regards,
Me.

R.I.P Brittany Murphy, there is no Perez Hilton where you are now.

"Givin' out that raw food to lions disguised as lambs".

2009-12-17T16:53:00.000-08:00

"They call me Jay Electronica, fuck that,
call me Jay ElecHannukah, Jay ElecYarmulke,

Jay ElecTramadaan, Muhammad, Asalaamica,
RasoulAllah Supana Watallah through your monitor".

As i zoned out during my 60th or so listen this morning i wondered what would happen if Jay Electronica somehow jammed 'Apu Nahasapeemapetilon' in amongst the multi-religous mind fuck that occurs during the song's mid-section?

"They call me Jay Electronica, fuck that,

call me Jay Elec Hannukah, Jay ElecYarmulke,

Jay ElecTramApu Nahasapeemapetilon

RasoulAllah Supana Watallah through your monitor".

I've been waiting for this song for too long.

Just Blaze and Jay Electronica have been working together for a while now, starving their loyal stan base with a whole one song and two snippets per year release average. I'd hate to be a rapper while these two are working together. Imagine releasing 28,000 mixtapes and albums over a year, getting a little exposure and then having it pissed away by one of the greatest producers of all time and some dude that raps about shrines in Peru over the top of the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind soundtrack?

Doesn't matter. As of yesterday there were no other rappers, only a broken stratosphere of expectations left by Jay Electronica and Just Blaze's magnificent Exhibit C, which is available on iTunes right now. Buy Exhibit A while you're there as well. Having done that, go and find his Electrochemicals mixtape, listen to it back to front a billion times and become a senior member of the Jay Electronica club. What does being a member grant you access to?

How does one song a year and a free patience appraisal sound?

Delicate china vase atop rich oak bookshelf.

2009-12-13T18:04:00.000-08:00

As the unforgiving sun was lullabied by Mikhail overture to Russlan and Ludmilla and the remaining luminaries shared their last dance along the River Swan, the reality of my location began to set in. I was on the Esplanade as the West Australian Symphony Orchestra began dipping into it's bag of classic Russian overtures, surrounded by cultured families and music students. The Monopoly Man could have driven past and nobody would've blinked an eye. For me, it was an experience completely out of the ordinary, highlighted prominently by my freshly ironed button up and a quartet of styrofoam cups that had set up camp around a bottle of 2008 pinot noir. I was now 60 years old and loving every minute of it.

Myself, Joe, Kieran and Jack set up shop towards the back of the crowd in a selfless act of smoke-free adherence and central crowd avoidance. This was beneficial to us as much as it was to the majority of free ticket holders, should we have felt the need to smoke copious amounts of cigarettes and crack immature jokes about the people walking past us, which we most certainly did. As our commentary heated up, so did the symphonies as the WASO broke into Mussorgsky’s 'Night on Bald Mountain'. It was as if the conductor sensed what we were up to as our jabs were only equaled by the ferocity of the flames displayed on the tent above the musicians and the multiple climaxes of Fantasia's magnum opus.

We were sat in the middle of the farthest exit and as a result, had first class seats to everyone that decided to move around during the performance. We put up with it for the most part, but as a certain 'Stripe Shirt' made it his business to casually stroll through the catwalk we'd reached the end, and the beginning, of our wits. 'Stripe Shirt' was for the most part, a normal guy in a striped shirt. However, due to the effects of Alcohol and the strong nature of the stripes on this particular shirt, he may as well have jumped around the isles, waving glow sticks around whilst proclaiming his love for pissing people off. Being the respectful and worldly symphony connoisseurs that we are, we collectively came to the conclusion that 'Stripe Shirt' was trying to ruin Christmas for all of us. We could have jumped him, but we were watching Russian overtures on the esplanade and it wouldn't have gone down to well with the pregnant teachers and bearded scientists. The beauty of this situation was that he remained completely unaware of our accusations, but still caught our childish laughter at the end of it and learned a valuable lesson about correct symphony attire.

The interludes of Symphony in the City were handled by conductor Guy Noble, who could have made an equally successful career out of stand-up comedy. His jokes about Russian politics and drunk Russians appealed to the more mature patrons, whilst constant quips relating to Twitter and the iPhone kept the younger critics at bay. Even during the more sombre moments of the performance, this jack of all trades managed to remind the crowd of how unappealing Perth is, with sarcastic remarks about blowing the bell tower up and opening hours. The entire crowd embraced in a roar of laughter and cheers as it was once again re-affirmed that everyone in Perth hates Perth.

During Shostakovich's Dmitri Tahiti Trot (Tea for Two), i thought i'd sneak off for a quick toilet break and the purchasing of chips. As i entered the makeshift men's room i was overwhelmed by the nature of the conversations taking place within it's walls of moulded plastic. Where i expected either pure silence or educated opinions on Rachmaninoff's, Sergei Vocalise, Opus 34, No. 14, i was instead treated to complaints of 12 hour shifts, lazy apprentices and faulty cement mixers. I realized that not everyone at the show was willingly in attendance and these guys would have been quite content comparing drill bit sizes in the porta potty for the duration of the event.

Katja Webb's powerful depiction of Tatiana's letter served as the background music to another significant part of the evening, the no holds barred rape of my wallet by the food vendor.

"One regular chips and a coke please" i politely requested.

"That'll be one thousand dollars thankyou" the vendor announced.

I've heard of inflation before but $1,000 for some chips and a coke? That's an evening spoiler for sure. I mean, i know the kind of people that go to symphonies in the city are of the deep-pocket persuasion, but this was a free concert and this stall may as well have displayed deep fried extortion on the menu. I agreed to give her $12 on the terms that i don't complain loudly and make a scene and/or blog post about it. She freaked out and accepted my negotiation and i still felt completely ripped off. Regardless though, Katja tore the roof of it and bellowed out my personal favourite performance of the night. You could say she actually blew the ozone layer off it because of the outdoors location, but i'll save that for my next symphony review.

As the sea of Nintendo DS's lit up and the crowd became antsy, Guy Noble announced the moment we'd all been waiting for. Tchaikovsky's 1812 overture is arguably one of the most recognisable pieces of music in the history of music, but those of you that don't go and see live orchestra very often may recognise it from the conclusion of 'V for Vendetta' and various other montages of destruction. Due to time restraints and Perth's famous 9 o'clock curfew, the piece was limited to it's finale, but was not without it's charm. Whilst a full blown riot and the systematic levelling of Perth's skyline would have been an ideal end to the evening and a fitting tribute to the melody in question, it was just as nice to sit there in awe as the cannons were set off at just the right time and the bell tower proved it's worth by ringing in the background. $1.2 million dollars well spent.

As the performance came to a close we scoped a rather extravagant Christmas party closer to the river and decided to check it out. Where there are Christmas parties, there is free alcohol and Cocaine right? We were denied entry on the grounds that it was a work Christmas party and we all immediately regretted not working for the company in question. We found a break in the fence around the corner and all previous regret was washed away when we were informed that you had to pay for the alcohol at this particular Christmas throwdown. Great idea, host an outlandish gathering on the foreshore with flowers and fancy lighting and then charge your employees for drinks with their Christmas bonuses. We all decided we were glad we didn't work for said company and ended the evening with the communal smoking of a special cigarette on the foreshore.

As the water gently lapped against the limestone wall and we sat there in reflection of the evening's events, a single disgruntled heroin addict walked past us and started staunching the river as if it owed him some money. We waited until he was gone, laughed hysterically and decided it was home time.

The West Australian Symphony Orchestra's 2010 performance schedule is available here. Even if you aren't an avid follower of all things Russian and classical, their organisation promotes a large variety of music and I strongly suggest you go and check them out with empty expectations and a full bottle of red.

How to really surprise your friends and family this Christmas.

2009-12-06T20:03:00.001-08:00

Every weekend I like to head down to my local Gametraders to see if any ingrates have traded in some vintage gold. I've been known to stumble across deadstock, European exclusive copies of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (the one that came in the black box) on a good day and even the odd dust-covered copy of Axelay for the Super Nintendo on any other day. It's a little routine i've had in check for the last year or so and i find it both soothing and resourceful, even though Galleria Morley is comparable to an all ages leper colony mental asylum for the overweight and elderly.

Something was different last weekend though. It's generally pretty quiet at the Gametraders end of the mall, but this time around everything seemed a little more overweight and elderly. Children's tantrums were assaulting my ears from angles i didn't previously think were possible, trails of discarded hair followed panicky fathers and their disobedient trolleys, stressed mothers beat the shit out of each-other in the aisles over Twilight paraphernalia and the old people just sat on the seats provided for them, letting out the occasional hiss at any youths that tried to rest their weary legs. Old people only hiss at Christmas, it must be Christmas.

Suddenly, a wave of uncertainty and festivity came over me. Aside from my Birthday, Easter, Winter, Labour Day, Sick days and Boxing Day, Christmas is my favourite time of year. Everyone pretends to be all civilised and cheerful, traditionally dangerous streets are lined with fairy lights for your safety and commercial television goes into overdrive with Christmas themed repeats of all my favourite programs. Christmas is reliable as well, it comes around at the same time every year and it never calls up to cancel the day before because it's girlfriend is being a bitch or it's too hungover. However, a slightly darker side of Christmas has begun to make it's presence felt over the last few years. As i grow older and my arsenal of responsibilities grows larger, the obligation to supply thoughtful presents to friends and family has become a very real situation. A situation that no amount of "oops!" and "they didn't have your size" can save you from.

I am of course talking about presents. I'm not sure where this exchange of materials originated, nor am i yet to learn of it's long term effects, but it's what separates us from the animals and it's recently overtaken the birth of Christ as the main reason to celebrate Christmas. The problem is, i'm not good at it. I've been good at receiving presents for as long as i can remember and people always thank me afterwards for making them feel just right after presenting me with a gift. Sometimes when someone receives a gift they do this little freak out thing and make a way bigger deal out of it then is necessary. Don't do that. It's an obvious over-compensation that leaves the giver of the gift with a sense of failure and the impression that their offering is lacking in the imagination/quality department which is only amplified by the receiver's blatant act. I've seen it go down and it's awkward. When i receive a gift, i snatch it and continue the conversation as if nothing ever happened. Me taking the gift is enough to let the giver know that i am satisfied with it and avoids any possible awkwardness or excess thank-yous.

When it comes to giving gifts, i am way out of my element. I haven't thought about it too much, but it may have stemmed from my 8th or 9th birthday. Ninja Turtles had just become uncool and Streetfighter and Basketball were the new black. One of my friends, who was obviously living in the past, had the audacity to bring me a Donatello (who wasn't even cool when the Ninja Turtles were) figurine with three point movement and bow strike action. He also came with a little slice of plastic pizza which i found to be quite ironic considering Donatello was clearly a pussy and probably only ate organic granola and vegetable burritos. Regardless of Donatello's diet though, the friend in question was sent home for his betrayal with a slice of cake but no lolly bag. We threw sticks at him the next day at school. He may or may not work in parliament now.

Since that day, i've forever been afraid of giving the wrong gift and sometimes just avoid it all together. This isn't as much an indicator of how i feel about that person as it is a sign of respect and how bad i'd feel if i gave them a Donatello instead of basketball cards. The act of un-giving is a great money saver as well. People always seem to stress before Christmas because of all the money they're going to have to blow on trinkets for people that are only going to get intoxicated the same night and forget who gave it to them. Hmm, how should i spend my Christmas bonus? A new book for old Joan down the road or a wireless router for my xbox? Exactly. If i buy myself a big present instead of lots of little things for other people, i'll never forget it. It's a special bond between me and myself and a selfless example of the Christmas spirit. It's not for everyone, but if you're tired of being broke the same time every year, surprise your friends with no presents at all. They'll have become so accustomed to your kind-natured past that they'll just stand there in complete awe, giving you just enough time to creep into the shadows and towards the eski full of free beer and moderately priced champagne.

Your presence is your gift to this world. Be sure to share it with the people you love most this festive season.

Second Skin

2009-11-30T00:07:00.000-08:00

I realized i had a problem around 1997. Having reigned supreme since late 1992, my Super Nintendo was starting to grow digital white hair and it's initial charm and seemingly infinite capabilities were being made redundant by the soon to be released Sony Playstation and it's inescapable hype. For me, it was both sad and exciting. I'd shared so many unforgettable gaming milestones with my Super Nintendo, but the appeal of the Sony Playstation and it's impressive launch roster and developer support was hard to avoid. I mean, i did actual school work in year 6 just on the strength of a proposed Sony Playstation for Christmas if my end of year report didn't contain the words 'Fail', 'other students' and 'assaulting a teacher'. My year 6 grades were worse than ever at the end of the year but i got the Sony Playstation anyway because i was diagnosed with ADD towards the end of the year, which we all know is basically a set of keys for a house on fuck around street in sympathy town.

Resident Evil came out a few months later and i was instantly attached to it. Every weekend i'd ride to my local video store to hire a game so i didn't have to worry about getting bored in between basketball and being hyperactive. I'd always spend way longer than necessary in there, forever fascinated by the spiels on the back covers of movies and games whose front covers caught my attention, particularly those of the horror genre. I had a wild imagination as a kid and would always try and push my own limits in terms of scary films which, fortunately for me, only ever went as far as looking at the gory pictures on the back covers and never actually renting them. Resident Evil would be the first time i'd willingly expose myself to the horror genre.

Without deviating too much, Resident Evil was a third person shooting/adventure game that placed you and a squad of special forces inside a spooky old mansion in the middle of nowhere to find your buddies who were also sent on a similar mission. All sorts of nasty experiments had been conducted in secret labs inside the mansion and as a result, it's inhabitants are now all zombies in lab coats and civilian clothing. The mansion was huge and within it's dimly lit hallways and extravagant decoration, numerous secret passages and hidden rooms awaited your exploration should you have felt it necessary to traumatise yourself/find secret items. The constant feeling of isolation combined with the (for it's time) photorealistic graphics and it's famous symphonic soundtrack made for a particularly haunting experience and a game that i probably should have left until i was older.

As soon as i got Resident Evil home and popped the disc in my playstation i was hooked. I spent that entire Saturday inside the mansion, stopping only for toilet breaks and the occasional sandwich that was consumed whilst playing the game. I maximised my progress by taking half of the sandwich in my mouth at a time, thus allowing both of my hands to remain on the controller whilst simultaneously receiving the essential fibre and nutrients that you can only gain from a mouthful of bread and vegemite. Ten hours had passed and i soon realized that i'd played the game from 10 o'clock that morning to 8 o'clock the same night with about ten minutes break in total. This was unprecedented for me at the time as my gaming sessions were normally limited to 2-3 hour bursts. It became a case of not wanting want to play the game because i liked it, but because i just wanted it to be over. I woke up at 3am that morning, sweating profusely with a high temperature, shaking violently and feeling like my head was going to explode. I'd been having flu nightmares about a zombie apocalypse resulting from prolonged exposure to scary mansions and an extremely concentrated dose of Capcom. It was the first time i'd been scared of death, which was insane because due to my childish ignorance, i'd narrowly escaped it a few times prior. I had to go to hospital straight away and theories of epilepsy were thrown around but instantly cast aside when the doctors were made aware of my exploits that day. It was recommended that i stay away from the Playstation for at least 48 hours, drink as much water as possible and to take 15 minute breaks for every hour that i spent in front of the television.

The next morning i woke up and started playing Resident Evil again. My eyes weren't even fully open yet, which didn't really matter because i'd become so comfortable with my console that if i wanted to, i could operate it using only my mind. I escaped the mansion and it's unimaginable horrors after a four hour revolt against health and safety and the feeling was indescribable, even if i was starting to look like the very zombies i was mowing down in the game. I assured myself that i'd built up an immunity to video game fatigue and that the night prior was merely a hurdle that all gamers must cross before their addiction becomes fully fledged. Since then i've played more epic games for longer periods of time with nothing more than a slight headache or the odd exile from my friends.

As we reach the tail end of 2009 gaming has become 'cool', nerds are the new black and Microsoft, Sony and Nintendo are all manipulating pop culture to the same extent as MTV, Asian people and Stephanie Meyer. Extreme cases of video game addiction are becoming commonplace on an international scale and mainstream media are all too happy to cover it's negative effects in the form of 60 minute specials on World of Warcraft and unfounded articles discussing how violent and accessible video games have become. That's life though, we're yet to find a cure for 'douchebag'.

Luckily for me, a little documentary called 'Second Skin' exists. It was actually released a while ago and follows seven gamers, all from different walks of life and the ridiculous lives they lead as a result of their dependence. Couples finding love over Everquest, grown men lining up for expansion packs and even the odd suicide are the nature of this presentation and i urge anyone that has ever held a controller in their hands or woken up at 3 o'clock in the morning with possible brain damage after a 10 hour zombie marathon to watch it.

That's what i was trying to say this whole time.

Getting mugged, for my time.

2009-11-26T20:20:00.000-08:00

I was in the city bright and early this morning and hadn't yet fulfilled my coffee quota so i decided to go and visit my favourite caffeine hole, Tiger Tiger. Pretty fucking exciting huh? Tiger Tiger was awesome when it first opened because instead of trying to bring some new and obvious gimmicks (gay or extremely camp baristas unaware of the concept of shutting the hell up) and design elements (art deco rape couches) to Perth's thriving coffee industry, they made good coffee and served you when you walked to the counter. Who would have thought such a crazy concept would work? Customer walks in, you greet customer with no bullshit and you make me a coffee that tastes good and is worth the ridiculously inflated price i pay for it. Take note Claremont.
It had been a while since my last visit to Tiger Tiger and i was immediately taken back by how much the little alleyway cafe had changed. Big brown picnic tables had infiltrated the once spacious passage and pushed out the little chairs and tables of yonder, businessmen and art fanatics alike appeared to be co-existing under the same shade and there was a line to the counter as long as my patience, which was surprisingly long on this particular morning. Way to grow Perth. Where was I? Melbourne?

"That'll be $4.00 thanks".

Nope, not Melbourne. But "Not Perth" either, as the funky chalk board proclaimed at the entrance to the alleyway. Shame too, declaring that an establishment in Perth is 'Not Perth' in an act of rebellion against Perth is probably the most Perth thing you can do, aside from inciting intercourse with a swan atop Kings Park. I was actually meant to start this post off with "I got a coffee at Tiger Tiger this morning and it was great" but then all this stuff started pissing me off. Something important did actually happen to me today, it's importance owed to the fact that the exact thing happened to me a couple of months ago.

I was getting Lunch in Mt. Lawley and making my way back up Beaufort Street, which by the way, is the most tedious task you could ever imagine. If it was acceptable, i'd eat my Antonio's roll inside Antonio's. Maybe they should put some fuck off picnic tables all through their walkway and see what happens. As i made the crucial cross from the scotsman side to the planet side, this dude meets me halfway at the island. He was kind of scraggly looking, but not scraggly enough to be homeless. As cars speed past us and i try and find a gap as soon as possible to avoid any possible interaction with this guy who is obviously going to ask me for some money or a job, the following exchange takes place.

Sketchy dude: Hey, scuse' me brother! You wouldn't be able to help me would you?

Me: (fuck).

Sketchy dude: Me and me missus are on our way back to Geraldton and the car's broken down just around the corner. I've been walking up and down this street for an hour an a half, me daughter's got a broken leg and me wife's looking after our two kids in the car. All i wanna do is get back to Geraldton with me family and i was wondering if you could help us out with ten or fifteen bucks for some petrol?

Me: Sorry man, i just spent my last (not even) few dollars on this (amazing, tasty, expensive) roll from the deli down the road.

*I reach into my pocket, my fingers expertly dodging the copious amounts of $50 notes and gold coins and going straight for the silver coins, a skill i've mastered since i started working on Beaufort Street. It's actually gotten to the point where my fingers can sense the colour, value and international exchange rate of a coin*.

Me: Here mate, it's only small change but i'm sure it'll help.

He then took the money and didn't say one fucking word to me. No thankyou, no grunts, no sequel sob story to try and convince me to donate more, just a surly look and a turn around. I'd just given this guy free money for nothing. Aside from his audacity to ask for such a ludicrous donation and despite the various plot-holes in his story (is your car broken down or out of petrol? Do you have a daughter with a broken leg or two kids?) i dug deep and donated to what i knew was an illegitimate cause. I was mugged for my time and i had to wash my expensive roll down with a now warm Dr. Pepper. Whatever though, i'm a nice guy and i've since forgiven homie for his lack of manners and ignorance of road rules.

Forgiven, until yesterday that is. I'd just been to Coles and had once again wisely invested my money in an olive encrusted ciabatta roll featuring prosciutto, jarlsberg and fresh salad executive produced by me. I was making my way back to work when in the distance i notice someone that doesn't quite fit in to the evolution of fashion currently occurring in Claremont's central hub. This guy had just finished talking to one person when he immediately started talking to a young couple behind them. The couple then hand him what looks to be Australian currency. This guy is either extremely popular or homeless. He then continues his journey, which happens to detour past my exact line of sight and the direction in which i'm walking. "please don't see me, please don't see me, in the name of the father, son and the holy spirit jesus christ mighty lord above please don't let him see me".

Sketchy dude: Hey, scuse' me brother! You wouldn't be able to help me would you?

Me: (FUCK! It's him!)

Sketchy dude: Me and me missus are on our way back to Geraldton and the car's broken down just around the corner. I've been walking up and down this street for an hour an a half, me daughter's got a broken leg and me wife's looking after our two kids in the car. All i wanna do is get back to Geraldton with me family and i was wondering if you could help us out with ten or fifteen bucks for some petrol?

It was the same guy, telling the same story, in Claremont. I couldn't believe what i was seeing. It had been a good few months since i last saw this guy and he was still stuck in the exact same situation with the exact same amount of daughters and the same problem with his car. Only he'd somehow managed to make it all the way into Claremont to plead his case. I wanted to tell him to keep walking because at this pace he'd be in Geraldton by Christmas but i've heard these characters aren't big on the whole concept of hygiene and one punch could land me five minutes in germ town county prison, scrubbing my hands as punishment.

I awkwardly fumbled around my pocket, gave him a New Zealand dollar and fled the scene so quickly that i didn't even realize how much i'd technically given him and how much i hated myself for not taking the opportunity to expose him. I shook it off and continued forth to my destination, knowing that i'd been rolled for my money and time once again by this enigmatic, petrol-huffing genius. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, i fucking hate your guts and the guts of anyone you care about.

My lunch tasted all the more luxurious when i remembered how that New Zealand dollar will be the only thing between him and his next cask of wine and maybe, just maybe when he tries to assault the Liqourland attendant for not accepting it, the resulting police intervention will see him back in East Perth lock up and significantly closer to his wife, one or two daughters and that imaginary broken down Commodore on Walcott Street.

I'm a great guy.

Where'd you get that shirt? An Elia Kazan set wardrobe?

2009-11-18T17:40:00.000-08:00

Oh my god i was in Planet Video last night and i encountered what shall forever remain as the most arrogant, self-obsessed, nerdy, pseudo-discerning, slightly-alternative-but-before-alternative-was-cool group of arts & film major cinema buffs i have ever eavesdropped on. There was four of them and if you were ever to make an independent film where a group of people stand in the new release section loudly stating their opinions on the state of movie direction and how David Lynch is overrated, these four people would not only star in it, but also direct it and then rip it to shreds after it's preview out the front of the Boston Independent film festival whilst smoking an entire pack of Camel brand cigarettes.

First, you had the leader of the pack, who was a tall, lanky male with a huge adam's apple and scruffy hair. He was wearing one of those retro t-shirts with an old hi-8 logo to display his affection for a time when movies were made in French with passion and didn't come with subtitles. Oh yeah, his shirt wasn't retro, it was actually from 1989.
Standing next to the leader was his sidekick, a Ferris Bueller rip off in a striped shirt, neat quiff and shitloads of acne. He probably had pants on as well, i was just too angry to look at the time. The sidekick didn't say much, possibly due to the fact that in between nodding his head and dropping the occasional Virginie Despentes quote, he had the leader's dick and balls firmly clamped inside his mouth.
If i'd kindly look to the right, i might just notice a girl. Conventionally, a girl wouldn't normally be accepted into such an esteemed and potentially homosexual group of art-house movie critics, but this particular female specimen had obviously become a member as part of an initiative by the group to avoid the tacky 'bromance' tag that had plagued them on their daily outings between the time a post Clueless Paul Rudd became popular and the present. This girl wore glasses, a red knit jumper, faded jeans and bootleg Doc Martens. She had no problem deflecting the obvious testosterone flying around during their debate over which modern actress would have made a suitable replacement for Lilian Gish in D.D.W Griffith's controversial Birth of a Nation. She also did this whilst simultaneously not wanting to have sex with a single member of her group.

There was another guy there as well, he had orange hair and if it's even possible, was the loser of the group. Everything he said was instantly dispelled by the leader of the group and then reinforced by the sidekick and the girl with glasses. The only reason he hangs out with them is because the false sense of belonging takes his mind off his numerous failed suicide attempts due to him not actually wanting to die until Avatar comes out. Wanting to see the obscenely over-hyped and mainstream Avatar is another reason he is shunned by his peers.

These four had no intention of actually renting anything out and were content just standing in the middle of the New Release section, loudly discussing shit foreign movies that nobody had ever heard of or cared about. I can tell they've done this before. They know they're more suited to the festival section of the video store but the New Release section gets a-lot more traffic and they're more likely to be heard by the general public and therfore, less understood than before. It was this kind of anti-attention seeking backwards logic that forced me to pick up the nearest copy of Watchmen and pretend to read the back whilst i listened in on their stimulating rhetoric.

Adam's Apple - Oh my god Silas, could you stand any closer to that Transformers cover? I don't think Frank Weller has completely revolved in his grave yet.

Sidekick - Yeah Silas, what are you trying to do? Be one of the people?

Red Jumper - *flicks hair* *rolls eyes* That's so cute Silas, of all the fine cinema featured in the New Release section, you choose Megan Fox and Michael Bay. *rolls eyes*

Orange hair - Sorry guys, i was actually standing here as a protest. Like standing in front of it symbolizes my rebel against it and will hopefully drive people away from supporting Steven Spielberg.

*Young man brushes past the group, grabs Transformers and says "Awesome"*

Adam's Apple - Yeah, nice protest Silas. Who are you? Nicholas Ray?

Sidekick - More like Nicholas Gay! *looks around*

Adam's Apple - *rolls eyes* Christian, that low brow humor reminds me of the ironic Will Ferrell craze of 2006-2007. Don't be a miscreant.

Sidekick - I know, i had a total moment of mainstream just then.

Orange Hair - So, what do you guys want to get out? I haven't seen Sophie's Choice for a while?

Red Jumper - *rolls eyes* *flicks hair* "Between the innocent, the romantic, the sensual, and the unthinkable. There are still some things we have yet to imagine". *rolls eyes*

Adam's Apple - Thank you Melody. *rolls eyes* Silas for god's sake, If you open your mouth to only display complete ignorance and a lack of film knowledge one more time, i'm going to start an online petition to have you banned from every film network on the world wide web. *looks around*

Sidekick - Forget it Donny! You're out of your element!

Adam's Apple - *Looks around* Really Christian? A Big Lebowski quote? Where are we? Video Ezy?

Red Jumper - *rolls eyes* *adjusts glasses* *rolls eyes* *looks around* *flicks hair* *has a seizure* *looks around*

I know Planet Video/Planet Books is a great place for the university students and hessian bag carrying population of the greater Mt. Lawley area to showcase their intellects and allergy to anything mainstream, but if i have to wilfuly go through anything slightly reminiscent of the above verbal exchange during a trip to the video store again, i'm going to decapitate everyone in sight with Leslie Nielsen's entire catalogue.

I came to get a movie out, not be kept up to date on how fucking lame you are.

Was Charles Wooley flirting with Robert Pattinson?

2009-11-16T16:51:00.000-08:00

I was making this amazing pasta the other night and was totally in a groove similar to that of a certain Emperor whilst he figured out how to get it back. I had the sauce on simmer, the fettucine on smash and the vibe in the kitchen was that of a somewhat chilled out entertainer. As i applied the finishing touches to my pièce de résistance, i was stopped dead in my tracks by what sounded like shrieking teenage girls coming from the living room. Not the kind of shrieks that you ignore because it's probably just stupid girls being scared of stupid spiders, but moreso the kind of shrieks that cause a man to abandon whatever it is he is doing to fight for justice and potential bravery accolades in the form of medals and/or trophies. I immediately dropped the prosciutto, ran into the living room and was ready to eradicate whatever it was that was threatening my girlfriend and my housemate's girlfriend when, to my embarassment, i'm greeted by a much less threatening scene. The girls weren't screaming because some pedophile, rapist, kitten-torturing madman had jumped through the window to wave his willy at them, they were screaming because a preview of Robert Pattinson's interview with 60 minutes had just aired and i only had about five minutes to get as far away from the television as possible. I slowly turned around and headed back to the kitchen, red with embarassment and the realization that i may in fact, not be receiving any bravery accolades any time soon.

I've always been a fan of Charles' gentle yet firm brand of journalism. He always seems to ask the most important questions and constantly has me sitting there in awe, screaming "THAT'S WHAT I WOULD HAVE ASKED HIM!". If someone is awesome, he interviews them awesome, if someone is a bag of shit, he'll throw bags of shit at them and make them look as uneducated and stinky as possible, almost to the point where that person will never return to Australia, or if they're already an Australian citizen, to leave Australia as soon as possible. He is basically the foreign affairs minister specializing in rich celebrity douchebags.

As a result of this admiration i was a little intrigued as to how he'd go about interviewing the biggest celebrity in the world and the one man responsible for tarnishing the vampire's otherwise deadly and irreproachable image. Will he publicly sandbag him because he feels the same way i do about vampires? Or will he suckle at his nuts like a fanboy in overdrive?

Truth is, he didn't really do either. I was personally a little surprised at Charles' approach this time round and maybe it's just me, but it looked like he was only asking those questions to make conversation with Robert, get him nice and comfortable and eventually ask him out on a date.

See the transcript for yourselves, I've highlighted the parts i found to be most suspect.

CHARLES WOOLEY: You had been, at one stage, a teenage model?

CHARLES WOOLEY: So you were trying to trade on your good looks?

CHARLES WOOLEY: You could see this as a metaphor for something else, getting serious here.

CHARLES WOOLEY: Even Tom Cruise has had a bite at it, turning Brad Pitt into a member of the dark fellowship.

CHARLES WOOLEY: I kept saying, "Go for this guy,".

CHARLES WOOLEY: You're nicely diffident, though. It's an English thing, isn't it?

CHARLES WOOLEY: Please Robert, bite me on the neck?

CHARLES WOOLEY: A nice young man.

C'mon Charles! As i watched on i kept expecting Robert to suddenly be in a skirt with no panties, seductively crossing and re-crossing his legs to gain Charles' favour and more admiration from his fans. Then i realized that happened in Basic Instinct and thank god i didn't just whip that scenario up out of nowhere.

Here are some pictures.

After being confronted with this imagery for a few minutes i had to leave the room. I'm not saying i don't respect Charles Wooley anymore, i'm just saying he lost his shit for this particular interview. A man of such esteem should never let himself be charmed by some english runabout movie star/teen model, no matter how much his skin shimmers in the sunlight. The only way i see Charles redeeming himself after this particular incident is by interviewing the more important members of the 'Twilight' cast, namely this girl.

Get em' Wooley!

"Nice shirt bro..........glassed anyone tonight?"

2009-11-11T18:29:00.000-08:00

Whenever i check facebook in the morning i always follow a regimental process known as the 'douche-filter'. It's a pretty basic technique that enables me to scan my live feed at a faster than usual pace, taking in all the important information and simultaneously dispelling the warm garbage juice that takes up 80% of my feed at any given time. All the relevant information is stored in a pile to the back of my brain should i need to discuss it with others at a later time or if need something to talk about, and the rest is completely discarded to the same area where i store all my important engagements and bill reminders and thus, completely forgotten. It's not fancy in any sense of the word but it is the most reliable process of elimination in my life at the moment.

Successful live feed information includes:

- Hilarious youtube videos involving cats, old people scrapping, cats scrapping and Lil Wayne documentary previews.

- People failing at life. "Oh man i just runned over a bird, i suck", "i'm on facebook in a public toilet, i just did shits lol" or the always entertaining "anyone got anywhere to live?".

- Epic chain comments on status updates. Anything above 3o comments on a status update requires my immediate attention as the contributors are clearly up to something comical and/or clever.

Unsuccessful live feed information includes:

- Band/live gig/promotional information. I hate this stuff more than anything else on Facebook. I don't go to gigs very often, and if i ever do they tend to be the type of gigs you hear about on advertising venues besides Facebook before eventually seeing them on Facebook. God knows why i accept requests from these companies, i get 20 emails a day and at least 21 of them are invites to gigs i'd never set foot in. I get it, you have to promote your gig and Facebook is the easiest way to reach the net-savvy youth of today but even your supporters can only tolerate so much spam rape in one day.

- Farmville. I'm juvenile as shit, i play video games, take very little seriously and gain great pleasure from new release confectionery, but i'll be damned if i ever stoop to Farmville's level of immaturity. This is like the World of Warcraft of Facebook but instead of never hearing about it and it's primary user base being violent loner asexual nerds, my live feed is getting pounded by people i thought i knew and how well their computer generated carrot crops are going. Oh no! A black cat wandered onto your farm and i subsequently blocked all Facebook contact with you! Unlucky!

- Fuck i hate Farmville.

- Shitty Youtube videos that i've seen a million times. If you post a Youtube video that 6,958,954,394 people have viewed, chances are i've seen it.

So with my filter in full effect this morning i stumbled across the following news article.

"Metrosexuals banned to curb violence."

I had a read through it and instantly recognised the name of the venue and the people that were running it. The venue is known as Dorcia and is run by one Scott Mellor. I've spoken to Scott on numerous occasions and he is a polite, well-mannered individual with a good business mind and an awareness of what the 'alternative' youth want when they let their collective hairs down. Dorcia originally started as a bi-monthly party at the otherwise uninhabitable Leederville hotel and was aimed at a pretty diverse crowd whom all shared the same distaste for the rest of Perth's excessively lame nightclubs. You had your hardcore crowd, skateboarders, bmx'ers, your streetwear afficiandos and more than enough young lasses to cater to the aforementioned groups. Nowadays, it has become a national weekly event, is celebrated in both Melbourne and Perth and has given exposure to and promoted the careers of local DJ's armed only with a strong word of mouth campaign and a few carefully placed wheat paste posters. Elsewhere, these people would have no choice but to adhere to the old world dress standards and mentalities of bouncers and club owners perth-wide, or be forced to stay at home through fear of being denied entry to a club they're only attending for the sake of going out, not because they actually want to be there. Their slogan?

'No metrosexual attire, no aggression, no problems.

Essentially, this advertises an evident animosity towards the general public and what is deemed acceptable by most night clubs. And why the fuck not. You only need to spend one night out in any of Perth's club districts to bare witness to the extremely stale, almost uniform, dress standards enforced by club owners who appear to cater only to football players, football supporters and a general public scared of individuality or patrons of differing taste, backgrounds, religious beliefs or whatever else they can discriminate against for the sake of achieving a nightclub full of the same person. Watch the news on any given Sunday and you're bound to see footage of a bunch snakeskin boot-wearing, faded jean endorsing, stitch pattern button-up sporting apes beating each-other senseless out the front of the Red Sea because that's what you do at the end of a big night, wrestle with men while females run scared. I mean, what else are you going to brag about to your cronies throughout the week in anticipation of going out and doing it all again next weekend?

Stereotype? Yes. Unfair? Doubt it. The club owners and the audience they appeal to have done this to themselves and now that it's happening they're saying it's unfair to exclude someone from a venue based on their appearance. A hypocrisy this extreme should attract infringements and jail time. You know why people like Scott Mellor and anyone else making an effort to avoid these characters are excluding YOU and YOUR customers now? Because when you're all lurking the streets of Subiaco, Northbridge or the City at 2am in the morning being recorded on cctv acting like a bunch of fucking morons, you are all dressed EXACTLY the same. It then gets played on Today Tonight, A Current Affair and every other local news station and you all lose another point of credibility, only to be let into the exact same venue again and again while nothing is done about it. Who else do they associate this behavior with?

I'm not endorsing exclusion or discrimination at nightclubs. There are of course other factors that contribute to violence and general fuckery at nighclubs, alcohol and drugs obviously spring to mind. These two variables however, are not up for debate as a result of Scott's decision. It's the fact that his rules are being disputed by people who wouldn't set foot in Dorcia anyway, other club owners and even Human Rights Commissioner Dr. Helen Szoke, who states "it is against the law to refuse a person service on the basis of age, sex, physical features, race and a range of other characteristics". Nice one Doc, now go and tell that to every other club that isn't Dorcia.

I was even a little apprehensive of Scott's slogan at first. I've been to Dorcia a few times myself you see. The music was too loud, the girls were too scantily clad and someone spilt beer on me. Regardless, I did have a great time and was extremely comfortable walking around in a pair of sneakers, baggy denim and a crew neck jumper, without having to worry about getting bottled or beaten for staring at some guys chick. Of course it was going to be up for debate when a new venue appears in Northbridge and doesn't accept 99% of the population, but now that i've heard Scott's side of the story and read comments published by the general public on the matter, i couldn't agree more with his stance.

I'll leave you with the kind of gold i was coming across and a prime example of the people that fall under the scrutiny of Scott's slogan.

Completely boycotts Fur and it's related products

2009-11-10T17:23:00.000-08:00

How come i suddenly love Twilight and hate people that wear fur?

The X Factor.

2009-11-04T17:36:00.000-08:00

I want to die
This flu is being a faggot
A reward for my assailant

Ladies and Gentlemen, above is a the first haiku i have ever written. It was composed on Tuesday around lunchtime, during the peak of the gnarliest flu i have ever endured. This flu was so badass that it wore a leather jacket with a patch on the back displaying five rebellious germs circling a perfectly healthy one. It rode into my immune system on a motorbike constructed of pure hatred for human health and proceeded to do bog laps around my entire person for a good 72 hours, stopping only to refuel and give me just enough time to convince myself that life is worth living and suicide isn't the most realistic cure for my illness.

I know you're sitting there thinking "what a pussy, he thinks he's a hard nut because he had the flu". It wasn't just the flu you fucking bitch. If what i had to endure was the flu, then realistically everyone that has ever had the flu wouldn't even know they had the flu, because they'd be dead already. Walls were moving with no assistance, ceilings were spinning in a similar fashion to that of a hypnotist's charm (except the charm works in reverse and takes you to hell), my nose was running faster and for longer periods than Steve Monoghetti on steroids and my fever was so severe that i learnt pyrokinesis but i didn't even want to use it because i was too sick. You know you've ventured beyond the realms of a common flu when you've learnt pyrokinesis and you don't even want to use it. So take your measly little colds and stick it where the sun shines, aka your ass, because you clearly think that is where the sun shines from if you also believe you've had this kind of flu before.

How did i deal with it though? Many would suggest prescription medicines, lemon teas and all sorts of other homo-erotic short term solutions but i think the most effective deterrent for any kind of sickness is to not get it in the first place. Don't share drinks, don't walk behind sick people or people who don't look like they shower daily and don't let your friends sneeze in your mouth. Quite simple for most (me in particular), but for those of us who are prone to catch other people's filth every now and then or are just plain jerks with weak immune systems, i bring forth two activities that will have you saying "Vomit? What vomit?"

1. A limitless supply of the X Files back catalogue.
The only television series filmed entirely during overcast weather and the owner of some serious real estate close to my heart. I don't care what anyone says, aside from Seinfeld and the earlier seasons of Samurai Pizza Cats, the X Files is the greatest of all time television series. Sewer monsters, non-twilight vampires, telekinetic dolls, killer ATM machines, mind-controlling soil, Aliens, the Internet, murderous mist, government cover-ups and Fox Mulder. It effortlessly ticks all the boxes on the curriculum vitae of awesomeness and is one of those rare franchises that you can come back to every ten years and still be blown away by it's delivery and excessively ghoulish theme song. Plus, Dana Scully is one of few female protagonists that holds the ability to get better looking with every season. I can't even imagine how good she'd look if the series ran through to this day.

2. Borderlands
Borderlands is a new game that i bought for my X-box. If i had to describe it, it would be like....you've got this train line right? And this train line runs from 'pretty cool' station all the way to the last stop at 'completely fucking radical'. Borderlands would be the drunken limousine driver that picks you up and tells you that there is a station beyond completely fucking radical that no-one knows about and he takes you there and makes the most hilarious jokes you've ever heard along the way and you feel like you're accomplishing something throughout the entire journey.

If you like your video games to include insignificant elements like 'story line' and 'cohesion' then it's probably best that you don't ever play this game. The lack of story is by far the most impressive aspect of Borderlands and i can only aspire to achieve a similar worldwide acclaim for doing absolutely fuck all.

Game Developer 1: "So, we're probably gonna have to whip a story together before we release this already finished alpha version of the game to the testers".

Game Developer 2: "Really? Damn. Umm, there's a planet called Pandora and there's, umm, this vault right? And it has treasure in it".

Game Developer 1: "Yeah! Yeah! And you're there to find it or something".

Game Developer 2: "Perfect".

Game Developer 1: "Now onto the more important matter. Did we decide on 250,000 different guns or 1,000,000"?

Game Developer 2: "Shit. Better boil the kettle".

It's true, some players have counted over a billion different guns and not even one ounce of storyline at any given point of the game. You basically just run around gathering loot, killing bandits and levelling up so you can kill more bandits later on with less effort and more body parts per square meter. Some might call it the perfect game, i would call it Jesus Christ in the flesh.

I went to a party on the weekend as well. I know it's where i caught my sickness from and I'll put some photos up soon so you can help me find the asshole. Meanwhile, go check the shredtavern for evidence of said party.

Give a fuk wat a hetter gat to say.

2009-10-30T19:44:00.000-07:00

While you said he was nothing but a gimmick, a one trick pony and the worst rapper alive, we said he was a rising star, an artist of immense capabilities and the voice of a generation. Where you questioned our intentions, we preached the gospel and while you were at home last night hetting behind your computers, BANGS was rocking a full capacity crowd to the sweet sounds of victory and of course, his recent chart-topping venture, 'Take U To Da Movies'.

I wasn't there myself personally, but a certain Dommy Hammond was there to witness history in the making as an impressively collected BANGS tore the roof off as if he were a seasoned veteran on the live music circuit.

Seriously. Who the fuck can come out of nowhere and influence a crowd like that? He even brought popcorn! Dinner and a show! And keep your "yeh but peepl r jus lauging at him!!" mentalities to yourselves. BANGS set out to do one thing, entertain the shit out of you. If a single person at that venue last night didn't leave absolutely beaming may i suggest a booking with your nearest proctologist for immediate removal of the forrest of sticks and tree trunks clearly residing deep inside your colon.

Take U To Da Movies

2009-10-29T18:15:00.000-07:00

Every few years a new piece of music will emerge that is so raw in concept and honest in it's delivery that it makes you wonder how you ever lived without it. I'm talking about the kind of music that pushes away big budget recording studios and professional marketing mentalities whist simultaneously welcoming new concepts and aural experimentation with a transition comparable to that of a 2002 v12 Cadillac Cien. I am of course talking about BANGS groundbreaking new single "Take U To Da Movies".

"Bangs is a 19 year old rap artist born in North Khartoum, Sudan. At the age of 11, he moved to Egypt with his family after his Father married another wife. He spent two years there before coming to Australia in 2003.

He has been writing rap, hip hop and pop since settling in Melbourne in 2004.

“Music is my wife”, Bangs sang in a live jam recently. He writes about life, love and hope and his music grows with him till the end of life.

He recorded his first demo “Girlfriend” in 2005 with DJ Wasabi in Collingwood, then started to lay down tracks in his home studio.

In July 2008, he recorded his first professional album at Gateway Living Music Studios, titled “Hard to be Up”. Produced by John Favaro and Paul Last name, it features the new hit single “Take U to Da Movies”

- Excerpt from BANGS biography.

His first single 'Take U To Da Movies' is the result of years of dedication as much as it is a dedication to all the girls who like to go to the movies. The track opens up with a shot of BANGS in the flesh and he immediately jumps into the first verse. Business as usual.

"Let me take you to the movies shorty,
i'm sure later on you'll be my baby,
lets sit down and just be by my side,
i got the popcorn, i know what size you like"

To most, this would seem like a typical r&b track about a guy that's trying to soften up his new lady friend but BANGS somehow manages to take it deeper than rap. To research this verse with an open mind is to realize that BANGS is in fact playing on the female's insatiable desire to be taken out for a good film and the idea that a hip-hop star should be able to do just that. It's a classic play on a timeless mentality and a protest to the ever recurring and somewhat stale theme in hip-hop that females are of little use in modern society and merely a tool for the male's satisfaction. The only satisfaction that BANGS is getting out of a female is that which comes from showing her a good time.

And if you thought this song was a one dimensional view on a chivalrous act, you'd be incorrect and i'd feel sorry for you. Again, if you watch the clip closely, BANGS uses the imagery as a chance to express his view on some more important issues.

Money - BANGS is by no means a political rapper, but the constant shots of money (sometimes of varying currency) is a constant reminder that the global economic crisis is still in full effect and if you play your cards right you too can be financially stable amongst tumultuous times.

Heritage - Throughout the video, background shots of BANGS' birthplace Sudan bring a certain element of pride to the track. BANGS wants you to know where he's come from, where he's at and where he's going. Namely, to the movies with a girl.

Technology - Remember the v12 Cadillac Cien i was talking about in the first paragraph? That's a concept car, as in it's not even out yet and probably never will be, yet BANGS is all too happy to show you what it could look like if it came to fruition. BANGS' is also seen to be using an iPhone in the clip, most probably to call his shorty. This a very fair look into the processes of technology and how one idea can lead to an accessory capable of changing the way we live, or can just as easily be lost in the stages of conception.

Gambling/Multiple Personality Disorder - Two more prevalent problems in modern society are discussed closer to the end. Again, BANGS is by no means a political rapper or even a conscious rapper, but he somehow manages to touch on some serious issues whilst displaying his love for the female form. Two birds, one stone.

Seeing BANGS at his final destination and the location in which he'll display his deepest affection for his shorty is by far the most climatic part of the song and the reason we all listen to BANGS in the first place. We don't catch a glimpse of the lady in question which could be taken as a subliminal message to all the women out there, hinting that it could be any of you that ends up under BANGS' spell at the cinema.

The song has been a youtube hit for a while now but only in the last few weeks has BANGS been receiving the recognition he deserves. Boasting over 120,000 views at any given time, BANGS' presence is now being felt on an international level and his popularity has skyrocketed to heights seldom seen by an independent Australian artist (see every winner of Australian Idol).

If there was ever a time for BANGS to capitalize on the currently stagnant Australian r&b/hip-hop market, now is that time. BANGS has the look, the lyrics and the catchy hooks to become a permanent fixture on the otherwise bile-inducing Australian pop charts and he has my full support on his journey.

BANGS sophomore album 'Hard To Be Up' is due for release on the 4th of December this year through a yet to be named distributor.

Silly Windows XP

2009-10-26T19:27:00.000-07:00

I checked the time on my computer this morning and it was an hour after what time i thought it was at that time!! I was so excited when i realized that my day was going to go an hour faster than days in recent history and decided to celebrate by synchronizing my watch to the same time because that's what you do in daylight savings, you set your watch forward like everyone else in Western Civilization.

I went down to my local deli to get some breakfast supplies and much to the surprise of my tolerance processor, it wasn't open! I was pretty pissed off, but still happy from when i checked the time earlier so i patiently sat and waited for a little while. An exact hour passed and the little Asian guy that runs the deli rocked up all nonchalant and acting like he didn't know why i was sitting there. We talk sometimes, we're not complete anons, but not complete bff's either. He looks at me and says "hello what the fuck are you doing here", not like that, but i could tell he wanted to hurl expletives at me. I mean, I'd do the same if i saw some punk sitting outside my work before i got there and he wasn't getting paid for it. I replied "err, you're late" like his manager or something and he was all "fuck outta here, i'm right on time as always". It's true, Asian people are the most punctual and efficient people in W.A. but I could tell it was going to get heated regardless.

I jammed my watch in his face so hard that he almost went back in time and said "LOOK! YOU'RE LATE". He karate chopped me hard enough to knock me back, but also soft enough to only just get my attention. I tried to throw a fireball at him but at this point he was unlocking the door and not even looking at me. He made it in just in time for me to not throw a fireball at him and i went inside, grabbed my overpriced groceries and smashed them on his counter, still upset about his lack of sympathy for me while i waited for him. As he overcharged me, my half-asleep gaze was directed towards the massive digital clock above the cigar stand and it displayed the time an exact hour prior to what i had set my watch to. Then, all the karate chops and fireballs in the world couldn't stop me from one particularly rude awakening.

Oh hai! I'm Perth. I'm run by old people, farmers, crybabies, whingers, whiners, pussies and people that don't vote. I enjoy procrastination, darkness, early finish times, simple food and a good night's rest. I prefer the quiet life, opinions tend to rub me the wrong way and you can keep your small bars, convenience, late nights, good coffee and culture to yourself! I've got a beach!

I apologized to Joe (that's what all the english people that shop there call him, even though i'm 100% sure that's not his name which is kind of racist if you think about it, joe's just to polite to say anything) grabbed my expensive groceries and stomped back home, not without starting a fight with a swan and spitting on a freshly planted kangaroo paw.

Nova 100

2009-10-20T20:32:00.001-07:00

I know what you did yesterday.....

Late night buttered popcorn ceasar salad of arms.

2009-10-18T18:26:00.000-07:00

If i had to pick two things in this world that i was most powerless when faced with, it would be promo and chips. Promo is great because everybody wins. I get free shit, you get to advertise and i get free shit. Chips are great because they are always tasty, come in a wide variety of flavours and cuts and they hold that irresistible quality that blurs the line between a full blown snack or an extremely cheap meal. In separate forms both of these entities are more than capable of holding my attention and when combined there's little i wouldn't do, or few people i wouldn't kill to get to them.

Therefore, you could imagine my delight when i stumbled into IGA this morning and my half awake gaze was directed to yet another Smith's collaborative project. Ahh, good old Smith's. We've been together a long time and as insane as it sounds you're one of the only things in my life that has been both constant and completely awesome, aside from myself. Free Tazo's, the Full Monty, the unsuccesful yet always exciting 'Gourmet Projects', Vegemite flavour, packaging updates and movie promos. There's little else Smith's could do to claim complete monopoly over the potato chip industry and no company before or after them will ever do it with so much flair.

Which brings me to the 'Do us a flavour' promotion. I heard about this a while ago and was tempted to enter had i not been held back by laziness and memory loss. The concept is far from fresh and is basically another 'design your own flavour' competition, allowing those of us that don't work in the potato chip industry to essentially design our own flavours. The winner of the flavour fight will not only come out with a cool $30,000 but also a 1% stake in the sales of their flavour. 1%? You're too kind Smith's. The only difference between Smith's version and past attempts by other large snack food conglomerates is that Smith's actually followed through with it. So many times i've heard about these types of competitions and then months will pass and nobody will ever see a resulting new flavour designed by a member of the general public. It's like these companies think that nobody will notice a few months after the inital advertisement and the people that did enter will just assume that someone else won the competition. Way to play on our ignorance, successful snack food board of advertising.

With Smith's keeping their word and actually delivering on the outcome of their competition, four new flavours have emerged from four different contestants. With four different contestants from four different walks of life comes a chance for Smith's to be as politically correct as a large company can be and for the most part, they've done a pretty spot on job with that. Here's a quick run down of those contestants.

Steve:

Weapon of Choice: Buttered Popcorn.
Mood Colour: Hearty casual yellow.

Steve is your typical middle-aged aussie bloke, not afraid to rock a beard but also not afraid to keep it in check. Steve enjoys hanging out with his two daughters with a movie and some popcorn, hence his obvious decision to combine chips and popcorn. I foresee Steve having a pretty big advantage with the hard-working, movie watching percentage of Aussie blokes.

Vinnie

Weapon of Choice: BBQ coat of arms.
Mood Colour: Zany soft red.

Vinnie is your typical young aussie bloke. Judging by his picture, he's a little crazy, but happy at the same time. Vinnie's girlfriend is a vegan, so he thought he'd stick it to her with a smokey, traditional and carnivorous defiance of her lifestyle choices. Vinnie is a bit of a wild card entry, his concoction seems to be more of a play on Australian iconography than a new flavour. However, Aussie Blokes love barbecues so it could really go either way!

Aline

Weapon of Choice: Ceasar Salad.
Mood Colour: Empowerment Forrest green.

Being a 'yummy mummy' is a full time job, so everyone at Smith's was delighted when Aline found the time to create her zesty little number for the judges. Combining something i hate (salad) with something i love (chips) is definitely a bold move, but Aline could definitely pull in some votes from the men and the women for being a bit of a stunner and the only woman in the competition.

Lucas

Weapon of Choice: Late night kebab.
Mood colour: Comfortable cool purple.

Lucas is your typical young Aussie bloke. As you can see, he's a bit of a party animal and appreciates a solid kebab at the end of the night as much as he does the touch of a typical young Aussie woman. Late night kebabs tend to taste better than kebabs of any other time frame and we can only hope that Lucas' creation doesn't suffer the same fate as most late night kebabs (vomit)!

So you've got your four contestants and as a collective they're looking pretty diverse yet essentially all the same at the same time. Where you'd probably be mislead though, is in thinking that any of these four people (or the manufacturers of the chips for that matter) are capable of designing an edible Smith's potato chip. I was so excited about this competition when i first saw the promotional Smith's stall, standing there like it didn't mind being away from all the other chips because it knew it was more than capable of holding it down in front of the frozen party pies section, or anywhere in the market for that matter. I did a little Michael Jackson crotch grab to thriller pose routine inside the supermarket and everyone started clapping, then i snatched all four flavours and skipped to the counter whistling the theme song from the Sound of Music. I was whistling so hard that you could actually see the notes as they left my mouth. The notes then floated up to the heavens and burst like little musical bubbles. A trail of magic anticipation dust followed me all the way home. The dust and the notes instantly faded when i tasted Steve's buttered popcorn. Which brings me to the most important part of this post. The important part.

Steve's Buttered Popcorn.

Smells like: Buttered popcorn with a hint of being left out in the sun.

Tastes like: Gag reflex. I'm not even joking. I have no idea how they managed to mess up the most promising flavour but it's like the butter they used had been saturated in butter and then injected with more butter prior to being cooked. I can only imagine how hard it is to imitate the taste of corn. It tasted like disappointment.

How they could have made it better: Less butter. I wouldn't have minded if it tasted more like salt than butter because salt is an essential part of the Smith's regime and is therefore capable of saving any flavour, no matter how unnatural it tastes.

Would i eat it again? Most certainly not. One glance at the off yellow packaging the morning after had me running to the bathroom like i was in the early stages of pregnancy.

Vinnies BBQ Coat of Arms.

Smells Like: Lay's Texas BBQ but not as overwhelmingly awesome.

Tastes Like: A lack of effort. I think Smith's forgot that the packaging isn't edible and that the time allocated to the design of the logo for this idea would have been much better spent on creating an authentic tasting Australian barbecue chip. I tried to eat the logo and it tasted worse than Vinnie's BBQ but better than Steve's popcorn.

How they could have made it better: Three words. Tomato Fucking Sauce. It's so simple. Atomic Tomato or Heinz Tomato sauce flavoured chips will forever be remembered as two golden eras in snack food history. It might not be original, but all you had to do was sneak some of Australia's favourite condiment in amongst whatever else you guys jammed in there and the chip would have been more than edible and a formidable entrant in this competition.

Would i eat it again? Possibly. Like, if it was on the table at a friend's house and they had ignored my requests for different flavours or if nobody else had brought Salt 'n' Vinegar then yeah, i'd have a couple and complain about it.

Aline's Caesar Salad

Smells like: Herbs. But not real ones.

Tastes Like: Herbs. Something you'd offer a vegetarian at a movie night. Having said that though, the flavour did contain traces of another famous chip and a personal favourite of mine, Thins 'Light n Tangy'. It is this similarity that convinced me not to immediately hate Aline's flavour. A good summer chip should your local supermarket run out of Thins 'Light n Tangy'.

How they could have made it better: I can't help but wonder if this flavour was born to be on a thin sliced crisp as opposed to a crinkle cut. This is the kind of flavour you want to jump out at you but unfortunately the deep crevasses of the crinkle cut chip acted as bunkers for the spicy ingredients to hide in. My taste-buds were the rescue squad, but the herbs were too content to just perish in anonymity amongst the shade of their salty barriers.

Would i eat it again? Yes. But only on a thin sliced crisp. Maybe again on a crinkle cut for the same reason i'd eat one of Vinnies BBQ chips.

Lucas's Late Night Kebab.

Smells like: Body odour, onions, uncertainty.

Tastes like: Actually pretty good. Despite it's shortcomings in the initial scent department, Lucas has come up with a pretty accessible flavour. I'm going to put this down to the ridiculous amount of different ingredients that have gone into the production of this chip and not the quest for an authentic tasting late night kebab. I call it the 'Full Monty' syndrome. Jam as many flavours into one thing as possible and you're bound to get it right eventually or simply confuse your customers to the point of admitting defeat. Had this chip actually tasted like a late night kebab i wouldn't have reviewed it, kebab stands repulse me. They're like a central hub for all the worst characteristics of mankind to gather together and eat something that, much like themselves, is going to fall apart within a matter of minutes. Of course, i'm basing this on kebab stands at night, i've never felt the need for a kebab during the day.

How they could have made it better: Name change. Lucas should have swapped names with Steve and called it Steve's Souvlaki or something. As previously mentioned, late night kebabs don't really conjure up images of great taste and family fun.

Would i eat it again? Probably. Not sure really. Maybe.

And the winner? Well, it's like picking your favourite mental illness isn't it. No matter which one you pick, it's still not cool. Unfortunately for Smith's the idea of letting a bunch of anons create their dream chip has ended in four mediocre flavours that are probably going to get pulled within a matter of weeks, not unlike the Mother energy drinks before it or Vegemite's edgy new name proposition, i personally see this particular marketing campaign as a strike on Smith's otherwise impeccable reputation. I'm going to let Aline have this one, but only because her chip reminded me of another product of much better quality and somehow confused my taste-buds into thinking it was better than it was.

Overall though, the real winner is me. This post marks the first time i was ever able to go into a supermarket and cop every flavour of a single product at the same time and not feel bad about it. I can only imagine how great i looked to the checkout operators.

Gheyfever

2009-10-16T21:22:00.000-07:00

They say that one sneeze equates to 1/10th of an orgasm. If this is the case i should have had at least two full orgasms yesterday and a little just-over-half-orgasm at the end of the day.
So how come i sneezed 26 times yesterday and didn't even get a boner? Not even a tingle? If the above calculation had any truth, anyone with hayfever would just stay at home all day eating lawnmower clippings and rolling around in cats. Instead, i walked around all day spraying inanimate objects and people with the contents of my nasal passage whilst simultaneously sniffling like a crack addict, rubbing my already swollen eyes and stumbling into the very inanimate objects that i was sneezing all over, which is great because not only did i have to control the mucous flowing from my nose, mouth and eyes, but also had to dodge new patches of mucous that i was in fact creating myself. I wanted to die, which isn't an orgasm. In fact, the only time i've ever reached climax as a result of continuous sneezing was that time it didn't happen, which technically means that it didn't happen.

People that don't have hayfever are always mega sympathetic to those of us that get it, but in my eyes their claims of worry and concern are completely unwarranted because they have no concept of how fucking shit hayfever actually is. Or you get those people that see you sneezing and are all like "Woah! You're gonna have an orgasm if you keep going that way!".

How about, let's say, i sneeze in your mouth?

You'll never understand our pain. We have the flu, a cold, allergies, unattractiveness, pink eye, overactive sweat gland syndrome and depression all at once and the best you can muster up is something about orgasms because you think laughter is the best medicine or that hayfever is 'cute'. Trust me, if i could transfer this feeling over to you, i would.