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!
Monday, May 17, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Pretentious Dining Guide 2: A big night in with Alex and Trish.
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!
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!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Fisherman's friend.
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
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
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Sam Worthington is versatile.
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.
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.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Hamburger Hill.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Grand Theft Auto: Swan Andreas
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'.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Spare Change: Part 1.
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.
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.
"Trying to avoid me were you?"
"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?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I love the smell of scandal in the morning.
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.
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.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Thought for the day.
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.
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