After eight years it's time for a break.
Saturday, September 23, 2000
Finally, NME post a review of the Mr Bungle show I went to a while ago. Unfortunately, it sounds like it was written from the pub down the road - was the reviewer even there? Have they any idea what the band's about? Hmm.This reminds me. If anyone reading was actually at the Mr Bungle gig, and they remember what the pre-show tape was, please let me know. It was trashy, 50s/60s hi-end guitar stuff, with a version of "Walkin' The Dog" on it that was all sneer. I'm pretty keen on picking up something by the band it was by. They sounded damn familar - trashy, well-known... dammit! If anyone remembers, let me know.
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Excellent. According to these cheery people, I will have a 1 in 6,094,243 chance of being killed on my flight down to Sydney at Christmas. Happily, they suggest that that's a little better than usual for that route, but I'm sure that'll provide no consolation if you're stuck out at the airport, holding a charred suitcase handle. Should I survive the journey down, the trip back estimates a 1 in 86,471,526 chance of my snuffing it. God bless Qantas, eh?
[via blue lines]
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A fitting link to post after some morbid poetry: Big Brother's having a free-for-all auction. If you're looking for Irish boner-covers, then they're here. Ack.
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Japanese Death Poetry. Nutlog, you know me too well.
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All right. Hardcore porno voiceovers is really what the church needs. Somehow, I imagine that more people'd take notice this way. In the same section of Salon, you'll also find an article about the influx of prostitutes to Sydney surrounding the games. Brothels are legal in NSW, so working girls Australia-wide are zipping on in for some unzipping. One warning, though; you'll never look at Skippy the same way again. Go for gold, kids!
[via shanmonster]
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Excellent stuff: this article takes a good look at one of my favourite books, Truman Capote's In Cold Blood and finds it lacking. Not in style, but in basic truthfulness. It's an interesting take; the book is considered the touchstone of journalistic dramatisation, and still is a mightily compelling read - but what if its fame as a recitation of truth is unwarranted? And if it is found to be largely fabrication, does that change the importance of the book anyway? Whatever the outcome, it's an interesting look behind the curtain of a great piece of writing. Maybe I should get my brother to stick my copy in the mail...
[via linkmachinego]
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Interesting. I haven't read any of Richard Glover's stuff for a while, so it's interesting to run across it now; here, he gives you the lowdown on Australia's own peculiar speech and behaviour. It's pretty much spot-on, especially the bit about bastards, as I'm sure my mate Jason will tell you from my emails.
[via what's new pussycat]
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So. The funeral's this Saturday, but the inquest isn't until November? Am I alone, or does that strike anybody else as being a little odd?
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F'tang f'tang! A previously unperformed play by deceased Python Graham Chapman is set to make its debut. Oh Happy Day opens in Atlanta, soon. It'll be interesting to see if people accept it as a play, or demand more of it purely because it's a Monty Python work. I can just imagine the vox pops from previews. "Yeah, I liked it, but not enough silly walks for me. A couple more gumbys would be nice, too." How will Python material that's unfamiliar stand up now? I recently watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail on video, and noted that it seems a little tired...times have changed, and it's not quite firing on all cylinders any more. Here's hoping that it doesn't go the same way as Kelsey Grammer's disastrous turn as Macbeth. My support's with it purely because there's a fez in the promo picture.
There's something weird about the production, though. Chapman's partner is sending some of his ashes for the first performance. What for, exactly? It's a lovely gesture, but a little on the ghoulish side - does this mean that at every other production of the work, there'll be a scoop taken out of the urn and UPSed across the globe to the theatre? Ick.
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It seems that gangster chic is coming to an end. Reggie Kray, the last of a trio who struck fear into the hearts of gangsters and song in the heart of Morrissey is on his last legs, after being released from prison on compassionate grounds.
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While still feeling vaguely olympian, I ran across an article on the CBC's website (thanks to the much-missed Johanna) about the ultimate cost of the whole event. Will Sydney, I wonder, still be recovering from these two weeks when I move back there? Food for thought. Whether the city will regret the event remains to be seen, I guess.
Speaking of the olympics, I should probably watch a bit of track and field tomorrow. Mum and Dad will be in the crowd there, somewhere.
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If you're looking for one-stop Olympics coverage, you should really read Tunny et al's big fat games blog. It's updated on a freakishly regular basis.
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Yes, I'm well aware that Meg linked it before me, but I do have to exhort that anyone who wants a look into what really makes Australia tick should have a gander at this article. It lets you in on the key to preparing yourself a decent dose of nirvana, and you can't ask for more than that.
[via the nutlog]
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Friday, September 22, 2000
You know, to be an international drug courier probably takes a little bit of nous. A bit of a clue. I mean, you could be asked all sorts of tricky questions - like whether you're carrying a fuckload of product or not. If you do go into the coke-shipping biz, it's probably wise to learn from this guy.Sigh.
link | Mail me. |
Right. It's time to commence plotting deaths.
Organisation isn't the strong-point of British Gas, really. Surprising, but true. The guy who was scheduled to come to my place early this morning had apparently switched over to late shift - so the possibility of him turning up at 8AM was improbable, at best. After about half an hour's worth of tinkering, the guy who turned up at quarter to ten - after getting the emergency call from his supervisor to say that I'd been on the phone to them already, and to get his arse over to my place otherwise there'd be wide-spread carnage - pointed out that out gas system would need a whole new pilot valve assembly.
That can't be obtained until Monday.
I am fucking furious. No hot water or heat for the whole weekend. And this is a circumstance that could've been avoided if the company had bothered to extract digits, and actually send out their representatives when they say they're going to. It's shoddy, and I am not impressed. This will be the fourth time in two weeks that I'll be staying home to wait for someone to come along and fix our system. I'm hoping they actually turn up and do the job right.
link | Mail me. |
Gas people, you better show up soon. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
I've taken to sticking my head out my bedroom window, and fixing my gaze on any van that happens by, willing it to metamorphose into something that resembles our gas service provider. Give me a wave, if you're driving past.
link | Mail me. |
Remember Barbie? The doll that can do anything? Well, apparently she can also indulge in some bouts of "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie!", because she's an olympic fan! No more rock-starring or astronauting for the Barbster - she'll be trackside, telling everyone how Cathy Freeman's got a bigger heart than Phar Lap. Of course, where would she be without her friend Becky? I'm just wondering if her racing wheelchair fits inside the Barbie Mansion now. Because she used to be left out in the cold. Ah well; if Becky's a true sports devotee, she won't need the household attractions of her plastic chum. She'll let Barbie bugger off home, while she goes off to the pub to watch repeats of old Bulldogs vs Eels grand finals from the '80s.
[via anita]
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Sigh. It's a Friday morning, and it's raining. I slept for an age last night, and feel a little better for it. However, I'm still at home - the goddamn gasman didn't turn up. Picture it: I bust comprehensive arse to get back in the flat by 1. The guy's meant to turn up between 1 and 6. As it gets later, I make a couple of calls to the British Gas call centre. Am told he's "only ten minutes away". Once more, I wait, playing Quake II on Meg's beast.
45 minutes passes.
I call again, and am hung up on. I call back once again and am told that the rep will look into it. Approximately half an hour later, I'm told that there's no more servicemen about, and the job won't be done today. Which is fine, as I've only lost most of the day's productivity for staying home, so what's an extra couple of hours this morning going to matter? Fuckers.
The most interesting thing about this whole debacle - the TV ads of helpful, timely gasmen aside - is the opening blurb on their website. It begins thusly:
As Great Britain's leading supplier of gas, you'd expect us to offer you more.
You betcha, kids, you betcha.
link | Mail me. |
You might've noticed a bit of Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Oi, Oi, Oi! floating around these parts lately. Ah, sporting fervour! I love it so!
Well, here's a little background on the chant, care of the most excellently-named boganhead.
Aussie, Aussie, Aussie?
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Smack tutorials and Stephen Hawking's scratchorama. It's been a shit day, but Meg makes it a little bit brighter.
link | Mail me. |
Thursday, September 21, 2000
Hey all. Back again this morning after the grand total of about two hours sleep. Ah me. Working like one of Oedipal bent until lunch, then I'm outta here to get home and look after the boiler. It's not a happy day. Cheer me, please.What does make me kinda happy was the discovery on my hard drive of the photo on the left. Admittedly, it's a greyscale shrunken representation, but there's your humble blog host on the set of Sale, almost two years ago now. Getting a bit of cheese with Glenn Ridge, I think you'll find. It was a pretty strange experience; I entered as an exercise in taking the piss with my mate Libby, and ended up getting phonecalls from Channel 9, organising my plane trip to Melbourne for filming. The atmosphere was surreal; this was the highest point of the lives of some of the other people taking part, and they were so keen to win. Admittedly, the thought of the prizes (though gone are the twin BMWs with diamond and white gold keyrings by Bruce and Walsh of Tony's days) was kinda cool, but I was having enough fun actually being there. Glenn mugs relentlessly when the camera's not on him, and there's something uniquely disturbing about hearing Pete Smith speak - in that Copperart voice! - when he's asking a runner for some coffee. Anyway, I fought valiantly - got to go to the giftshop (of course, I had to get the Barbie doll selection while the guy after me got the shit-hot PC...) and got to have a pick of the fame-game board (I learned my lesson: Wilbur Wilde's cheese value will not score you big-ass prizes), Fast Money brought me undone. I was even leading! Curse that engineer...I think he went on to win the whole shebang, leaving me another bloodied, yet noble, body under his juggernaut of trivia. It was rather bizarre; I was quite disappointed not to have actually won. I mean... it's Sale, for Christ's sake! How many times during my childhood had I sat at home while the mozzies swarmed outside, pressing an invisible button and answering the questions before the people on-screen did? Jack Brabham! Forty! The Three Little Pigs!
The thing that I remember most, the most vivid image was that of me as I took an earlier plane back to Sydney. Picture if you will, me with studio makeup on, a suit pack and a copy of the Sale Of The Century boardgame under my arm, running through the terminal at Melbourne airport trying to make my flight, coat-tails flying. It was all a bit tragic; people kept sneaking sideways glances at the amount of Max Factor I was wearing, but nobody said a word. Flight attendants dropped off my complimentary peanuts and the shuffled off with raised eyebrows.
When the show was finally broadcast I watched it from behind couch cushions. I couldn't believe I looked so cheesy, or sounded so bad. It was very, very strange. I don't think I've got a copy of it anywhere. Regardless, when I get home I'll find the picture and scan it in. I swear to you that it's not an Oswald-esque mock-up.
link | Mail me. |
Again, you rock. Bring on the Channel 8 memories! I'm trying to remember more adverts... however I'm a bit hazy. I'm sure there were a couple of Juz-Tint Auto Tinting ads that'd spring to mind... as well as the good ole Dalgety Winchcombe series with beefy-looking blokes... Hmm. And just on the gameshow front, I have to admit that I've actually been on Sale. Somewhere at home, there's a photo of Glenn and I. My friend Libby and I entered as a lark, and I actually ended up down there in Melbourne, avoiding the icy Nikki Buckley. Scary stuff - but not as cool as if Tony had been hosting, I tells you...
It's 2AM. I'm still up. And I'm tired. And I'm depressed. I'm having a long, drawn-out battle about lifestyles, and it's grinding me down. Sometimes, I wonder if concern is ever taken the way it's meant to. Once more, I'm wondering if I've even got a right to comment. Does not doing coke make me a naif? I'm not prudish, I'm not an "all drugs bad!" kinda guy. But I wonder if I'm even allowed to have an opinion on some of them if I've never done them. Do I have any remit to be telling people what to do? I'm not a meddler, I just don't want to see someone I care about with their septum falling out. Christ, leave it to advertising and middle-aged rockstars. Bowie might've been glamorous in 72, nosing his way to stardom, but what about now? Is it anything other than sad?I'm worried, and I'm tired, and I'm annoyed and depressed. And I hate it. I absolutely hate it. Sorry if it sounds like a bugbear, like something I'm banging on about, but it concerns me. Even if most people reading don't have a clue what I'm whinging about.
Jesus. I've rambled on enough. I'm going to bed. I don't know how forthcoming sleep will be. I promise I'll be sparkier tomorrow.
link | Mail me. |
Oh my god. Shauna remembers Peter Andren. And jingles. And probably the whole summer that the station promos were covered with that Bruce Hornsby "Way It Is" song, accompanied by video of someone doing a high-dive into the Orange Olympic Pool's diving pool. Ah, summers of youth - back in the days when Delvene Delaney ruled the Sale roost, and Glenn Ridge was nowhere to be seen.
link | Mail me. |
Curiouser and curiouser: Paula Yates' inquest is suspended until November 8. Weird.
link | Mail me. |
This is my night: listening to dodgy speeches, and discovering that the 8-ball don't lie. And finding out that I've got to juggle my day around tomorrow to be home for the guy who's apparently coming to fix the boiler sometime between 1pm and 6pm. Sigh.
link | Mail me. |
Heh. Applause to Shauny's televisual memories. It's started me off on a whole childhood jag: now I'm remembering my Orange childhood TV experiences stuck in front of the box blasting out either the ABC or CBN-8. Two whole channels of choice! It was great. There once was a point when I - like any good country kid - could recite the jingle and voiceover for Drontal sheep dip. For some reason, they always used to show that just as we'd sat down to dinner. Bizarre. Nothing like sheep getting a mouthful of trigger-delivered worming gunk to make those Thursday night rissoles more appealing. Yum.
But yes - rural TV! Nothing like it. Our next-door neighbour, Young Bill (his dad was Old Bill, obviously) used to affect facial hair and drive a big Land-Rover off to work at CBN 8 every morning. I was envious. I remember that when the TV started in the morning (after the national anthem that featured a bit of period-costume action and a combine-harvester, if I'm not very much mistaken) you'd get a couple of little promo items that were of the "Channel 8 broadcasts to your quaint little town too, even though there's only three of you and a galah there" variety. Places like the fabled Kandos-Rylestone or Gulgong appeared on the screen. Usually, I could only remember from half-sleepy drive-bys as a part of a long car trip to or from Sydney. Muum? Is this Parkes or Forbes? How many more towns to go now?
Come to think of it, Channel 8 was sorta cool. Dodgy shows like Simon Townsend's Wonder World (I still can't escape Jonathan Coleman, incidentally; he's one of the biggest - boom tish! - radio broadcasters in London) and It's A Knockout rocked my world when I was six. (Quick question; how many Aussie readers can whistle the theme to that? Tell me.) Once, late at night from the back of an Orange-bound car, I'd seen the place where they held those titanic competitions. I was cool in the playground for a solid week on the strength of that, even if I hadn't really seen Combat the dog. I even remember being in an episode of Early Shift, Channel 8's kids' program. It was recorded in a park somewhere near home, and it was freezing. I was entered in a bubblegum-bubble-blowing contest, probably to win a tops selection of Matchbox cars, and failed miserably - ending up with a half-frozen lump of Hubba-Bubba as my only reward. But goddamn, I was on TV! Hypothermia? Hell, I was in the same place that Monkey and Astroboy were on! I was cool, albeit a lovely shade of blue.
My love for Early Shift wasn't completely smooth, though - when I didn't win the competition to go by bus to the opening of Australia's Wonderland, I think I cried all weekend. Life can suck when you're only a little kid with a dream to ride the Bush Beast.
link | Mail me. |
Meg's been busy preparing speeches and the like today, so I think it's only fair that I share this link with you. I don't know where she found it, but now my life is complete. A shrine to toast. Never was there an item of food more worthy than toast. Dr. Toast, I don't know who you are, but for your retro-graphics and your ardour for browned bread, I salute you. I can't resist sharing one of his haiku, either:
Hours after breakfast
A lingering aroma
The ghost of a toast
Nice. If you've any suggestions as to what the moisture left on a kitchen bench after hot toast's been sitting there for a while should be called, then please let me know. Possibilities so far include "toast sweat" and "toast blow", but I'm sure there's more elegant suggestions out there...
While I'm on the topic of definitions, here's another puzzler for you; if someone is called Dick, and acts like a dick, it could possibly be said that his behaviour is informed by his name. Now, assuming this is true, what word would describe that behaviour? I suggested "titumotivation", but I think my correspondent is seeking something a little more official. There's a couple of Latin suggestions being bandied about, too: Ingenium nominatem or proprius nominatem? Anyone who can conjugate them for me would be a godsend, as I'm only armed with a bodgy online Latin dictionary...
If you think you know what word or brief phrase could describe the kind of behaviour I'm talking about - other than "[something] is as [somthing] does" - then please mail me and put me out of my misery. Bonus points if it comes out of a seminal semiotics text.
link | Mail me. |
Yes! More giant squid action is what the world needs these days. I think finding a kraken in one's local body of water would perhaps break one out of the ennui of everyday life, surely? At any rate, squid are cool. And not given enough media prominence these days. I guess, though, that the PR of the squid (giant) has been on the decrease ever since cartographers realised they'd have more chances of actually finding our what when on in parts unknown if they removed "Here bee sea beasties" from their maps. Bastards. However, the whole idea of a search for giant squid is pretty neat. I'd like to think they've got their own little literate community happening somewhere beyond the ken of us bipeds. Somewhere, mark my words, there's a squid Shakespeare.
And, by the sound of it, a bed at the Betty Ford Clinic for yours truly. Sigh.
While considering the prevalence of crack in my life, I have to also make reference to this excellent page, too. Sheer unadulterated fucking genius. There's nothing to warm the cockles of my wayfaring heart than the sight of a big something coming up in the windshield. In a similar vein, I'd like to point out that sometime, USA-based readers, I'm going to take an extended sojourn in your neck of the woods and base my travel plan entirely on the contents of the Roadside America site. When I was over there around Christmas, I foolishly didn't pursue the option to play mini-golf in Lexington, KY, at a biblically-inspired establishment. I've not stopped kicking myself yet. Goddamnit, it was only snowing...
Actually, I once semi-dated someone who'd spent her formative years growing up in Ballina, NSW, opposite the Big Prawn. Apparently, its eyes glow in the evening, casting a demonic glow on the town. I can't help but think that it was the influence of that structure, even from miles away, that stopped her calling me. Sigh.
[via the nutlog]
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Wednesday, September 20, 2000
If you've ever wondered what I taste like - and I'm sure you have - then the answer is not chicken, apparently. According to this test, I'm mocha. Check it out:Mmm ... mocha! Strong and rich — but not too sweet — you're the flavor of late nights and early mornings. A coffeehouse regular, you've cornered the market on deep thoughts and probably have a little more than your fair share of brains. In fact, those who know you may even consider you an intellectual, a label that suits you just fine. Deep and thoughtful, you love the academic — or at least the structured pursuit of knowledge. And, since hitting the books often means all-nighters, what better flavor than mocha to keep you company? Chocolaty and intense, you're a truly tasty treat.
Yum. So now you know. Taste testing, anyone? Ahem.
[via what's new pussycat]
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I notice that the HMV up the road has installed a couple of Liquid Audio custom CD makers installed. At the moment they're corralled behind the sort of fence usually reserved for Biohazard record signings, but I'm sure they'll be let loose any day now. I wonder exactly how many sales they're expecting at £1.50 per track, with a maximum of 10 tracks? Sorry, kids, but I think I'll be sticking with my foraging through the racks for that almost-mythical cheap CD...
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Like she says, Meg lives to please. Courtesy of her benevolence, I bring you some Mr Big linky goodness. I still say it's the hard-arse's chocolate of choice.
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It's all-Aussie-lovin' action over at SURVIVORblog! "Carry away", Tony? Sorry, it's called "takeaway" or nothing. Don't even get me started on the "That's not called a beanie; it's really a toque" line, my friend. And Nicci? You're the bomb...even though I wasn't in the first flush of good Aussie blogs listed. Sigh. Ah, vanity's a wonderful thing. A little more arse-kissing, thanks guys.
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More me: this time, it's coconuts under the gun.
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When you're this big, they call you MISTER!
Sheer genius! It's not a chocolate bar, it's a personal description! And if you fuck with it, it'll put you in concrete shoes. Certainly, it's a more persuasive argument for purchase than the Milky Way's slogan. You'll recall that the Milky Way is the treat you can eat between meals without spoiling your appetite. Fuck that. Mr Big offers a taste of the underworld; organised crime, bootleg liquor, and hot dames - and I'll choose that over appetite spoilage any day.
link | Mail me. |
Ah, nice. It seems that Naked Jungle, the show that warped me irrevocably a couple of months ago has been given the all-clear by the Independent Television Commission. I'd disagree with the Beeb's headlining of that story, though - "Nude Game Show 'In Good Taste'". Did anyone over there watch the damn thing? Cheggers buff is neither good nor tasteful. I'm wondering, also, how one would "signpost nudity"? The report suggests that the nudity in the show was "signposted" well enough to ensure people wouldn't turn onto the program thinking it was a revivalist Christian fundraising show...but I just wonder what that involves. Maybe a collection of signs like you find at the foot of trees in botannical gardens worldwide? "Cheggers' knob" in 12-point Verdana on a nametag with a discreet arrow, perhaps?
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You know, this particular altercation is as weirdly compelling as a pensioner catfight. Def Leppard blames MC Hammer for sound problems with their show. It's too much. When presented with a quiet version of "Armageddon It", is it any wonder that fans left to check out the action at the chowder cook-off? Hmm. Let's get rocked indeed.
link | Mail me. |
Though I have attained a kind of notoriety from the verbal ministrations of the most nifty online blogcaster, I must say that there's no way that I'd end up on this list - at least not yet. I don't own a pair of leather pants (which in the UK has a whole new - and more unhygienic - meaning), and I'm not in league with Satan. Well, not officially - the contract's still being inked...The page gives the most compelling evidence as to why is it that digressions of the penile kind are still somewhat amusing: the bad boys of extreme rock are laid bare, if you'll pardon the atrocious punsmanship.
Oh, and a big hello to everyone who mailed in to say they could see my blog across the Atlantic. I wave at ye from rainy London, feeling muchly cheered at my visibility. Seems I'm not alone in the void!
link | Mail me. |
Tuesday, September 19, 2000
An earnest plea. Dill, the handsome pet of broadcasting temptress Miss Helen is fearsomely sick with Feline Infectious Peritonitis. If there is anyone out there who is aware of any possible cures for the ailment - be they medicinal, herbal, juju or otherwise - then please mail me, or send it direct to Helen. You'll be making the owner of a very sick puss-puss very happy if you do.link | Mail me. |
Oh my god. It all makes terrible sense now. I spent last night re-watching Being John Malkovich with Meg; in it, there's a spot where Malkovich greets an old (and wonderfully bald) Charlie Sheen with the heary hailing "Ma-Sheen!". This truth is far too awful to contemplate. Ick.
I don't know what it is, but there's something about that film that never does good things for me. It's one of my favourite films, but whenever I watch it - aside from noticing how amazingly fucked-up it is - I get inordinately depressed. I don't know why. (Though I'm sure a lot of it's due to the exceptional, exceptional scoring of Carter Burwell. The man's a genius.) I guess it could be that at its heart, it's a tragedy; guys feeling that they can control everything - jobs, women, other people, art; the whole nine yards - and getting shown up for the inept beings they are. I don't know. As much as I wouldn't like to say it, I can see a bit of where Craig Schwartz is coming from. And it makes me wonder about me; what I'm doing here, what I'm doing in general. I don't know.
It's strange, Lately, I've not been blogging that much - comparatively - because I've felt somewhat ambivalent about it. I don't know what the hell's going on with things. I reordered my room a couple of days ago, and ended up going through a lot of old stuff, old boxes of letters and emails, the ephemera that collects, and it was really strange. Like seeing pressed butterflies in a way.
I guess a certain amount of this lacklustre social skillage this week has been due to the Olympics, too. I finally got around to seeing the opening ceremony, and was pretty impressed - it was pretty cheesy in parts, and the pink-dressed kiddie shat me to tears - but I felt dodgily patriotic. (Can I just point out, here, that the BBC chose to completely excise the flame lighting, including the laps of honour by Dawn and the crew of fabulous women? What the fuck is that about? One shot of Cathy holding the flame, then a cut to an already-lit cauldron does not constitute sensible editing, especially after the march-in of the athletes was shown in full. For a network that regularly runs long on programming, that was an unforgiveable oversight.) I don't know why that is. I mean, the Olympics are the biggest thing to happen to Sydney, pretty much, and will probably be the biggest thing to happen to the place at any time I'm living there. Except I'm not there now; as much as I'd want to be out of the city now, avoiding the tourists and the SOCOG cheese, part of me feels that I'm missing out on something pretty important that I won't be able to have. There's an atmosphere in Sydney at the moment that I sense whenever I speak to someone down there, no matter how cynical they are; and given that most of the people I know did Arts at uni, there's a lot of it about. And I'm not there for it. I guess I'm just feeling a bit disconnected from things at the moment. It's distinctly unsettling to see somewhere that's familiar to you - as most of the parts of Sydney shown are - on the TV, or in the media. It becomes something strange, something removed from what you've known. Yes, I should know, having worked in the media, that it's all just smoke and mirrors, that TV makes things look different, that magazines aren't as glam as you think they are, that the camera really does lie - but I can't shake the feeling. It is different.
Sigh. Sorry. Rambling. I should put down the crackpipe and let brevity take over. I spent the rest of the night last night putting up a huge map of London on my wall. I can see my house from here! That, listening to music, drinking gin and navel-gazing. I fell asleep earlier than normal, and totally forgot to blog, shrouded in a fog of myself to the extent that I was. So excuse the lack of copy, of snappy links, but I'll get around to them soon. I promise.
Oh. As well, last night, I took a long walk. Maida Vale at night, after the rain, is lovely. The sound of televisions spilling out from top floors of houses, while the wind blows. If you need a calming influence, I recommend it.
link | Mail me. |
Hot damn. Though their website may feature a fuckload of annoyingly small pics to load, I must throw my lust in the general direction of Arbortech, creators of the Airboard. As Seen At The Olympics, you know. I think people involved in the opening ceremony remember it as the "Hey! What-the-fuck-am-I-doing-tapping-on-corrugated-iron-when-those-guys-are-driving-that-Star-Wars-type-thing-around?"-mobile. I want one. I want one.
Scratch that. I need one.
[via potential fossil assemblage]
link | Mail me. |
Wow. According to this test, I'm a genius. I find that a little hard to believe. Sigh.
link | Mail me. |
You know, on reflection, I'm kinda lucky. How many people could say they spent their Sundays listening to their flatmate render foreign boyband songs into English for their delectation? Not many, but it's what was happening at Chez Fez yesterday. I arrived home with a headache approximating what it must feel like to have a small man armed with a ball-pein hammer play your head like a steel drum, and promptly lay down on the landing. Meg provided fuck-off strength pills and aforementioned cheese music. And lo, I felt better. Heh.
Perhaps related to this tale is this page, filched from a mighty feline; renderings of English in Japan, known colloquially as Engrish. Yeah, it's politically incorrect, but I like the idea that somewhere in the world, there exists a cracker called "Baked Chunk". That's about my level of sophistication, right there.
link | Mail me. |
Monday, September 18, 2000
Just wondering; if there's anyone from Canada or the USA reading this, could you please mail me and let me know that you're getting this? I've heard reports that I've gone invisible for some users, and I want to figure out if that means I get to tear my nameservers a new arse or not. Thanks!link | Mail me. |
Strange times. Paula Yates found dead about ten or so minutes away from where I live. Nothing more forthcoming yet - I wonder what happened?
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Just a query, now. Does anyone else find that they have a laissez-faire attitude to [insert drugs or sex or violence or whatever here] until it directly impinges upon someone they care about? I mean, am I alone in feeling worried about someone because they start to do coke, when previously I'd held a "I don't mind what people do as long as they do it responsibly" kind of line that's pretty much inculcated at university? I don't know. Maybe I'm just a worrying sap. I discovered that someone I care about had partaken in some behaviour that previously we'd discussed and had been written of as being strictly for those in the advertising profession... and I guess I was angry, or worried, or... well, imagine any emotion that vaguely involves fist-waving and furrowed brows. And then I started to wonder about it; do I have any right to be pissed off with someone over their behaviour, if they seem to think it's OK? Is it any of my business? I don't know. It's a worry. I just feel a bit like I'm drifting here; has anyone else been in that sort of situation? If so, what did you do? I'm confused. I'm not a prude. I don't care, really, who does what in particular areas, and I'm fairly open-minded. But I worry about people, and I'm just wondering if it's my place to do so. As Mark Kozelek would undoubtedly say (paraphrasing Ric Ocasek, presumably), it's all mixed up.
And yes. Dusty Springfield is on. And she's wonderful.
Goddamnit, I'm sorry. I promise more copy that lives up to the verve and inanity that you expect of the |lukelog|. I'm just finding it a little difficult at the moment - it's late, and I feel vaguely like I'm not here at all. It's time for bed.
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It's been a long, non-blogging weekend. Again. And now it's three in the morning, and I'm not asleep, but here, talking to you.
Here goes; my weekend. As it happened. Friday night was not too bad. Tom came over, and sat around with Meg and her bro, David, and myself, to watch the final of the UK version of Big Brother. As it turned out, the muscled human fart-grenade Craig won - the lesbian ex-nun superchick was robbed, I say. Lots of wine and pizza of dubious quality consumed while watching that lot. A good, rounded evening.
Saturday was a bit more hectic. Meg bought the Beast, an übercomputer of the most lustworthy sort. It sits in the corner and operates with a suspicious lack of computer-esque noise. I think it's watching me, waiting for an opportune time to pounce and devour. You just can't trust hardware. I got in on the spending spirit by picking up a stereo that I sorta can't afford... but bugger it. If Visa are dumb enough to give me more credit (and bring it on, I say) then they deserve all the possibilities for abuse that appear. So I'm now keeping people up late with Ed Kuepper albums played at obscene volume levels.
I watched the Olympic opening ceremony over the weekend, too. Weird. I'll comment more later, but it was kinda cool - though the TV coverage in the UK sucked, because the entire lighting of the flame - the whole Aussie women that rawk at sport bit - was excised. Yeah, show every nation walking in, cut to Bill Gates in goddamn headphones, even show the squawking 13-year old, but hell, don't worry about the single part of the whole show that people want to see. Sigh.
I spent the rest of the weekend cleaning up and rearranging my room, pretty much. I've now got a little workspace happening - so alas, I'm not bed-blogging now - but it's better this way, I guess. I migrated Il Pape to the opposite wall, and I finally put a National Geographic map of Australia up on the wall - I don't know, feeling a little homesick, mayhap? - and I think the place is feeling a bit more...organised. Hell. Maybe I should go to bed. I have the distinct feeling that a 3am "Oh god, what purpose does my life have?" post could well be on the way. And I don't think that's anything that anyone needs to hear. I'll go turn on some Dusty Springfield (a Saturday purchase, too; I think I now have associate pinkness) and go to bed, to save you the grimness. More real writing in a couple of hours.
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I'd like to thank Tom over at Blue Lines for posting some rather nice lines about my writing over at kitschbitch. I'm glad the content's finding appreciative eyes, and blush wildly at the thought that people find my stuff good. Thank you.
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