After eight years it's time for a break.

Saturday, May 05, 2001

And now, from the Say No More files, I bring you (via Brooke, natch) Nazi Tibetan Death Cults. Keep schtum.
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Proof that new wave dulls your senses: Martin "Poison Arrow" Fry has somehow confused Robbie Williams and Roger Waters. Twat. One writes tunes of purported gravitas and self-loathing, while the other one's noted for his predilection for, after hard-workin' boyband nights of yore, going out and "getting cunted". Pretty hard to confuse, you'll admit. Though boof-haired Martin did so. As Mr T would rightly concur, I pity the foo'.
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PJ Harvey is ickle. Rah!
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You are the least Burmese flying ant. Goodbye!

Wait 'til Davo gets a hold of this.
[via linkmachinego]

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Friday, May 04, 2001

You know, this is the sort of list that I'm proud to show up on. Repeatedly. I love the fact that people still think that they'll find their wife's handjob video here. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but you'll find no wifely wank on these pages, sunshine.
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Thursday, May 03, 2001

This collection of Muppet filmclips is sheer genius. However, I must disagree; the best clips in the collection must be Rowlf singing "I Never Harmed An Onion" and "Cottleston Pie". Man, but that dog could tickle the ivories. That show lifted the bar, and there's not been much that comes close since.
[via brainsluice]
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I really don't know what to say: if you've ever been curious as to what'd happen in an early-series ER gangbang, what occurs when Cat Deeley gets some, then The Celebrity Sex Archive is probably the place for you. It's a storehouse of "what would happen if..." textfiles of dubious erotic content. Unfortunately, it just don't do much for me: no matter how you stack it, a voluminous collection of Britney Spears fanporn will always be a big pile-o'-wank.
[via popbitch]
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Ah, work. I arrived this morning, sat down with my toast and was promptly told to get the fuck out of the office. I love days when the fire-alarm coincides with removal of one's jacket. Bodes well, you'll agree.

For all those perusing these pages in search of traveller news, fear not; Jason has arrived, safe and sound, albeit looking distinctly different from the university days of yore. He's still as J-man as ever, though, given that he did manage to lug a bag of Farmland chips to Korea, so that he wouldn't have to worry about changing any currency during his seven-hour layover there. Rock. And what's more, he apparently digs The Futon Of Death, too. When asked this morning about the efficiency of said bed, he merely raised one hand in an "a-ok" posture. I think he must be sick.

<phantom> For those who came in late: Jason is one of my best friends; I met him (and Anita, coincidentally) in my first Psychology tutorial in first year of uni. A bond was forged over beer and crap relationship stories (usually mine, much to the amusement of the gathered masses. Think of The Sermon on the Mount, and add romantic failure, though subtract the sandals.), and we've pretty much been mates since then. He maintained the mystifying ability to live a very student lifestyle while pulling down the highest marks of anyone I knew; a conchy bastard, to be sure, but one who drinks Old, so he's forgiven. He's ace. </phantom>

Anyway. Jase is here until Saturday, when he sets off on a six-week tour, and I set off to see Nick Cave. Fitting, kinda. They'll both be back in London soon, though; although I doubt that I'd be cooking both of them dinner at some point. (However, if the Dark Lord of Rock is reading this, just send me an email and I'll give you my address. The cooking's not as bad as you'd imagine.)
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The Screens: Music composed collaboratively by Philip Glass with West African griot and master kora player Foday Musa Suso. Originally written for the Jean Genet play of the same name in 1989. An enchanting and exotic synthesis of African and Western Musical Traditions with an Arabic twist- described as one of the best kept secrets of Philip's career. Performed by Philip Glass (acoustic piano), Foday Musa Suso (kora, dousongoni, nyanyer, vocals), Alexander Balanescu (violin), Jon Gibson (woodwinds), and Yousif Sheronick (percussion).

Mmm. I found out about this show about a week ago; when payday rolls around, you can be sure I'll be picking up some tickets. See you there, mayhap?
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In what I fervently pray is a dodgy marketing exercise, a male blow-up doll with an assortment of Hawaiian Tropic suncare products thrust down its Speedos has just entered the office. I doubt I will be the same.
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I've seen it before, but it's worth dragging out the Search For Truth site again. It's one of those sites that relentlessly chugs through pop-culture to find the hidden meanings in everything. They're obviously forgetting that we're naught but thoughts in the mind of the evil demon, the poor fools!

To be fair, there's a bit of interesting listening to be found on the site, though most (all?) of the examples seem to be worthy or more scepticism than they're treated with. I never knew Popeye had such a potty-mouth. I'd've thought, too, that a secret message to lord Satan might've contained fewer references to toolsheds than the famous Led Zep one.

But hey, at least they know that the moon landing photos were doctored: I'm positive that Aldrin looks much fatter on earth. To the airbrush, conspiracists!
[via barbelith underground]

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Wednesday, May 02, 2001

From my ingredients label:

Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Dark colours may bleed - wash separately. May be harmful to children. Batteries not included. Not for sale outside Australia. Contains no genetically-modified ingredients.

This is why Davo rocks.
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I'm disappointed. According to this test, I'm a mere 40% ageing hypocrite. I'd've thought I qualified a bit higher than that. Ah well. At least I can take solace in the fact that, apparently, my bodily products are sellable. Insert delivery joke here.
[via plasticbag.org]
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While I still contend that they put on a shithouse concert, I'm willing to be converted to the way of Mogwai if their new album's good enough. While I haven't listened to it yet, there's an exclusive preview kicking around the NME's website; it features a stack of audio clips and the band's comments about the songs involved. I'll have to check it out...
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Oh, the gods are smiling today: to lift my spirits, I stumbled across a collection of insights, my true name and some desktop-dancin' - all from the powerhouse that is Mr T. Rockin'. My friend Russ knows someone who has had dinner with the man-mountain; these days, he apparently dominates conversation with talk of how he's embraced his Saviour. And, quite frankly, who's going to argue with the guy? I know that such an encounter would scare the bejesus out of me, fool that I am.
[via metafilter]
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And we're back. Blogging was thin on the ground yesterday due to the early-mark that my workplace was given as a result of the May Day action happening a stone's throw from the office. I left work at around 1pm yesterday, and walked the two minutes walk to Oxford Circus. Crossing the line of police that stretched across the road just behind the station, I made my way to the entrance and discovered that the tube station was closed to incoming passengers. I walked back towards the police line - who were willingly letting women with umbrellas and carry-bags through - and was stopped, presumably because I looked vaguely protester-like.

"So. Are you trying to go somewhere?"

I eventually convinced the officer that I actually worked in the area, and was just trying to get to Tottenham Court Road, and was let go. I must've made it out just before they started boxing people in, but it was strange to note that the police were edgy that early on. The sheer numbers of them on the street was disconcerting: ditto the fact that a sizeable number of the stores along Oxford Street were boarded up. It made the walk - traffic had come to a standstill - quite like stepping into a DeChirico painting; something seemed oddly strange, though completely normal. My expressive difficulties aside, it was an eerie stroll, enhanced by the buzzing helicopters (the bulk of them press-birds) that'd been circling the area ever since I got into work. McDonald's - unsurprisingly - was closed, as were a number of stores selling electronic goods. But I was surprised to note that Sock Shop had gone to the trouble of boarding themselves up. I was unaware that socks were high on looters' list of things to smash 'n' grab. But hey; I'm out of that loop now, I guess.

For some wildly different views of the day, you can check out reportage here, here and here. There's bound to be discussion around various websites, all more qualified to comment on what went on than I am. I'll just say this: I was dismayed at the way the mainstream press seemed to be willing to convey the "there will be violence" message to soften the populace into acceptance of the idea of violent and repressive means of demonstrator constraint. Yes, it was intended to protect individuals; but it seemed the discernment of exactly which individuals were worth protecting was somewhat ropey.

I'd also recommend you check out Meg's thoughts on the day and its concerns. They say more than some of the figureheads I saw interviewed last night ever could.

Incidentally, can I just suggest that maybe we're living in the End Days? Not because of any flip pop-music release, but because of this plan that's been given the go-ahead. Watching the news last night was weird enough, given that the riot-police action was happening in a place I wander around every day, but to learn this news on top of that was doubly distressing. You can read Bush's speech here - there's also a RealAudio version of the speech available, which essentially comes across as "another decade, another bad-guy". It's already being suggested that the plan could lead to another arms race, and China's disapproval is already obvious. It's a good thing that the US is planning to reduce its nuclear arsenal, and this has been embraced by Russian officials - so why do I feel so disturbed about what it has the potential to bring on?

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Tuesday, May 01, 2001

Luke's dream theatre: apparently, last night, I had nocturnal visions of the camo-clad Zack De La Rocha (post-RATM, natch.) talking to me at a large dinner-party at what I guess was my friend Kirsty's familial manse in Beecroft. He was wandering around, dropping bits of pro-revolutionary wisdom, all dreadlocks and dodgy t-shirts, and seemed like quite a nice bloke. That is, until he took up a mic and proceeded to give the assembled masses some neo-lounge versions of some of Rage's biggest hits. "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me" indeed. Though, to be fair, you haven't lived until you've heard "Bulls On Parade" with a full horn-section. It's pretty boss.

I wonder if this has anything to do with today's May Day riots? Hmm. The walk to Oxford Circus to get home should be interesting, given that I'm looking quite scruffily studentesque myself. A "white trash" tee and dyed black hair probably won't help the "no, I'm a producer, honest!" argument. If I turn up at the homestead with telephone directories stuck down my pants, rest assured that it's only in an effort to stop the rubber bullets, not an attempt to massage my ego.

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Freakytrigger.com, home of such wonderful pages as Cultural Artifacts Of The Moment and I Hate Music has been bought by a relatively dodgy shopping portal. Hence, the content's no longer there. Arse. You'll find the story here - I await the reinvention eagerly...
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Sprung! Trawling the net has revealed an old interview of mine, with Merida Sussex and Charles Bickford of the now-extinct Paradise Motel. Rather, it's the transcription of the tape from an interview I had with the band. It was my first, and I went on to do subsequent interviews with them, in addition to spending a pretty strange new year's eve with them in Melbourne. Fun times, and good music, too. I think the Honi article this turned into was much less cheesy, though I can't exactly be sure, though. Don't count on it. I'd suggest you don't read it if you've any visions of me as a worthy scribe, free of fanboy afflictions. They're pretty rife there; but then, I did have a thing for the singer at that point, as a number of my university cohorts will attest...
[via blue ruin]
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Cruising over some BlogVoices comments, I find that the lovely Julieanne has provided a link to the SMH's coverage of Anzac Day 2001. Covering emptiness? Almost certainly. I've never seen so much literary allusion in one place before...
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I've had this kicking around in email for a while and have meant to blog it before, but never found time. And so, now, lazy-surfing means that it comes to you: a site that sells wife-beaters online. Rather than being a site that allows you to dial-a-bludgeoning, it's one that sells a particular type of undershirt. White. Singletlike. I'm more familiar with them under alternate nomenclature; those singlets will always be Chesty Bonds to me. Anyway, these ones come with the term "wife beater" proudly emblazoned across the chest; they also offer classily cursive female versions, and the hilarious "li'l beater" version, too - all can be personalised with your choice of natural-light fading, motor oil, blood or cigarette burns. They also suggest that you'll get a sizeable reduction in the price of the shirt if you can provide documentary evidence that you are a wife-beater.

Classy. Classy.

And the kicker? The email addresses of the site: beaten@wife-beaters.com and bruised@wife-beaters.com. The site includes a "Wife-Beater Hall Of Fame" to try and give some kind of legitimacy to the marketing; though none of their exemplars are actually wearing said product. Hmm. Is this what wife-beating's like? Two twenty-something attractive-esque kiddies indulged in some light roleplay bondage (and lacking wedding bands, no less) don't seem to quite mirror the reality, I think.

It could be a joke. Let's face it, with a large chunk of The Prodigy's "Smack My Bitch Up" as the site's theme music, it probably is. I just don't think that there's anything that funny about invoking spousal abuse in the name of flogging a few t-shirts. It's a cheap laugh, and hey, who's to say that low humour is any less valid than intellectual humour. But I say that there are some things that remain relentlessly unfunny. This is one of them. It's frat-boy, it's Tom Green, and it's depressingly lame. It turns a serious problem into a joke; and secretly, I'd like to hope that we're better than that. Though I have my doubts.
[via raindogs]

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Monday, April 30, 2001

Pressing the flesh with the leathery, dancing to britpop and discovering that you are in a ropey movie after all: Johanna's had a full weekend. I, on the other hand, lazed, rambled, obfuscated, gallery-hopped and generally cruised through the end-of-week break.

And it was fun.

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There's a fairly basic article on the marketing for the new Kubrick/Spielberg film A.I. to be found here. What makes it readworthy is that the brothers Hon are quoted about their take on the phenomenon. This is cool, given that Dan maintains a pretty comprehensive resource on the thing, called thetrail. Apparently, there's more interview soundbites ahoy...
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Damned good intentions. I woke up this morning full of thoughts about spending this evening jogging, redesigning, or doing yoga, or one of a multitude of tasks that've been piling up and are weighing heavily. I was even intending to get to work early and get on down to it.

But then, there came the Jubilee line. Pah.

Now, rather than in "Let's get to it!" mode, I'm in "Ah, fuckya!" mode. All systems go. I'll see what encouragement I can dredge up, but... you know how it is. Monday and all. Pah.

(At the very least, make me go running.)

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Does this mean that I've made it into the illustrious pages of my uni's paper, Honi Soit? That would be kinda cool. I wrote a couple of pieces (including an interview with the director of Kiss or Kill who was an absolute arse) for the paper and soaked up more than my fair share of freebie CDs during my third and fourth years at uni. I'd like to think that the shithouse last-minute nature of student uni newspaper production has matured into a more cohesive, well-oiled machine, but I'm willing to bet that it's just as deadline-pushingly late-night-awful as it's ever been.

Which is kinda reassuring.

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