Doric Ionic

Knowing Me, Knowing Uke

Sun, 31 Aug 2008 16:00:19 GMT

I'm not a hippy or anything, but I'm thinking of going the Burning Man festival next year. It sounds and looks insane. Really, I'm just looking for a fresh injection of random insanity into my life again, as it's been a while since I had a good ol' fashioned adventure. But it'll cost over £1000 to get there from London! MADNESS, I SAY.

But I did spend a week up north recently for The Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and I saw Henry Rollins speak for the first time. He normally goes for about 2.5 hours or so, but he only had 75 minutes this time, so in his own words, he "won't talk less, just faster". By the end of it I felt like those powerfully muscled arms of his had been literally cramming words into my ears like rubbish into an overstuffed trash can. Not that his words are rubbish, but that's the best analogy I can think of right now. Anyway, by the end of it he was quite literally drenched in sweat and I was mentally spent. Rad.

I got a ukulele the other day. There's this group jam session downstairs in the Royal George pub calling itself Uke Got To Be Kidding*, and I'm thinking of going along once I've developed some mad uke skillz. There's also a ukulele shop near my flat calling itself 'The Duke of Uke'. The world of ukuleles seems to be very big on wacky puns, which I think is a big part of the attraction for me. I also recently attended a class/comedy show during the Fringe Festival called 'Learn To Play The Ukulele in Under An Hour (or, How George Formby Saved My Life)', which was amazing.

And John McCain is a retard.

* A fine pun to be sure, but not as good as a felafel stand I saw at The Lovebox Weekender called 'Just Falafs'.

Give Me Broooce or Give Me Death

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 03:05:21 GMT

I saw Springsteen.

It was fucking amazing, and the concert, along with so many other things about the man I already knew, and have been inspired to meditate on since, has pretty much solidified him as my single favourite musician.

His lack of pretense despite incredible success, his lack of compromise and resistance to reinvention over the decades... his music was never about fashion or trends, he's always just been Springsteen; acutely aware of his place in the music industry and the American consciousness, and never trying to be anything but himself. More than any other musician I can think of, the music he makes with the E Street Band evokes more than feelings, it puts me in places...

When he sings about a barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge, or kids hustling for the record machine, flashing guitars like switch-blades, he's singing about the small, simple things that form the fabric of a modern American legend, and he makes it seem so real.

I listen to Jungleland, and Clarence Clemons' elegiac sax solo brings out hazy memories of a time and place I've never lived through or been to, and I become inexplicably nostalgic. When I hear Born to Run, in my head a movie plays out, and I know exactly what those two lovers are feeling. I hear the emotion in his voice on Born in the USA, and through the anthemic keyboards and fist pumping drums, the sadness and helplessness of his lyrics burns though and I feel like I could cry.

But he'll just as soon wave his flag as protest his nation's unjust wars and unsteady path, carved out by poor leadership. He knows right from wrong and he's not afraid to sing about it, but it never feels trite or cliched. Everything he does feels so honest, and he does it all with such integrity.

I should stop rambling. It's almost 4am, I should nap.

I see My Bloody Valentine this weekend. Who would've thought that would ever happen? Rad.

Intraweb Terrorisms/Home Loan Arse Kickers

Tue, 27 May 2008 21:26:43 GMT

I'm still slow to update this thing. Sorry. I'm trying. My paid account expired and all my pictures went away, and LJ wouldn't give them back until I paid them. So I did. They're like a modern day version of those guys in that movie where Mel Gibson has to pay a ransom - Ransom (1996).

I found another best ever website on the internet. Actually, it's on YouTube.

YouTube has all kinds of good things.

I was on the underground the other day and saw a massive ad for home loans, with a huge disclaimer - obviously enforced by law -mentioning that if you don't keep up your repayments, your home will be repossessed. It reminded me of those warning labels on cigarette packets that have pictures of diseased organs. I hope one day home loan ads are legally required to have a picture of a middle aged couple crying and bending over while their bank manager is behind them, sinking his boot up their arse while he laughs and wads of greenbacks spill out of his pockets.

The summer festival season is coming and I don't know what to go to!!1!!1 aaaarrrghshnarp

It's good to have my girfriend staying with me. She says watching me update my blog is like watching Steven Spielberg direct a movie. I can only imagine how amazing this must be for her.

Rad Gait

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 16:25:14 GMT

When I was in my first year of high school, I was walking along one day when Dane-someoneorother came over to me and said "Hey! You walk with your arms out from your sides, like this. Like you think you're tough. But you're not."*

For a short while I was very self conscious about how I walk, so I made an effort to correct it. Later, I would find that things had changed more than I first realised, because since late high school until this day, people have always told me that I don't walk. I strut. Everywhere.

I can't help it, it's just my auto-walk mode. I do feel self conscious about it still sometimes, like if I'm on a busy road with lots of traffic going by and I'm the only pedestrian around. Are people in their cars looking at me and thinking, what the fuck has he got to strut about?

Don't get me wrong, I'm pro-strut. It's just that I can't turn it off. But maybe the Fonz was the same? I don't know. Strutting isn't always suitable though. Like if you're part of a funeral procession, or walking into an STD clinic. Those are the times I feel out of touch with the common man.

I want to ride a camel in the Sahara. I will do it soon. I want to go to Tunisia.

So it was pointed out to me that there was a direct correlation between the time I stopped blogging a few months ago and the time I got a girlfriend. Of course, correlation does not always suggest causality, but I think it's a safe enough conclusion at this point. I drew a graph, in case any of you fucking morons are too stupid to understand what I'm talking about. Maths can be hard.

Anyway, she is lovely. Also, I moved into another new flat, seeing as my last one turned out to be a depressing shit farm. I now live on Bethnal Green road, above a kebab store. I am getting faaaaaaat. Vegetarian options are limited, but they do a mean felafel.

I should get ready for work.

* DANE WAS FUCKING MASSIVE

Mental Meltdown

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 21:52:56 GMT

Whoa, what a month and a half that was. Now I'm financially ruined until at least March, but it was worth it.

Back in 2005 a few friends and I went to a party and took acid for the first, and so far only time. It was mega. I'd love to do it again, but sadly such opportunities are rarely open to me these days. Anyway, that was the whole point of this party - everyone was there just to get high on LSD.

So as I started feeling the more psychedellic effects of it coming on, I decided that I wanted, nay, needed to find a pen and paper so I could quite literally illustrate my descent into drug fuelled madness. For those of you who've never tried it before, I cannot understate the insane things that occur to your mind whilst under the influence.

To see the images I created as the acid warped my brain, click the cut below.

PART ONE:

My brain was just starting to move sideways in the most peculiar way. For some reason, the worm from an old Australian TV show called 'The Book Place' was paramount in my thoughts. I can't find an actual picture of him, but as I drew this, everyone around seemed to agree that it stirred up some very strange childhood memories.

Most likely it didn't, it was probably just the drugs.

Anyway he appears to have a ghost-flower growing out of his left eye and lives in a small burrow with the word 'mingle'.

PART TWO:

30 minutes later I suddenly became acutely aware of the existence of 'the fourth dimension', and made a vain attempt at a visual representation of said dimension. I think the failed result is supposed to be the fourth dimension colliding with a house, but I'm not sure.

PART THREE:

About 15 minutes later, the books on the shelf were beginning to breathe and pulsate over each other. I pulled one out and began to copy text into my notepad, over the top of a grinning face with no pupils in its eyes. The text reads: "foreign minister - suez canal - ISRAELS MISGIVINGS - D-DAY MITLA - They would no doubt thnk (sic) we intended operating along the northern El Arish Kantara Axis and not the south"

I cannot remember what the book was about.

PART FOUR:

I think it was about 15 minutes later (time compresses and expands in unusual ways when you're on acid) when I became unable to deal with any solid, clear cut issues. Physics no longer applied. Bizzarely, the concept of 'ownership' broke down. I was only able to think in complex, abstract terms, which at the time felt like the most simple, obvious concepts imaginable.

Part of this whole experience meant that I had great difficulty drawing shapes and understanding patterns, so things began to get quite basic. So I drew a smiling flower.

PART FIVE:

Complete psychic meltdown. My friend Jerry was sitting on the floor doing card tricks in front of a big audience, but he kept fucking them up so it would take over five minutes to do a trick that would normally take thirty seconds. At the end of each trick when he pulled the 'magic' card, everyone in the room would shout and clap with excitement. In retrospect, he could have pulled out any card whatsoever and people would have clapped and wailed with glee. These squiggles were drawn with great difficulty, and they represent what was happening at the time.

An hour later, there was a dreadlocked man walking barefoot around the party dressed in robes. I thought he was a druid.

So it was rad to be back in Australia and see people again, even if beer in Perth is now, somehow, more expensive than beer in London. How the fuck that happens is beyond me, but whatevs. And Melbourne is so cool. I wanna live there someday.

In other news, apparently I was on the BBC the other night talking about one of my favouritest, most belovedest singers EVER, Robyn. This crew filmed me and my peeps hanging around in the line outside her concert at the Scala a couple months ago. I was pretty sure I sounded like such a dick they would never show it, but there you go. All I said was something to the effect of how she's the hottest Swedish chick EVA. Nothing about her great her music is or anything.

I drew this ages ago. I kinda like it.

Siouxsie Sioux - Here Comes That Day (Fuzzy Kerbox Remix)

Cures for Boredoms

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 20:23:31 GMT

Today I moved out of my flat, and had to deal with all the packing/cleaning bullshit that comes with that.

Part of this cleaning is about throwing junk out. Every time I move house, I'm at a loss to decide how to deal with the massive amounts of loose change that builds up.

So today, instead of taking it to the bank or whatnot, I decided to do something different. I will represent the story in photo-journal format.

Here is the collection. It's mainly British pence, but there's also money from China, Russia, Romania, Denmark, and some other places. There was even a two Euro coin.

You could render a man unconscious if you swung it like a sack of door knobs.

I made a sign.

And dumped it outside next to my 2nd floor kitchen window.

I figured it would be gone in a matter of 30 seconds or so.

It took fucking ages for anyone to walk past.

I didn't reckon with the collective ability of people to ignore anything that looks like a bag of rubbish.

So after fifteen minutes of being massively fucking bored, I moved the bag by one foot.

And then this guy walked right on past.

After ten seconds he shuffled back, kicked the bag, and went for it. Success!

The bag is gone.

And our hero rides off into the sunset, roughly £6.50 richer in incredibly small, impractical denomonations.

In other news, I have a girlfriend for the first time in seven years. She lives 338 miles away in Edinburgh, it's not easy. Tomorrow I go back to Western Australia to see most of my family and friends for the first time in two years. I'm gonna be in Melbourne next week too, and I'm going to Paris in February.

And I need a new flat in East London. Cripes! Busy times.

Last year I pondered in my previous blog the connection between Toxoplasma Gondii and crazy cat ladies. Finally, the scientific world has caught up with my enormous, pulsating brain.

Internet Finally Achieves His Full Potential

Wed, 14 Nov 2007 22:44:02 GMT

I've been watching a lot of Noam Chomsky's talks and speeches on youtube in the last few days, and while I find him to be highly engrossing and intelligent, I come away with three key issues.

1) Who the fuck names their child 'Noam'?
2) It's actually pretty rad, because Noam is like Noel, in that they are homonyms of Dungeons and Dragons creatures (gnome, gnoll).
3) 'Noam Chomsky' also sounds like the noises you would make while eating. "nom, nom, nom, chom chom chom", etc.

But I've been using internets for more than just intelligensia, my friends. I've recently hit ultimate paydirt in the form of the greatest blog ever created. I must warn you though, it is not for the morally pure or weak of constitution. It is perhaps the most brilliantly offensive thing I've ever found on internets, and I hold it my heart dearly.

It is the blog of a porn star named Ashley Blue, star of such contemporary classics as 'Attention Whores 5', 'Irritable Bowel Syndrome', and 'Bootylicious 44: Slaves for the Black Man'.

In parts it is exactly as explicit as you might expect, but also rather sweet in many ways. It is essentially a photo diary of her life, framed by random, stream of consciousness-like text. You may find it here, and bask in it's repulsive awesomeness.

In other news, remember that episode of The Simpsons where Homer buys a gun and proceeds to use it as an all-purpose tool for opening cans, turning off lights, etc? That was rad.

Vote for my Threadless design!

Fri, 09 Nov 2007 01:08:36 GMT

Eeeeeeee!

I need your help!

My submission to the tee-shirt design website Threadless has just been accepted, and there are 6 more days of voting to be had on it! If I get enough votes, they'll print and sell the design and I win cash and the respect of my peers. I'm permanently in short supply of both, so this is really important*.

You just need to go to the link below and register real quick, then vote. To do this, click the 'I'd buy it' button on the right, then press 5.

If you do this, you would be my hero forever, like Indiana, or Springsteen.

Here it is, I hope you like:

http://www.threadless.com/submission/140128/Winged_Garden

I'll write another entry tomorrow when I'm not so hepped up! :D

Now let me bribe you with good music, including that of a talented young upstart by the name of Lee Hunter. Rumour has it, he works for Google by day and swings around on ropes through dark London alleys by night, rescuing virginal dames in distress.

Lee Hunter - Save Your Voice
Mint Royale - From Rusholme With Love

* To be honest, I really just wanna see my work on a shirt. That'd be sooooo rad.

Sock Munkies!

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 16:40:17 GMT

I don't really consider myself a 'consumer', but last Monday afternoon I spent 25 minutes walking around Hamleys trying to buy a sock monkey.

For me, sock monkeys are up there with rubber chickens. They are inherently funny and also something I've wanted for a long time, but never been arsed to buy. However, the reason I will probably never buy a rubber chicken is because they look weird and gross. With sock monkeys, I don't have this problem. It's proabbly the most useless thing I've ever wanted to buy, which suggests to me that a sock monkey is the ideal useless consumer purchase. Ironic then, that you find so many homemade, indie sock monkeys for sale on the Interwebs.

Here is one of my favourite animals. The Red Panda. I drew it about a month ago, I've just been too laaaaaazy to post it.

I also want to purchase a human skull, but I cannot afford one, nor do I need one. I have better things to spend my money on. I've decided that next year, I will (perhaps over the new year) go in search of the Northern Lights. The Aurora! It's going to be rad. I'd love to ring in the 2009 in the most Northern, inhospitable regions of Norway, standing alone in sub-zero temperatures, observing a bizaare celestial phenomenon colour the night sky.

Two months from now, I'm going to be back in Australia with my friends and family for the first time in two years.

Does anyone know a good online sock monkey store?

Skull Appreciation

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 02:14:38 GMT

When I'm on the toilet at home, there is a mirror next to me. So if I forget to bring in something to read, there's not much to do except look at myself. That is, unless I feel like staring at the back of the door, which I don't. I hate doors.

It's mainly because of this hapless leisure time that I recently decided my best feature is my skull. Ever since I started keeping my hair really short, I've been able to notice its structure much more easily, and this is a good thing, I feel. My skull is streamlined and well proportioned. I'm very proud of it.

A few years back I lived in a place where one entire wall of the bathroom was a mirror. It stood opposite the toilet and the shower, so when you were sitting upon the lavatory, you had nothing else to look at except a head to toe view of yourself taking a dump. It could be somewhat disconcerting, but on the other hand, I soon developed a habit that continues to this day. Now, when confronted with a mirror for any length of time, it only takes a matter of seconds before I start pulling bizzare faces at myself. This is how I amuse myself on the toilet, and it's why I often spend longer in there than I actually need to.

On the other hand, if I am reading a magazine while I'm 'swabbing the poop deck', I am completely unable to look at any pictures of attractive women if they're looking into the camera. If my eyes meet theirs, even on paper, I can't escape the feeling that no matter where they are in the world, somewhere, somehow, they will know what I'm doing. And I feel ashamed.

I want to start a band with nothing but a harpist, a set of steel drums, and a choir of catholic school girls on vocals. There is a busker who plays the harp in one of the tube stations around town. I can't remember where I've seen him or her, all I remember is that it's always a highlight of my day.

The number one single on the UK charts at the time of my birth was 'Seven Tears' by The Goombay Dance Band. I downloaded it. There's a reason you've never heard of them. It's because they're shit.*

These are the types of journal entries you write at 2:30 in the morning when you're trying to stay awake as long as possible to set back your internal clock for the three 8pm to 8am graveyard shifts you start tomorrow. Amen.

* If only my parents had waited 4 months, I could have gotten Dexy's Midnight Runners :(

Facial Hair Meltdown!

Sun, 30 Sep 2007 17:27:29 GMT

Did you know that when Tom Jones covered 'Kiss' by Prince in 1988, he changed the original lyrics from "women not girls rule my world" to "women and girls rule my world"? What a leathery old peado. I love accusing people of being paedos.

Some startling facts have recently come to light.

Last weekend in Edinburgh it was brought to my attention that my wallet, which I have been using for several months now, is not actually a wallet. It's a purse. And I just never knew it. I can no longer pay for goods and services without feeling as though my masculinity is under threat. So unless I'm going to start making all my purchases as manly as possible (power tools, barely-legal bukkake porn, etc.), I have to go and buy a new one sometime soon.

Furthermore, while we were out drinking last night, the subject of my facial hair came up.

I love my mutton chops dearly, and I thought other people did too. I've come to define myself as a 'facial hair guy'. Everyone tells me they like it, but now it seems that this may have been mere politeness. Last night you see, popular opinion turned against me. I was assaulted on several fronts, and forced to defend myself in many theatres of battle. My friends were pressuring me to get rid of them. THEY WERE WHISPERING INTO EACH OTHERS EARS AND LAUGHING ABOUT 'HOME TRUTHS', PEOPLE. I was emotional and distressed. Sigh. All is not well in my world. Not well indeed.

I want a fucking pet hedgehog, and I want it now. This is such bullshit.

I'm going to have a visitor next month! Jo's coming down from Edinburgh, which is all a bit exciting because I get to show her around cool East London places, which will make me feel like a big man.

I love this chap.

Goldfrapp - Ride a White Horse (Serge Santiago Re-Edit)
Swan Lake - All Fires

Russians, Lesbians and Unsolicited Nudity - A Day in the Life

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 22:47:43 GMT

I just had dinner with a bunch of lesbians, three of which were among the hottest I've ever seen in my life. A fourth doesn't count because I've known her for too long. I was unfocused with my meal, to say the least. Afterwards, they all went to a lesbian night at some club, so I decided to go buy three books, then come home and post to my livejournal. BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING A NERD.

I had a bath this afternoon. In this bath, I began daydreaming. Can you imagine if friendly aliens had come to Earth during the Cold War, and decided to deal primarily with the two major superpowers? How would the US and Russian governments deal with this? What would the aliens make of these humans? Obviously we wouldn't attack them, but I was just trying to imagine the how advanced, spacefaring aliens might react to the inane, pointless rhetoric of human politicians. I kinda think they would just call bullshit on us and fuck off to a planet that's not so hopelessly wayward. I often wonder what aliens would make of humanity, what with their keen, objective bug eyes.

I don't know if I like this. I mean, I do, but I have issues. But I once heard someone say you should never apologise for a bad performance, and I believe that particular philosophy is wise. I hate it when artists of any kind point out whats wrong with their own work. And besides, I spent over 7 hours on this already, so I just want to have something to show for it. Maybe I'll redo it later.

Anyway, after I posted my last Bear v. Panda picture in an LJ community called Illustrators, I found that a couple of Russian people responded to the subject matter. Illustrators has loads of Russian artists who usually make very angsty, tortured images, but upon investigating their actual blogs I found they're full of some fucking random, far out, awesome, unexplained shit. EG: this one, and especially this one. Sweet.

I think one of my housemates might have seen me naked today.

Tomorrow, I depart for Edinburgh with my friends Mim and Magda, to meet my friends Jo, Ros, Caroline and Daniel. Good times will be had.

Good times indeed.

White Zombie - More Human Than Human (Lorn Remix)
Max Romeo - Chase The Devil

Smackdown; Ajax

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 17:20:46 GMT

In a massively ironic moment, I got punched in the face the other night for telling some dude in Soho that his Australian accent was really fucking annoying. I've never been punched properly before. It was totally sweet!

I'm a lover, not a fighter, but I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing so I wasn't interested in fighting back. I was too drunk to do so anyway. The only shit thing was, while the guy landed a good one on my face, he somehow also ended up hitting the girl next to me twice. Not too badly, but enough to diminish the awesomeness of the whole thing. Plus, I still have a wee mark on my face that kinda looks like a pimple. But it was still very exciting.

The whole ordeal has made me wonder about my Australian-ness though. While I don't even notice it with my friends, I pretty much hate the accent on anyone I don't already know. I love everything else about the country though. Except the government. And the casual racism and homophobia. And loads of other stuff. Really what I'm trying to say is that England has 24-hour alcohol licensing, and Australia has to fight pretty hard for my love if it wants to compete with that.

My brother unexpectedly begifted me with a free ticket to see Brian Wilson last night.* I actually got to see the man himself play Surfin' USA, I Get Around, Good Vibrations, Sloop John B, and God Only Knows, backed up by a phenomenal live band of up to 18 people. The musical odyssey of the last 6 months that is my life continues.

* I met him a few years ago. He signed my copy of Pet Sounds. My brother met him after I left last night. He signed his Pet Sounds shirt.

Panda vs Grizzly

Sun, 26 Aug 2007 23:12:32 GMT

I accidently pissed on a mosque the other night. I didn't know it was a mosque. Some muslim kids came out and started yelling at me. I told them I was sorry and they said "I'd better be". I've never been threatened by someone under 14 years old before.

Not much else has happened lately. I booked some tickets for a holiday up to Edinburgh next month, so I currently have 6 flight bookings to my name. That's a funny thought, it makes me feel like some kind of cool international jet-setter type person. Unless my life has become something I'm not fully aware of, that seems unusual to me. But I don't think it has.

Aside from that, things are really hotting up, because this Tuesday night I have tickets to see.....

There are two musicians who are so incredible to me, so massive, so important, that as a small(ish) town chap from far-away Western Australia, the idea of ever seeing them live, in the flesh, was so remote and unfeasible that it was never considered. One is Springsteen, the other is Prince. And I am rapidly approaching the Zero Hour.

Here are some bears that hate each other. I don't know why I made them hate each other. They just do. That's what nature is like. Cruel and awesome.

I've been thinking lately. As I grow up, I get hit in the nuts a lot less. I don't know if this happens to all men, but personally I realise I probably don't do as many dangerous activites as I did when I was a child. I can only think of one time on the last year when I've had my balls whammed. It's pretty good, I guess. I dunno. My brother once threw a Nintendo cartidge at me when I was little. I tried to dodge it by doing some kind of spazzed-out ninja roll across the floor, but consequently my legs splayed in his direction and I suffered a Super Mario right to my ballbag.

Dr.Octagon - Trees (Spankrock Remix)
Pharoahe Monch - Welcome To The Terrordome

Futurethink

Mon, 06 Aug 2007 19:45:21 GMT

Occasionally at odd moments in this wacky, alcohol fuelled, electro-techno soundtracked, random mess of a thing I call life, someone unlooked for and completely unexpected will appear from nowhere and give me advice on what to do with myself when sometimes... I'm not entirely sure I'm taking my life down the best possible course....

So today I was sitting on the grass of Southbank under the guardian gaze of the London Eye, drinking a coffee and listening to The Hold Steady with my shiny new headphones on my cruddy old iPod. I was drawing out some possibilties for a tattoo that my drunken consort Tam has asked me to help with, and I was reflecting on the future. I'm almost certain I want to go back to uni and study illustration and various software so I can shift careers from TV into graphic design. Almost certain. By the time I'm done with it, I will be in my late twenties, and I'd essentially be throwing away three years of previous university education and a more few years of trying to establish a career in the media industry.

This kid of about 12 years old came over and looked at my sketch pad. I was drawing a bird. He watched for a while and I smiled at him, then he went away. I regretted not having said anything to him, but then he returned. We had a conversation, and he responded to my words with the kind of uncertain, overanalysed seriousness that some kids are capable of. We discussed artwork (he's into it too), and he looked at my drawing and said I should definitely go back and study. So that's it. I can't argue with the simple wisdom of a child. So it's either gonna be in Melbourne or Edinburgh, I'm not sure... Both places seem perfectly suited, but I'm going to both cities before the year's out, so I'll make a decision then. But for right now, London is too much fun.

On the weekend I went for a swim and a spa in a nightclub after the DJ got us in for free... They actually had a swimming pool in the club. How they reconcile health and safety standards with that, I don't know. Sell alcohol to crazy drunks you've never met before and let them loose in a pool at 2am? Cowabunga! The coolest bit was that everyone just swims in their underpantaloons, so there was some crazy sexual tension flying around in that spa. Err... for me, anyway. Not that it led anywhere. I went home thinking about how big their insurance bills must be.

So anyway, the last time some glorious random gave me life-changing advice, it came from an drunken officer in the Royal British Marines. I was tending the bar for him and a few of his buddies while he wore only a strapless red satin dress. Despite that, his words were simple and wise. Sometimes you just need someone to cut through all the bullshit for you with a double handed broadsword made from an alloy of dwarf-steel and objectivity. Within a few months, I was no longer tending bars or carrying peoples luggage. And I was much happier.

Les Baxter - The High and The Mighty

Meme Fiesta!

Thu, 02 Aug 2007 22:25:44 GMT

This is the first time I've done one of these. Deep breath...

The Rules:

* Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
* Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog

...from

exponen7

...

1) I used to eat cat food as a small child. Heaps of it. I would run over to my cats bowl, grab a handful of biscuits, then charge into the lounge room and bury my head inbetween the cushions and stuff my face while no one could see me. I can still remember the taste.

2) I have a secret walk that I very rarely do when I go down staircases and I'm positive no one is watching. No one will ever see it.

3) I spent three years working in a photo lab. My friend Hermione and I were both at the same company where we ran the store by ourselves on different days. We would leave each other notes, puzzles and treasure hunts at the end of every shift, so the other one could find them the next morning. We made an album out of other peoples photos. It's awesome. If you ask nicely, I might show you one day. But probably not, seeing as she has it.

4) The first time I ever saw snow fall was early last year in Ulaan Bataar, Mongolia. We were in a bar drinking vodka. I ran outside to play in it, and was immediately challenged to a wrestling match by a Mongolian man. I lost. As he helped me up, another one came over and challenged me again. I lost. I found out shortly afterwards that wrestling is considered a national sport in that particular country.

5) Twice, I have tried to punch someone in the face. Andrew Leivers during high school because he hit me first, and some random metalhead outside a kareoke bar because he was abusing my friend Claire. Both times my fist glanced off their face with little to no effect. But I still maintain that if I had to throw down, like, properly, I would be awesome.

6) I hate it when people say 'I don't wanna have any regrets' or anything along those lines. I see regrets as a sign that you've learnt from your mistakes, and that you've reflected upon your life meaningfully and realistically. A lot of the time they're also a dead giveaway that you've done some crazy, far out shit. And for better or worse, what's life without that? It's all fucking Oprah Winfrey and albums by Aerosmith (post 1970/80's drug habits), that's what. LAME.

7) Aerosmith was the first album I ever bought, back in 1993. It was Get a Grip, back when I was about ten years old. I regret it.

8) I just wrote out a final factoid about my beliefs in the afterlife. But I decided it's too personal to tell in such an impersonal forum. So I deleted it and wrote this instead.

So now I tag.....

slushpup, rubine, digitalduck, the_jenk, nickbiteme, shockonthefaces, blockrockinbeat, and my newest LJ acquaintance, unplode
If y'all can't be arsed, I understand. And some of you have journals that don't lend themselves to such things. But feel free to do it on my comments page (same goes for non-users. Percival, I'm looking at you... But all're encouraged)

I did this the other day. My friend Tam said she looks eastern European. So I dub her Svetlana Nowac.

So much is lost in the scanning. *sigh*

Nerds/Max Headroom/Reginald VelJohnson

Wed, 25 Jul 2007 22:57:56 GMT

I had a routine STD test last week. It's the second time this year I've gone for one, but they didn't take me the first time due to some procedural thing.

They inserted things into my body in places I didn't realise they needed to. Little hands went everywhere. I can still feel their probing devices.

But I can say with 100% certainty that I don't have syphillis. I kinda wish I did, because apparently it's making a comeback. I thought it was something only old poets from the late 1800's contracted, just like pirates with scurvy. I would love to have scurvy.

My brother's girlfriend got a cat. My brother named it Optimus Prime. I approve of this. The naming of pets is kind of like where you can run amok and bring to life all the ideas for naming children that the rules of 'society' won't let you put into practice because they're random and weird. Like my desire to name my kids Hasufel and Arod, after the horses that bore Legolas and Gimli forth to Minas Tirith in Lord of the Rings. But I'm a lame nerd, so maybe I'll do it anyway just to spite you all.

So as I write this, I'm preparing to go and see Die Hard 4. I'm not sure why, or if this course of action is wise... I like seeing things explode, but what I don't like is stupid movies about pissweak cockshit and bumcrap. But the cinema shows movies for £4 on weekdays and it's a 30 second walk from my front door. And there's this annoying girl somewhere in my house talking about Hillsong Church and Simon Cowell or something. So I'll go and see it now and come back and try to summarise the experience. Back soon.

(...)

Any movie where your main characters daughter refuses to let her boyfriend touch her breast during a make-out session is NOT going to get me to sympathise with her, and it's NOT going to make me like your movie. They didn't say 'fuck' enough, and it didn't have the guy from Family Matters come back for a cameo. WHATEVER.

ps. I updated the picture of the smoking girl below. It's heaps way better.
pps. The Sabres of Paradise - Smokebelch II (Beatless Night)
ppps. Mark Lanegan - One Hundred Days
pppps. How creepy is that Max Headroom thing? Jesus.

Lo! The Roskilde Festival 2007!

Fri, 13 Jul 2007 17:06:59 GMT

So this was it. The greatest week of my life.

As I sat and wrote this mammoth entry, directly outside the window I was facing in the pub I was sitting typing and drinking coffee in, there was a huge car crash. But I was so engrossed in writing and listening to Diana Ross on my iPod I didn't even notice.

It began with a flight from Heathrow to Copenhagen with Mim and Tam. As we waited in line to board, a gentleman stood between Tam and I as we conversed. He asked me if I would like to move forward and swap places with him. We later realised that man was Bryan Adams.

We made our way to the festival grounds like wild eyed party dogs, ready to fuck, scream and howl. The scent of feral chaos was in the air. But as we waited in line to exchange our tickets for wristbands, it began to rain. It did not stop for 24 hours. I realised soon that the backpack I paid $140 in Australia was not waterproof. As such, the only clothes I would wear for the next 7 days would be those I could purchase new, or dry using the mighty power of my own blazing bodyheat. Mim and I shakily set up our tent in the rain, and started drinking. I soon met a Norweigan man who had been to the festival in 2000, and witnessed the deaths of the nine festival goers who were killed in the mosh pit that year as Pearl Jam played. He told me how the giant screens flanking the main stage showed images of bodies being pulled from the crowd to the tens of thousands of people watching from afar, until the organisers realised these people weren't unconscious, they were dead.

The rain ended the next morning (Thursday), the bands were set to begin at noon, and almost all of our main group of roughly 10 party people had arrived. By now, the only thing protecting Mim and I from an inch of water in the bottom of our tent was an inflatable mattress that we couldn't manage to make stay inflated. I had slept the night in a puddle in wet clothes, and I totally understood why people were already leaving in droves, abandoning the wet and the mud before the music even began. According to the fesitval website, 5000 people did this, and somewhat understandably - in some of the worst areas the mud was ten inches deep. We went to buy some raincoats, and moved towards the stages, north of our campsite.

We started with The Arcade Fire, and we saw LCD Soundsystem put on a show so good I may have shed a tear. They were both outstanding. Then, after a break in the rain, we waited shivering and wet in front of the mainstage for Bjork. Venus As a Boy was one of the most fragile, beautiful things I've heard in a long, long time. That she could flick from that to hardcore mega-awesome future-techno is a testament to the lady. She was stunning, she was beautiful and I wanted to touch her hair a little bit and maybe kiss her too.

I'll take a moment now to digress from the narrative and add some context.

Our group (Charlotte, Caroline, Loren, Jeremy, Tim, Bernie, Mim, Tam, Marianne, Dave, Mike, Silke, several sundry Norweigian girls and Myself ) were camped Southwest, far from the stage. Luckily this was to our unwitting advantage, as we were on slightly higher ground, meaning our problems with mud were not as bad as they could have been. We had our tents in a ring around a small marquee Mike and Silke had brought. This was vital to our ability to seek shelter from the elements while maintaining social interaction. The toilets weren't as bad as expected, but the whole week was a urination free-for-all regardless. Boys and girls, pissing wherever they pleased. Behind trees, on fences, on other peoples tents, in the middle of public walkways... Now, I'm a big advocate for what I call 'squatters rights' - the idea that women should be able to piss as freely in public as men do - but here, it was truly tested to its limits. The fence line around the campsite was edged by puddles of neither water nor piss, but some unholy communion betwixt the two.

The next day (Friday) I woke up after an awkward sleep in a nearby abandoned tent to find one of the poles holding up our tent had snapped. Awesome. Plus, I had lost my voice, my left arm was half numb, and I had limited control over both. My arm remained this way until I got drunk again at roughly 4-5pm. It's at this point that my timeline gets somewhat hazy, as this all happened a week ago, and I was somewhat out of control for much of the following several days.* I met some Scandanavian guys, and I asked them what the Swedish translation of 'word up' is. "Ood up", they informed me.

We saw Camera Obscura today. They were great. We saw CSS. Lovefoxx was dashingly hot, as ever. I think it was this day that I saw some of The Beastie Boys.... What I definitely remember is that while watching a band this afternoon (was it Peter, Bjorn and John? Perhaps... They were so much better than I expected) I had three Scottish girls strike up a conversation with me. In the end, one of them, a sparkly and attractive young lass named Jo, spent the rest of the festival hanging out me and my cohorts. This led to my first festival romance, and I realise now how excellently it assists the proceedings.

After another awkward nights sleep leading into another badass hangover, Mim and I went into serious mode to reconstruct our tent, with a fair amount of success. The previous day, Tam had complained of spider eggs hatching loads of babies into hers. As Mim and I deconstructed ours, we found dozens of earwigs in the layered ceiling.

Anyway, it was Saturday morning and I could feel my left arm again, so I was happy. As we all sat around drinking in the early afternoon, Jo and one of her friends came to join us again briefly. Eventually we moved off to see the bands, and it was at this point that I got to finally see The Flaming Lips after years of waiting, and they did not dissapoint. Wayne Coyne has been an inspiration ever since I was the documentary 'The Fearless Freaks', but he is now more than that to me; he is a hero. I cried during 'Do You Realize??' They played an achingly tender and beautiful version of Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots. They are, in retrospect, my favourite band of the week. They were musically brilliant, but they resonated with me emotionally more than any other act I saw. Their music, philosophy and energy is so positive and beautiful, sincere, quirky and honest, I don't see how anyone could dislike them. When Wayne Coyne talked to the assembled crowd of tens of thousands about the nine people who died in 2000 in front of the same stage he was now on, it was a brave and beautiful gesture.

So by now the rain was starting up again after a brief hiatus, and the mud which had been trampled into something vaguely solid was becoming a messy issue once more. Later that night we also saw The Whitest Boy Alive put in a much more powerful and awesome set than I expected, and I got to witness Diplo play a fucking kick ass set of hardcore wicked dance music, followed by a little bit of Bonde Do Rollo's performance. Then we stuck around and enjoyed the random lighting and music for a while, giving me more chances to talk with random Scananavians for a bit. It was awesome. People were forgetting about the shit weather finally and a really friendly, communal atmoshpere was developing. Like a giant party in someones backyard.

So I went to sleep in our now-liveable tent and was woken up at what I thought was perhaps 11am on the Sunday morning by someone shouting to me that Jo was here, and I should stop being a pussy and come out to keep drinking. I complied, of course. It was pretty easy, seeing as I was still monumentally pissed from the previous night. After a few hours drinking, I was informed that it wasn't midday at all - it was actually about 6am. This is the problem in these Northern nations - the length of the sunlight hours can be very confusing to a drunkard from below the equator. Even worse, it didn't take long before we had no more beer. But just then, like a guardian angel, or some sympatheic Valkyrie Warrior Woman, we were joined by an Icelandic lass who happily gave us all the cigarettes and beer we could handle until the stores opened again for the day. We were also newly crewed with a young Norweigan man, and although I can't remember his name, I did rant at him for about 30 minutes about how much I love Norse mythology. We discussed all the legends; Thor, Odin, Yggdrasil, Loki, Ragnarok... Then he passed out in his own lap and we made him go back to his camp. He achieved this only with much trial and tribulation.

At midday Jo and I napped for a few hours. This astounded me, because I couldn't understand why any girl as respectable as her would be willing to sleep beside a guy who hasn't washed in three days. But I didn't question it. At about 4pm we went to see another of my must-sees - Wilco. Sadly, their brilliance was diminished by a setlist full of their more experimental and soporific numbers. Alas. Shortly thereafter, Datarock also turned in a performance that was hampered by somewhat cruddy newer material. By this point, we returned to camp for a few hours of cheaper drinking. The conversation and company was so good we decided to forgo seeing Muse (it would have been my fourth time) to stay here for a while longer before the final push towards the mighty Justice's 2am Monday closing set.

But on the way to that final hour, I found the real stars of the night were Basement Jaxx. I had seen them at a festival back in Australia a few years earlier, but this was a whole new experience. We were at the front of the stage again, surrounded by literally tens and tens of thousands of people partying and dancing and smiling, it was absolutely unbelieveable. The scene onstage was ecstatic, everyone was going bananas! The music was like the soundtrack to the biggest party you've ever heard, and the fireworks behind they stage topped it off. I can't imagine I'll ever see anything like that again.

My only regret now was drinking so much from such an early hour. Admittedly, this was fun, but unwise. I was running on very little sleep and food, and becoming dangerously drunk. Not so drunk that I couldn't make it until 2am (nothing could stop me by now - I was hurtling towards a level of drunken might that if I had kept going, I would have perhaps become indestructible), but just drunk enough that after watching a few wicked hip hop/DJ sets, I had to leave 20 minutes into Justice. Too drunk to dance, stand still, or find my friends, I was somewhat frustrated with myself. But they're playing in East London this August, so whatever.

So I wandered off and came across a tribal drumming gathering. Dozens of people slamming their makeshift sticks into metal and wooden structures outside the stage areas. I reached into the mud at my feet, pulled out two rudimentary drumsticks, and joined the beat. However, I hadn't reckoned with the booze. This meant that I kept missing with the sticks and hitting the metal with my hands, which were getting cut and bruised. After 10 minutes of this, I made my way back to the tent while hearing the final strains of Justice's bass echoing over the camping grounds. I chanced across a first aid tent where the nice people bandaged me up (it wasn't really that bad), then I slept, weary from my long party labours.

The next morning, we had to abandon our borrowed camping gear (sorry again, slushpup) and gum boots. They were all fucked to hell. The ride back to Copenhagen was like Lot's angelic flight from Sodom, but I didn't feel holy like Lot and his family. I felt like a pile of rancid diarrea. I had been wearing the same clothes for three days now, five days of drunkeness were crashing down on me, and I still couldn't talk properly. But despite having the shakes the whole time we were there, the next two days in Copenhagen were fantastic. It's a beautiful town.

When I got back to London on Tuesday night, it took me 24 hours to realise I couldn't feel my big toe on my right foot. I don't know why, but I suspect that all those days of wearing damp socks in muddy gumboots have taken their toll. I still haven't regained full sensation in it, but it's Friday afternoon and I think I'm getting closer.

Anyway.... that's it. For all the pain, mud, rain, hangovers, lost voices, failing limbs, crippled bank accounts and wet, mouldy clothing, it was without a doubt the best week of my life. Excellent friends new and old, fucking incredible music, great random people and occurances, and a brilliant vibe. Hooray!

(* updated with chronologically accurate details of the band schedule - 15.07.07)

Anyway, to celebrate the number of cigarettes I smoked there, I decided to draw this picture.

Yesssss!!!!

In other news, I've offically carved my beard into mutton chops. We all know it was only a matter of time.

Festival Terrorisms

Tue, 03 Jul 2007 19:53:14 GMT

So a bunch of dudes tried to blow some shit up in London over the weekend or whatever. I couldn't care less about terrorist attacks usually. Hey, people die. That sucks holes. But I can't get emotionally involved when it's just some stuff on TV. Unless it's a repeat of Indy's Last Crusade.

But today a suspicious package was found at Heathrow Airport, leading to evacuation. And I'm due to fly to Denmark tomorrow for several days of severely inadvisable behaviour and no parental supervision at Europes second biggest music festival, Roskilde! So flights today have been cancelled and delayed, and there's a slim chance these terrorist fuckers will mess with my program tomorrow. NO ONE messes with my program.

So now I'm emotionally invested in terrorism. It's my own retarded fault, as I was having a conversation with my housemates two days ago about how exciting and interesting it would be to get caught up in a terrorist incident. Now I am, and it is neither exciting or interesting. Instead, it is annoying and shit. I remember as I spoke I was thinking that my words would come back and bite me. I expected that to happen several years later, though. The point is, I now support the war in Iraq.

Anyway, once I get there I am determined to make this the most random, action packed, hardcore, sexy, outrageous long-weekend of my life so far. I know virtually nothing about Denmark, except the capital is Copenhagen, there is a festival at a town called Roskilde, it's a bunch of islands, and I'm 67% certain they are responsible for the military protection of Greenland. Or Iceland, I forget which.

I saw Amy Winehouse walking around Camden Markets today. She was wearing that stupid fucking eye makeup that pisses me off so much and she had the body of a skinny 9 year old boy. I wish she was still normal, she was way cuter when she actually had breasts and a bottom.

Seeya in 8 days!

Royksopp - Rainbow Styling

The Dimension Door

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 21:35:29 GMT

I feel than any piece of art can be improved by naming it after a 4th level wizard spell from Dungeons & Dragons.

Although back when I used to play, I was never a wizard. Oh no.

I was a WARRIOR. I had 18/33 exceptional strength that gave +3 damage to all my blows. I once rolled the most awesome 20 ever, killing a kobold with a single punch to the head. Then I stuffed its retarded corpse into a hole in the wall. Plus, one time, after fighting an undead abomination, I received a nasty case of mummy rot that lowered my charisma points, meaning I had to stand at the back during interactions with innkeepers and mysterious lone travellers, like I was some upsettingly hideous, deformed, musclebound freak. I was not to be fucked with.

Le Tigre - Hot Topic
Silversun Pickups - Lazy Eye (Curtis Vodka Edit)

Does anyone else want to talk about music or Dungeons & Dragons?

(ps. Beard is going well. It's a bit itchy, but I like it. I think it makes me look like Ryan Gosling in Half Nelson*)

* ...Delusional?

YOU DECIDE! :D

Beardlander II: The Beardening

Tue, 19 Jun 2007 00:04:25 GMT

I arrived home last week to find a package addressed to someone living at my address with a remarkably similar name to mine.

But I don't know anyone with that surname. Oh well.

So my exploits into the world of face pubes has turned out to be something other than the hideous fireball of human misery and shame I was expecting.

I'm not saying I look like Grizzly Adams, but my small yet significant patchwork is not one to be denied. It is masterful in its subtlety and softly spoken charm. And I say that without ego, for this is no value judgement. It simply is.

I've garnered many compliments on it, but by far the most rewarding was when I was catching the Tube home after a party on Friday night when this attractive young Essex lass stopped me for a wee bit of chat. She was astounded to meet an Australian, to the point that she seemed to have not encountered my kind before. I cannot be sure how that would be so, as we infest London like sewer rats in a shit bucket, but whatever.

She went onto ask my age, and as I announced the number 25, she instantly shot back with 22.

22!

I was moments away from tasting the satisfaction of sweet retribution by summoning many punishing, dark energies from cold places most mortals fear to imagine, when a random man sitting across from us spoke up. It should be noted, this man was wielding a beard to rival that of Jesus. But he spoke words that echoed in the chambers of my heart more than those of Jesus ever could.

"He's not 22, look at him. He's got a beard."

I will stop short of posting a picture of my new look (I don't think it translates so well on film*), but if you really give a shit, you can go to my Flickr page where you will also see pictures from last weekend's Wireless Festival, wherein Daft Punk blessed me with the greatest live gig I've ever seen.

Now listen to these, and think about the greatest moment of Dan Aykroyds career:

Ray Parker Jr./Michael Jackson - Ghostbusters vs. Bad
Run DMC - Ghostbusters

* Well, maybe this isn't too bad.

Dubious Pasttimes

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 11:54:58 GMT

I was making out with a proper lesbian in a nightclub on the weekend.

It's kinda one of those things that you think about and wonder if it will ever happen because it's so unlikely.  I'd envisaged such a time as being a glorious, punch-the-air style moment with much jaunty celebration and confetti, and perhaps even people cheering my name. Sort of like the final scene in Rocky II where he's up on everyones shoulders, except his meek girlfriend is replaced by a homosexual woman.

In reality, it was just kind of awkward and led to some serious shut-downage at the end of the evening. But seeing as, by strict definition, a lesbian is someone who doesn't find men attractive, I don't know what I was really expecting. Maybe if I'd taken my copy of Websters Dictionary with me to the club I could have quickly checked up on that. Alas.

So now, in a bold and unprecedented move, I've decided to follow that up with another stupid idea. I'm going to journey down the rabbit hole and into the world of facial hair.

Now I'm not a particularly hairy person, but I've been looking at other dudes and I see other dudes whose face hair is significantly less ample than mine, and they get away with having beards. But I'm not looking for a beard, stubble will be fine for me. So how can it not work? There is an area about the size of a ten-pence peice on my upper neck where no hair grows... I've been patiently waiting for grandfather time to grow me up a bit more so that will fill itself in, but I've decided that grandfather time is a fucking retard who can cram it, so I'm just going to shave along my jawline and remove that from the equation. I've consulted with other people who do the same thing.

I might post a picture of what happens. I might not.

The Secret Is To Save Everything

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 16:27:18 GMT

I found this giant flag along Southbank while I was sitting next to the London Eye, sketching this punk lass that was wrestling her friends nearby. I apply the flag's philosophy when editing my artwork in the computer, lest I suffer a system crash.

I feel like playing Monopoly. I haven't played it in years, mainly because people back home know how unreasonably aggressive and competitive I get when I play it. It's funny, I was never compelled to compete or get involved in sports but when it comes to nerdy activities like board games, I become like a wolf, and I start seeing with the Eye Of The Tiger. I'm like Dolph Lundgren when he fought that dude in that movie about a robot.

But here in the UK, people don't know that side of me. I should take advantage of this. I also need to buy a frisbee and more coconut scented body products.

After much twatting about, I finally finished this today:

I know how this looks, but please, PLEASE download these two Bobby Brown tracks. I need for everyone to join me in this so I don't feel like a total pantywaist for digging them.

Bobby Brown - Every Little Step I Take
Bobby Brown - On Our Own

I watched the new documentary about Joe Strummer the other day, The Future Is Unwritten. See it. It reminded me why he's one of my heroes.

R. Kelly's sexual excesses

Sat, 02 Jun 2007 17:09:15 GMT

It always surprises me how easy it is to forget that R. Kelly likes to piss on little girls.

Everyone's seen it in the news, or where ever it is that people learn about urination videos, and I know he suffered much public ridicule for it, but I feel that these days this fact has become yesterdays news. I believe that such a scandal should be timeless, and I don't think that we should ever let ourselves forget about R. Kelly pissing on a 14-year old girl. Especially when he goes on to make quotes such as:

"I'm the Ali of today. I'm the Marvin Gaye of today. I'm the Bob Marley of today. I'm the Martin Luther King, or all the other greats that have come before us. And a lot of people are starting to realize that now." R.Kelly, April 2007.

The funny thing about pissing on little girls is that the excuse "she said she was over 18" is really about all you can say, and even that fails to address the key issues.

Anyway, seeing as I grow to hate my job with increasing levels of intensity every day, I have begun to seek alternative sources of income. So, it is with a great sense of toungue-in-cheek conceit* that I applied for a job as someone who offers themselves as a auction prize, where the highest bidder gets to go on a date with them. When I looked at the quality of the website, I figured I must be a shoe-in. Their standards really can't be that high, but the flip side is that if I don't get the job (that is to say, if the shittest website ever in the history of the Internet deems me unworthy), my self esteem will be shattered. And I won't get the £100 an hour they offer.

And now, olden days funk:

Act One - Tom The Peeper
Etta James & Sugar Pie Desanto - In The Basement- Part One

* If such a thing exists

As Loose As A Wizards Sleeve

Sat, 26 May 2007 12:59:36 GMT

So Poland was fun. Between drunkenly groping strippers and dancing 'in da club' to awesome, filthy electro while having fine, expensive champagne poured all over my head, it was a weekend of decidedly un-ajax behaviour. Well, not the champagne bit. That's not that uncommon. I've behaved worse I mean, but being part of a large group of men watching women take their clothes off for money isn't something to be proud of, I feel. But it was an interesting diverson and an insight into the lives of others. At least, that's how I'm justifying it. Plus, I got to fire an AK-47.



That's a beer can at my feet, by the way. Full automatic use of the weapon wasn't allowed however, due to an unspecified 'accident' the previous week. Although I got my full-auto kicks with the uzi. But none of that compares to the biggest thrill I got while in Krakow, which was seeing a kid with the biggest, fattest fucking head IN THE WORLD. We laughed for about 20 minutes. And then sporadically for the next 24 hours. He must have been about nine, but he looked like a sort of cabbage patch kid/fat kid from 'Hey Day' hybrid. But even that doesn't do him justice. I would have to draw him for you. But I should point out, we weren't laughing to his face. We drove past him in our bus, and only caught a fleeting glimpse. Which is for the best, I'm sure.

But enough about my loose morals. I finished this about an hour ago.

For those unaware, I'm a vegetarian. An AK-47 bustin', Glock .45 poppin', Mossberg 12-Gauge pumpin' vegetarian. And funnily enough, the feeling I got from firing a Magnum .357 is similar to the surge of adrenalin I got the last time I accidentally tasted red meat. But that might have something to do with the targets we were shooting at, some of which were pictures of women. Maybe I should start assaulting ladies everytime I get a taste for flesh. BEST IDEA EVER.

So now that I've written a entire entry making myself look like a gun-toting, woman and child abusing, alcoholic, preachy, vegetarian redneck*, I will attempt to curry your favour with presents:

John Martyn - Over The Hill
Neil Young - Old Man

* There's a contradiction if ever there's been one.