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Beat on the Brat

I've been having a major Ramones kick recently. Something tells me that my re-issue of their self-titled album on vinyl isn't enough. Hopefully Nat should be burning me their Greatest Hits compilation for me. (read: hint!)

I also jokingly considered running for my local council with Catch and Ahchow yesterday. Somehow I don't think running a borderline nut-job libertarian program of privatizing all the council services and replacing rates as a source of income by investing in the construction of a huge bell on top of Southland in a bid for the City of Kingston being home to "The biggest bell in the Southern Hemisphere" (Yeah, the North has Big Ben and the Liberty Bell!) and the ensuing consumption-free foreign tourist cash flow to fund whatever a council supposedly does. But then I hit upon an even better idea to get myself elected to office in a heartbeat.

Abolish the Kingston City Council altogether and let the State government take up the slack. Hell, I'd vote for me!


Man About Town

My eyes look like sunken graves, the whites blurred, the pupils like an abyss staring into the distance. My sleeping timetable is monumentally fucked - I need some structure (read: a proper job) to get things happening again. It's not the fact I wake up with no purpose that doesn't get me out of bed, its just inertia. General inertia.

Nevertheless, my mini-getaway holiday was firstly furnished by the lovely Kyle and DeeDee, who provided much lulz in their cozy house in the middle of the "Ghetto", which isn't too far removed from an apt description. Their taste in TV is unsurpassed and of course never failed to disappoint. I am going to have so much fun watching Department S. Also, if Australia treated their Big Brother housemates with utter contempt like they do in Britain, I would be half-way inclined to watch it.

If you haven't seen the Grindhouse double in the cinema - DON'T! (I mean, of course, please do. Its such a fantastic experience. DON'T! is just a reference that myself and Natasha couldn't stop making after we saw Edgar Wright's awesome grindhouse inspired "preview" of a slasher pic.) I am ultimately (in the truest nature of the word) very tired and very broke.

I love the internet - there's nothing you can't find out...eventually.


Soft Head, Hard Heart

After five days straight of partying, my cirrhosis and black lung disease hasn't killed me, so I guess that can only make me stronger.

Behold - the greatest music video of the 21st Century - absolutely brilliant! Weezer are the kings of sincere power-pop rock. I'm beginning to appreciate them much more. Especially when the lyrics are so cheekily self-referential you can't help but smile.


Omnia Bellum Omnes

So I've been hailing my brothers the last few days. So here you go. o/ (it's a hail!) Peter - you are rock and roll!

Went to see Soilwork yesterday. Seeing Bjorn Strid, loose-cannon maniac is quite the experience after talking to him as Bjorn Strid, contemplative lyricist and dog-silencer extraordinaire.

Some great fun was had meeting some of Karen's mates as well as witnessing a thrilling high-energy rock show, although a conversation with an obviously speeding/peaking kid rather amused me:

(Wearing my beloved Dark Tranquillity t-shirt)
Kid: Yeah! Dark Tranquillity! They rock!
Me: Indeed they do.
Kid: They're fucking amazing! etc.
Me: They've never written a shit song, i reckon.
Kid: Yeah, they're great! HAVEN! What an album!
Me: Fuckin' a, mate.
Kid: But what about that song Fabric? Great song...but why did they call it Fabric? (laughing)
Me: Because they're Swedish and they don't know any better.
Kid: Touche. (walks off, confused)

Two 21sts this weekend. Good luck with that.


Crackling With Power Below

Where do I begin?

After a week that relentlessly dragged on, Catch and I took it upon ourselves to see the Bill Hicks "tribute" show, Slight Return at the Comedy Festival. Done with consuming the only food in town that should have been condemned by the Department of Human Services but wasn't, we strapped ourselves in for a night of intricately crafted mannerisms, vituperative angst and freewheeling social commentary, delivered in what was only thought to be the inimitable Hicks style. His arrogance wasn't misplaced, he was damn good at what he did. Catch and I decided to kick on to the Arthouse. However, we elected that $12 to see Fuck...I'm Dead wasn't worth the price of admission. So a short trip up to the Queensberry Hotel was in order.

After settling into a few beers, we ventured upstairs where a few patrons were sitting, seemingly minding their own business. We drank on, reminiscing and talking shit as we do. Then a few more people showed up. None took any notice of us. Then even more. Music started blaring. A couple had started to hand over presents to a certain individual...We had crashed someone's party by stealth. After quickly rectifying some irrational thoughts, I decided to make a night of it. Luckily, we introduced ourselves to some of the crowd, posturing ourselves as if we belonged to the fringes of some social group and eventually the Birthday Boy himself. (I even bought him a drink! His name was Tim.) I had to feign some memory of my high school days, as people I apparently shared four years of classes with recognized myself and Catch, surprised to see us at Tim's 21st.

Yeah, and so were we!

I'm discontinuing the "numbers game" after a rather in-depth and insightful conversation with Erin. BUT! Here's my final score:

23/0 (With 13 days remaining.)

Also: Get your hands on this week's copy of Buzz Magazine! Whoever wrote the article on the front page is a genius! (I hope I don't get sick...but I'm on my way, unfortunately.)