If You Can Read This, You Are Not Close Enough

tj7.org

2006-01-08T07:15:00.000+10:30

This weblog is now continuing via tj7.org.

Post-Christmas

2005-12-29T22:40:00.000+10:30

Plymouth, England Dec 27 I spent the Christmas long weekend in Plymouth, which is a few hours by train from London and right on the coast of Southern England. This was my first Christmas away from Australia, and I was quite homesick, in an inwardly morose kind of way. I was welcomed by Mark’s family and fed like a king, but of course even the warmest embraces of a stranger are cold comfort when all you want is to be sitting in the back yard by the barbeque at the end of a warm day watching your friends get drunk after spending the day watching your family get drunk. The folks at Plymouth were wonderful hosts, in any case, and the whiskey went down very well. I remain thankful to Shane and Mark for having me along. Taken from the train on the way there At the Moors – beautiful, dank, atmospheric place. Would have been amazing at sunset, when all the goblins and elves come out to play. During the hour before the sun rested on Christmas Day, we went for a walk through places which reminded me of the Adelaide Hills…. Such a close resemblance in character and atmosphere. I love the hills, and I’d still live there. Dec 28 Back in London Next week I head to Edinburgh. I’ll be looking for a job, something to fill the thus-far yawning gap between my arrival there and the (desperately hoped for) completion of my registration as a Social Worker in Scotland. I am longing for complete independence – my own place, a job. I don’t like imposing myself upon friends and I fucking hate having to watch every penny (as I don’t have an income yet). With a bit of luck and some charm I will be able to bow and scrape my way into a job at a pub, or even a nice book shop or – gods forbid – an arthouse cinema as a projectionist. I feel like I’ve been floating on a little cloud of whimsy since leaving Calgary, and I can finally see the ground below getting closer and closer. I need a job. I need to know if I can start practicing in my field any time soon, and I need a firm base from which I can explore my new surroundings and to which I can return in relative comfort. My feelings about being away, staying away and returning home are often in flux. Most of the time I feel determined and inspired to commit to a relatively long stay (at least until mid-late next year), in order to earn enough money to travel and return home with (if I am going home for any great length of time or indefinitely). From here I have ready access to Europe and I want to fully exploit that convenience. Sometimes I feel like I’m missing valuable time with my friends back home, where I would definitely get a decent job and be making music with my musical partner(s) in crime. There are moments in which I consider how I am really starting again here by thinking about staying, and the thought of establishing meaningful new relationships – let alone meeting a girl – is always faded and blurred. These jarringly distinct lines of thought are tempered by caffeine and good turns in the weather - yet I remain hopeful and positive on the whole that once I have established a new place to call home – be it temporary or otherwise – things will fall into place.

Piccadilly Circus after Sundown

2005-12-29T22:37:00.000+10:30

Reading, England / Reflections on a past life

2005-12-29T22:31:00.000+10:30

Dec 21 After meeting with my old high school friend Andrew last week, and confirming that he had not become a depraved molester of children – or worse – a hunch-backed miniature painter working for Games Workshop – I jumped on a train to Reading and spent a pleasant 24 hours catching up on old times, devising plans for world domination, etc. This was the first time that I’ve caught up with a friend after having not seen them for more than 10 years, and many memories of times past were brought to the surface of the silted lakes of my mind. Andrew is one of just two people I have remained friends with from high school who could attest to being one of the ‘Puddle Laners’, the group of social outcasts from which the original characters of the unfinished Stan Wars epic were drawn. Andrew, along with Troy and myself, actually knew ‘Stan’ personally. ‘Stan’ was a rather tall, one dimensional fellow with particularly large hands and a Vanilla Ice haircut – with red hair (I once branded him ‘Vanilla Stan’). Andrew witnessed one incident, since passed into Puddle Lane folklore, in which ‘Stan’ punched me in the face. In the fleeting moments leading up to this incident, I foolishly engaged ‘Stan’ in an argument and got wound up enough to strike him – but I only had the courage to do so when he had turned his back towards me. I shoved him quite viciously, and of course he whipped back around to throw a large fist at my petulant bonce - it connected, I momentarily blacked out and the rest is history. Andrew filled me in on what happened in the aftermath – I reported to the students office to seek medical attention and must have informed the presiding staff of who punched me, and evidently this lead to ‘Stan’ being threatened with suspension from school, According to Andrew, ‘Stan’ only just managed to escape suspension by colourfully describing my gutless actions as arousing a temporary wrath resulting from a recent back injury he had suffered. Anyway, such stories will only interest about three people in this world so I will get back to whatever it was I was talking about. I think I was possibly the most annoying friend Andrew ever had, yet during our senior high school years in South Australia we shared a common, deranged love of fantasy Dungeons and Dragons-style roleplaying games and associated trappings such as miniature painting. This is an example of Andrew’s later miniature painting, after he moved to England in the mid-nineties. This particular little creature won him the 1994 Golden Demon Award. He has since moved on from such labours and now leads a more balanced, healthy life. Here is one painted by Andrew’s older brother, Mark. He also partially sculpted this one using pieces from different miniatures. Mark now spends his creative energy producing electronic music. Like me. So of course that is very cool and highly admirable. In any case, I had forgotten until now exactly how competitive we were with eachother. At dinner with Andrew and his fiancé I was reminded of how art and design-driven I was at school, and evidently from Andrew’s perspective I was something of a force to be reckoned with. It was always my favourite subject. For a few minutes over dinner I was transported back to my year 12 work experience placement at a graphic designers firm in Adelaide. Being a dripping little year 12 student I took everything they said at that firm as gospel, so when it was grimly explained to me that the graphic design industry is basically not much fun, too competitive and almost impossible to succeed in, I pragmatically decided to pursue more ‘realistic’ career goals. That was the beginning of the end for my graphic design career, and I can’t help but wonder how things may have turned out if, at that early, soft age I had been placed in a more inspiring artistic environment, say at a firm which was actually doing very well for itself, full of staff waxing lyrical on the importance of following your passions etc etc etc. In more recent years I have made little more than vague attempts to reignite my passion for graphics, with little more than momentary bursts of light which ultimately flicker out. I’ve suffered from a terminal lack of direction. I’m still a creative guy who likes to draw and lay things out nicely, but up until now I’ve been – I think – too fearful of failing. It didn’t help that my one and only stint as ‘freelance graphic designer’ saw me designing logos for M.O.R (read: Middle of the Road) nightclub events which I found utterly soul destroying. During my final weeks in Calgary I did at last spend some time learning the basics of web design and even mocked up a little website for my musical identities at tj7.org, however I have since suffered problems establishing web hosting and I won’t get everything sorted again until I’m settled somewhere with an internet connection. I’ll keep you posted, anyway.

Grey Mornings, Red Sunsets in London

2005-12-20T01:06:00.000+10:30

At the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, I stood in rooms with Van Gogh, Seurat, Monet, Manet, Lautrec, Degas, Gaugin and Cezanne. I remember seeing paintings such as Cezanne’s ‘The Bathers’ in art books when I was at high school. I’ve never had opportunities to casually stroll into such a rich collection of turn-of-the-century French art before. Looking at these glowing paintings, I can’t help but think that there will never be a significant movement in painting ever again. The next best thing I’ve seen – and a very close next best at that – was the Cindy Sherman Retrospective exhibition in Sydney during the 1990’s – and she is a photographer… and I don’t think photography and painting are so exclusive from one another that you can’t compare them. I have been incredibly fortunate to have stumbled into London during what is evidently a magical break in the weather… or perhaps I was just expecting the worst. Since my arrival just over a week ago, it seems that after a grey morning the clouds will disperse to reveal a quilted sky of blue, white and grey, culminating in a beautiful sunset. It could be that coming from Calgary (which was becoming a freezing place, temperatures dropping to round -20) has served to toughen me up, as a 4 degree day really does not seem particularly cold to me. In any case I’ve not been suffering days of grey and black as I expected, and my spirits have thus remained on a high plain. Looking at the postcards I have collected from souvenir stands I am reminded of the romance of this dark city, the romance of the idea of London. Being here, surrounded by the work of famous artists, buildings that have survived (and been rebuilt after) wars and fires, and an underground network of tunnels and tracks connecting each fragment of this metropolis is not at all like living inside a postcard. Tourists seem to outnumber locals, a spruiker sells international phone call offers at every street corner and the passing of centuries have left their gloriously mouldering buildings behind to meet the shining, flashing, jittering and jiving spectacles of todays corporate demands. Yet when the sun relinquishes its tenuous grip on the cloudy days of London, and the sky turns amber, pink and red, a feeling of being transported ensues. The people who live here are mere transients in a city that has seen more than what their blinkered eyes ever will. At the tube on the way to Camden Intersection of Kennington Rd and Kennington Lane Tottenham Square

Squirrel Report

2005-12-19T21:41:00.000+10:30

Evidently, some squirrels go to jail in London, for particularly serious crimes.

From Wirreanda High to Chinatown, London

2005-12-16T22:26:00.000+10:30

Yesterday I spent the afternoon walking the streets of London with my old high school friend Andrew. It’s been 12 or 13 years since he left Morphett Vale, South Australia, for England, and hence it has been just as long since we last saw eachother. If memory serves me well, I was possibly the most annoying friend Andrew ever had, so I was humbled and gladdened by his phone call a couple of days ago. You can never tell how things will turn out when you meet an old friend after such a long time, particularly when that time has stretched between the last of our teen years and the end of our 20’s. Fortunately we both grew out of our tragic obsession with roleplaying games and miniature painting well before the close of the millennium and didn’t spent the whole day aimlessly reflecting upon our respective past lives. No, we instead stood around Piccadilly Circus pretending to be young preachers spreading ‘The Word’ and sold about 35 bibles at a quid a piece. My Dublin accent isn’t as good as Andrews, of course, but I managed to chat up a nice Irish year 12 prefect as she was ushering her latest band of protégés across the Regent Street intersection. I’ll leave it up to you, fair readers, to decide whether or not this part of my story is true. I’ve been invited to Andrew’s place in Reading next week, which promises to be a pleasant excursion into one of the ‘slower paced’ sections of England. I’ll report back here, as always. In the meantime, here are some photographs I took as I walked home from Westminster Bridge last night. Sunset came at around 4pm.

Squirrel Report

2005-12-16T22:20:00.000+10:30

In St James Park (on the way to Buckingham Palace) I was delighted to see that squirrels live here! They are much more forthcoming and demanding for nuts than their Canadian counterparts, as you will see in these pictures.

Mind the Gap. Welcome to LONDON.

2005-12-16T22:07:00.000+10:30

Wednesday, Dec 14. Somewhere in between the evening of Friday December 9 and Saturday December 10, I lost an entire nights worth of sleep. This wasn’t just owed to the screaming child seated directly behind me. Between Western Canada and England there’s a significant time zone change, effectively cutting a 15 night in half. Suddenly I was seated next to my old friend Shane on the Tube running between Heathrow Airport and London. An hour later I emerged from the underground to take my first breath of London air. I always said that Calgary lacked a certain character. Being only 100 years old or so, this is understandable. Nothing built there nowadays seems destined to stand for more than 80 years or so. After the weather turned cold I happily spent entire afternoons indoors watching movies, using the internet, listening to music and eating snacks. There was little reason to wander around a 30 year old neighbourhood, slowly freezing to death. There was an atmosphere about the place, but this was a product of the ice and snow which blanketed everything. White dunes and salted trees. London presents the opposite scenario. Here at Shane and Mark’s apartment, at which I have been most graciously accommodated, I’m within a 45 minute walking distance from more historically and artistically significant locations than I could poke a stick - with lots of other sticks attached to it – at. Shane and Mark live in Kennington, which is within a 45 minutes walk of several of London’s most famous locations. A half hour stroll up the Thames takes me to the Tate Modern, which I went to on Monday. An impressive building, and on level 5 I saw some fine examples of famous modern art, including works by Grosz and Picasso: Piccadilly Circus is the most representative of the juxtaposition of New over Old which prevails in this creaking, throbbing city. You’ve all seen it on postcards, but for me, standing at the centre of the intersection, I was impressed by this superimposition of glowing advertising screens over building facades which existed in Dicken’s time. The Tate Britain is around 30 minutes walk away from here and I spent Tuesday afternoon there. They have a room full of work by Francis Bacon: Presently they are showing an exhibition of work by Toulous-Lautrec, Sickert and Degas. This was the most incredible exhibition of paintings I’ve ever seen – I had previously only ever seen Degas’ work in art books. Just fucking beautiful. Reproductions of these works never, ever capture the intensity of colour which is present in such work. I’d never seen or heard of Sickert before, and his work is amazing. Likewise with Whistler. Drooling yet, Jack? This metropolis is not quite as seething and ripe with decay as I expected. It’s loaded with tourists. The streets are narrow, people drive like fucking maniacs. The cars are small. Everything is so….British. “The Pop-In.” “The White Hart”. This city gave birth to Monopoly. I walked up Northumberland yesterday, on my way to Regent Street. It’s surreal. Works by Francis Bacon: Degas:

Leaving Dodge

2005-12-08T08:55:00.000+10:30

November 29. After months of frustrating dealings with a slack booking agent (who has subsequently been fired) I finally played at Broken City. Thanks to an excellent sound man, I probably sounded better than I ever have, playing solo. I enjoyed myself. A small crowd, composed of some supportive fellow exchangers and local types, was very friendly and forthcoming with the applause. Considering that Broken City is literally the only 'pub' venue in Calgary which supports the independent music scene (Caribou played there a week later), I was gratified to play a support slot on their stage. Since then, I've grown increasingly eager to get the fuck out of here. The weather turned cold, I finished my field placement and I started working on a website. That's about it. It's been around -18 lately, which makes sure you have a really good reason to head out at night. Which generally speaking of late, I haven't. Aside from my heavy workload-afflicted German friend, I have not met anyone else here whom I can really relate to. I tried to meet people. I really did. However, once two or three months was up, there was nothing left to motivate me to maintain my social agenda. In fact, I stopped having a social agenda at all. This place, it's just not me. It's an oil city. It's the Texas of Canada. Nice scenery, cute animals, some great outdoors, when it's not insanely cold, but aside from that, I found myself craving the kind of character that only older cities have. I found myself longing for society which didn't revolve around just being an exchange student. I felt out of place among most of the exchangers, as the majority of them are around 21 and have an insatiable appetite for cheap beer and generic rock. Every party was the same. I either felt old or dismayed. I discovered the Ship and Anchor, and of course nobody I knew was interested in meeting me there. The Den, at the university, was the usual hangout (terrible music, gratingly MOR freshman clientele) when people weren't going to Cowboys, the Whiskey or wherever else the bargirls sported fake tits and the music was fucking awful. It's a wonder I didn't go insane with desire to see my friends back home again. However, I always figured that Calgary would be where I finished my degree and got used to the idea of being away from home. It has served that purpose. This Friday, I leave Calgary for London. At last. This is where my real travels will begin. Being here, in Calgary, has strengthened my resolve to establish a sense of purpose and direction whilst being overseas. I'm not ready to go home. I haven't fucking done anything yet. Besides, I am going to be seeing the Futureheads in the UK. Fuck, yeah.

Winter Comes and Brings the Squid

2005-11-28T06:07:00.000+10:30

The Chinook has left the city, taking with it the golden rays of the sun and leaving behind an apocalypse of grey clouds and ice. Here you will see your friend Slaughter (also known as tj7, just to allay the desperate confusion which must have ensued since I began this 'blog) reflected in the eye of a medium-sized robotic Pedestrian Crossing Squid which I encountered this morning. Sadly I did not get a chance to photograph the squid in his full bodied glory, but I have presented an accurately drawn sketch of his form at the close of this post.

Messages of Love and Splendour

2005-11-28T05:54:00.000+10:30

After wasting my precious prime-time Saturday night hours at the Den (among the dripping, socially retarded second-year undergrads which constitute the main Den Clientele) I found myself momentarily enlightened by my own drunkenness on my way home. I often think of my friends during these glowing reveries, and in the following images you will see how my intellectually grandiose outpourings of love manifested themselves as I walked down 53rd last night. For Jarren: ...and his esteemed alter-ego; Jack: Dear Leader Sho:

Squirrel Report

2005-11-25T06:24:00.000+10:30

Watching the cat watching the squirrel.

Sunset Panorama

2005-11-25T06:16:00.000+10:30

Sunset in Varsity Estates. Next time i'll try reducing the increments and taking more photos - but damn it's a heavy job trying to stitch together a good panorama. Having said that, I don't mind the 'cut and paste' look of this. The real-size of the original, at max. resolution, is around 2.1 metres wide! You can download and view a much higher res version here (1.4meg).

Slaughter Goes to the Zoo

2005-11-21T12:28:00.000+10:30

This film runs for about 4 minutes, and was shot using my Canon Ixus 50. I used iMovie for the first time to cut it together. I was too scared to really 'perform' as I was on my own at the Calgary Zoo, and there were lots of children and parents around. It is not very funny. Downloading and watching this movie will be a waste of your time. AVI (9.5meg) QT mp4 (8.5meg)

Playing at Broken City, Nov 29

2005-11-19T10:27:00.000+10:30

Lost Adventures, Found Mistakes

2005-11-18T14:55:00.000+10:30

Sunset in Varsity Estates, as I walked home this evening. It was just before Halloween before I made my last post (Broken Social Scene aside), and it seems like long ago. The air grew cold, dew turned to ice and I became a solitary socialite by weekend night and a dvd-suckled sci-fi geek during the intervening working weeks. Halloween, on my way to the Ship and Anchor: During this time I've been dragging myself through my field placement with more than rudimentary concern but somewhat less than manic abandon. My work has come to fruition of late, however, and I feel like I've accomplished something. Working with immigrants has many rewards and I have been enjoying working more closely (at last) with actual people rather than voices on the phone and names on paper. I made out with a Canadian girl and finished our week-long meeting by calling her a 'fucking retard'. The Slaughter only goes out in style. A couple of weeks ago I was on fire, and like a hurricane of burning embers I flew through the Ship and Anchor charming my way into the hearts and minds of more than one fine young thing. "At last, a Break", my weary soul sang to me. The young fashion stylist and I arranged to meet again the following Friday. In the meantime, I lost my wallet, and after a half day of terror and pain, I found it again. The choir sang. The flowers bloomed. The team scored. The clouds parted and a million rays of golden sunlight fell upon me. I found my wallet, I really liked my new haircut and I was going on a date. 6.30pm at the Dalhousie LRT (that's not me in the picture. It would be really cool if it was). As the sun completed its ever-shrinking arc and retreated solemnly to the world below the horizon, the air grew cold. I dressed for the occasion with stern practicality met with gleaming style. I convened with my date, and with every passing hour, this meeting crumbled and fell apart like the splitting of an ancient block of cheese crushed between the fingers of a slowly tightening fist. I don't think I've ever been truly mooched from before. I expect that there are girls out there who expect that their 'date' will buy the drinks all night. However, after my awkward attempt at initiating a kiss was unceremoniously laughed off, and I recovered from my initial confusion and subsequent feeling of snubbed embarrassment, I no longer felt particulary accommodating of this little Snippet's financial incapacity. In fact i should have left at that point. It was only 9.30, I could have started over. However, that's not how it went and we left the Ship and followed the initial plan to meet her friends at a different venue. So. Present tense now. The door charge is $14 for both of us and I have to fucking pay that as well. As a token of gratitude, she buys us a drink. Of course the next two are on me. It continues like this until I realise that I'm spending my evening at a joint that evidently plays R&B music exclusively, with a girl who behaves like I have to stick with her and her stupid, fuckwit friends, but won't really pay me any attention and who already, basically, rejected me several hours earlier. A few drinks later, this all comes home to me. I've wasted my night. I've wasted $40. Perversely, I recall several instances of playful insolence which passed between us and decide to offer her one final insult: She is telling me that I look bored, and I laugh and say 'you know what?' She asks me 'what?' and I shake my head, with my best Brian Deckard smirk, looking away. She begs the question. I meet her petulant stare one final time and tell her 'You're a fucking retard.' She looks kind of offended and I think to myself, 'what happened to miss 'nothing offends me'?', and I'm a little drunk and I'm pissed off because it's 1am and I have to run to catch a train. Outside the temperature keeps dropping. I miss my train. In the cold, I wait for the last transport of the night. I realise that the bitch who killed my 'Found Wallet' vibe still has my god damned scarfe in her bag. It's approaching December. I have a show lined up at Broken City on November 29. This week began cold, and is now leading into a golden Chinook which will see temperatures climb into the mid-teens. The sun is shining.

Squirrel Report

2005-11-18T13:57:00.000+10:30

I took these photos from inside the lounge room, through the window - hence the softness of the images. I can see you, little man Snack time! Scooting off Whilst you are here, check out Sugarbush Squirrel. Silly. cheesy, and awfully designed - but this costumed little squirrel is undeniably cute.

Broken Social Scene, MacEwan Hall 15/11/05

2005-11-17T03:48:00.000+10:30

There are two bands from Canada which remain connected to my stomach, my heart and my mind: Do Make Say Think and Broken Social Scene. Last night I was witness to the lofi spectacle of the latter, who shuffled and jived their way through a 150 minute set at the University of Calgary. Some of the 'old' songs (read 2003) like 'Cause=Time' and 'Stars and Sons' suffered from loose treatment, but whilst it took the band a while to really warm up the crowd - a thousand or so immobile, stone-faced teenage indie kids who really don't know how lucky they are - the 'Scene endeared themselves to the audience with their shambolic charm and ability to make a Thebarton Theatre size room feel like a pub. For me, this was always going to be an emotional experience because I discovered BSS at the beginning of a magical summer back home, treading the line between the darkness of my bedroom and the lazy green of the Adelaide hills. I'll always think of those times when I hear 'You Forgot it in People' (the 'break through' 2003 album) and the associated EP releases. When I heard 'Backyards' I was sent into a mental timewarp. I was watching the band play the songs which are the soundtrack to a time of my life which remains as clear in my head now as the rain on the freeway was then. The most magical moment was, ironically, not really attributable to Broken Social Scene, but to two of its members who are also in the aforementioned Do Make Say Think. They got the band started on 'Frederica', and even just hearing the first verse (which is about as far as they got) warmed my soul. A band which has 8-15 members at any given time on stage affords each member certain freedoms which are not found in traditional smaller band lineups. Kevin Drew ('lead singer', when he's not off playing guitar or keys) was able to go to the bathroom without anyone noticing. That's pretty cool. There was plenty of conversation, inter-song jamming and interaction with the audience. These guys don't know the meaning of the word 'pretentious'. Best tracks of the night included a screaming 'Almost Crimes', 'Major Label Debut', 'Superconnected' and 'Ibi Dreams of Pavement'. A Hidden Cameras song made it into the set. 'Lovers Spit', which closed the first set, was heavy and sad and mesmerising like it always should have been. However - sadly, most sadly, the best track from the new album didn't make it ('Windsurfing Nation') but I suppose they didn't have K'os backstage to take the lead on that one... and sure, it would have been nice to see Emily Haines and Leslie Feist join the fray, but hey, this was Broken Social Scene. They have enough 'core members' to survive any such minor lineup changes and I was there watching my fucking indie-rock heroes getting drunk and playing their hearts out.

My Personal Benchmark

2005-10-29T05:42:00.000+09:30

So Jack Usage thinks he can out-face me, eh? Check out his lame attempt at photo loonery here. Jack, your heart is in the right place, but you have a long way to go, my friend. From Cigarfest 2005

Fiery Times in Blurry Land

2005-10-28T12:55:00.000+09:30

Discovered a cool new way of taking photos with my Ixus 50....I love how the road signs are in focus amidst flowing rivers of neon...

Bunny Report

2005-10-28T12:53:00.000+09:30

When the sun goes down, and the air turns cool, the bunnies come out to play on campus: Composing a poem Dancing with joy

Saturday Morning

2005-10-23T02:54:00.000+09:30

Good Morning world. I tried Starbucks for the first time today (no choice, I had a raging caffiene deprivation headache and the local Safeway - with its neatly packaged Starbucks offshoot - was my only hope. It's rubbish, about as generic and tasteless as Tim Horton's but the packaging is nicely designed. Anyway, a caffiene hit is a caffiene hit. I'm a junkie once again. The mornings are getting really cold, but it's beautiful out there. It's amazing what a sheath of ice can do for an old car windshield. Listening to the new Boards of Canada album. At first I was disappointed that the sinsister edge of previous releases such as Music Has the Right to Children was absent, and I admit I am still disconcerted that this is a record I could recommend to my Dad (Take note, M. Slaughter Senior). However, once again this Scottish duo have crafted a fine ambient recording which seems to deliberately depart from the more synchopated ryhythmic style of prior releases. It's not as 'immediate' as their signature albums, but definitely a 'grower'. Incidentally, tracks on this record remind me that I need to start listening to Air again. More specifically, the Virgin Suicides soundtrack.

The Week That Was

2005-10-22T12:17:00.000+09:30

As penance for being such a Tardy Blogger, I shall compose a short verse for each of these photographs. Right now. On the spot. Completely improvised. To wit: Saturday Night. I arrived alone, I joined this table. An experiment to prove I was able to engage with strangers, speak with folks Without mincing my words or making bad jokes. As I tread the dark streets of my neighbourhood I scream without making a sound. To the people inside, I am a spectre of doom Gurning and grimacing - like a demented old clown. At the door of my house I am quiet as a mouse So I smile to myself with dark joy. I am silent and brave With the strength of a slave As I break down the door like a toy. I recline like a duke after battle at dawn Upon the bark of a tree in a shady, cool lawn. There are some who suggest That Graffiti is 'jest' Presented with ill-regard for the law. I reject this dim view And commend the skilled few Who are able to spray paint better than they draw. The sun rises earlier now than three weeks ago As green turns to gold, as rain turns to snow I have to run now to catch the first train Of the day which remains like yesterday, the same I can't be bothered writing another fucking verse. I mean, this is a picture of ice on the lawn. Again, I just can't be bothered coming up with a rhyme. Sorry. This is the view from where I stand by my bus stop in the morning. That's the moon, meeting the sun at 8.15am.

Mad Drunkenness at 12.30am

2005-10-15T09:23:00.000+09:30

Chipmunk Report

2005-10-13T07:50:00.000+09:30

My first Chipmunk sighting took place over the weekend, at Beauvais Lake.. Scrambling away Scurrying to safety Sitting and thinking

Thanksgiving Weekend

2005-10-13T07:34:00.000+09:30

For my first ever Thanksgiving, I was invited, along with fellow exchanger Stefan, to a house on Beauvais Lake. Here is Stefan and Kerri (new Canadian friend who was kind – and foolhardy – enough to invite us along for the ride) standing in the kitchen: Anyone who knows me will be aware of my excellent rowing skills, and on this weekend I got to display my intimidating prowess with the oar. For some reason the canoe almost capsized during my stint as Captain, and we kept veering off course. I cannot account for these anomalies in what was an otherwise highly efficient and well guided journey across the lake. It’s approaching mid-October, which will mark the halfway point of my time in Canada. In between moments of grey longing for home, which are short lived – and dare I say entirely necessary – I am already looking forward to the next stage of my grand exploration of the Outer Realms. The weather is starting to change – ice on the lawns in the morning, light evening snow…

Images from last week...

2005-10-11T13:06:00.000+09:30

At a lamp post, on campus, last week. I should start carrying a suitcase and wearing a fedora, so that my next opportunity to recreate the poster design for 'The Exorcist' is not wasted. I like to sing as I walk home.

"Shining"

2005-10-08T11:45:00.000+09:30

For those of you who have seen Kubrik's "The Shining", check out the following link to the trailer - which has been cleverly, and hilariously, re-edited. My friends, it is moments such as this which remind me that the modern age ain't all that bad. In fact, it's fucking great. I almost wet myself watching this.

CigarFest 2005

2005-10-02T11:48:00.000+09:30

During the week before I departed for Canada, my fellow Die Untergang bandmates and comrades in weird photo sessions convened for CigarFest 2005. Whilst I am still looking for a site which offers free image / gallery hosting without imposing tight upload limits (I have been too lazy and / or disorganised to set up my own web site)I will present some of the best images here. This all reminds me that I should set up my own web site and space, so that I can start using wordpress for my blogs and thus be able to categorise everything. Why Blogger fails to support this feature eludes me. Anyway. Here we are, in all of our deranged glory: Congratulations must go to El Dardo (Bass / Vocals) for providing the most violently angry facial expression ever for a CigarFest photo session.

2,240 Metres down: Riding the Scree

2005-09-26T13:11:00.000+09:30

This is my friend Stefan, who is from Germany. He's got a good sense of humour and is an all round good guy. He selflessly loaned me his gloves on the way up this unbelievably scary and magnificent mountain. The following images were taken atop the second, and highest peak we climbed. I'll let them speak for themselves: Riding the Scree: This is called 'the Scree'. It's 500-800 metres worth of lightly packed rock, which climbers run down to get to the track at the bottom of the mountain. That's right. You run down it. You look for the small tracks of grey rocks, which are sofly packed enough for a person to actually run down without gaining enough momentum to fall down and break their neck. This was actually the easiest part of the climb down! Check out the angle of the drop, man... For all of the fear, for all of the majesty of the surrounding landscapes, this was without a doubt the most incredible outdoor experience I have ever had. I took around 120 photographs during this excursion, so I will endeavour to post a few more of my favourites. If anyone knows of a good image posting / public gallery site which allows users a lot of free image space, please let me know, and I'll post up a gallery...In the meantime, here is me, taking in the view at 2,240 metres...

2000 metres up: Going for a "Hike"

2005-09-26T05:06:00.000+09:30

Before the weekend, Stefan (Germany) asked if I would like to join some of his Civil Engineering colleagues for a "hike" in the mountains. Of course, with the weather being perfect and keen for some outdoors action, I eagerly accepted the invitation. We ended up "hiking" up a 2,240 metre high mountain over the course of 4 hours. This is how things looked at the start of my journey: The picture at the bottom if this first set shows the peak of the first mountain we were to climb that day. Of course, we went around the other side and followed a "path". I thought to myself at this stage, "well, it will be a long way up but at least there is a nice path to use." I was utterly wrong, as I will attempt to illustrate. As you can see, this was a perfect day for a "hike". My trusty Rossi Hikers (purchased several years ago) were serving me well. It was 10 degrees, but even in a t-shirt I was feeling warm, with all of the uphill movement we were making. For the first time in my life, I finally saw snow, gently packed into shadowy pockets of the mountainside: By this stage we were pretty high up. In fact this was already the highest I had ever climbed. Here we are, at the summit of the first peak we visited yesterday. This was around 2100 metres above sea level. I look quite happy because about half an hour before-hand, I thought that I had a good chance of dying. My Rossi Hikers had virtually NO grip on the slippery rocks and packed ice upon which we were treading, and most of the way up for the last hour was via invisible trails with a deadly 1000 or so metre drop on one side. I was fucking terrified. Seriously, in this part of the climb, I was regretting having ever taken part. I was completely out of my depth. I was fighting panic. There were moments in which I feared that I would start freaking out not be able to move for fear of slipping to my death. I was not the only one - a few of us had no idea how intense this climb was going to be, and our 'guide' was apologetic for having sent us unthinkingly into the deep end. Or fucking high end, however you want to look at it. That said, Upon reaching this summit, I was filled with an elation that I can't describe. It was just fucking awesome. Over 2,000 metres above sea level. I think I have captured some of 'the moment' in these photographs - this is high up, people. Now this photo does not capture excactly how precarious this part of the climb was, but at least you can see the path we took to the second, 2,240 metre summit, at top right. At this stage, I was panic struck. I had to maintain concentration upon the "ground" directly in front of my eyes. I refused to look to my right, at the acute angle drop beginning about half a metre from each step I took. This was the most frightening experience I have ever had. The "hike" had turned out to be something of a euphemism for "death defying journey into terror". For now, also, I had no gloves on. Now, I don't know how many of you have ever stuck your hand in the freezer for extended lengths of time, but that is how the rocks at this level felt to touch. Thankfully, Stefan loaned me his, and I was able to grip onto the rocks tm my left without my hands turning completely numb. I will continue, with images from the peak of the adventure, soon....

Dead Squirrel Report

2005-09-22T01:18:00.000+09:30

On Monday morning, as I walking down 1st Street to the CCIS, I saw a little black squirrel trying to cross the road. He was literally leaping about in frantic figure-eights in a desperate attempt to navigate the traffic. He danced onto the median strip, and I breathed a sigh of relief - only to see him freak out again and jump back onto the road. A car passed over him - and miraculously he seemed to be spared injury. However, as I watched him run back to the pavement, I saw that his tail was flat and had been run over. Poor little guy. He climbed partway up a small tree, and I continued onto work. At the end of the day, passing the same tree, I saw what appeared to be the same little squirrel, dead at the foot of the tree. Poor little squirrel! In the interests of decency, I will not be posting any photographs of the little dead squirrel.

"Synchronicity"

2005-09-21T07:01:00.000+09:30

The edition details are as follows: Synchronicity by CG Jung Translated by RFC Hull Bollingen Series Princeton University Press First Princeton / University Edition 1973 ISBN 0-691-01794-8 I have made some headway in finding a copy of this, I just need to confirm with the sales people that the edition is correct because the cover art is always missing from the listings. However, if anyone happens to stumble across this particular edition in the meantime, please let me know!

A Terrible Tragedy, Synchronicity

2005-09-20T08:32:00.000+09:30

Dear readers, prepare yourselves for a tale of woe. A tale of deep regret and cruel tragedy. Last year, through ebay, I found a copy of Jung's Synchronicity which was the same edition as the one Sting shows off on the cover of the 1983 Police album Synchronicity. I looked forward to many years of spoof-posing with this book, as well as using it as a prop for Cigarfest hijinx with fellow Die Untergang band members Wincent Cauliflower and El Dardo. To illustrate, I will dedicate a future post in this very 'Blog to the artwork I am referring to. However, the idea emerged from the fact that Sting is posing with this book, all serious and grim, even with his top off at one point. As a member of a Police band (presently Die Untergang), it was only too fitting to incorporate this book into various photoshoots as a means of taking the proverbial piss out of Sting, the Police, and our own thus far ultimately lame attempts at recreating the sound of the Police in a cover band which only gets together once per year. El Dardo, being the bassist/vocalist, will demonstrate: The montage you can see at the start of this post demonstrates the kind of photo session I was embarking upon only yesterday...before I tripped over and tore the cover from my prized book. I was about to set up my camera to flash in self-timed mode in order to complete the following composition: Upon my second attempt at setting my camera, I proceeded to quickly leap over the edge of the concrete base of this powerline tower when I tripped and fell into it, slightly injuring myself and, to my utter dismay and horror, tearing the cover from my book. Here is the photo my camera took just as I was retreating from my fall: Behold, the sad and tragic aftermath: I am now faced with the daunting task of replacing my book. I have already scoured the internet - including ebay and Bookfinder, but thus far, no dice. I will post the specific edition details in this very weblog shortly, and should anyone out there be able to find me a copy of the same edition of this book, I shall be eternally grateful. In fact you'll get a prize. Aside from the money from the book, you'll get a prize. Stay tuned. I need to begin the mourning process.

They Say the Meek Shall Inherit the Earth....

2005-09-20T02:30:00.000+09:30

During some morning reading on participatory approaches to international development, I found this: “Within human society, our goal is to improve our quality of life or to maintain quality of life of every individual equitably. As an instrument to achieve this quality of life we have created an economy. This economy exists within the human sphere – is one element of it. The economic system is of the human system and the human system is of the ecological system. Unfortunately, in our world today we live under the illusion of a completely opposite relationship between the ecosystem, human society and the economy. Paramount is the maintenance of our economic system, even at the detriment of our social system. And further, we attempt to maintain our species’ material standard of living – part of our greater social system – to the detriment of our ecological system.” (Noel Keough, Participatory Development Principles and Practice in Community Development Journal, Vol. 33, No. 3, 1998, p.192) For me, this is an excellent summary of where Humankind presently stands, and will most likely continue to stand until it drowns in the mire of its own filth and corruption. I often find it funny that whilst I am preparing to be qualified as a Social Worker, I hold no illusions about mankind and how fucked it is.

Squirrel Report

2005-09-19T06:12:00.000+09:30

In addition to posting Bunny Reports, I will now be posting Squirrel Reports. Is this a world first? The squirrels were out in force this weekend: Running for cover Crossing the path Up in a tree Hiding Sitting comfortably In my backyard this morning!

Weekend Movements, wearing 'East 17'

2005-09-19T05:28:00.000+09:30

On Friday night, I accompanied some local sub-culturites to what are evidently three of 17th Avenue's finest night spots. I was impressed with all, beginning with Ming (low red lighting, a small open fire and somewhat reminiscent of Adelaide's Supermild), on to a bar with literally no name (it seemed pretentious in theory but it was kind of cool walking into a nightspot which had absolutely no outside signage, and looked like a closed office space) and finished at Broken City, which is Calgary's equivalent of Adelaide's Jade Monkey as both a small bar and venue for the most revered of local musicians. Whilst 17th Avenue is full of pretty clubs and clever bars, it's just too fucking expensive for an impoverished exchange student. I don't know why even beer is so expensive here, as soon as it's sold at a venue. I am going to start stocking up on alcohol at the house so that I can be drunk by the time I arrive at EmoVille or IndieTron 3000. Broken City is weird. It looks like a roadhouse diner inside, and it's quite small. The patronage was surprisingly varied, from older Beatnik types to young sucky emo-kids and the uber-indie-kids. In that respect it was just like being back at home. Thankfully the people I was hanging out with (despite being intimidatingly super-fashioned (well, one is a fashion designer) don't really seem to buy into the 'we're so indie' deal and so I wasn't the only one looking around at all the kids wearing sweatbands around their heads and thiking 'you are all fucking idiots'. Anyway, evidently there are some good bands that play there (I may even play there before I leave), the drinks were cheap, and it was fun. Low clouds and factory smoke confer over the Calgary CBD Arriving home from an 80's party at the Den. I am glad I brought my self-designed 'East 17' t-shirt and Swatch sunglasses. Sadly, I forgot to wear my pencil-thin black tie (yes, i brought this with me too). Had a decent night, but of course I drank myself into it.

Bunny Report

2005-09-19T05:24:00.000+09:30

On Thursday night, on the way to a decidedly lame Campus Residence 'Party', Gary spotted a bunny. Unfortunately I was working in near darkness, and the images are grainy. Behold, The Night Bunny:

A Reflective Moment

2005-09-17T04:03:00.000+09:30

The week I arrived here was hard. I wasn't prepared for the shock of realisation that I was completely isolated (exiled) from my previous life. 7 years living in the same house, 8 years working at the same job. A creature of habit, deformed and deranged from a child's lifetime of rut-dwelling. Now that I know where things are, and have a sense of 'home' in my new abode, I have of late spent little time ruminating on the comforts I have effectively exiled myself from. I am vagualy aware of a sense of personal growth and achievement taking place. 'The Ben Show' is still running, but somewhere in the distance I hear a siren wailing. The producer has taken a fall. Blood has been spilled. There are bunnies in the editing room, chewing on tapes.

End of the First Working Week

2005-09-16T04:01:00.000+09:30

On the corner of 10th Ave and 1st St. In the backdrop are my favourite buildings in the Calgary CBD. I will post more later - this morning, their crowns were shrouded by low clouds. I've just completed my first week of field placement at CCIS, so I am finally getting into something of a routine. Getting up at 7am Monday to Thursday is a little harsh, but I enjoy the train ride and the walk down 1st. As always, my Ipod Mini keeps me company on these jaunts. This morning, strolling back to the train as low clouds obscured the heads of skyscrapers, I listened to the new Piano Magic album. It reminds me of 'War of the Worlds' (the book, not the film) because I was listening to it when I read that book. The low clouds and smoke pouring from building-tops added to the apocalyptic atmosphere. Last night I watched a preview screening of the new Nicolas Cage film, 'Lord of War', which was surprisingly well made and written. Andrew Niccol (Gattaca) directed and his film reminded me a little of 'Three Kings', for all of its biting and satirical digs at the US government. I'm nearing the end of my first 'working' week here in Calgary and I'm feeling quite settled. Unfortunately, thus far I am unable to post when I really feel like it - during my reflective moments in the evenings. My blogs will become more frequent once we have an internet set up at home, and I will be able to post upon a whim rather than when I am passing through university. Rather than try and force something out of myself now, I will write something about Richard Ashcroft which I was considering last week: Back when it was released, in 2000 or 2001, I was fortunate enough to discover the first solo album by Richard Ashcroft. I didn't like the direction his band, the Verve, took for their final and most commerial album - but somehow Ashcroft's 'Alone With Everybody' (the irony! he's alone, right, but he's WITH EVERYBODY!) fell into my hands and I started listening to it. I listened to it every day for about a month. This was during a magical summer. I was spending a lot of time with Sho at the time and I was heartbroken over some girl at the time, as was my habit. Anyway, in the intervening years I filed this CD under 'Ruined by a Bitch' and never listened to it again. Until last week. There's nothing like a trip overseas to provide the impetus for an earnest reassessment of ones 'life soundtracks'. I have been happily listening to 'Alone With Everybody' for a few days and I have a few comments to make about it. This album is beautifully produced. Richard Ashcroft is a consumate vocalist, layering harmony upon harmony to magnificent effect. Many tracks run over the standard 4 minutes, and as a result the album feels like Ashcroft is not in a hurry to finish his little tales. He wants you to feel something, he wants you to hang around for a while and just enjoy the casual, yet highly effective build up. I can see now that the album is fairly top-loaded: The first three tracks are probably the strongest on the album, culminating in the brilliant arrangement of 'Brave New World'. The next three tracks are good. The three after that are actually quite easily skipped(I must have been highly enamoured of this album in the past). However, just as interest is beginning to wane, and the effect of the strong opening is wearing off, Ashcroft hits you with 'C'mon People (We're Making it Now)' which is upbeat pop at its infectious best. The final track seems a little bland (well, it is a little bland) and... well actually fuck it, the album should finish with 'C'mon People'. However, i have to admit that the last track has a nice 'closing credits' feel to it, and as any musician should know, if there's one thing a last track on an album should feel like, it is 'closing credits'. Some of these buildings just look awesome. I love reflective architecture. Storm clouds brew over NW Calgary. This photo shows the walkway leading to Dalhousie Station, which I traverse every day of the week. For now, I shall sign off - I'll probably post more over the weekend.

Bunny Report

2005-09-16T03:51:00.000+09:30

Inspired by Sho Fukamachi's irreverent and cute Bunny Reports, I have decided to begin posting my own. There are quite a few bunnies hanging around my neighbourhood. I will also endeavour to post Squirrel Reports if I am ever fast enough to photograph one of them. Hanging in the parking lot Getting closer About to leave Not bad for a first bunny report, eh, Sho? Especially given that in these photos, you can actually SEE the bunny.

In the City, on the Train

2005-09-12T03:32:00.000+09:30

Whilst I have yet to capture the Calgary cityscape (I have a location staked out), here are a couple of shots taken within the city which captures the 'corporate' nature of the city's larger architecture. It is in this regard that Calgary reminds me of Sydney. If I were to continue comparing this city to what I have seen back home, I would say that the Calgary CBD feels like a miniature version of Sydney. Are you talkin'to me? I have taken it upon myself to take photographs of myself late at night at train stations and such. I'm quite enjoying having a digital camera, and armed with my various wacky sunglasses and hats, I can merrily pose away to my hearts content. It's mainly for Greg that I do this, as I know he would appreciate the 'CigarFest' connotations ('Cigarfest' shall be explained at a later date, at which time I will unveil photographs from Cigarfest 2005). I rather like this shot. Once again, apologies if it appears too dark. I know there is a decent image here because I can see it in my Canon Ixus 50 screen. However, the monitors here on campus are not that great, so making brightness and contrast adjustments is pretty much impossible. Just download the large image (two clicks of the picture) and play with the image settings. I'm in there somewhere. From left to right: M. Slaughter (Adelaide), Gary (Auckland), Jerone (Amsterdam). I met these guys at the Hostel during my first week here. They are good guys. Here we are photographed awaiting the C-train to the University, from Dalhousie Station. Now you probably can't tell here, but Jerone bears an uncanny resemblance to a young John Linnell from They Might Be Giants. I will attempt to photograph him again soon and provide a direct photographic comparison here. Of course Jerone has no idea who They Might Be Giants are. I took this on the way home from Fats Bar and Grill over the weekend. It's all arty and shit. Cool, huh? Fats Bar and Grill is a bit of a hick joint out in Kensington where people sit in booths and play trivia games with consoles and a screen, and drink beer during commercial breaks. I am still finding out where the cool places are. In fact that is something of a mission for me. Going to the uni bar is fine, but when most of the students there are like 20 and the guys wear baseball caps and the girls are all into like Matchbox 20 and shit, it just makes me feel old. Old and out of place. Like, nobody at the den has even heard of Broken Social Scene or Metric or the Arcade Fire. And these bands are playing on the freaking campus, and are selling out!! From here on in, when I'm not required to rise at the crack of dawn, I'll be checking out some different places. It's too damned easy to get into the habit of hanging out with the internationals - but when the international girls have the same social agenda as the international guys, there ain't nothing going to happen there. What I mean is, folks like Gary, Jerone and I would like to start meeting Canadian girls. Of course. And the international girls want to meet Canadian blokes. Of course. So when we hang out together, it's like, yeah, you're from some other country and you have an accent. Whatever. Yawn. This is to be expected, I suppose, and it is also frustrating to hold the same conversation over and over and over again with European girls who don't speak English all that well. In fact it's completely soul destroying. You can be all like brave and shit and finally have the guts to tell Celia from Norway that she's a total babe, and she gives you this blank look and is all like "ha ha. Er, Babe? What is, er, how you say, babe?". Totally fucking soul destroying. Not that this has actually happened, but it's entirely possible. The real bad thing is that now I have this terrible thing for a girl from Manchester who is the most stylish, amazing chick I have met here, and you need to be like John Cusack or something to be able to have the guts to be cool and charming with her. She could ruin this whole freaking trip. Guh. On Saturday I trapesed to a surplus shop downtown to pick up free tickets for the new Nicolas Cage / Andrew Niccol (dir. Gattaca) film. The local street mag often advertises such promotions, and being a poor student, I am always on the look out for stuff like this. So I head out to downtown - only it is raining, and I don't know the bus routes, so after getting off my last train stop, I walk 25 minutes in the rain (which is getting harder with every step and every curse I make), and wind up with soaking wet feet because all the rain is dribbling down my jacket and tiny umbrella to my ankles. Anyway, I score the pass, which at this point seems like mighty small potatoes, and head off to the nearest bus stop. I say stop and not shelter because there WAS no god damned fucking shelter, you just have to fucking stand in the rain, or in the awning of a shop like 15 metres away and hope the bus driver sees you. I missed the first one by standing on the wrong side of the road - in fact I SAW the bus come, and remember thinking, geez, why is he all on the other side of the road? I guess he'll be doing a u-turn. That is the second time I have missed a bus or train because I was standing on the wrong side of the road. I also won a Death Cab For Cutie DVD and all I had to do was send an email to a magazine. More later - when? That depends on whether or not the internet service is connected at the house this week.... stay tuned!

Mountains, Pines and Music

2005-09-10T02:45:00.000+09:30

This is a view of the city from the C-train as it passes through Sunnyside. I'll hopefully get some better ones from this position later. I've been here for almost two weeks now (already?) and now i am feeling quite settled. Field placement starts Monday, and then I will start getting into something of a routine. I'm already using the university gym (man, it is awesome - at least two of every machine, and everything is brand new) and seem to have the grocery shopping thing going ok. Last weekend (labour day public holiday on monday) Renee took me on a ride to Lac Des Arcs, where a friend of hers has a nice little cabin among the mountains. The weather was sweet and we listened to 80s music and sat outside around the fire. Here are some photos I took the following day: On the road back to the 'burbs: Seeing so many pines along the roadsides always reminds me of the opening shots of Kubrik's "The Shining" (incidentally, some of that aerial road footage was used for the original ending of "Blade Runner" after Ridley Scott ran out of money). There are pines everywhere here... and people keep their gardens really neat and tidy. I mentioned that I live with a girl called Renee - well, her name is actually Raveigh, which makes things a little easier. She cooks muffins and cakes and stuff, which is awesome. Last night we had cable installed - 57 channels and nothing on. I'll be keeping my eyes open for the new season of 'Six Feet Under', though. Given how expensive beer is here, I have been pleased to find there are a lot of venues which offer cheap drinks on certain nights, one of which is the Den, the university bar. It's like a nightclub - two levels, and both get packed on the weekends. Last night I was there with several international students I have met of late, and I'm all nicely toasted with my beer, and suddenly "Roxanne" starts playing and I feel this warmth in my belly. I love that song, man. Then "In Between Days" by the Cure starts up and I'm thinking of the halcyon days when I used to listen to the Police and the Cure like all the time, but I'm in a different country, and it is strange, but i feel good and realise I'm no longer careening through this new episode with the frightened abandon of a lost dog. I'm walking through the green slopes of the campus listening to Do Make Say Think and Hieroglyphics, and it's all just a new video clip, with me as the star. Heh. Incidentally, anyone who has the most remote interest in Hip Hop should seek out "Third Eye Vision"(1998) by Hieroglyphics. In fact any one who has even the most remote interest in music should. This is such a fine example of how hip hop should be produced. The beats sound old but punchy, and the use of melodic samples and loops is brilliant. This isn't all niggas and bitches and guns and shit - this is atmospheric hip hop at its best. Speaking of music, today tickets for Broken Social Scene went on sale! For the uninitiated, BSS are the best independent rock band to emerge from Canada for years. Pitchfork got their review right for their breakthrough album, 'You Forgot it in People'. I am way excited. Also coming up is the Arcade Fire show, which will be great. Here I stand, beneath my street sign. If this image looks too dark, try increasing the bright / contrast settings with a graphics viewing program or something - it's supposed to be dark and atmospheric, but i can't do much with the image quality at this end. I miss photoshop! A fine sunset indeed, guvnah.

Saturday Night in Exile

2005-09-05T03:26:00.000+09:30

Sunset near Dalhousie LRT. This was taken from the end of the bridge I walk across after leaving the C-Train and starting my 10-minute walk home. The sky seems much bigger here, and whilst my limited lens width fails to capture this, I'm sure you will agree that it's a beautiful sunset. Every evening here thus far has seen rolling cumulous clouds confer around the sun as it changes the colour of the sky and slides, ever so gently, into the sea of the horizon at around 9pm. So I'm now settling into life at number 239. Things will change over the next couple of weeks as two or three more people move in (making a total of 5), but for now it's just Ric, Renee and I. Ric is the landlord guy. He's found the house, and is renting it for now. Ric is an electrician who likes beer, old school Jeep pickups and restaurants. He comes across as a little slow and gruff at first, but he's a big friendly grizzly bear. He's helped me out with getting a bed and a desk. Renee is from Ontario and lives in the basement suite. Renee likes pink, girly movies starring Jennifer Lopez and country and western rock music. Now this sounds terrifying but Renee is very nice and she's very clean and tidy. Last night was my third at 239. My first Saturday night in Calgary. It was a sad evening - almost everyone I know here (a handful of acquaintances, mostly) was busy up in Bannf or going on dates. I could have called Astro Physics girl but I've not even been here for a week. I'm still afraid of catching trains in and out of the CBD at night and I want to feel a little more grounded before I start making those kind of trips... so with an ache in my gut for all the friends I miss, I resigned myself to watching girly films with Renee and her friend Ange down in the basement. My Ipod and a copy of 'Dune' kept me company for the rest of the waking night... Sigh! Speaking of music, I have been listening to 'Dwellers on the Threshold' by Tarwater a lot. Also Piano Magic. I was on the C-train early last week and I could hear this hokey country and western music floating around - was it coming throught the PA? Less frighteningly, but just as strange, i could hear it coming from the headphones of a downtrodden looking lumberjack type guy sitting in front of me. He was listening to country and western music really loud. It's quite common here. There's a bit of a country and western vibe to Calgary, with the occasional cowboy hat and sea of four wheel drives, which is somewhat disconcerting. The younger folken seem to steer away from it, and I have met a few people who seem to be part of the more 'indie' sub culture here (ie so it actualy exists here). Once you get out of the city, the ratio of trucks, SUV's and pickups to regular cars changes from about 2:1 to 5:1. No kidding. There are stories all through local news about petrol prices, and people are grumbling about it, but they are all driving these gas-guzzling fucking trucks, just to go shopping or pick up the kids from school. Fuck you, whining Garth Brooks fans! A note about the photos I have been posting - just click on them for a larger view.

Living in Exile, Living in the Suburbs

2005-09-04T03:13:00.000+09:30

In Stephen King's "Dark Tower" series, Roland and His Ka-Tet travel to various alternate versions of New York. In one version, young Eddie is horrified to find his home has been decimated by a plague (see "The Stand") but upon a cursory inspection of a parking lot finds several makes of car which never existed in his "when" and several bumper stickers supporting various baseball teams which he has never heard of. It is with relief that he finds these markers which tell him that the New York he has stumbled into, with all of its death and terror, is actually yet another slightly alternate version of his home. I have often thought of this scene over the last few days, as I have begun settling into student life in Calgary, AB, Canada. I'm no longer with Optus. The service provider name on my phone is now Rogers. The traffic directions are in reverse. The Magpies here have blue on their backs and long tails. Instead of Possums and stray cats, there are bushy tailed squirrels and large rabbits. Just hanging in the front yard. Suburban housing looks like beach housing back home - all weatherboard and blues and whites. It's just weird. The picture above shows some rolling cumulous clouds as the sun was setting over the pacific during my flight to San Francisco. All I will say about that United Airlines flight is that is was horrible. On the right is the Hostel International in Downtown Calgary. This equates to somewhere like Hindley Street in Adelaide. This end of downtown is pretty desolate. There are homeless people who hang outside the joint every night. They get quite loud sometimes. Here is a view outside the Hostel, further from the CBD about 20 metres. My dorm - Room 206. I used to live at number 26 back home. Inside the dorm, a view from the mirror. Note totally frickin' cool Swatch sunglasses. Can you feel the chill? This was my lunch and dinner for a day or so. The colours in this photo, at least from here, ring quite true. The eggs are basically fucking flourescent yellow. I found this quite disconcerting. I stayed at the HI for three nights. During this part of my first week here, I spent hours upon hours searching for share accommodation and endlessly trapesing around the suburbs (those close to the C-train line) to meet landlords, potential housemates and check out the places. Man, I saw some fucked up joints. There was this one place which stank of old Chinese take-out. It reeked. The worst part was that it was the best place I had seen at that stage. One more night at the Hostel seeemed nightmarish, with its ONE male toilet cubicle, snoring dorm mates, loutish homeless people outside, and the need to always lock up my bags. I had seen about 5 houses at this stage. They were all horrible. Especially the basements. Many houses here have a 'basement suite' which generally seem quite dank and miserable. I guess some are ok, but I'm not really a basement kind of guy. I've had it too good for too long in Norwood, SA, I suppose, to be happy moving into an underground dwelling. Anyway, I was fucking miserable during those first two days. I hated everything. I hated the reverse traffic. I hated the fucking asshole who works the desk at the HI (oh, but he turns on the charm for the ladies. When I first saw him change his tune for a pair of tits and legs I wanted to leap over the counter and tear his arrogant Canadian charmer face off). I hated the weird, creepy suburban architecture (I'm planning on photographing some local housing at sunset, as a project - some of the places look like something from a David Lynch film. In fact I think David Lynch must have lived here for a while). I wanted to go home. I wanted to skip everything and move on to Europe. Then, just three days in, I found this place: It's $350 per month including utilities, which is way more than I was paying back home (figure is in Canadian dollars, which makes a little difference) but as far as the average share rental cost goes here, that's a pretty good deal. My first night staying at number 239 (wow, first I lived at number 26, then dorm 206, now house number 239: 9-3 equals 6! This is like totally freaking cosmic). Notice the lack of sheets on the bed. I didn't have any. I was tired as all hell - out late with international students - some of whom are actually pretty cool. There's an italian Astro Physics student who totally had me as soon as she proclaimed her love of Stanley Kubrik. Apologies for the low contrast - I don't have photoshop or anything here, and there ain't much I can use to enhance images on the Uni computers. My second night at number 239 - Now I have a desk and a chair. It's a tiny room, but it's almost cosy now: Here's me doing some light reading: I'll continue later, in my next blog. I am planning on adding links to the full-res images via my account at flickr.com. For now you can probably view my images by searching for user Matthew Slaughter.

In Hell, We All Have Dialup

2005-08-09T18:15:00.000+09:30

This week, for the first time since I had ADSL installed years ago, I have been without an internet connection. On Saturday my ADSL service was wrongfully disconnected due to a communication error between Telstra and AAPT. Today, at last, I can connect again, but only via dialup. I never realised exactly how necessary my internet connection has become for me to maintain composure. I was in a terrible mood for much of the weekend because I felt like my arms had been cut off. I just couldn't do anything. There could have been really important emails waiting for me, or a new Strong Bad Email might have come out, Broken Social Scene might have, well, broken up or something, and Sho might have posted a revelatory new essay about some stuff that happened to him over the weekend. Fortunately, none of the above took place - but man, have I been suffering. I need access and I'm not prepared to go without until I leave the country (which is in three weeks, incidentally). In the meantime, my ADSL had better be reestablished this week. This damned dialup connection is choking me. Sigh. O for the 1950's, when all I had to was work, come home to a warm meal and be pampered by my wife.

Put Your Hand to Your Mouth

2005-08-06T00:52:00.000+09:30

I was at this restaurant tonight, and I looked over at another table at this cute girl. She was dressed nice, good hair, very pretty. Suddenly she yawns. For a moment I figure it's going to be a quick little thing, because she doesn't put her hand to her mouth or anything. I mean, that's what you do, right? So you don't look like a rude, ugly loser at a nice restaurant, right? This yawn goes for like 6 seconds, which is ages when we are talking about having your mouth gaping wide open so you grow a chin and your eyes bulge slightly. After that I didn't want to look anymore.

Music

2005-08-05T23:24:00.000+09:30

In life, I have found that the people I connect with the most are those who are to a significant degree 'Music People'. That is, folks who know what they are into and who can readily identify a selection of artists whom they particularly like. I am always chagrined when I ask someone what kind of music they like, and they tell me something like 'Oh, I don't know, I like everything' (which just makes me feel sick). However there is a sub-category which I must identify here, for it's not just 'Music People' I am going to be drawn to, but those who are at the least not into what I would class as 'Shit Music'. I happily admit that I am a music snob. I've done my yards, friends, and it has taken me many years to develop a broad palate. So if my new 'Music Person' friend wants to play me their favourite Nelly song, I'm out the door, fast. So not only do I prefer the musically preferential kind, I also require some cross-over in taste if there is to be any real bonding. Just some, that's all I'm asking. Not none. Not your copy of Jet's new record for my copy of Sonic Youth's Nurse. Not the latest Coldplay CD for my import of Art Brut's debut album. Well, I'm getting picky now, but basically I know what I like. I like a lot of stuff. There's just this little bunch of stuff that I fucking can't stand, is all. What I Can't Fucking Stand Country and Western. Not country, not alt-country, which are genres unto themselves, but fucking Country and Western. Garth Brooks and Leanne Rhimes make me feel sick. Abba. See, some disco stuff from the 1970s is ok. Some of it sounds all funky and cool and old school and shit. Not Abba. I fucking can't stand Abba. Those guys wrote some catchy tunes, I'll admit it. I can appreciate the song writing aspect. But I had a sadistic night fill manager back when I worked at Foodland, who would play Abba's greatest hits EVERY NIGHT. Some shifts he would play "Dancing Queen" on REPEAT for the ENTIRE SHIFT. This is why I hate Abba. Bullshit Manufactured Disposable Pop. This basically means anything by anyone who was on 'Australian Idol'. Australian Hip Hop. Sigh. This one will probably get some backs up, but with all due respect, fuck you all. Aussie Hip Hop is shit. Even the most inventive little riffs are ruined as soon as you hear some wanker drawling in a thick, woggy Australian accent. It sounds stupid. There is an Aussie Hip Hop song which Triple J still play sometimes which is about going to a barbeque. This is the most fucking awful Aussie Hip Hop song I have ever heard. Honestly - even the most lame hip hop from the US, laiden with 'bling' and outdated 'Niggaz' and 'Hoes' type vernacular sounds 'right'. Even hip hop from the UK sounds 'right'. That guy from the Streets can come across as a bit of a tool but most of the time he sounds cool rapping about mobile phones and chips. However, as soon as you hear an Australian accent over some beats, it's all off. Everything starts to moulder and rot. The John Butler Trio. Like Abba, this is not really a genre, I just fucking hate this band, and everything that sounds like them. Moaning fucking bearded hippie who can only write songs in one key and sings worse than Bob Dylan. Fuck you! Ani Di Franco. Fuck it, i'm onto attacking individual artists now. Ani Di Franco makes me want to scrape my teeth along a black board and then eat a cup full of human hair. Anything to get my mind off that godawful whiny bitch voice. Ugh. Honourable mentions also go to Pub Rock, Happy House and pretty much anything that is legitimately Adult Contemporary. Artists I love. I don't even have to hear the new single. As soon as the album is out, I'm onto it (somehow, I don't think the Police have anything coming out soon). All of these, save two, have long been tried and true. I have a history with these singers and bands. The exceptions are Do Make Say think and Broken Social Scene. I only got into these bands a year ago, but I have since aquired all of their albums, and they are all fucking excellent. Presented in no particular order: The Police Suzanne Vega Do Make Say Think Piano Magic Broken Social Scene Electronic New Order Radiohead Genesis (Pre 1991 only) Ok so I threw Genesis in there. I would not touch a new Genesis album with a blanket wrapped around my arm. Without Phil, they are dead. I grew up with their cheap 80s crap, and I love it. Since then I discovered their prog rock roots, back when Peter Gabriel was the singer, and it's pretty much all gold. So they make the list because there are about 10 Genesis albums I totally love. I can't begin to try and justify this. I would have listed Sting, but however much I love him, he no longer meets the requirements of that list. I didn't buy his last two albums because the rot has set in too deeply. 'Mercury Falling' was a really good album, especially given the perfection attained on the previous album 'Ten Summoners Tales'. However, 'Brand New Day' saw Sting teaming up with a lame keyboardist and producer called Kipper who started, well, to use a technical term, started turning Sting's music into shit. I only heard one song from 'Sacred Love' and learned enough to know that if I want to retain my love of Sting, I just need to stay right away from that album. 'Sacred Love' finally propelled Sting into the vile world of Adult Contemporary. Before 'Roxanne' catapaulted The Police to fame and fortune, Sting had to pretend to be retarded to gain employment at a Newcastle service station. My 14 All-Time Favourite Albums Solitude Standing by Suzanne Vega Zenyatta Mondatta by The Police Dirty by Sonic Youth Loved by Cranes We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes by Death Cab for Cutie Boomtown by David and David Temple of Low Men by Crowded House Technique by New Order Ten Summoners Tales by Sting The Troubled Sleep of Piano Magic by Piano Magic You Forgot it in People by Broken Social Scene The Futureheads by The Futureheads Goodbye Enemy Airship the Landlord is Dead by Do Make Say Think Kid A by Radiohead

The Morgan and Julag Show

2005-08-02T16:33:00.000+09:30

Back in the late 90's I found myself co-hosting a radio show on Student Radio 5UV. Back then it was still being broadcast in mono, and at the times I was broadcasting (around 1am) there were virtually no listeners. Therefore I saw fit to poison the airwaves with what was effectively the worst radio show in Adelaide. The worst. I was a hopeless DJ. However, I did have the good sense to call upon my friends to either co-host the show, or ring in as guest callers. Perhaps the most invaluable contributions came from Greg, who not only took my ideas for characters and positively ran a marathon with them, he also developed some of his own which often proved to be hilarious. The show ran for about nine or ten episodes over the course of a semester in 1996. Out of those many seething hours of ineptly handled radio terror, I managed to scrape together around 40 minutes of Comedy Gold, over the course of 56 snippets of audio from the show. My favourite is probably the one in which we played "Message in a Bottle" over and over again, no matter what was requested. Terrible radio, but hilarious for the DJ. My only regret is that I never had a chance to air the sequel, in which I planned to edit together a 50 minute version of the song, with the final refrain of "sending out an SOS" seamlessly looped for the remaining 46 or so minutes. For you, the reader, the joys of the Morgan and Julag show are now being archived online via Greg's weblog. You can begin your journey of discovery here.

A Name is Forever

2005-06-12T22:40:00.000+09:30

For some reason, there are certain names which will always, always be associated with the first people I knew to have them, no matter how many people I meet who share this name. For example, I went to primary school with a boy called Scott. One day he pissed on me at the boy's urinals. Deeply upset, I pissed right back on him. From that day forth I have not been able to even look at a package of Scott paper towels without thinking of Scott's piss running down my pants. Another example is that of Jason. Jason was a fucking prick whom I went to high school with. He would do shit like put my erasers through the silk screen press and make me look like a pathetic loser by making me arm wrestle with him (I always lost). He was a psychopath who loved picking on me, and ever since then, I always remember his sharp nosed, aryan fucking Nazi face for a split second or so when I need to refer to any of the Jasons I presently know. There are positive associations, too. For example, whenever I meet a guy called Shang, I can't shake the feeling that he should be the good natured and shaggy German Shepherd I had as a child. Shang was so sneaky, he would creep into the dining room whenever we had dinner, and he would nuzzle up to us and make these cute "I'm sorry, man, I'm totally breaking the being inside rules, but how about some of that fat you are leaving behind huh?" faces at us. I think of that whenever I meet Shang's.

Fucking God Damned Mobile Phones

2005-06-05T23:48:00.000+09:30

Of course everyone has some gripe with mobile phones, whether or not we deign to use them. My slant on this oft sung litany of frustration is that i hate how it affects the everyday dealings we have with people. More specifically, with the increased continuity of contact that mobile phones provide. This is often problematic. In the good old days, Hank would call Gemma on the telephone and leave a message if she was not home, or simply call again later if no message could be left. A reasonable "call back response time" was usually anywhere from an afternoon to a couple of days. Mobile phones have effectively rid us of this care-free attitude to returning calls. You don't have to be home to 'check in'. You just switch your cell back on, and it tells you not only if you have any missed calls, but who they were from. It's most likely text messages have been left by the calling party, or a messaging service. As we generally carry our phones with us most places like a wallet, we are now fully contactable most of the time. I still remember when it was weird to have a pager, like my dad. What are you, a fucking doctor, I would think (except without the swear word, i mean fuck, I was like 9). Now we all have pagers. Except they are way cooler because they are fully functioning telephones with games and cameras and shit. A revolution has taken place, right before our eyes. Now my gripe is this: These days, Hank calls Gemma and she doesn't pick up. So he leaves her a text message. It is now natural, given that the mobile phone is not only ubiquitous but on the person all the god damned time, for Hank to expect a return call or message. In the meantime, Gemma is worrying about what to say to Hank because she really regrets having picked him up at Generic Bar last week. She knows that unlike the good old days, she really should get back to Hank in the next few hours, or the next day at the latest. Her allowable effective response time has been stripped away to almost nothing by the god-be-damned hand of Technology... and Hank is wondering what the fuck is up with Gemma, i mean, it's not like it's still the good old days when it could take a good day or two to make phone contact. Colin realises that the superglue on the receiver is still wet Basically this shit sucks. Trying to call people never used to be such a soul destroying excercise because the phone would just ring out and you could just decide not leave a message (if they had an answering machine) and they would never know you called. Therefore when they never called back, it was ok because they never fucking knew you called anyway, unless they were all pedantic and shit and did that star-10-hash thing to see who had been trying to call, and if they were doing that and never called back, it's probably a good thing because people who do that every day are fucking psychopaths. So now when you try to call people, it's pointless hanging up before the message bank cuts in because your number will come up as a missed call, and if they are a slacker or whatever and don't call back, it sucks because now you know that THEY know you called. It's even worse with text messages, because there's no conversational requirement - it's pure information transfer. If someone can't even be bothered responding to your text (and i'm talking about shit like invitations to socialise and the like, not pointless rehetorical commentary on what you just had to eat), then they either hate your guts or they are fucking inconsiderate and mean. This is the fucking nightmare of new social protocols we have to navigate our way through. I fucking hate text messages because when I am not forced to write them, I am all worried about why so and so hasn't written back to me since I wrote to them fucking god-damned last night. Fuck! Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate the merits of owning a mobile phone. You know, convenience and shit. I just take issue with the lack of fucking manners that these things are breeding. Noone wants to meet up and talk anymore - they just fucking text it through or if it's really heavy they make a quick call- and I say quick because the thing about mobile phones that really separates them from the old fahioned dog-and-bone is that the calls are more expensive and it's not just your voice coming through but also an invisible great fucking wad of cancer. I swear to god, nothing is more infuriating than hearing your mobile make its "new message" sound after you have just exchanged about 16 messages with someone, each of them supposedly being the end of the "conversation"... and when I hear people say "yeah I had a text conversation with so and so today", i just want to grab their fucking mobile and smash it against the wall whilst screaming "you didn't have a god damned conversation you fucking loser, you AVOIDED one!"

War Stories

2005-05-17T22:03:00.000+09:30

Aside from finding excuses to swear a lot in my blog entries, I am also interested in World War II. ( I recommend highly that anyone out there with even the slightest interest in the subject go out and see Downfall ). Of late I have renewed my relationship with my grandfather through taking an active interest in his past life as a transport operator stationed in Egypt from 1940-1945. Today I met a friend of his, a slightly dithering but affable old chap who also briefly served in Egypt before being deployed in Greece, where his contingent was captured by German troops in 1942. He remained in various POW camps for the rest of the war. Among the stories he told me was one in which Russian prisoners of war were so poorly fed that on one occasion two of them dummy-walked the corpse of a recently departed comrade to the rationing area in order to secure an extra helping of food. My grandfather's friend also recalled how up to 120 captured Russians would be crammed into a cattle carriage for up to three weeks at a time without the doors being opened so much as once. Those still living were forced to help discard of the dead. Reading about these things is interesting and compelling, but I find nothing I have read as affecting as when I have heard the stories directly from people who actually served in the war. The man I spoke with today was born on November the 11th, 1917 (exactly one year to the day before the post WW1 armistice was signed) and has many more stories to tell. I was reminded today of how many incredible tales of survival, terror and courage are still alive and well in the minds of our grandfathers. Yes, God, I sound incredibly fucking preachy (finally, a swear word), but I really mean it. How could I not be moved when this sprightly old veteran handed me a typewritten document dated 1942, informing his family that he had been captured by the enemy and that it was unknown whether or not he still lived?

Koala Man and Little Patton

2005-05-08T18:33:00.001+09:30

Or "How I hate violence but couldn't stop thinking about stuffing broken glass into someones face last night" Not since high school have I been to a party at which there were "angry dudes". Enter stupid fuck number 1, wearing a koala suit. He reminds me of the film "Idiot Box". Enter stupid fuck number 2, who is three feet tall and sort of looks like Mike Patton if he were a dwarf. I'm pouring myself a drink and suddenly Koala Man and Little Patton are getting all pissy about me stealing their fucking drinks. Only I haven't touched theirs. I keep calm and assure them their bottle of angry juice is perfectly safe, and out of concern for having daggers in my back all night I engage Koala Man in a conversation about our respective vocations. After hearing his enthralling tales of bottle making, I tell him about what I want to do in the multicultural social work setting and he starts whining about how immigrants take our jobs away, like a stupid loser cunt. As it is my aim to prevent further agitation, I end the conversation by telling him he's entitled to that view, rather than laughing hysterically at his pathetic white trash outlook. Stupid fuck! Two hours later his little fucking midget spew friend knocks my drink out of my hand and tries to drag me outside by the arm. After shaking him off and explaining that i wasn't interested in fighting, I retreated to the relative safety of the kitchen, where I was accosted by the host of the party and asked what my fucking problem was with her mother. Said mother passed me as I backed into the kitchen and thought that I gave her a "funny look". So then I had to explain what had just happened to these paranoid lunatics. Then Little Patton finds me in the kitchen and has calmed down and admits he now can't remember what exactly he was angry with me for, except that I have offended his friend and wants to mediate a conversation between us. So I shake hands with the retard in the koala suit and somehow get stuck in a conversation with Little Patton about Nietzsche, which his phD thesis is about (!), just so he wouldn't get all fucking mad at me again. I started imagining what I would have liked to have said when he wasted my drink and tried to take me outside. "Listen, you fuck [this said as my grip on his throat tightens], I'd love to have a chat with you but right now I don't think i could do that without first smashing up a glass and ramming the splinters up your nose until your eyes start bleeding. Calm the fuck down, you stinking fucking maggot." However, not only do I hate violence, I haven't hit anyone since I was in year 10. I don't know what to do in a fight, and I certainly don't want to fucking get in one at a party and create a fucking mess and a scene and get all bloodied up. So I just conversed with this angry little turd about fucking Nietzsche and Hitler, wishing I was Joe Pesci in "Casino", until I'd had enough and decided to look for someone sane to talk to. I went home half an hour later.

I Am Pissed That I Didn't Enter the Archibald Contest

2005-05-01T22:41:00.000+09:30

FromABC News Online: "One of Australia's most celebrated artists, John Olsen, has won this year's coveted Archibald Prize for portraiture. The announcement was made at the Art Gallery of New South Wales in Sydney. Olsen's winning entry is an abstract self-portrait with two faces, titled Self portrait Janus faced. Olsen, 77, smiled and waved his walking stick at the appreciative crowd. His painting alludes to the impact the Australian landscape has had on his life, and the Roman god Janus, who can look backwards and forwards." Now I consider myself to be fairly open minded when it comes to art, but this 'self portrait' is fucking crap. It looks like something I could cobble together during a fit, if I was laying on a sheet of canvas and covered in oil paint at the time. If I had known that the judges were going to be so "open minded" this year, I would have entered this damned competition myself! To think that I could have taken the prize and the glory, with my emotive portait of Russell Crowe which I finally completed a few months ago: It was a hard choice between that one and my portrait of Australian Idol's Guy Sebastian and Shannon Noll, which I thought would be too "cutting edge" for the judging panel, given that I have innovatively combined the visage of not one but two prominent Australian identities: I mean what's going on, man? A landscape artist accidently fucks up one of his canvases and decides to attribute some deeper meaning to it by labelling it with an allusion to a Roman god, and presto, instant Archibald winner. I'm too disgusted to continue painting, and I hereby give up.

What is Totally Awesome

2005-04-18T13:27:00.000+09:30

Duncan. Duncan is Totally Awesome. Check it out: Wow. This lighting technician really knows how to dress. He kicks more ass than a strung-out junkie who has been brainwashed into believing that his next hit will fall out of someones ass if he kicks it hard enough. That marone sweater tucked into his black pants makes me want to take all my clothes and burn them because they are so lame. His glasses are rad, and as if his Michael Bolton hair style wasn't the absolute fuckin' height of post adult contemporary awesomeness, he's casually turning his head to check out his little girl's new boyfriend AND striking an action man / style catalogue pose AT THE SAME TIME. This guy is so fucking awesome I wish he was my Dad.

What is Totally Not Awesome

2005-04-07T20:32:00.000+09:30

Man. I was really, really looking forward to my meal tonight. I threw together a chicken and vegetable curry and set it simmering an hour ago - only what was a "simmer" at some point became "boiling" and now my curry dinner has become a sludgy glob of overcooked mush. Damn it. The chicken is dry and the vegetables have all turned a light, opaque green. My rice had better not be fucked. This is totally not awesome.

Post Party Notes

2005-04-05T16:05:00.000+09:30

After a year of sobriety, my beloved household finally put on another dig over the weekend. Of course I drank to excess whilst already under the influence of contraband. It's simply too easy to drink and drink more when you are cohosting a party in your own house. What a night. I only remember about 60% of it. Do 28 year-olds still throw parties in which various souls engage in drunken pashing and slaggish behaviour? Evidently, yeah, man. There will be another one of these things held at the house before I leave, a going away party if you will, and I am seriously considering employing reliable friends to keep tabs on my drinking for me - ie I'm not allowed after the first bottle of gin is finished. Most entertaining was poor "Ms X" who arrived drunk and proceeded to become drunker still... and became almost physically attached to me. Given that I too was beginning to lose all sense of reality, I had to call upon several friends to help me escape from time to time. I simply wasn't strong enough to leave of my own volition. Every party needs one of these - the drunken slut. Often it has been me. I have seen friends play the role beautifully in the past. In the meantime university is rubbish (a petition is now circulating to have a course coordinator replaced), work is boring and I have been having nightmares. Last night I dreamed that murdered someone I grew up with and crashed my car. Things that work are music, making music and reading books. On that note I'll shuffle off and think about how to write a decent entry in this blog. I only started it in preparation for my trip overseas, as a way of documenting my travels, but for now I simply don't have anything that isn't safely non-personal or inherently entertaining enough to warrant writing much.... Suggestions for subject matter are welcome.

The Sun in the Window, My Cat and the Dead Parrot

2005-02-23T22:15:00.000+10:30

One of my housemates heard a little thud at the back window. Upon cursory investigation, they found that a bright green parrot had flown into the glass and stunned himself - and become a potential new toy (and subsequent meal) for my loveable but naturally cruel cat. He wears a tuxedo and has impeccably white feet, and he disects birds and mice with the precision of a chinese chef - but not before he slowly tortures them to death. By the time I had arrived home, Bas (Mr Cat) was locked inside and forlorn with desire whilst the ailing bird took refuge in the shed behind an old dismantled door. I and my comrades ventured to the shed to see how our injured green feathered friend was doing in his dusty corner. As we clumsily reached for him with towel wrapped hands, he squarked loudly in obvious pain and fear - and we saw the damage that Bas had done before he was thrown inside. This little guy didn't have a chance, he was bloody and had horrible tears under his wings, but he valiantly took chunks out of my gardening gloves and protested loudly to being handled. There was something terrible about the way he desperately kept gnashing his beak and wagging his little stone of a tongue. He was all twisted around in this upsetting way and we knew that we had to take his head off. Fuck. Fucking cats and their cruel, instinctive habits. And fucking windows. There was a sad but determined resignation in his eyes as we carried him outside and lay him down with his neck extended. A shovel later, we were mourning the death of Mr Green... and Bas was sniffing around for his body with hopeful abandon.

Hello.

2005-02-21T00:12:00.000+10:30

I was beginning to deliberate too much over my first post here. However, if I concern myself about making a grand or stylish entrance, I'm likely to never get it done or just paddle in limply in like a wet poodle. As this is on public display I'd rather not get into the more nightmarish aspects of the last few weeks, but I don't want to wait for any grand revelation either. In fact, all this deliberation is exactly why I have always found it near impossible to keep a personal diary. I never know where to start. Do I summarise the last few weeks? Months? Wrap up the year in a clever paragraph? I considered writing a post about the infantile hi-jinx I got up to last night with old friends, in which we spent some hilarious time throwing wads of wet toilet paper at passersby beneath the apartment we were drunkenly romping about it. There was a scary minute or so when an irate fuckstick kicked down the main entrance and almost broke in the front door, but he didn't stick around and we didn't get all solemn about it. In fact about 15 minutes later I slipped downstairs and pretended to be the angry man by knocking on the stairwall. The silence that ensued was hilarious. In any case, we were all 15 again for a time and I don't have much more to say about it. Except that the way the street below was peppered with little flat globs of blue toilet paper was also hilarious. I was inspired by a film tonight, so this will be the subject of my first post. The Aviator is a complete return to form for Martin Scorcese. After the underwhelming "Bringing Out the Dead" and the self-indulgent, over-cooked "Gangs of New York", I had lost my faith in the director behind some of my favourite films. With his latest opus (at 170 minutes that's what it is) Scorcese has restored my faith and made me hopeful that all the rumours about a sequel to Taxi Driver are actually true (can we see DeNiro play someone fucked up again instead of a god damned police officer, psychologist or doctor please?). It's been a while since I really felt joyful throughout a film, full of excitement and imagination and buzz. I felt it with the "Kill Bill" films and the directors cut of "Donnie Darko" - and here again with "the Aviator". See, "Gangs of New York" had a brilliant 100 minute film buried in the over-wrought mire of a 135 minute mess - and parts of that film feature some really freaking tacky music and bad cuts. Ironically it took an even longer film for Scorcese to remind us how much he knows his shit. Go see it.