»

the ageing young rebel

Did I ever tell you about the time when I was working in the city, this is going back a few years now. Right in the middle of town. For a while there Crossways was the place to eat, mostly because my work was voluntary which made me as poor as normal and the food was two bucks. Some people will know the place I’m talking about. As far as I know it’s still there.
The Hare Krishnas run it. For two bucks you get a full plate with rice or pasta with whatever and a semolina-based desertpudding and one of those yogurt drinks — I forget what they’re called now. It was a good thing of them to do. They didn’t put the hard sell on when they were handing over the plate or nothing. Just some books for sale and a red-LED announcement thingo that’d advertise their retreats to state Hare-central in the Otways.

The joint was always busy on account of the price and this one time I ended up sitting opposite this out-and-out yuppie suit bidnessman. By itself, not a problem. On account of the proximities in the place produced I’d landed in several out of the ordinary converstaions there before.
You could even go back for seconds but one plate would always easily fill me up. Yuppy was getting seconds and our table was close to the counter so I could hear him directing the passive-as-gelatine Hare; he was being very particular about what and how much of. I didn’t like the tone in his voice at all. I was just finishing up what I was eating and quickly got up and stacked my plates in their appropriate piles on another table near the counter.
As I passed back by the table I grabbed the yuppy’s umbrella that he’d left hanging over the back of his chair.
It was a pretty swish brolly — full length dark red and gray. The handle was shaped as a toucan’s beak. I shoved it under my coat and down the stairs onto Swanston toward Collins walking like I had somewhere to go. By the time I got to Collins st adrenaline was kicking in and I ran full kilter to Elizabeth street and jumped on a tram.
A few minutes later I was back at the HQ where I worked telling Clever about it and, by then, feeling the other end—buzzed-out and a bit shakey adrenaline burn.

It was a good umbrella but I’ve since lost it.

I hadn’t thought about that little event in quite a while til lately and from here am surprised at the selfwill. If that same situation had happened today I would’ve still noted the yuppy’s attitude but instead would marvel at it, like I was watching it through a tv screen and it all had nothing to do with me. I would think to myself that the humans are funny then write about it on my weblog.

< image(20040131-feisty.jpg|356|265|feisty noodle)>

I used to have the kind of inner Captain Kirk who would grit his teeth and grimace feircely while fending off neural neutralisers from wiping his mind clean. A real stand-up kind of guy who’d dish out shoulder chops like nobody’s business.

< image(20040131-kirk.jpg|400|200|must …. fight ….. power!)>

These days he’s chubbed up a bit, in The Whale Movie and more into jokes about Spock’s ears and pronouncing Vs as Ws.

YS @ 11:29 pm, January 31, 2004

So, it looks like my nose really is rotting off

Bob ran up the stairs and looking down he realized his shoelace was untied but he couldn’t stop because they were after him so he decided to get to the roof where he’d retie it.“ This is what happens when an author believes that omitting commas can make the narrative sound breathless and racy. Instead it sounds the reverse – it’s heavy and garbled. – a link I saw at tripledoubleyou, on How To Write Good. Was reminded of how I’ve got a bit of the 1., 3., and 5. happening here.
Although, if you took away empty adverbs 60% of weblogs would disappear right off the net. It’s because people try to get a spoken word quality to their paragraphs, and I know I do it a bit — actually. I’ve become painfully aware of how many people start off their entries with ”So,“.
”So I was waiting in line at the autoteller this morning…“. So drives me up the wall.

There’s a song called ”(I Gotta Disease) I’m Addicted To Cheese” by The Evaporators up for the grabbing a third of the way down this page, which is part of alternative tentacles.

Some pretty funny comments as part of this Ad-rag.org competition. It wouldn’t be hard to scoop it all up and make a ‘The Office’ style show focused on the ad biz.

PS. Bob needs more burrs.

YS @ 10:01 pm, January 30, 2004

HOWTO: beat shoelaces forever

It’s possible that you yourself have a few roos loose in the top paddock, leading you to a very different understanding of the shoelace and its function. Maybe jor parents were too busy to show you how to tie the fuckers or maybe, like me, joor a little bit knot-dyslexsic.
The rest of the equation is made up of the contents of closets where there’s a pair of shoes that’s got shoelaces that aren’t keeping up thier end of the bargain; they unbind at the most inconvenient of times.

Memorable moments like: doing a runner on a taxi, getting off a tram, lava flows or evading a tsunami that is about to encroach on your favourite concentrated urban environment.

It’s high burr season and burrs are Nature’s Velcro. They come in a variety of sizes, so there will be a burr to suit not only your (in)active lifestyle but also your foot/shoe/shoelace size.

To get burrs, put on your best socks and go walking in a local park or nature reserve. Don’t move too quickly—remember those pesky laces could still get trickster on yo’ ass at any moment.
Once you’ve obtained a healthy quantity of burrs it’s time to start re-arranging your laces. If they’re long send each string bit around the back of the ankle to eat up that excess.

If you’re having trouble following this, get some help from a grown-up.

Place burrs along the flat side of one string bit and place the other string bit against it. If everything’s going to plan those laces should be sticking together nicely. If not don’t panic! :^) Just get more burrs, or bigger burrs!

Now you’re all set for some hassle-free bipedal activity.

YS @ 10:57 am,

aphex twin live at the prince of wales


Token image captured inside a place cameras probably shouldn’t be

Happpy snaps are plenty of fun but what Fred said in Lost Highway carries weight too: “I like to remember things my own way”. I wonder how much of the world hasn’t been photographed yet.
I could’ve squeezed down to the front for a better vantage point but that’s the kind of thing that’s either done early or not at all, rather than standing on too many toes — metaphorical toes.
There were several Terminators in the crowd: overly tall guys who push though to prime dancing spots then just stand dead-still and crane their heads around, scanning.

Everytime I write ‘their’ lately it looks wrong.

I felt like pushing a few people too while boppin’. Not because of agro, just for a bit of fun. “Take THAT backpackboy … and oof you too ya weirdo.”
It was good to be reminded of how big the city is and how full of people — people with stories. They live in parts I’ve never been to and I’ll probably never brush up against any of them again.

For a while I was watching these three guys who weren’t freaks, but had this odd, interesting look about them — kind of punk but not to the ridiculous extreme that’s so prevalent now. Stange haircuts, intense facial expressions. Two of them looked similar and I guess, were brothers.

That’s aphex twin. Honest.
Tech-spaz: Luke Vibert was using an apple powerbook and richard d james was using a sony vaio.

YS @ 4:03 pm, January 28, 2004

licking windows on buses

The aphex twin gig is tonight. Having trouble thinking straight at the moment, but the plan is – get there, heckle the support acts until they stop — “Get Off! Boo! Hey Vibert, you suck!”, then when AT comes on get up to the front and start yelling “Play the good one!” then when he does, yell “Get to the good bit!” Also, go beserk with the camera-flash.

That should endear me to my fellow punters.

With so many news services on the planet why can’t a picture of break-dancing in front of the pope? Damn. Some red cutains in the background and it could’ve been a scene from a Lynch creation, mostly because the kid spinning on his head did it so perfectly that it looked like gravity didn’t apply.

I decided that if I ever get a house or money to make a house or mess with one then at least one room’s got to have red velvet curtains. And red and white tiles in uh probably the kitchen. Any resident backwards-dancing midgets after that would be bonus.

YS @ 9:42 am, January 27, 2004

more power for firmer skin

This is a pleasant little surprise, mr.brad zellar added spouting to his link-list. It’s funny because I was going to mention him the other day as an example of someone who is pushing in a different direction and doing something interesting with the weblog.
I’d like to submerge the self and blur the line between ‘fact’ and ‘fiction’ more, but frankly some days (most days?) I need to write about what’s in my museli to convince myself that I exist.
<%image(20040125-beefnoodle.jpg|553|184|I'll have the waldorf salad)%>

Sprawled out on the couch yesterday arvo i got to thinking Who would win a tennis match between Chairman Mao and Kim Il-Jong? Kim of course, because he quit the fags. It’d be a simple matter of poppin’ a few well placed shots at opposite sides of the court to get Chair running and it’d be, ‘game over man, game over!’.
It’d drive the people of n.Korea nuts if he was one of those on again, off again giver-uppers. I think if given the opportunity and the assurance that they’d not be judged by their peers, society or god, most people would like to be a dictator.
And it’s not just me who thinks those army-soldier marching festivals they have are visually impressive, because I saw a photo of one in adbusters.

YS @ 10:58 am, January 26, 2004

HEY SMEGMA FEATURES!

I suppose something that’s worth thinking about is when is mixing name and object far enough apart that it works and when doesn’t it work, like here at adland — soy products called poosticks. Not so good.

But last weekend I was flicking through some lifestyle magazine and noticed an ad for a Smeg fridge (the coloured one). It still makes me grin a bit.
It wouldn’t take too much of the wrong kind of imagination to start thinking your were eating poosticks, but it’s definitely more of a leap to start imagining the milk carton you’re grabbing out of the refrigerator is full of smegma.
Besides, it’s a pretty groovy looking fridge. If I had one I’d be straight out to get some magnetic letters and put ‘HEAD’ one the next line. Viva Red Dwarf.

From the Deliciously Irreverent freezer cabinet at NQR comes:
< image(20040124-guevara.jpg|539|297|Fidel would be rolling in his grave)>
Pick your fave caption – ‘Magnum Ci, Yankee No!’ – ‘I scream, you scream, we all scream for Revoluci�n!’ – ‘The revolution will not be ice-creamified’ – ‘Bolshilicious!’

Anyway, on the back of the wrapper it says, “The revolutionary struggle of the cherries was squashed as they were trapped between two layers of chocolate. May their memory live on in your mouth!”
Uh — hello? Unless you’re talking about the attempted overthrow of the Bolivian govt. then you got it all wrong buddy.
*********
I vaguely heard that Havanna was one of the cities going for the next Olympics. I don’t know how that would work.

YS @ 11:05 pm, January 24, 2004

I shore showed them

<%image(20040123-handwriting.jpg|499|96|in jor face mrs.mcCutchin)%>
I had a go of fontifier today. It turns your handwriting into a typeface. When i become conscious that I’m writing something that’ll be permanent, it becomes even more illegible than normal. Also, a little subtle translation would help — they say use a felt marker, I think they mean a fine-liner, but I only had a thick black texta so it all got a bit sqished into those little boxes.
But it works pretty good. Maybe I’ll have another go.

One of those ricocheted searches: there’s a band called Joan of Arse and they’re putting out an album called Julius Geezer.

Via Diversionz, is this scientifical article about findings from Melb.Uni on brain size. Maybe this explains why … um, I err.. uh, my mind wonders off so easily. ;^p

YS @ 10:56 pm, January 23, 2004

Channel 7

For the last few months channel seven has irritated me even more than usual, but then I had an epiphany and now I see that channel 7 can be happily set into the box that Douglas Adams labelled, “Mostly Harmless”.

Over the last year on commercial TV there developed something akin to ‘pacific time’ which apparently runs the small islands out there in said ocean, where 1pm means sometime that afternoon.
On TV, 8:30pm now meant somewhere between 8:30 and 8:45pm. Thanks very much reality-tv and other assorted bullshit.

But around the christmas/new year break channel 9 and 10 reset themselves and started to get back to punctuality. Despite their schedule being as dead as a doornail, Channel 7 was still coming in “fashionably late” and so adding more evidence to the argument that they just don’t cut the mustard compared to the other two commercial stations.

Sensationalising the mundane is something every commercial media factory is expected to do, and 7 do too, but not very well. Things are hammed up to the point where I’m laughing instead of going, “Oh, gosh that’s serious!”.

Take the weather – 7 does a little ad for their news weather man where the angle they use is that the weather is unpredictable and devilishly-scary, but with [insert weatherman’s name]’s expert advice, your short-term prospects of living through it are greatly enhanced.

The only thing 7 has got going for it is Roy & H.G. and they really should leave. And the tennis, but that’s for such a short amount of the year.

Whereas watching cricket is like watching two spit-gobbers sliding down a wall (aesthetically and result-wise) watching tennis is like watching tennis. I mean – the process of cricket is infinitely boring, but watch it for a couple of minutes and a demented desire to see how it’ll end takes over. Thankfully I’ve not been taken in such a way this summer.

What I’m liking about the tennis: that box of flowers in the background of shot. Nice, understated colours – the orange and dark yellow, green, very dark red. – Australian cult-figure and smalltime tennis ledge Wayne Arthurs. Go Wayno go Wayno!

YS @ 9:00 pm, January 22, 2004

‘variation on ‘it’s not you, it’s me’

I’ve been doing some thinking and decided to remove comments and trackback. This in no way reflects how I feel about folks who comment here, be they regular, semi-regular or one-offs. I love you guys, but I’m a self-obsessed bugger and this may take some time to correct. I’ll finish writing an entry and think ‘I wonder who will comment on this?’ and then two days later, ‘why has no bastard commented on this?’ etc. etc.
And then if some comments are left I think ‘that’s more like it’ and get a little ego hit from it, and believe me – that’s completely wrong.
Either way, my head is insatiable, and I don’t think it’s supposed to work like that. I’m Buffalo Bill, and I have problems.

The other thing is that I know that with me, I’m not perturbed in the slightest when reading weblogs that don’t have comment-function. I can think of a couple of examples lately where blogs have recently added comment-function and I’ve been secretly, quietly disappointed. Going from no-comments to comments can destroy the possible illusion of intimacy between writer and reader. It can also make me realise that other readers of a weblog are idiots.
The comment-field can be like a competition of who can make the wittiest remark sometimes.

If someone else had a weblog that didn’t have a comment-function but I wanted to say something about what they’d said I would say it and link to it from here, letting them pick it up from technorati. And then there’s always email. There will always be email, provided you don’t mention implants in the title.

As a form of writing, I think the weblog is different in how easily one influences another. Styles, perceptions, attutudes and groupings of subject matter tend to be borrowed or adopted from writer to the next. One way of looking at that is ‘it’s because it’s on the net and hyperllinks are the lifeblood of blogs as much as any other part of the web’.
But I think it’s got more to do with the whole phenomenon being relatively new, and most people doing it being even newer to it than that, so it’s more of a ‘the only limit is your imagination’ type-thingy and those limits are yet to be pushed.

But as they say in james bond land, never say never. Maybe the comments will be back next week but i doubt it.

YS @ 8:12 pm,

der fotographik miniessay (show and tell)

I went down to the ranch for a couple of days.
The train hasn’t been stopped and held up by bandits on horseback in nearly three months, which is pretty good going.
<%image(20040121-westward.jpg|410|307|nice day)%>
This is the stretch of maybe 5 or 7 hundred metres that I like to walk along and balance on one rail for as long as I can. Only a few trains come along each day.

<%image(20040121-tumbleweed.jpg|284|214|weed)%>
This is one of the many tumbleweeds @TheRanch.

<%image(20040121-giantcat.jpg|200|621|run for your lives!)%>

And not to be outdone in the pictures of cats stakes, this is the kitten that now resides down there in the care of Ma and brother schew. They are calling it ‘seven’ but that sounds suspiciously like a number and I think Zorro is more fitting, even if she is a girl. Because of the mask-like head marking, sharp-as-blades claws and overt displays of bravado.

I’d forgotten how utterly mad kittens could be. We spent a whole day messing around. It’s like having an absolutely involuntary sense of being curious about everything. Kittens struck this deal with the creators that in return for the ability to always land on their feet, they’re obligated to check everything out that comes along.
At one point she was just walking along to the kitchen and a fly flew past her head at head height and i could see her look at it, move slightly to go after it then decide ‘I’m too stuffed, I’ll get back to you later”.
The way I saw another incident was that she came to a shoe I wasn’t wearing and stuck head in to check it out, then bend right over with one front-arm resting on top of the shoe while raking the other front-arm around down in the toe of the shoe to check what was in there. It all had this laboured air to it.

Life’s tuff being a kitten, you eat, run around pouncing at inanimate objects then flop down in a human’s lap and continue the interminable quest to Get Comfortable. She visibly sighs at that point—that spins me out.

YS @ 10:32 pm, January 21, 2004
Next Page »

The television will not be revolutionised.


(c) Sunny Breaks |x| Barecity