Back with the bad action movies

These are tough times, and sometimes all I want to do is sit back, relax, forget about the relentless paranoia and watch some good old fashioned vigilante justice. State sanctioned of course, and always protecting the freedom of the mighty American people.
What a treat I had this week then, with both Delta Force and Cobra (Crime is the disease. Meet the cure). Stallone and Norris. Two sweaty titans of the genre, in my lounge. At the same time. The homoeroticism was through the roof! I wonder if the neighbours turned a little bit gay just through the proximity. I expect they will change from listening to Nickelback to Judas Priest soon.
Anyway, it would be overload to expound on both films, so I will just talk about the one I saw last night. What can I say about Cobra? The gang of villains murder people as a day job, and play their axes percussively for kicks. Leather, hogs, outrageous music and crappy dialogue - the laughs just kept being delivered. Stallone, abs tightly sheathed in a black t-shirt, failed to convey anything but constipation as he fought to protect Brigitte 2by4 Neilson. Perhaps his mind was on his detective partner? Or he was constrained by his super high waisted jeans and his shoes with bejewelled buckles? Yep, evil-doers beware...

THIS is where gossip will lead you

A snippet in NW, or was it woman's day? A write up on stuff, and then the fateful google image search for Sting toes. Which brings us to this dreadful dreadful pollutant. Poor innocent Australia!

Why do I do this to myself?

Oh, I know, so I can keep pushing my repulsion barriers and thus out foul everyone else in my flat. Or try to.

DAD OF THE YEAR

And I am not talking about the Dr. David Thorpe awards.
Read it and be astounded.

Why?!

Dammit, I hate soulseek sometimes, or slsk as those who are supercool know it as. Well, no there is nothing inherently wrong with the program but good lord the people who use it - I start downloading something and the bastards have a fit and ban me. Well, I don't like you either, and I don't like most of your music but I don't ban you.
I've mentioned this before but I bet these are cheesy poof guzzling, mountain dew swigging felchers who brag about their music collection in lieu of slapping their small cocks on the table.

Reminds me a bit of that Whippet at Port Chalmers

Poor Rusty. He just didn't know when to stop eating. Much like Handsome? the epically obese whippet that could be seen around town occasionally. A leg at each corner and a head that seemed disproportianately small. Truely a horror.

Putting on the ritz

Last night I went to see some bands at the backstage. I finally made it there! I plucked up my courage and skulked down Bath St, terrified that at any moment I might be abducted into a conga line, and dived in to see a few acts.
My first impression was more favourable than that I had of the Woolshed, its previous incarnation. I thought it looked less scungy and had a more congenial crowd. Then I realised that there was still a little bit of the woolshed left, possibly literally, on the sticky beer-glued floors.
The headline act was the Ruby Suns, with support from Pikelete & Stefanimal. I enjoyed the Stefanimal bit, but found Pikelete and the Ruby Suns a bit too sweet and twee. I couldn't get a handle on it at the time, but I realised later on that they just weren't negative enough. Super harmonies reminiscent of 60s pop do nothing for me, and contrary to popular belief that drum opening from the Ronnettes Be My Baby is tired. so it wasn't as relentlessly saccharine as label mates the Brunettes, but it reminded me of them a bit too much for comfort, despite the "rock out" breaks. Ryan McPhun was all party time in a wifebeater, and the rest of the crowd distressed me with their espousal of tight tight tight jeans, and more horrific, western shirts.
I am going to have to have a wardrobe rethink.

Asking those difficult questions

My whimper of an ending for the last post reminds me of a bad habit I have acquired. for any conversation I usually have a steady stream of tangential questions to ask. The more serious the topic of conversation, the more minutae I just have to know. For instance the other day the topic of the Manchester bombing came up. Horrific, very sad and all that, appalling that people could use nail bombs. But I was seized with the compulsion to know exactly what kind of nails these people prefer to use.
Naturally enough the other party to the discussion dismissed that one as unimportant in the face of human tragedy etc etc. But it woud be hypocritical to pretend genuine grief for the families involved because the notion of the bombing all seems rather abstract and distant from me. At most I can imagine how horrible it would be to be involved, but how does that actually help anyone? I spend much of my life being pissed off with people who spend hours lovingly dissecting each latest violent crime. How horrible, shocking, isn't that terrible? well yes, but isn't saying so bloody redundant? How is it worse for me to be curious about methodology than it is for someone to cream themselves over the victim? But we mustn't voice the unspeakable. No, let's all pretend to wring our hands over people we had no connection with and can't feel any grief over. Part and parcel of that is squashing any train of thought that admits the artificiality of this.

The truth is in there

Lo, and unto our flat appeared a holy tome, a tome of great power and significance. And the name of that tome was the David Duchovny files and there was great rejoicing among the household for David Duchovny was known unto them as tucktacular.

So, a veritable Duchovny fest that just keeps getting more and more disturbing. From the pleated front pants to the excessively hairy arms David challenges us all. The books was filled with reviews of his talents from disturbed fans (Nude shot, side view from the knees up!) and artfully posed shots of him wearing mind bogglingly ugly clothing. Like the one in a wifebeater. A) It is a wife beater, don't wear it. B)It is too loose. C) There is nipple on display. D)Fabio wants his top back. And the shot where he is dancing around like a subnormal whose favourite past time is throwing off his clothes so his carers have to catch him and wrestle him back into a mumu. My charming flatmate saw fit to point out the bulge in that one, but who'd want to see that he was wearing pleated front pants. Several of the pictures captured really unfortunate facial expressions. But anyway, I could not find those images online so I will share these ones. For Shame!



What, may I ask, did the Russian stacking dolls do to deserve that?

Unique and delicate flowers

Oh how I chortled this morning, as I staggered in to do my morning shelving. What should I espy at one of the back reading desks but a whole pile of books. My first happy moment was realising that they were not in my number sequence so I did not need to shelve them, and my next joy was discovering that they were all on autism and aspergers. Something tells me some angsty internet geek teen was into deep self diagnosis last night. You can't relate to their troubled life and social difficulty - they have aspergers - which also explains their mighty intellect.

I told you something like this would happen

Two requests for fixed price offers on auctions.
What do they think I am going to do? Drop the prices? Sheesh!

Celebrate

Ha! I love the manly feeling (fully restored after being told I had a small penis) of opening a jar someone else could not.

I also love reading the title of the post below to the tune of Say You, Say Me. I can't help myself now.

SCREW YOU TRADE ME

Oh what a delightful subject, reminiscent of Say You, Say Me by the delightful Lionel Ritchie. So what is the problem now, I hear you ask? They want $5 to list a flatmate wanted ad. It used to be free. Thanks a lot trade me, this right up there with the calculating success fee by adding in the postage charge to the sale price then taking 20%. Money grubbing bastards. I don't know about the rest of the community, but I don't get a profit from the postage so I don't see why the auction place should get a cut, unless of course they are greedy arseholes.
Oh wonderful, the news has yet another piece on technologically savvy people looking for love in technological ways. Like internet dating, or texting. Fuck off One News, Fuck off and find some real events to report on.

In brighter news, my cherry pie (haha you'll all be singing Warrant now) appears to have worked and looks very tasty indeed. MMmmmm mmmmm.

Anyway, have business to take care off. Max Raabe to disseminate, people to afflict. Still have several hours to bewail the sacrifice of my days off to volunteer work and trade me.

Bloody Tourists

All those people watching my beautiful trade me auctions, and only one of them bid.
You are all going to hell. No, you are all going to purgatory, you are going to hell if you ask me for a fixed price offer. I recall on one occasion that happened, some spangle bleating about relisting a red coat, why didn't you contact me back? (no e-mail address). The item had been listed twice and there were no bids although several watchers, I was so happy to be able to tell them that I was sick of listing it so I'd given it away. Its one of those weird things, I'd rather get no money at all and donate the item to a charity, or give it to a friend, than give someone on trade me a bargain.

Perverse, but I find trade me a combative place.

There is some shitty documentary on Nigerian scammers on tv, the scammer keeps changing his identity. I know people joke about it, but whiteys don't really think all black people look the same, just asians. Who seriously believes those e-mails anyway? If it sounds too good to be true it probably is, and all those people who go on about their amazing encounters and priveleged deals are probably embellishing.

But I really have to know

Did he play Jose Gonzales?

Also in the news, Lindsay Lohan was sent to the mortuary, alas not in the capacity I had hoped.

Lily Allen suffered a miscarriage. Ok lets get the sensitive stuff over howverysadforthefamily but then contemplate. Imagine the progeny performing an unholy amalgalm of Smile and the latest Chemical Brothers turd. Please got don't let the tv show come here btw, I think I would have an aneurism.

Media Whores Alert - my respect for Beyonce and the Foo Fighters plummeted when I thought it could reach no further depths.

But how can I even think about any of this given the mortal twist in the Coro St story line. Highlight below for the spoiler:
Vera Duckworth died in her armchair. Typically, Jack was down at the pub.

People whose tan matches their hair should not be critical

Interesting abuse I heard yesterday, as I mooched along main street with a colleague. Two bogan skanks in a souped up car called "You've both got small dicks!"
I hardly think those huckery tarts were in a position to yell anything at anyone but I suppose it is something about being in a car. People always yell retarded stuff when they can drive away quickly. I live for the moments that the lights change and the people they were abusing are hulking monsters...

Jam night, it's alright, don't get uptight

On Wednesday I had the pleasure of going to the Hal's Teeth jam night at the empire. What a treat that was, filled with exotic people and smells. I didn't catch the name of the first band which was a shame. So pub rock, so many covers of flaccid anthems. They performed songs by classic artists like Thirsty Merc (In the summertime and oh dear, it has all blended into one power chord. They saved the best for last though, a rousing rendition of Killing in the name of by Rage Against the Machine. To woefully misuse language, the crowd literally exploded. No thigh left unslapped, lots of fist punching and even a cripple dropping her crutches and boogeying on. I seriously think I was the only one laughing at an event ripe for hilarity.
The next band, Hal's Teeth, didn't disappoint either. The drummer was someone I am accustomed to seeing around town wearing a suit, but he was cutting loose in some tidy jeans and a pristine Judas Priest T shirt. The matching sweat bands rocked my world. The lead singer imparted a feeling of oriental mystery to even the most classic pub anthems.
Sadly I had to leave early on account of work the next morning, but stay tuned for more tales of premidnite rebellion.

Reading between the lines and other bad puns

It has reached that time again, the onset of TOILET PAPER WARS at my flat. Who will crack first? What will become of us all? At present I imagine everyone is extraodinarily pleased with my aquisition of this weeks Signal, the new look TV Times from the ODT. I was a bit concerned when I saw it in the toilet, half ripped up. Would we all be left with inkstains on our posteriori? Nasty paper cuts? Suffer from the lack of Aloe moisture care? One never knows, since the paper formula was changed to make it non-flammable.
One thing I am glad to say, it is flushable. So all other cash strapped households out there, it's A-OK! And, loyal blog readers, you will all be informed should our toilet explode or the plumbing die.
This kind of bog roll issue seems to be a recurrant theme of flats I have lived in, though, as yet, I am not able draw any conclusions about who will cave first and buy. We have the whole phone book to get through yet, so perhaps I will never know. All I know is that it will not be me - I brought the last lot of toilet paper home, and the Signal.

Also in the news

I just don't know how I would respond in this situation, but I hope that my projectile vomit aim would be true.

As endorsed by celebrities

Something I find peculiar is the propensity people have to look for famous people who endorse the niche group with which they align themselves. It's never a very honest appraisal either. You can imagine teenaged bints shreiking about how wonderful Paris Hilton is because she likes shoes and is really hot just like me!. And if you are not looking at celebrities themselves, you get comparisons with celebrities closely conflated with characters. I'm so like Samantha, but you're more like Carrie (Why is no-one like Miranda and why do I remember the names?). It becomes a really big complement to say to someone that they are like an actor or character from a programme. Oh Shirelle, it's like Wayne is your Mr Big!
If, like me, you ready trash magazines when they are around, you realise it doesn't stop there. There are personality test and quizes about how much a Bridget Jones singleton we are. Ok so I am outdated on that one. The point is, we are expected to look at an ensemble cast and choose which cliche we are. Desperate Housewives anyone? How utterly boring, and how loathsome I have actually heard people endorsing their own lifestyle choices because some rich fuck enjoys the same pursuits.
What's the point in role models anyway, the individuals presented are generally even more worthless than the rest of us, and hateful to boot since their obvious lack of talent is so richly rewarded.
I guess the moral of this post is, don't encourage them.
And no, I never actually buy magazines so I am not fiscally feeding the promulgation of retardation.

Prize for idiot of the day goes to

So many options, most of whom were maundering on about the death of Edmund Hillary. He climbed a mountain. So what? Oh, the charity, of course! He single handedly built the hospitals and schools, and ran very fast between hoperating theatre and classroom. Other people were involved too you know! So it is a bit sad for the charities that a major benefactor has carked it. But does it warrant the outpourings of grief being attributed to middle New Zealand. We are all mourning apparently. Devastated. The radio stations are creaming themselves with special radio presentations, to backing of bands like Crowded House (heaven help us when a Finn brother dies). It was on one such of these that I heard the pearler I am about to relate. Some vacant lady expressing her deep sense of loss over a man she never met, and lets face it, was unlikely to fantasize over.
"It was a tragedy"
The man was 88 years old, what is tragic about dying of a heart attack at that age? Tragedy, but not as we know it...

Random search

So it has been unusually warm today, and I am beginning to see possibilities (aside from getting a justifiable homicide verdict if I kill my neighbours). For instance, I may be able to produce a sweat stain that looks like Jesus! Quick as a lightning flash I went on trade me and searched for Jesus. Nope, I haven't seen anything yet, but I did discover some prick selling Jesus personalised plates at the princely sum of 100,00 0 dollars. I'd better get sweating.

Hot in the city

I almost overheated in my coat today, but I still refused to take it off, a sure fire way of getting sunburnt. I feel like there should be something happening in town tonight, but realistically I am too lazy and jaded to bother. Besides, I need some quality recovery time from the fridge clean out, though less than I might otherwise have needed as a similarly innocent flatmate helped out. Let the bitchkrieg begin.
Anyway, I got my comeuppance later on at volunteer work - todays hilight was a pile of clothes that smelt like urine and boiled meat. I assure you, there is nothing quite like it.
So on my agenda for early this evening
-sneeze some more from that awful hayfever
-contemplate why someone would donate smelly, meaty clothes
-ponder whether or not BBQs are the new Pot Luck Dinners
-curse the people who have not bid on my auctions
-try to stay cool
-look for something to do
When put it a list like that it almost seems action packed, though nothing on the thrilling lives of other people I know. Screw you all and your fulfilled lives.

Life in the fridge exists

Back to moaning about my house. Well, you didn't think the hiatus from complaining would last did you? This time I am harking back to an old favourite and long standing problem in most flats I have been in. The flat fridge. To put it bluntly, it looks like somewhere old H.P.'s elder gods would not have been ashamed to dwell in. The entire 3rd and bottom shelves are oozing substances, and the only reason the top two are not is because I cleaned them out over Christmas.
So I am wondering. Whose is this crap? This mouldering cabbage, the wizened sushi, the liquifed berry fruits? The mysterious yellow and probably narcotic ooze? Where did it come from, and what will come of it?
Here's a hint. I am whinging which usually means I am resolving myself to clean up other people's crap at great risk to personal health, AGAIN. Lazy fucks.
My mood is not improved by my arsehole neighbours listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. There are some bands that should just give up; why is it all the really annoying one's don't manage to kill themselves with a good OD? And why do people like that music? My neighbours seem to have made a RHCP MEGAMEDLEY featuring hits from albums such as Blood Sugar Sex Magic and Californication. Anthony Kiedis warbling away earnestly in his 3 vocal modes; bad rap, sensitive balladeer and emotional rock powerhouse. So funky. Almost as funky as the seamy underbelly of California forcibly revealed by the power of the lyrics. I feel like my eyeballs are being peeled.
I suppose I had better do something about the cess pit of the refridgerator then. Expect a full run down later on - a problem shared is a problem solved after all.

Its a little bit funny

That there is a man in Dunedin actually called Charlie Chan.

My little mind was running overtime with the possibilities.

Wack part II - Return of the Wack

Oh, it's just too easy with the song references. Anyway, on today's listening rotation "Superfly" which contrasted with the white trash special "Billion Dollar Babies". A veritable smorgasboard, and I wonder how on earth I managed to walk anywhere before I had an MP3 player. I just wish I had more memory on it, then I would cut loose with all those nostalgia tracks. I might even go a bit stupid and put on music I really don't like but find funny once every 2 years. Rather like Sadeness by Enigma. On the subject of that, my flatmate tried to horrify me with the video of that last night. Foolish! She should know that I can countenance that filth. I was vindicated when she had to turn it off, being aurally polluted. Admittedly it took me some minutes to return from my safe space but I triumphed on the day.
I was a bit hurt when everyone started slagging off Plush by the Stone Temple Pilots though, I have such a nostalgic affection for that song. Scott Weiland looks almost normal in the video and the absense of lace up silver trousers is a tremendous relief.
Sadly it's never that kind of song that gets stuck in my head at work. Today some of the worse ones I've had:
MMmm MMMmm MMMMmm mmmmm - Crash Test Dummies
Nobody Home - Pink Floyd
Only Want to be with you - Hootie and the Blowfish (related to the first, they are linked in my mind)
Usually the only solution for me is to fall back on some horrendous yet more benign song to take over. Like Yellow River, or Those Were the Days. Or I was made for Loving You. But in light of a previous post I have a new weapon in the arsenal. I think Congo Man would be an excellent fury & would double as an autoexorcism if I got the chanting just right.

Failing that it will be back to Moonlight Shadow or Brandy

Wiggidy wiggidy wack

I was thinking how much of a wigger I am on the way home today, as I heard the song Sirens. Youse guys never hung on the streets where I am from. Shizzle, don't fuck wit da bindery posse - um - no, I can't string the words together well enough. I wanted to incorporate G but I guess I was defeated by my pasty whiteness. Deep down you know I just don't have the funk. I know it too.

But my neighbours, who are even lamer wiggers than I am, are seemingly unaware of this. They keep Rollin'rollin'rollin. They listen to music from the hood, and have a washing-line presumably filled with black hoodies. Always with the chillin' out maxin' and relaxin' all cool. All with that sweet NZ raised inflection. Don't want to hear it guys, you suck.

Stop laughing vapid bitch neighbour or I'll have to open up a can o' whoop-ass! Oh no you di'n't! You di'n't!


Oh I give in, I'll just shut the window and go back to bluegrass.

Damn I'm good

Yup, both pairs fit, just I'd advise people not to look too closely at the undulating rolls of fat crashing over the waistband of the grey ones. In a humanitarian gesture I will wear a long shirt...just like I always do.

Positivity

I suppose that it could be construed as a problem that I often equate positivity with mild retardation.

Honestly people, how can you seriously be happy about anything?

But I will get back to you all on that. I bought 2 pairs of trousers today because I was down to one wearable pair. If these new ones fit I may be all smiles and sunshine. It would be sensible to try things on in the shop, but at $4 a pair of trousers, who cares?

So maybe we will all have to wait for a few more years before I actually dress nicely and tidily, and try to look good. Thats if the trousers fit...

Cue Advanced Hair quote

Yesterday I went out to a gig. A Monday night. How thoroughly debauched of me. I felt like a bit of a loser for the first while - I was there on my own and I didn't kno w many (any) people at the bar. But you know, you get through these things, in my case by laughing at the support band. They played a heady blend of hard rock and teen angst. Every song I kept thinking about how I could incorporate:
-My parents don't understand me
-I'm just going to weedleewee rock out with my guitar in my sock smelling bedroom
-Give me some Mountain Dew and Cheesy Poofs
-WOW
Perhaps the ultimate moment was when they broke out the bongo drum and had a tribal break down. It brought back beautiful memories of Billy Idol's immortal hit "Congo Man" which incidentally I must ask a collague, his biggest fan, about.
Things started getting a little more peculiar when patrons (and here is the Advanced Hair reference) Some of them young men kept coming up and talking to me. I suppose they must think I remember them or something. Were they trying to appease me because I knew about their reading habits? It was rather strange.
Luckily by the time the main act was on more acquaintances had turned up and I could feel semi-cool. As cool as you can feel with a strict deadline and work at 8.30 the next morning.

Watch the 2.25! watch the 2.25!

Just goes to show that youtube is promoting discussion of difficult issues, like sexual harrassment.

Whooosh! Lets go back in time:

browninsauce (2 hours ago) I think at 2:25, if you watch left arm, I think she touched his rear end by mistake. He's kinda tall and she's short. I think that's what happened imajobie.

imajobie What happened at 2:25? I keep replaying but i can't tell, which is just making me more curious! Can anyone see?

Say wha?

Furs for Christ?!

I think you will find the poetry particularly rewarding.