mfre.

2010-04-04T19:19:00.000-07:00

so glad for march to be over. what a shitty month.

my opinion is no.

2010-03-17T04:41:00.000-07:00

thailand segment two: KOH PHANG-NGAN

2010-02-28T22:02:00.001-08:00

Thailand adventures cont.! This time with entertaining photo auxillary!

I'll resume where we left off, which was somehwere on Phi Phi island. After we left that tourist trap, we travelled for a gruelling 14-hours by longboat, bus, minibus, ferry and taxi to the party island: Koh Phang-Ngan.

The ferry was interesting. It was a ship that had rows of matresses on the floor, which you would pretty much nab as quickly as possible so that you didn't have to cuddle up next to a snoring Thai family. After a rocky night's sleep...

...5am, we arrive. Now there's a couple of things about Koh Phang-Ngan that we notice immediately that separate it from the rest of Thailand.

Firstly, no middle-aged fat Americans - PLUS! Lots of young people - PLUS! Most of them are wearing fluro tshirts - NEG! The beach is gorgeous - PLUS! There are British girls swimming topless just cause they can - NEG! That and Thai's seemingly love two things: Buddha, and fire. Cos I swear, anything they can set on the fire, THEY'LL FUCKING DO IT. Limbo sticks, hula hoops, skipping ropes. Come one, come all drunk white folk, come burn the shit out of yourselves. Eleanor tries her hand at fire-skipping.

When white folk aren't trying their luck on the rope'o'fire, the locals begineth the fire twirling. You'd think everyone on the island is a part-time fire twirler, cos even their fucking five year old offspring are out on the beach at midnight dousing sticks with gasoline to entertain the hordes of shitfaced 'ferang'.

Second of all, the stray animals. I couldn't help rushing up to and petting everytime I had a chance, some of them appreciative of my whitey love and some.. not so much. In the space of one day a cat bit me on the foot, and I nearly got my hand mauled by a mongrel on a doorstop. However most of the time the animals were friendly and loved a scratch... except for this cunt.

... too good for my pats. Well, whatevs at you monkey.

And thirdly, the BUCKETS. Every corner store, pharmacy, restaurant or clothes shop had a little table setup of buckets out the front. When you walked along the beach, if you even turned your head a fraction of the way in the direction of the bucket stalls they'd start beckoning you with yells. Here is an example of one of the many bucket stalls lining the beach (take note of the 'free kiss' you will recieve from Johhny upon a bucket purchase.)

We ended up buying off "Emma: Fuck My Bucket", cos she looked the cleanest.

Anyway. We had a few days to go until the Half Moon party, so we chilled here for a few days, going to foam parties, jet skiing and general touristy shit.

One notable snorkelling tour we did was the 'Snoop Dogg Boat Trip' (apparently the dudes who ran it were really into the 'Dog). This ensued lots of filthy jokes on the way home as the waves splashed on us like: "Snoop Dogg is making me wet".

Our resident narcoleptic got pretty tired on the boat on the way home, nawww..

We next moved on to another part of the island to this amazing bungalow place that had the most picturesque beach I've been to yet. And the place had air conditioning, which was, given its price, pretty epic.

L'nore indulges in a beer.

Lying on the beach and drinking coconuts, buying our time until the Half Moon party which will be discussed in segment three. Coming soon..

tye

2010-02-14T05:44:00.000-08:00

So.... we've been in Thailand for about 14 or so days now. Brief summaries INITIATE.

Currently, we have docked into Phi Phi Island and it is Valentines Day. Spending it in a twizzle-stick sized restaurant entitled "Garlic 1992". The restaurant got like, fucked up hard by the Boxing Day tsunami, and has all these impressive photos of the building carnage on the wall for us to browse as we eat our pad thai. One of our travelling comrades has befallen to the curse of food poisoning, now making that the third one to spend 18 hours foetul-positioned next to a hostel toilet. Fabulous timez all round. Prior to her E coli misfortunes, earlier today we went snorkelling. The water here really does look like the pictures, inky greens and aquamarines. We saw an enormous striped sea cucumber hanging out on some coral, much to our amusement. A sea cucumber, seriously who penned that term. Someone awesome that's who.

We started off our trip in Chiang Mai up north and then moved on to Bangkok and Phuket. Chiang Mai involved elephants, food poisoning (damn Western food, always a trap - why do we never learn?) and a big trekking trip with literally the palest person I've ever seen in my life. Re: photos on facebook later for physical evidence of her luminescent skin. Our convoy also included some lovely Zimbabwean personal trainers, some DC girls and a German blonde with a hilariously strange accent mix of Californian and Scottish. Trip was swell, our guides ended up getting fucked up on moonshine the first night of our trip, playing awful covers of Hey Jude and all the while we all watched tentatively from the campfire.

Bangkok was blisteringly humid, overflowing to the brim with bargain clothes stores and ladyboys and fast tuk-tuks. However it is NOTHING to the absurbity that is Patong Beach in Phuket. After just leaving that place this morning, I can now say that within 48 hours of being that place I have seen a woman pull turtles, eels and budgies out of her nether regions, actually convincing lady boys and street vendors throwing iguanas onto tourists shoulders trying to get money for a photo. Slowly crisping myself and aim to return to Australia with a killa' tan, something akin to ... Tilda Swinton. Yeah.

I've read the only two novels I brought with me for the trip within the first two days of my trip, so now I've taken to stealing books from hostels as I go. My most recent thieving accomplishment was called "Heat," however, which has spent three chapters divulging boring information about Washington State weather (I kid you not, three chapters on that shit), so might buy a Kindle or something, or write more blogs.

I began to write a poem on our boat ride back from Maya beach to the mainland as the sun was setting, but then my friend started vomiting via food poisoning and the tone changed:

Thai sea, like big ink blots diluting through mirrors
A passenger falling in love with the dusky sky,
A passenger vomiting off the side.

ABUJA

how to avoid religious doorknockers

2010-01-21T21:07:00.000-08:00

Friday, 3:34pm, sitting upstairs on the laptop.

[intercom rings]

[picks up intercom phone]

Miranda: hello?
Dude: Oh hello, I'm from the blah blah blah church was just wondering if I could come in and talk to you about the Burnside Christian Ministery.

[oh, superb. Time to feign LANGUAGE BARRIER!!]

Miranda: .....What?
Dude: Just wondering if I could come in and talk you about the Christian Ministry
Miranda: .....What?
Dude: Just wondering if I could...
Miranda: .....What?
Dude: ... could I leave a leaflet and a letter in your mailbox?
Miranda: .....What?
Dude: .... [footsteps walk away]

You'll get no donation from me, all my shrapnel is going towards a cherry ripe when I go to the IGA once I know you're far away from my front gate. Fkn.

obscure songs to play during your Wedding March/Funeral

2010-01-14T18:52:00.001-08:00

1. Tetris Theme Song

2. 'Popcorn' by Hot Butter

3. 'I wanna be a hippie' by Technohead

4. 'Lion on the Floor' by YTMND

5.'Turkish March - W. A. Mozart (Distractive Remix)' by Alla Turca

6. 'The Final Countdown' - Europe

avatar

2009-12-21T23:03:00.000-08:00

This is one of the most unbelievable films I've ever seen - James Cameron's Avatar.

And given I'm still trying to erase from memory the 'New Moon' I downloaded the other day, it's a good thing my brain has been renourished with some filming excellency such as this. Not only was it visually stunning, not to mention hugely costly given that it had been filmed with three-dimensional fitted cameras, and the mindblowing CGI, I won't hear a word on the plot being 'predictable' and 'rubbish'.

It was supposed to be G-rated, which I think lots of people are forgetting. Or perhaps their expectations were too high given James Cameron's back catalogue of works. Personally, I found no problem with the romantic subplots or the happy ending, given that when I watched it in 3D there were an entire row of 7-year-old kids sitting next to me. I don't think an ending of Na'Vi slaughetering and the humans succeeding in destroying Pandora would be a) a terribly good message to send out to the future generations and b) much of a 'family film' viewing content.

I found the plot was hugely relevant in its anti-coloniasm and bringing to light the importance of nature and existing on a planet in an environmentally friendly way. How many films can leave its audience with a converse outcome and make you side with the aliens rather than the humans? Not to mention the idea of the Na'Vi being genetically modified to be able to tap energy from their surroundings through their bodies, rather than relying on machinery like humans do.

Godamm, I was impressed by this movie..... if you haven't seen it in the cinemas, I suggest you do so right away so you too can walk away gaping in awe. So awesome!

2009-12-20T00:20:00.000-08:00

Clearing out 'ma iPod.

Let's just say I'm never going to make the woeful mistake of buying an iPod off ebay ever again. Six months later I'm still trawling through my iTunes deleting sonic shittery like:

Korn, Klubbheads, Garbage, Limp BiSkit (sic), P.O.D. (um, they released an entire album? seriously?), Pigface, The Porkers, Rancid, and, jesus fuck Rogue Traders, plus an abundance of random emo/ska bands. Not to mention the 350mb of porn I found in the video section when the thing first got mailed to me...

Oh Internet, thou hast scorned me.

american apparel

2009-12-15T04:38:00.001-08:00

Soooo. Whilst doing a little online shopping I came across an extroadinary revelation about American Apparel.

There's a reason why this shit is so popular, and it all boils down to their ever so clever marketing scheme. It's basically, like, softcore porn. They have these chicks with tousled hair and Erkle glasses, perched in a pair of undies rearing their backs in the air with a pair of "designer" socks thrown on to render it a "fashion advertisement". I knew there was a reason I try to hide my newly-acquired Vice when I got on the bus - so the old nanna's sitting down wouldn't be shocked into heart palpitatin' by the slutty American Apparel imagery on the back of its cover.

So, like, you'd think putting a chick with her outer labia basically hanging out of a satin bikini on a magazine cover is un peu risque - until you check out the WEBSITE.

Holy shit!!!

Holy shit!!!

Holy shit!!!

I came on here to get some socks, American Apparel, and you've left me feeling dirty. Dirty, and ashamed. With some killer feetwear!

I

2009-12-07T22:33:00.000-08:00

Just to kill some time before I go to a staff meeting at the Ed Castle. Yes, I've reduced myself to the mouldy, pubic hair stuck in the grates of the hospitality plughole and submitted myself to the position of glassy. Ah well, at least there's no grease trap cleaning involved plus the ever wonderful promise of hella ca$h.

But until hella ca$h arrives, my poor jeans, which have two rips that seem to grow bigger with each wear, will have to last out. Which means borderline ass for street-strollers behind me.

Now behold THIS... endless entertainment for any English student / geek: Scribblenauts. God fucking damn I love this game.

So that's about all...now it's time to intervene with the stereo downstairs. Mum is cranking the Christmas Carols already. It's the 8th of December. I've got three more weeks of this 20th-century-modern-"hip"-tale of Rudolph the Rednosed reindeer shit.

g.v.m

2009-11-27T18:28:00.000-08:00

Erm, so I've come to the conclusion over years of speculation that the garden variety pub-crawling Australian male is a real bonehead.

This theory stems from five years of moshpit endurance - (by that I mean enduring the varying specimens of Coopers-guzzling, Southern Cross tattooed and sunburnt horrors that feel the need to squeeze my ass cheek while I'm watching a band).

Last night there were two occasions where I had the misfortune of sitting/standing infront of an asshole of a human being.

Asshole 1: Girl at MAPS UniSA media students screening at Mercury Cinema
Some Uni student 3-minute film showcase thingydoo. I end up sitting in front of some ceaselessly irritating bitch who giggles the entire time - even through a 3-minute documentary about Aspergers Syndrome when an autistic dude on the screen talks about not being able to get a job. Giggle giggle giggle. Oh yeah, real funny, his mental impairment can only get him a shitty job as a cleaner. Laugh it up. You asshole.

After I prise myself off the chairs at the Mercury cinema after a long three hours of wine and listening to chuckling behind me, we venture on to our next point of interest for the night. W'ere off to Jive to see Jeff Martin, former frontman of the Tea Party, which, for the record, was amazing. But which also brings me to....

Asshole 2: Man at Jeff Martin at Jive

Jeff Martin pulled out an entire show-and-tell of Arabic and Eastern instruments, including an Ud he won in a game of Poker in Egypt, played Led Zeppelin covers, had an unbuttoned shirt, said he'd met Keith Richards, rocked out hard - oh was it tacky... but the man's guitar skills and vocals were incomparable to anything I've ever seen and I loooveeeddd eeet.

Except for this fucker behind me, who was consistently belching behind my head a putrid combination of beer and yiros breath, yelling: "WE'RE NOT IN EGYPT BUDDY". (turns to friend) "WHO IS THIS GUY?" "HEY MR MARTIN WHY DONT YOU PLAY SOME REAL MUSIC".

Raaaaaggggeeee. Why the hell did you pay $50 to come to this gig? Why are you here ruining it for the rest of us in a small venue? Did you mistake Jive for the Rosemont? Thankfully he scuttled off three songs into it, probably down to Pizza Rev to get a slice of Margherita and a slice of 13-year-old Rohypnol'd ass.

End rant.

purchase

2009-11-23T22:58:00.000-08:00

Today Peter and I went into Shin Tokyo. This was basically like taking a crack addict into a cave full of pile upon pile of pure South American cocaine. After fifteen minutes of glancing longingly at all the plushies and Death Note DVDs I finally prised myself away from the cabinets... with THIS amazing new addition.

Can I get a mmmhmm.

still run

2009-10-21T20:38:00.000-07:00

This is so awesome.

Uni toilings

2009-10-19T04:11:00.000-07:00

Snippets from my uni project (a three-minute film for Media) that is sapping away my social life. Even though the degree attracts some tutors that just absolutely crap on for an hour most of our assessment comes from making a movie, yow. Beats an essay any day. Origami and fishing wire and oh my!

splinter

2009-10-19T04:03:00.000-07:00

photos taken from Anna Horne's studio space at TwinBEE. click here!

PARKLIFE take II

2009-10-08T23:07:00.001-07:00

Just like last year, my review and then... this version.

It’s festival season again, and what better way to kick it off with an early Spring frolic in the parklands for the Fuzzy dance-monster Parklife. With some futile attempt to go with our friends as an Earth, Wind, Fire and Water theme, I end wearing some some black, feathered, tulled and pocked tutu to the festival. Squeeeee!

Eleanor is dressed as a whore. As usual.

With a weather forecast of 18 degrees and the sun beating down on Monday afternoon, from midday a crowd of 13,000 were lining up at the gates. Security was tighter this year, with punters greeted not only with the boom of the music stages beyond but a spot-check by police officers and sniffer dogs. Before anyone had even entered the festival drug dealers could be seen fleeing across the lawns from a team of cops. Before I'd even reached the gates my phone was bombared with texts warning me not to get busted. All under control friends, all under control - this is what BRAS are for.

In the gates now, so let’s begin with boo to you, La Roux. Punters soon discovered, to their disappointment, that the British dance duo would not be playing due to Elly Jackson suffering a case of tonsilitus. That's what you get for putting an inflammation-prone ranga as the headliner.

Second boo of the day – the bar. I don’t think I need to delve into much explanation as to why 5.0% alcohol Smirnoff Blacks being sold at $11.50 a piece is a joke. No drink tokens though, thank fucking god.

Those two cons aside, Parklife was looking better than ever this year. There was a ripple of excitement in the air, perhaps this was induced by paranoia of the sniffer dogs wandering around, or perhaps it was the first hint of that warm October sun. Regardless, we were pumped to get out dancing shoes on.

The festival had expanded this year, with the addition of a giant white tent for the main Water Stage standing out as an impressive new feature. But the crowds were still the same, with fleets of cut-off denim shorts and citrus-coloured legs striding past every five minutes. I struggled to differentiate 90% of the crowd from each other as they were all wearing the same shit, par Johnny the hula-hooping dude who was adorned in a lovely white leotard and tied-up flanny.

We head to the bar...

Three hours later... we're ready to have a choice time.

We arrive to find independent Australian vocalist Bertie Blackman setting up for her Sneaker set. With the cloud cover disappearing and the sun coming out, the crowd was in the perfect mood for the Sydney-based songstress’ indie pop. Having spent hours loitering in the bar, it was no surprise that the moshpit danced up a storm to the tribal drum beats of highly rotated JJJ song Hearts. Ending her set with a cover of Phil Collin’s In The Air Tonight, a quick bustle to the Water Stage was made to catch the start of London popette Little Boots.

Upon arriving we found the music of Little Boots a little single-layered, so we toss up and went to check out French act Busy P instead. Playing a great selection of electro, after a quick frolic we check our watches – 4:40pm. It’s time for Lady Sovereign.

... but before that another detour to the bar. Eleanor's friends join in and initiate a gang rape on the lawns. We spectate and drink.

Given her recent attention in Australian press (http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2009/09/26/2697313.htm), the next act of the day was highly anticipated – the London badass rapper Lady Sovereign. Brisbane bouncers may not have taken too fondly to her guttermouth and hip-hop attitude, but seemingly there’s nothing Adelaide loves more than a pink-haired chav with a microphone.

Busting our rhymes in a combination of cockney dialect and pack-a-day smokers husk in I Got You Dancing and Love Me and Hate Me, she was feisty as hell, each interval between songs ridden with swear words : “You’ve got so many dangerous animals ‘ere!” she announced. “Foocking spiders and that, screw that shit!” Closing her set for the afternoon, her version of The Cure’s Close To Me, So Human, erupted a mass singalong from girls in the crowd of; “I’m still human yeah yeah yeah, it’s okay yeah yeah yeah.”

As dusk started to creep in, hundreds of punters gathered at the Air stage for Ontario duo Crystal Castles. Within moments of the pair taking to the stage, the sound of that erratic, 8-bit lo-fi synth with a drone of distortion filled the air. To the masses of pilled up ravers below, frontwoman Alice Glass conjured a frightening image: a gaunt-looking girl in an oversized shirt, black kohl smeared around her eyes, standing rigid on stage twitching her head in catatonic intervals. To the rest of us, her kookiness translated into a mesmerizing stage presence. JJJ circulated track Crimewave was met with a cheer of familiarity, whereas Glass’ screamo vocals in Alice Practice induced many a headbash across the field.

Their sound was impeccably crisp, an even balance achieved by Ethan Kath between fuzzy and clean melodies, but I must say I’m not sure an open stage during daylight particularly suited them. Crystal Castles is a band with a reputation for stage chaos – the kind of group you envision seeing somewhere in a basement full of lasers with Alice Glass rocking out so hard her eyeballs roll into the back of her head. I was disappointed along with others that they’d been allocated an outdoor stage with no visual aids, as though the show was jawdropping I felt they’d been ripped off.

It's then time for Metric. On our way over, Sally gets into conversation with some cops about a parking fine she was given a month ago. I am extremely drunk by this point and start freaking out. "SALLY... C-COME BACK.."

The temperature quickly cooled as the sun went down, but not cool enough for Canadian skin, apparently. While everybody else had donned a jumper or two and surged into the mosh for bodyheat, frontwoman Emily Haines was clearly unphased by the chilly air as she skipped around the stage in a black, glittery minidress for Metric’s set . I overhear someone behind me say "I'm not a lesbian but I would fuck that." The feeling is mutual, friend. Opening with Monster Hospital from their previous LP Live It Out, she continued to work her way through most of 2009 success Fantasies.

Rotating from behind her keyboard to crouching at the front saluting fans at the barrier, Metric were by far a standout. After a day of having electronic music pounding into our ears from iBooks, Metric were wonderfully authentic with their four-piece band. Tucked away in the corner of Botanic park at the Fire Stage, the band was in clear view from all angles and had drawn a great crowd of people who didn’t have their pupils dilating out of their skulls. The meaty guitar riffs and upbeat drums in Sick Muse elicited a powerful crowd response, but what everybody was really hanging out for was Help I’m Alive, which rest assured they kept till last. Upon hearing those opening echoey clangs, limbs and heads began to fly in all directions. As the song finished, however, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sad as the majority of the crowd lumbered off in the direction of Empire of the Sun, missing the final song Stadium Love.

Ah yes, night hadset in and everybody was now crammed underneath the big top waiting in anticipation for Empire of the Sun, arguably one of 2008’s most successful dance acts. Unsurprisingly Nick Littlemore was absent, keeping in theme with the rest of the Parklife festivals one would assume. Needless to say his presence was not required, as Luke Steele was, and is, an enigma on the stage. Here you had a man virtually performing as a one-man show, wearing a feather headdress with the circumference of a small child, singing and playing lead guitar all at once. Though the set was largely electro, Steele still managed to throw a little of his Sleepy Jackson roots in there with the odd guitar solo on his white Fender Stratocaster.

The set included calisthenics dancers wearing swordfish masks, fibre optic headwear, black flower bodysuits and performing slow-mo stage fighting is, and needless to say I was peaking like a motherbitch at this point. Steele’s execution of the EOTS sun was fairly flawless and the man probably could have saved a chunk of change by cutting the budget of the costume department. It was one radio hit after the next, We Are The People and Standing on the Shore making the giant crowd bustle and hustle, with the dirty squelches of Swordfish Hotkiss Night being a highlight. But it was the finale of Walking On A Dream, Luke Steele donning the trademark teal suit and gold crown, that made the tent boom with one big universal: “Is it REEEAAAALLLLLL NOW WHEN TWO PEEEEOPLE BECOME ONE…”

Our mouths still gaping, next was award-winning DJ extraordinaire A-Trak. I watch a total of one song before I start hallucinating that there are ripples on the ground, remember I have a uni assingment the next day and blindly decide to catch the bus home.
Five hours later I was still awake and absolutely entranced by KungFu Panda on TV. "It's such amazing graphics"....

til next year.

tastiest candle ever

2009-10-04T02:58:00.000-07:00

feast of kings

2009-09-28T08:26:00.002-07:00

When five birds get together at BBQ City, culinary carnage ensues...

yipyip

2009-09-28T08:07:00.000-07:00

Wow, so someone boldy nominated themselves to put my keyboarded verbal diorrhea into the glossy pages of a magazine. Look in Merge each month for more episodes of Miranda and friends drunken debauchery!

twoilight

2009-09-22T06:59:00.000-07:00

11:14pmMiranda

aaaahhhaha... (forced laugh)

god the twilight books are really fucking terrible.

eleanor borrowed the set and i started reading one

11:15pmAngus

Are you reading one

11:15pmAngus

ew, drinking liquid LOL and reading twilight

what's next?

rave pants??

11:15pmMiranda

the only reason why its addictive is because horny, acned 15 year olds clutch on for the kissing scenes

5 pages of rubbish then ...

edward lightly touched her temple with a frozen fingertiop

vomit.

11:17pmAngus

They rub their pus filled sores onto the pages

11:23pmAngus

Edward lightly touched her forehead with a frozen paddle pop

11:24pmMiranda

HAh

hahaha

11:25pmAngus

I'm going to rewrite Twilight with copious amounts of product placement

in the place of previous metaphors

Streets will sponsor me

11:27pmMiranda

paddlepop every 5th word

11:28pmAngus

Edward paddlepop with paddlepop her

11:28pmMiranda

oh edward, she whispered, stroking his paddlepop

gazing into her paddlepops, he gently stroked her paddlepop

we're going to have a golden gaytime, my love... he smouldered

11:29pm Angus

He Magnum Ego'd her Callipo Splice with his Cornetto

his Cornetto

11:31pmMiranda

emphasis on Cornetto.

getting filthier by the minute. it's all there between the lines anyway, just marred by digression into sparkly vampire skin

11:33Angus

Vampire skin is the magic coat that makes everything alright

The holocaust was ok because Hitler was a Vampire!!

11:36pmMiranda

hahaha.

then hed still be alive..

11:38pmAngus

No mussolini killed him with garlic

11:38pmMiranda

Maybe he just sold him to Zamels.

words that i like

2009-09-22T06:50:00.000-07:00

lozenge, pixel, gnarled, capsule, axylotyl, sprite, padded, vermillion, quill, jezebel, aubergine, spectre

drunken slurring and blurring

2009-09-21T02:10:00.001-07:00

XXI

2009-09-20T23:39:00.000-07:00

I have officially hit that milestone age of twenty-one.

Now I can purchase alcoholic beverages in the states and gamble. I can also legally become a prostitute, buy a gun, get married in Mississippi, purchase fireworks, open a bank account in South America and vote in some other countries.

However, twenty one years of living and thousands spent on bus tickets, I can still proudly say I don't have my my drivers license....

Maybe by my 30th I'll have my L plates. Maybe. For now, the ol' public transport will have to cart my slackass around town.

This is what I wore on the weekend for our party. Pedobear in the hizzouse.

kayne west acts stupidly. again.

2009-09-14T05:29:00.000-07:00

make your band more web-friendly

2009-08-22T09:38:00.001-07:00

Recently all of my food money went towards a new laptop. I am now living in the depths of poverty-stricken squalor, but on a brighter note I have a shiny new keyboard. Which has provoked the following list...

Impossible band names that lead to equally as impossible /band URL's on MySpace

DANANANANAYKROYD
That was... how many nananana's now? Chrome Rainbow is a sweet song though and worth the extra finger movement.

SIGUR ROS
Those little Icelandic dots eeeek.

MIDNIGHT JUGGERNAUTS
Vomit. The name and the band.

...AND YOU WILL KNOW US BY THE TRAIL OF THE DEAD
Alright, admittedly they changed it to Trail of the Dead, but those full stops weren't great when trying to categorise your iTunes..

DOES IT OFFEND YOU, YEAH?
Grammar confoozledness.

THE THE
Singlehandedly most used word on the Net with "sex" coming a close second.

If only every band was called "The Music". Wait, no I totally take that back.

splendour

2009-08-21T04:13:00.000-07:00

July

2009-08-04T01:16:00.000-07:00

scan

2009-08-03T23:44:00.000-07:00

shwahfhnfdsj

2009-08-03T23:12:00.000-07:00

I'm recently feeling disheartened by Triple J. Namely because of the employment of one Scott Dooley and his sidekick Steph Hughes. God, sorry but you both just fucking suck. And are stupid too.. I tune in and you're talking about farts for a whole five minutes. Then tampons. Just fuck off, you are insulting my intelligence and if I have to hear that "Givealittlelovin" or whatsit by Gotye one more time I'm going to lose my shit.

Dools: "We're doing a bit of talkback today... Wait, what are we talking about?"
Steph: "....(pause)... when have you.. er, cracked the shits!"

Oh, profound.

Uni timetable impending credit transfer DEATH.

For some reason my room smells like freshly mowed grass. I have no explanation for this.

earthquake weather

2009-07-23T02:24:00.000-07:00

I push I pull the days go slow into a void we filled with death
And noise that laughs falls off their maps
All cured of pain and doubts in your little brain

How to Live as a Pseudo-Renter: part 1

2009-07-04T03:36:00.000-07:00

Of late I've been living a life of which can only be surmised as "pseudo-renter".

It's a status that has left me stumped in conversations when asked about my living arrangements, and has slowly but surely turned me into the girl lugging three Green bags worth of shit through Rundle Mall trying to send a text message.

Example; "Miranda, want to go get Raj on Taj?" "Why yes, yes I do. In fact, I live just around the cor.. well, I don't actually live there, but I kind of do, but I'm sleeping there and paying a bit of rent, but not much.. but I still live at home, and..." And so on.

GUIDE TO BEING A PSEUDO-RENTER

Ingredients
1 bedroom in expensive Burnside, mortgage-free, parental house to hold all 'yer loot
1 partner living out of home (male/female variety) **
3-5 Green bags (Woolworthes pref, as most durable and w. longer straps) to carry all your shit
1 job in the hospitality industry, for free Turkish Bread to take home to your hungry housemates
A thirst for washing the dishes
1 laptop (or, alternatively, use partner's while out of house.)
5 multitrips
1 iPod
30+ pairs underwear

Method
So you've got yourself set for the "move". This is how it works. You and your new interest have started sleepovers. You're staying there a little bit more each week, until you're in full bore housemate mode. You're part of the furniture. Another shadow on the wall. Another hair in the plug hole. That is until the other housemates start to notice. Namely, the food shelf is looking a bit sad with an extra stomach to feed.

So, what do we do? Simple. (This is where ingredient #4 comes exceptionally handy) Make sure you get the closing shifts at your cafe job and, taking one of your Woolworth's green bags, load those babies up with all kinds of bready delights at the end of the day.

Take this Pavlova, for example. Looks expensive, right?

WRONG.

This pavlova was created entirely from donated egg whites from work and old sugar found in a jar. A perfect example of how a combination of poverty and a cafe job can really whip up (ho ho!) a storm. Once everyone in the house is nourished, it makes for merry times.

And there you have phase 1 of seguing into an out-of-homer's life. You just gotta ease the move sloooowly, like a water birth. Or like putting honey in your tea. Or something.

WARNING
Living with new Gen Y tenants Is going to make you VERY VERY DRUNK ALL THE TIME YES ALL THE TIME DRUNK ALL THE TIME. Prepare your livers, cadets.

**This is a most crucial ingredient. Without the element of a relationship in there, your pseudo-rental proposition to housemates might not go down so well. A new squeeze to have your back is preferable, as they will be most supportive of you being in their bed most of the time. 'Knah what I'm saying.

21sap

2009-06-18T01:27:00.001-07:00

the cons(or pro's) of buying a second-hand iPod

2009-06-05T00:11:00.000-07:00

I think this may be the best eBay purchase I've ever made.

Let's just see a close-up...

adelaide crowds: the ultimate bitch...

2009-05-19T03:34:00.000-07:00

If you’ve been in tune with Modular’s latest exports in the past 12 months, if you’re familiar with the dance anthem “My People”, hell, if you’ve got a pair of ears, you’ve heard of The Presets.

Apparently, Adelaide hasn't.

Still brushing the storming success of 2008’s sophomore LP Apocalypso off their shoulders, duo Julian Hamilton and Kim Moyes have no plans to stop there. With an ARIA and a J Award both for Best Album of the Year under their belts, the Presets have proved to be a beam of light it what has otherwise been a music industry dip. The K-Rudd stimulus package of music.

They're touring at the moment, playing at Thebbie last Friday night. And all I have to say is WTF. Although a craftsman should never blame his tools, it must be said the crowd was fucking awful. Granted, the Friday show was a sponteanous addition due to Saturday night’s ticket allocation exhaustion, but really – with a dishonourable nod to Live at the Zoo crowds included this was terrible. And that's a BIG call. Just look at the cretins that rocked up to Monarto...

Live at the Zoo. Speaking for itself.

So I can only assume their doting fans were saving themselves for the next night. Or everyone was way too dosed up on crystal meth. Or they all had their periods...

But something, SOMETHING was up, as the entire night there were only about 20 people really getting into it. I'm talking this: standing still, lightly bobbing head, folding arms, oh should we.. should we bounce a bit? Oh - chorus! Okay, lets raise our fists! Okay let's not, too much dance gusto. I'll just jump around 4 times. That should do it. Eep verse, time to stand and look interested again. Jesus. I mean, these guys are one of the biggest bands in Australia. They heralded their entry to the stage with smoke machines and a backdrop of rectangle neon lights. At least dance a bit more to show your apprecation. I don't even like them that much, but I danced like hell anyway. This may or may not have had to do with some chemical influence I had taken 30 minutes earlier.

After manoeuvring my way through the mosh to varying locations – the front of the stage, the sides and the back - I found little difference no matter where I stood. The situation was as such: you stood still like the rest of the lemmings and had a shit time. Or you danced. I chose the latter, and was soon met with a hearty shove in the back by a guy trying to protect his girlfriend from my ‘violent’, apparently, dancing. Biggest "GTFO" moment of my life. Because I was high on drugs and sweaty and because my hair is notoriously annoying in mosh pits (long and wavy), I kept on dancing into him anyway. Take that fucker!

One of the Presets punters. I think the girl on the left ate the good times.

As they worked their way through Apocalypso the tense conditions slightly improved, with tracks like Are You The One? and new single release If I Know You receiving great crowd response. For a while. As the gig progressed, the look of disappointment on Preset’s faces was deplorable. And I can’t say that I blame them. Even a brilliant finale ofMy People did little but make a handful of people quiver during the chorus. At this point I thought "Fuck this," got up on my mate's shoulders and had a borderline epileptic fit while thrusting my fists in Julian's direction. Took one for the team.

Scroll to the 1:40 mark, and note the audience not moving at all http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c13AVbsUzqc

As a South Australian music writer I'm all about getting gigs in our home town. But seriously, Live at the Zoo and then this embarrassment. Come the fuck on. Stop bitching about bands never playing here if you guys aren't even going to throw down your guard and dance a little bit.

Adelaide once again stayed true to its “city of folded arms” reputation. Bad form. My solution is MOAR BEERZ.

I can has moshpit?

checkitout

2009-05-15T21:04:00.000-07:00

snaps

2009-05-06T04:48:00.000-07:00

my life just got reallll fuckin' busy.

ipconfig

2009-05-04T07:10:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has been to our house before will know that we have a few computers lying about the place hooked up to the net. So rather than yelling across the hall to make Eleanor get me a snack, a Facebook message will usually suffice. Pretty much a domestic communication WIN.

mongalong_x@hotmail.com says:
all im left with is some flavourless shit with 3 year old corn called "italian minestrone"

mongalong_x@hotmail.com says:
h8 u

lehnorus@hotmail.com says:
hahahahaahahhahahahaha

lehnorus@hotmail.com says:
are you fucking eating that

mongalong_x@hotmail.com says:
yes you cunthole

mongalong_x@hotmail.com says:
go back to your room and keep away frm my soup

lehnorus@hotmail.com says:
hahahshd

lehnorus@hotmail.com says:
my soup

mongalong_x@hotmail.com says:
i really misjudged my aim while putting it in the mug. there is powdered italian all over my shirt

Oh I love being Gen Y.

afp

2009-04-27T22:34:00.000-07:00

At last, a musician who really blogs! Just a wee bit in love with her >> http://blog.amandapalmer.net/

So sick of being sick. Feels like brain is coated with mucus and can't think properly. On another note two shifts off work allowed me to finish Ocarina of Time. Take that Ganondorf! At the risk of running into some fucked paheal images on Google, here is the badass..

http://encyclopediadramatica.com/Legend_of_Zelda
"Great Deku Tree - The Great Deku Tree has been keeping a big secret from all the little faeries in Kokiri. It has been revealed that the Great Deku Tree is actually Pedobear in disguise. It is a well known secret that teh Great Deku Tree lied about the curse just so it can has Link all for himself."

Tomorrow I hit the streets to interview buskers for a new piece I'm doing for Merge magazine. I think I'll need to be drunk. Mmmm, avo and toast noms.

Normally I am an elusive Facebook-er. I do not add those I do not know. But upon stumbling across John Birmingham's profile last year, aka the author of "He Died With a Felafel in His Hand," a book that changed my writing style forevermore, my mouse cursor immediately went to add him. So the other night, guess who crops up in my Facebook chat. What the hell.

Enter Miranda fangirl mode.

M: "Hi, I just wanted to say that you've been very influential to me as a writer for the past four years and I loved your book."
J: "Thanks!"

J then dashed off to attend to a bed-wetting infant, murmering slurs of Napisan and late nights. Next day I get a friendly e-mail informing me that a complete bed change at 3.44 was the go. Regardless that the context was about weak badder control, totally fucking chuffed. I love him. Read his blog via the link to your left and up a bit --->

All these amazing writers popping up in my circuit has made we want to go to this in Syd-er-nee: http://www.swf.org.au/. Someone come with and we'll party.

CC

2009-04-21T01:03:00.000-07:00

The first time I saw Melbourne’s Children Collide live in the flesh, singer Johnny McKay worked up such a flurry in the mosh that he had to beg not to have unruly punters kicked out. So to the surprise of no-one, when they returned to play at Rocket Bar on Thursday night it happened again.

CLICK!

In Adelaide for their Farewell Rocketship Tour, the moment the Eastern rockers struck the first guitar chord the crowd catapulted forwards like a pushing, heaving, feet-flying, sweaty animal. And Rocket Bar is not a big venue to accommodate such frivolity. Two songs into it, McKay was already playing Surrogate Gig Mother. “Please, just calm down everyone and we’ll all be cool,” he asked.

It’s not hard to see why this trio have been leaving head casualties around the country. With the success of debut LP “The Long Now” last year, they’ve caused quite a rumble on the likes of JJJ and Rage, not to mention being the most hotly-anticipated act last month at Adelaide Uni O'Ball.

Earlier in the night we had Syndey support act Regular John. How to describe. Well, they looked nothing short than a bunch of skeletons that had survived puberty on a strict diet of Nirvana. As such, it was a surprise when they begot a tight set of guitar fringed with a metal touch. It sounded sort of like a love child between Kasabian and Guns and Roses. Though I spent the majority of the show envisioning force-feeding them cheesecake, a highly impressive set overall.

At 10.43 (How's that for fuckin' precise!) we had Children Collide. Opening with “Social Currency”, the lads worked their way through LP The Long Now with highlights being tracks like “Farewell Rocketship” and “Skeleton Dance”. Bringing forth meaty rock riffs peppered with violent guitar swings, these guys don't perspire sweat - only pure RAWK. You have to give it to them, no matter the crowd size or venue, high energy levels are never absent in a CC show.

These were the kind of people we had in the crowd tonight. “Play 'Across the Earth'!” a punter, obviously drunk, yelled two songs after it had already been played. "We're not doing it again mate!" McKay retorted. Much lolz.

As the gig got progressively more hectic, things were only made worse when the bouncer tried to interject. Obviously nobody told him that standing on stage, blocking view of the band, is a very bad idea. "Fuck off De Niro!” became a commonplace phrase from the punters behind me, as they then hurtled it at the bouncer every song break. If these guys weren’t insufferable enough, next up was radio personality “Fitzy.” I don't think I need to indulge into much detail to convince you how utterly shit he is..

...period.

But I will share his 'rock star antics' all the same. Supposedly, Big Brother and a slot in breakfast radio allows you to behave like this: to throw ice at the security guards and prop yourself up like a footy player on my friend. After finally hitting one with an inch of an ice fragment, he roared in triumph and scanned the room with a huge smile for an applause. He received none. Aside from a justly hissed request to "go fuck himself" from Evon. And back to his little NOVA 919 cave he went. Which he should never leave again.

The set finished with favourite “Chosen Armies”, in which McKay sang into his guitar creating an eerie vocal feedback like a 21st century Jimi Hendrix. A fantastic gig, with five-star gusto from the band as always. And a relief in the end to escape the overwhelming testosterone.

I look forward to seeing the carnage Children Collide create next time they perform.

And seriously, if I see Fitzy at another gig I'm going to bottle him in the fucking face hollering 'YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN EVICTED IN THE FIRST WEEK' over and over... I mean, ahem.

pores

2009-04-19T07:51:00.000-07:00

0apr:

Burnt schnitzel. Dexter. Smoking Dunhill's out of my bedroom window without the fly screen. 30 mosquitos now inside. Ashing into the gutter and the leaf litter catches on fire. Temporary panic - put it out with leftover goon found under my bed. Splash cheap wine on the dog. Basil confused and now smelling like a 15 year old emo. An unattainable boy.

eventful photos from an uneventful weekend.

Are you ready to Wark?

2009-04-13T21:19:00.001-07:00

Live at the Zoo. You've all heard the horror stories. Alleged gang-rapes, clogged toilets, 8 overdoses, band cancellations and asthma attacks from the dust. Everything that could have gone wrong went wrong. This festival has either ruined Adelaide forever, or made it.

Behold: an insider's perspective.

There was much pre-anticipated failure. The event hadn't exactly kicked off - minimal tickets were sold and hired staff were getting agitated. And what about pegging a tent into a barren desert? Running water? Band timetables?

As the Easter weekend dawned closer, ticket holders were feeling impending doom. Except for us. Hell, if we can survive being homeless in Argentina for two days, we can survive this!

Stocked eski? Check. Hidden liquor under the spare tire? Check. Rehearsed "I'm VIP, how dare you search my car" expressions? Check. With iron fists and fearless hearts, on Saturday morn we tore up the freeway to face the carnage.

Hit 2pm: We arrive to "The Dust Bowl".

It was then time to negotiate our tent. Ten minutes into it, we're struggling to keep our strong demeanors about us. Pegging a 5-man canvas to dust and rocks is fucking difficult. Not to mention the people we have had the misfortune to set up next to: a group of dirt-ridden scum sitting on dusty, half-broken deck chairs yelling "PARALOWIE REPRESENT" and "SAVE THE WHALES". It's not hard to see who the latter quote was targeted at.

I am soon turned upon due to my pink shades.

"Hey pink glasses, do youse have a boyfriend? He wants to know," one of the dust ladettes asks me, pointing to a filthy cretin behind her flashing me a three-toothed smile. I soon decide these people should have been aborted at birth.

Hit 3pm: our tent is finally erected. But not our spirits - It's vodka o'clock.

None of us have got a timetable, so we decide to check out the elusive VIP tent that apparently offers free food and beverages. We later discovered this "free food" to be vat coleslaw and three-day-old sliced beef. Salmonella risks aside, having a four-walled area to escape from airborne dirt was luxury.

While in the Media tent, I am approached by a PA assistant who asks me when I will be ready for interviews. I am puzzled, as I am far too drunk to construct intelligent conversation. I reply with a slur of "Hhsmmm... I forgot my gear." Another success story for work evasion!

Sean makes the mistake of asking me to spray him "just a bit" with a water pistol. To me this translates as "cumshot the shit out of me"

Outside of the VIP tent, pupils are dilating on a mass scale. The dust is getting worse. And this is when we meet Captain Feathersword... you should have seen his teeth.

The whole shambles of the festival is starting to become apparent by now. The staff behind the bar have no idea what to do when we show our VIP passes. In fact, they aren't even sure where the VIP tent is. To resolve the matter they throw a bunch of food and alcohol tokens in our direction. Yep, we'll take that.

Post-beer coupons:

As the sun begins to sink into the horizon, we return to the tent for more drinks. Our bag of grapes becomes acquainted with Vodka and generic-brand Cola. A "Live at the Zoo" martini.

Here we are checking out Muph & Plutonic. Or Muff and Vaginatonic'' according to Sean, who is strongly opposed to Aussie hip-hop. Unsurprisingly, given the demographic of the Live at the Zoo largely originate from Adelaide's northern suburbs, M&P draw one of the biggest crowds for the night. Lots of "get the fuck ups" ensued.

The next few hours of the night are a spectacular blur.

It involves: Me, Kat, Van She Tech and the Lost Valentinos behind the decks. Guys in lycra animal print suits. Our ravished selves dancing like ravers on the stage for 2 hours. Getting the sound guy up with us. Cigs. Chris Brown is dead. Too many Bacardi & Orange cans.

And it's no surprise to anyone that I barely remember any of this.

We finally tear ourselves away from the dj tent and learn that Cut Copy has been cancelled. Apparently the "barrier" (which was a shitty parade gate they use on Anzac Day) got pushed over and 2000 punters surged backstage. Or something.

The Cutters have left the building, and the pillheads are left dazed and confused. The night ends cramped in a band van heading back down to Adelaide with a Korg synth on my lap and a bunch of crazed, drunk musicians quoting Al Pacino movies. No se cuando, no se donde.

DAY TWO: We arrive back in the desert. All the tents are covered in even MORE dust. The toilets have completely ceased to flush. There is rubbish everywhere. I had a rummage through our eski and find no less than one roll of toilet paper, a pair of sunglasses, a half-eaten watermelon, 1/4 of a bottle of vodka and two kilograms of red dust.

I'm feeling pretty grateful that I had access to a shower this morning, as our tent buddies didn't have the same luxury. Yes, they drove to KFC in Murray Bridge to wash themselves from the disabled toilets hand basin.

We soon head to the main stage and find these babes playing, bare-foot and using their guitar pedals like a second foot. This is the Perth teenage prodigy Tame Impala.

With the dust spray in the air, the sun beating down on our backs and their psychadelic, 70's-inspired guitar licks bursting through the air, it made for an amazing show.

Followed by good-vibe bringers Van She.

The afternoon was rolling away once more, and with bands like Evermore and Augie March left on the bill, we decide hanging in our tent in our own delerium is a better option. I'd rather sit in a filthy sleeping bag in a humid tent that watch that fag in a top-hat.

Around 8pm, after we've been LOLing at the dumbest things imaginable out of tiredness (shadows, sleeping bags and techno music), we decide to get the fuck out of this god forsaken place and drive home. I feel the gravitational pull of a shower and bed calling for me. It's time to scrape the dirt out of the cracks of my feet, eat a toasted cheese and avocado sandwich and chocolate eggs.

Live at the Zoo. Absolute shambles, but damn was it fun!

To-do list

2009-03-30T08:12:00.000-07:00

To-do list:

1) travel insurance
2) 6+ new cds
3) forge service of alcohol experience
4) glass in right foot (needs to be removed)
5) get justice on UniSA
6) jaywalking fee

I.K

2009-03-25T05:08:00.001-07:00

IWONA = BIRTHDAY
A tribute to my favourite wine-guzzling ninja. I love you more than cigarettes, gin and tonic, "Lon-don", cheese, Ninch Inch Nails and liquid eyeliner assistance put together. Forever dude.

[Insert Mariah Carey lyrics]
"I CAN'T LIIIIIIIIVE IF LIVING IS WITHOUT YOOOOOO-OUUUUUUU...."

(Smooch)
xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Embryonnck

2009-03-25T04:00:00.000-07:00

Rly need haircut. I have dust-coloured regrowth down to my ears and a fringe down to my upper lip. Someone come to my house with scissors and dye and let's make something happen, yow!

My travel alarm clock batteries are running out, and as a result it's making these dying, low-pithced screeching noises every hour. I wake up in the middle of the night to something that sounds sounds like a furby that's been thrown against a wall. (shivers)

On a completely random tangent I would also like to add that I don't appreciate being deleted off Facebook purely based upon my association with someone. Don't presume to know what kinds of things I would do when you've barely had a fucking conversation with me. That is all.

Watch -> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjQgBFe_Pw0&feature=channel_page

So.. Live at the Zoo?

Q

2009-03-22T06:24:00.000-07:00

After five years of music this is by far one of the most beautiful songs I've ever heard. http://www.last.fm/music/Bj%C3%B6rk/_/Unison

I have a craving for grapes. Have to work tomorrow, rah rah. It's 2.15am, here are some pictures I was going through..

Miranda provokes.

2009-03-20T01:26:00.000-07:00

So. I pretty much rule at arguments...

O'BALL: Gonna have funeth!

2009-03-16T04:03:00.000-07:00

Adelaide University’s annual O’Week has always been marked by a helluva’ party and the end – the Union funded rock concert O’Ball. Each year in March the Adelaide Uni cloisters fill with fleets of bubbling youth, all there to check out live music, relax on the lawns or - in my case -pilfer cheap pints. That's right. I think you'll come to realise in time that all of my blogs have an underlining feature of being drunk. ;-)

This year’s musical offerings were particularly exciting, with acts like Children Collide, Little Red and The Cassette Kids taking to the stage. Thanks to some fantastic efforts from O’ball’s 2009 coordinators Rebekka Rechten and Aaron From, and their volunteers, the night panned out famously. Par some hired security who were (excuse my French here) unquestionable fuckwits. More on that later.

Adelaide’s hand-picked local act, Tracer, kick-started the evening into gear with a selection of powerhouse 70’s rock. The band have had promising press coverage in the last few weeks, and did uphold expectations with their performance.

(EDIT: I didn't actually see this band. Sorreh.)

Next up was Sydney quartet The Cassette Kids. Flouncing onto stage in a pair of rather dashing sequined tights, vocalist Kat Noorbergen was instantly the centre of attention. Performing tracks from EP We Are, their choppy, electro hooks combined with Kat’s siren howls made them an exciting group to watch. I hestitate to draw connections between this chick and Karen O, despite their vocals sounding very similar, because Karen O is the fucking goddess of the universe and I barely knew this chick. Still good fun though.

The Sydney darling was rocking out her hardest, yet despite efforts to conjure up a storm, she was left with a drizzle – literally. There was soon a spit of rain, at which her fans ran from the stage to find shelter. “Why is noone standing!” she winced. Sorry dude, I was too preoccupied hastily getting as many $3.50 pints as I could before happy hour ran out.

She managed to win the crowd back though – with bribery. “Dude, if I get two more people up here I’ll buy you each a Coopers!” Success ensued. Their set was topped off with a spectacular shout-out of “Adelaide, stand the fuck up! Stand the fuck up!” And there we had The Cassette Kids, signing out.

The punters had doubled by the time The John Steel Singers hit the stage, preceded by a cringe-worthy introduction from Nova 91.9’s Shane and Sarge. “You know how this band met? At Sizzler! I love Sizzler!” the radio presenter ‘joked’. Cough. What the fuck was Nova doing at a rock concert? Sorry, but any radio station that associates with 'Fitzy' is permanently, and i mean PERMANENTLY, in my black books. Despite this, because she was a little plump I found her little Sizzler joke funny. Had I been drunker I would have telled something along the lines of "Yeah I bet you love Sizzler". Alas, this was not the case. John Steel Singers put on a good show of breezy, jocular tunes while the sun went down. Tracks like Luxembourg were a hit, and slowly drew more and more people to the barriers.

Ten minutes later: “I wish these girls would just pee and get out,” complained the girl next to me while standing in the line for the bathroom. “I’ll kill myself if I miss Children Collide”. Perhaps this was a little overzealous, but it was safe to say Children Collide did garner the most hype for the night. Luckily for my queue neighbour, she didn’t have to wait long. Just minutes before the band came on a “Security” strode into the bathroom and demanded, quote; “Piss and get out” unquote. Oh, fucking wow. It was around this point that ticket-holders were beginning to get a bit peeved.

After a quick crowd warm-up from MC Claire, the time had finally come for Children Collide. Striding onto stage with a gusto that could rival Jimi Hendrix, guitarist and lead singer Johnny McKay announced his arrival with nothing short of a guitar shredding solo. The rest is history. Their sounds were tight, McKay’s vocals were top-notch and their dirty, grungy rock did a stellar job in making the moshpit go crazy. It’s been a while since we’ve seen these tight-panted indie folk really rock out with a guitar solo, but McKay proved that there are still those that can hammer A strings as effortlessly as they breathe. Their show was far and away the highlight for me.

Now, let me digress here and re-touch on the “fuckwit” security guards. There were signs on the stage explaining that if you were to crowd surf, you would be kicked out. We understood this, and most of us were well behaved. There were, however, a few lads with a bit too much beer in their bellies who decided it would be a real swell idea to do it anyway. While a 7” tall behemoth of a Security guard was standing a few metres away.

The result was this: the security guards, instead of calmly waiting after the show, proceeded to push past everyone in their path to get the wrong-doers, causing even more unrest in the mosh. Three times the same fucking bald, thick-necked bouncer nearly bowled me over during his pursuit of the alleged crowd surfer. Those who were O'Ball attendees, you'll know the one, the one that looked like this:

It was when they kicked a guy out AND his girlfriend, purely by association, that people were getting a fair bit sick of these assholes. The girlfriend got her revenge though – by drunkenly running on stage with a lopsided smile of triumph on her face. We cheered. “Don’t kick her out, please,” McKay sighed after the Bald Brigade set off to chase her. Cunts.

Hit 10pm, Melbourne indie-pop sweethearts Little Red rolled onto the stage for the final set of the night. Festooned in hats, Hawaiian leis and Raybans, their cavorting guitar licks and upbeat vocal duets were the perfect way to end the evening. After recovering from the headbangs during Children Collide’s set, the punters were now ready to wind down and and swagger to Little Red’s funky tracks. Highlights included the ever-so-catchy bass lines of It’s Alright and “I feel like I’m in love with yooou, it’s truuuue,” Witchdoctor. After being treated with a hearty applause, the lads left the stage, the crowds set off to Electric Light for the afterparty and the beer supplies exhausted. O’Ball 2009 had officially come to a close.

Or so we thought, enter Ridiculous Security scenario II. Who would have thought walking out of a University would be so hard. They’d not only stationed a guard at every exit in the University to stop punters walking through them, leaving North Terrace the only outlet, but refused to let anyone back into the venue to use the bathroom. When we inquired as to why, we were simply met with a rather rude insinuation involving bushes. Hmf.

After we finally escape from the fucking University, my dB magazine editor, myself and his two friends somehow end up in a car with bottles upon bottles of vintage wine. Yep. Thirty minutes later we've made it back to the afterparty at Electric Light hotel where the singer of Children Collide and the singer of the Cassette Kids are mid-pash. Epic. It's Sez's birthday tonight, but I can't find her ANYWHERE! (She later finds me, nearly in a coma on a couch. Woo) Memory of the night starts to get a little hazy from here, but let's say my night ended stumbling to a taxi rank and drunkenly laughing in line as two 40+ men get into a punchup over a cab. Stupid white people.

End.

Rave Hair experiment.

2009-03-13T19:47:00.000-07:00

So I ... did strange things to my hair.

My friend gave me a hair dye called "Raspberry Beret". The bottom line is any product named after a Prince song I put my faith into 110%.

So after a few hours, a packet of bleach, some White King on the bathroom table to hide my dye spills and some serious scrubbing to wash the pink out of my hands, this was the result.

Behold, Miranda the Avril Lavinge/Raver/Emo!

Tonight I think I will go to Earth. The only place where I now belong ... (sniff)

Womad Frivolities

2009-03-09T01:03:00.000-07:00

So I got back to Adelaide a few days ago. And I can say this much - all I feel is rage. Why is everyone dressed the same? Why is the Exeter still shit? Why is the typical Adelaide socialite a frosty, stick-up-arse snob? That said, I would also like to declare a ban on Raybans. A Rayban ban. Yep, I'm a hypocrite, but a hilarious one at that.

Thank god for the Garden, at least I have cross-dressers and cabaret to restore my sanity. I'm like a baby to a lactating teat. Ah, Fringe.. my saviour.

So I went to Womad on Saturday. Amongst the scantily clad transgenders and comedians roaming Rundle Street, what would Adelaide’s annual “Mad March” be without a three-day bender of global music to top it off? Well, that’s what WOMADelaide is for. That and for providing the opportunity to get stoned with crusty old punters. Of course.

The weather was overcast on this particular Saturday afternoon in March, a pleasant change from the stifling temperatures that Adelaide has beared with in previous years. Kicking off at 1pm at The Speakers Corner, I treated myself to the first helping of world music with East Timorese folk artist and activist Ego Lemos. Bringing a breezy concoction of steely guitar chords teamed with bongos, he sang in native Timorese tongue of global issues like water deprivation and poverty. His simple grassroots blues under the shade of the pine trees was an innocuous starter to the festival, and left me feeling a tingle of my inner hippy emerging. The shoes were still on at this point, but this would soon change.

Across the bridge, my ears perk up the sound of something maniacal. At Stage 2, shredding their fingers away to confetti, were the Eastern European gypsies Paprika Balkanicus. Playing traditional Balkans folk music with a contemporary drum machine beat, it was something else to watch them play their violins at a lightning speed tempo doubled by impossibly fast finger-work. Throwing in a few jokes about needing our credit card details, they were a hilarious bunch to watch. This was doubled by the fact that those dancing were finding it very difficult to keep up with the ever-changing rhythms of the music, and were kind of shuffling around awkwardly not knowing what the fuck to do. Except for this one guy. This guy who my friend points out was wearing EXACTLY THE SAME THING last year. I will upload a photo of this dude to assist in conjuring the image. Think of Billy Elliot on cocaine.. but shirtless and 40+ and clearly refusing to accept their age. It's amazing that these people actually think they have talent. Lol.

Hit 2pm. The dark clouds had moved away, the sun was out, and the fisherman pants were flowing through the gates thick and fast. A few people had managed to jump the fence during the afternoon, but security was tighter than usual and several had been chased. That’s not to say that those we saw successfully breaking an entering weren’t greeted with rapturous applause, or the odd "FUCK YEAH!" It was about this time that I decided the shoes were to come off – and stay off. Ah, the old feeling of Botanic Park’s soil sticking to my feet. And ciggarette butts.

Mmmm. At the Zoo stage we now had Seckou Keita SKG from Senegal – “The Jimi Hendrix of the Kora”. And they weren’t joking with that moniker either. The group’s leading attraction was a 12 stringed West African harp, an instrument that looked a bit like a two-handed banjo. This was the piece responsible for all the leading melodies of the music, fronted by none other than the Koran Hendrix himself, Seckou Keita. Amidst their earthy, off-beat African tunes, he quickly showed us why he holds the impressive title. Thumb plucking insanely fast, erratic melodies on his harp without breaking a sweat, his speed and precision on the West African harp was nothing short of awe-inspiring. This melodious harp in conjuction with the piercing vibratos of their vocalist made for music that sent shudders down my spine, and perked the ears of all passer-byers. I am feeling like a cider at this point.. yep, definately time to buy a cider.

Across the park, Marseille group Lo Cor de la Plana were carving up a hefty crowd. To look at, they were a simple outfit; six male vocalists on stools with tambourines. That is, until they begin to play, and then they were something else. They would start off with the deepest voice, and then one by one build onto it with separate vocal parts and specially timed foot-stomps and hand-claps. The end result would be a spectacular series of beats and noises, entirely created by the instruments of voice, feet and hands. The crowd were absolutely itching for them towards the end of it, as the build-ups to a beat that they could move to were torturous. The Frenchmen really took a’Capella to a whole new level. I looked at my watch. Oh, look what the time is! Cider o'clock!

The March sun was at a painful angle around the time that USA’s Kaki King hit Stage 3, yet our WOMAD hand booklets came handy to block out the glare. Regardless of whether you could see her or not, you could hear her. Oh, how you could hear her. Described as “the best guitarist under 5”1”, within the first thirty seconds of her set it wasn’t hard to see why. Bringing forth a mix of flamenco and rootsy acoustic guitar, her string slapping, harmonics, fingerpicking skill and insatiable speed was mesmerizing – and hard to believe that it came from such a small woman. By far one of the most impressive acts of the day. And so CUTE! I look down and notice my cup is empty. And wonder why it is empty. A hasty trip to the bar is made.

Next was The Audreys. I hestiate to write much more on this lot. When it comes to WOMAD, I can’t help but feel a little aloof towards local acts. No, it's not even that... it's more like I find lying on the carpet staring at the ceiling more entertaining than watching the Audreys. Needless to say, I watched an entire half of a song before taking my filthy, dirt-ridden feet elsewhere. Is it no surprise that I beelined to the bar to fetch more cider? No, no it is not.

For something a little askew, at 9pm was The Australian Dance Theatre Company, specializing in a contemporary dance act. The air had cooled right down by now, but that didn’t stop the dancers donning an outfit that can be best described as a hankerchief. There was a real reason as to why we were here, and it wasn't to critique the dancing. I'll be blunt: Evon and I were here to watch incredibly ripped mean leap and frolick on stage. There, I said it. Forty minutes later, we were feeling slightly more moist and aesthetically satisfied. Time for MORE CIDER.

Next up: Sa Ding Ding. This artist had received a lot of hype, and potentially was going to blow off our socks (not like we were wearing them anymore at this point anyway, ha!). Put it this way – I overheard a punter describing her as being “like an oriental Deep Forest fronted by a drag queen.” I couldn’t help but laugh, as it was partially true. After a series of highly impressive jewelled headpieces, the big finale ended in the front mistress herself crumbling to the floor to violently head-bang for five minutes. Mongolian metal, perhaps?

Soon afterwards, the crowds garnered to the first stage to check out Seun Keuti “You gave me your mud and I made gold from it” and Egypt 80. As the son of the famous Nigerian bandleader, the late Fela Keuti, his show was highly anticipated. And he delivered, taking to the mic with a saxophone, sharing lewd jokes about women and flashing his pearly-whites. Never before have I seen backup dancers that could ass-shake for 26 whole minutes. I mean, fuck. My hips don't even boast a diameter that is wider than my head. And here these chicks are shaking their meat like it's as second nature as breathing. An impressive feat on all the bands behalf.

The crowd was a bit overwhelming, so we decided to move to the more low-key Zoo stage to check out the Jamaican reggae beats of King Tide. The front-men were a little old and crusty in their Hawaaian shirts, sure. And they probably shouldn’t have tried to climb that stage support frame. But hey, gotta give it to them for rocking out their darndest. Their beachy tunes were the perfect way to wind down a day of frivolity – or the perfect way to make the most of that Ecstasy tablet you just dropped, like the guy who was dancing in front of us for the majority of the show. Only in WOM… I mean, hang on, did this guy mix up his dates of FutureMusic or what?

Of course, any WOMAD wouldn’t be complete with the annual Speaker’s Corner techno session raging long into the night. This year’s offering was UK’s Russ Jones and the Hackney Globe Trotter, spinning out a mix of latin, afro-beat and house music. Unfortunately I have sobered up too much at this point, and am in a bit of a pickle. By 1am, the buzz at Botanic Park had well and truly ended. The crowds had meandered northwards to the Fringe garden, the poi’s had been put away and all of our feet were now suitably caked with grime. We go to the garden for 10 whole minutes, decide we are too tired and catch a cab home. Le end.

PS: UniSA, BITE ME YOU ASSHOLES.

insomni-nah.

2009-03-03T14:03:00.000-08:00

So I'm back in the Motherland.

In the last two days I've crossed multiple time zones. Been in both hemispheres. Endured jet lag. Nearly been hit by a car. Battled fatigue and 36 hours without sleep. I should be in a coma right now, but instead I've been awake all night YouTubing Ross Noble videos .

I can feel my frizzled neurons burning away with each word I type..

Going to have a bowl of cereal, two Krispey Kremes and then sleep for 20 years.

*brain explodes*

Sur America part 2

2009-02-26T10:54:00.000-08:00

Okay, Peru.

There are a few things you need to understand about Peru before you travel here.
Number 1) Add 2 hours to every deadline that you have.
Number 2) Don't trust anyone.
Number 3) Always accept the Pisco sour.

With these things in mind, let me now indulge in the details of our 4 day tour up the mountains to the Incan ruins of Machu Picchu.

We paid a total of 150 US clams to a tour company called 'Southern Tours Group'. This was a fairly good deal, as this was the "student" price, and I am not a real student. Of course, we understood the cons of choosing a cheaper company later. An hour into our tour we got stopped in the Sacred Valley by cops because our driver's van wasn't registered. Oh, well of course.

Luckily, the wait wasn't so bad as it was Carnival day, and little Peruvian men and women were skipping down the streets to entertain us.

As I tried to focus my camera on one of the party revellers, I got attacked by purple chalk, foam and water. All in Carnival spirit. By my own tour guide.

We later discover that she is the craziest bitch in the entire East side of Peru. After a while we were presented with a new van, and finally set off. After smuggling in a can of foam to get revenge on our guide, of course.

We began with a 3 hour bike ride down to a town called Ollayantambo. It had started to rain, but with my trusty Adelaide Crows poncho I was a lean mean water-repellant machine. Unfortunately my visual aesthetic suffered a bit.

xTr33m.

As we cascaded down the road we were met with gorgeous, sweeping views of hills and rivers. Unfortunately this was juxtaposed with the image of hundreds of suicidal butterflies smashed up on the street. South American butterflies like to land right where semi-trailers drive, apparently. The next day, with spokes and wheels set aside, was the time to start climbing the Inca Trail.

Now, I'm pretty fit, I think. But never before have my calves and thighs felt, as the adjective is the most apt here, raped.I'm talking 3 days of walking through mud and rocks. Then 9 hours, on 3 hours of sleep, trekking up a 2600 metre mountain peak in the sun. Twice. Struggling to breathe in the high altitude. With 30 mosquito bites on each leg itching like all hell.

Regardless of the exterior elements, when we finally arrived to Machu Picchu, backs wet with sweat, the view was well worth the effort.

The place really was like a heaven among the mountains. Wispy clouds skimming past your nose, vertigo swimming in your mind as your look to the river miles and miles below, certain death of falling just a few steps away... A sight truly to be seen to be believed.

When it hit 7am, we all made a dash to the checkpoint of Huaynapicchu.

Yar, there she be... Huaynapicchu in the background to the right.

Huaynapicchu is infamous for a few reasons.

Firstly, it is the neighbouring peak of MachuPicchu, double as high, and offers glorious views of the site. Secondly, it is damn near impossible to get entry to climb it. It was the wet season for us, and less tourists, but regardless of the decline in crowd only 400 visitors are permitted into Huaynapicchu every day. There were close to 500 Gringos already pottering about the site, so with all the energy we could muster we hauled our asses over there as soon as it hit 7am. With two tickets numbered 258 and 259, we were feeling good. ..

.. Until it was trekking time. A packet of crackers and a tin of tuna in my gut, we thought we were ready. Well, we were severely misinformed. Put it this way. In terms of hiking, Machu Picchu is the deformed cousin, and Huayanpicchu is the big, badass Mother.

After panting up teeny tiny, wet and muddy steps on 90 degree angles for 1 hour, we finally reach the top of the peak, which was - to our horror - covered in flying ants. But, insects aside, the landscape was breathtaking.

Up there was nothing but a few clusters of boulders, with hikers lying on them catching their breaths. With the sea level miles and miles below, you can't help but feel the tiniest sense of Vertigo. One false move and you, and three other trekkers, could slip and go plummeting to the depths below. The cloudforests that surrounded the peak were like a giant green bowl - a sight that sure beat Adelaide's botanic gardens.

We had definately saved the best thing till last. We chose to catch the bus back to the neighbouring town, Aguas Calientes, rather than walk. Those 20 minutes down the mountain by bus were the best 20 minutes of my life. So with a day left to go till we jet back to Oz, the time has come to drink several Pisco sours and remanisce the times we've had here. Sad .. I'm not ready to return to the Western world.

Sur Americano: Part I

2009-02-20T21:36:00.000-08:00

Alrighty.

We are in an airport. 5 hours counting down till we board the plane to Cusco in Peru. Several waves of delerium kicking in. It's about time I wrote a blog about the sheer insanity that within the shores of South America.

It's been two months since we left Australia. When we first arrived here, we expected the worst. To be robbed, mugged, and possibly murdered with a panpipe. Well, this didn't happen, though we have experienced numerous other fuckups.

Over two months we have lost a total of two Visa debit cards, one Woolen gimp mask and one pair of hiking boots. How our Passports didn't join the list is beyond me, as the longer I travel the more I begin to grasp how forgetful an individual I really am. We have cried in 3 banks and 1 Western Union, patted an alligator named Pedro, slept on wooden floorboards and managed to overcome stifling language barriers. Oh yes - South America is a glorious realm of both good and bad, and from Mescalin to Mate we are slowly beginning to understand.

I'm going to break it up country by country, as the wackiness seemed to vary everytime we crossed a border. Numero uno:

ECUADOR

Capital: Quito
Population: 13,992,500
Currency: US Dollar

Quito, Guayaquil, Mitad del Mundo, Galapagos Islands, Manta, Montanita

Our first stop was the land that boasted the best bananas in South America - Ecuador.

I remember the day we left Australia well, because I couldn't have been less prepared for over 24 hours of plane travel. Fresh in the wake of the 3 days of drinking, drugs and sleep deprivation that was Falls Festival, I jetted off feeling nothing short of fucked. Yet I was determined to overcome my physical ailments, no matter how severe, and invoke my inner Latino.

Upon arrival, we were met by our first Couchsurfing host Lewis. Within 5 minutes of conversation, we were confronted with 'very dangerous city' and 'Gringo' - a nickname spoken by the locals for White people. ''Yeah, most Gringos here have been mugged at least once here,'' he chuckled as we lugged our packs back to his house.

Fan-fucking-tabulous.

Our first night in Quito involved muchos jarras of sangria, a salsa club and a local trying to pick up Eleanor by telling her her thermos was sexy. We discovered the phenomenon that was 'Reggaeton'. We were one day down with two months to go - a wild ride was ahead.

Grappling the altitude, on the third day we took a ride on the TeleferiQo to the top of the mountain that overshadows Quito. A beautiful sight ensued. Quito is a bizarre city to look down on, as it looks sort of like one big shelf hanging on the edge of cliffside. It takes 30 minutes to walk the width of the city, but more than 3 hours to cross its length. We then make the trip to the Old Town where we begin our desperate search for a restaurant, as we are hungry Gringos. The only one open is the most expensive one in town. I get a plate of meat which I find out later is goat, some kind of Ecuadorian yam and avocado.

We are still hungry, so we cross the street and we are introduced to the amazing Empanadas - a sort of fried pastry covered in sugar. Epic om nom.

.

2008-12-24T05:47:00.000-08:00

For Christmas this year I would like:

crawl

2008-12-23T05:53:00.001-08:00

Andre Rieu

2008-12-23T02:29:00.000-08:00

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the classiest chick on the block. I like my wine cheap. My hair unbrushed. My humour crude. But one thing I do hold in high esteem is my musical taste. It has been with great care that I have ensured my iPod and the likes of Chingy/Rihanna/Fat Man Scoop never come in contact with each other

Oh yes.

Yet recently, my ears have been abused. And whom is to blame for this abuse? It has a smarmy expression, an enormous cranium and has changed the violin from an instrument of beauty to an instrument of marketing.

ANDRE RIEU

It all began in 2007. I was a virgin back then. It was only a few months later that this overpuffed, talentless cretin came into my music radar when my own step-mother contracted Rieu-itis.

And began a fan club.

And then recruited 300 people.

And then single-handedly organized the Get-Andre-Rieu-to-Adelaide petition and was featured in the Advertiser.

And then went to see him for the fourth time in concert.

It was shortly afterwards that this fandom began to pervade into my own life. That following Summer, I suffered hours of Andre Rieu stereo blasting on a houseboat trip with my stepmother and father. Endless hours of Andre Rieu DVD footage. Constant references to Andre's favourite foods during dinner. I survived this horrible ordeal - albeit battered and bruised - but I survived. Until the next time..

Exhibit A: During one of my step-mother's fan club luncheons, I was approached by a guest. The conversation went as thus:

"I'm Lizzie. This is my son who died in the war (points to badge). He didn't really die in the war, he got murdered and pushed out a window. I'm going to find out who those bastards were. But I've got Andre, Andre saved my life."

*shudders*

This was a shaking experience. So some foreigner with an enormous head who artifically ices over Aami Stadium in the middle of December is lifechanging. Well, now I know.

Exhibit B: At Carols by Candlelight, I was sent to retrieve the Eski from the car boot. My step-mothers keys, to my horror, had an Andre Rieu keychain with that one, startling caption written on the back...

"Happy Birthday to Me..."

As you can see, my life is slowly being ruined by Andre Rieu. And for what? I can say this much:
Andre Rieu is, in every sense of the word, a talentless bum.

There are many - many more - that rave about his "musical genius". Look. Andre Rieu is this - a coverband. A coverband, who instead of playing in a shitty pub, has a fuckload of money and a plane that airmails Austrian clydestales to artifically-iced concerts all around the world. That covers classical music.

I youtubed his shit, and all I see is some douchebag with a violin with one giant theatrics set behind him, smiling at the....

OH GOD. And this is what hit me. The smile.

For those of you who are familiar with the works of Maddox, you will understand. For those of you who aren't, please take 3 minutes to indulge in this piece of reading material ->

Observe; the pedo-smile.

To summarize:

From now on, I'm going to live in my closet with a T-lock over the handle until I know the world is safe again from the raping clutches of Andre Rieu.

2007's Deathly Melbourne Trip.

2008-12-14T03:02:00.000-08:00

MELBOURNE TRIP
The month is May 2007. We have Nine Inch Nails tickets, minimal cash, a hearty stock of Whiskey and energy pumping through our veins. Thus begineth = THE MELBOURNE TRIP.

We catch a bus to Melbourne. I am the only girl in a group of six males.

The problem of catching a bus with six blokes is the tesosterone overload makes men do stupid things. Like irritating 100% of the bus for eight solid hours.

5.30am: We arrive in Melbourne. We hang out in a park for while before we can check in. We are suddenly ambushed by a MASS GROUP OF JOGGERS.

Dylan serenades joggers.

We go check into our hostel and have communal nap for about four hours. Jordan steals some milk. Got to keep our calcium levels up after all that bus travel, after all.

We all decide to go to the 'Melbourne Bar and Bistro. By 'decide', I mean James forced us. This place is pretty much the worst, most unhygienic cesspool of salmonella in the world.

We eat here regardless, as we are still drunk from the bus ride, and hungry.

Mmmm, tapeworms.

9:00pm later that night: We run into disturbing buskers at the riverside.

Fags.

10.00pm: Everyone's pretty drunk by now, and it is time for more reckless behaviour. Michael and Ben share their whiskey with local Melbourne thugs and later get rolled by said thugs. We find twelve cartons of orange juice. James steals V from a supermarket.

The guys "make friends".

Ben gets really really really really really drunk. Drunk to the point where walking in a straight line seems impossible. We pretend he is a local cripple and stride 10 paces ahead of him for the remainder of the evening.

I stand on a bridge over a freeway.

We go to the Crown Casino. And it's about here that the Dylan identity crisis begins. Dylan's actual ID has been denied. Apparently, his ID is not actually him, even though it actually is.

After 30 minutes of us explaining to the clearly mentally challenged Crown Casino staff that Dylan REALLY IS Dylan, police enforcement is called in. They clarify that Dylan is no fraud.

Dylan walks out of Crown with triumph. "I AM ME!!" He roars.

6:00am: The next morning, James get us kicked out of our hostel for trying to sneak another addition to our pack - Luke Pilla - into the hostel. We are so fucked with exhaustion, yet we get up red-eyed and bleary and walk down the road to a little asian hostel above a supermarket.

The Elizabeth Hostel.

This place is FULL of crazy, pot-smoking people. Everyone smokes cigarettes constantly, in every room - even though it is banned. People leave shit lying around, like x-rated porn, cigarette butts in bottles, about a hundred flyers in the stairwell and dirty laundry.

A random guy pierces his own nose with a thumbtack in front of us, then slams his nose in a cup of Whiskey to 'sanitize' it.There's two pieces of cutlery provided for use between four floors of people staying there.

This place is so fucking cool it's ridiculous.

If Bill behaved, we sometimes let him inside and fed him scraps.

The next day we adventure. All the kids, minus Bill and Dyl.

Grass adventures.

Really cool fun idea 1: Jumping into the grass. And discolate knee for second time.

Really cool fun idea 2: Jumping off bunkbeds trying to take in-action shots.

Really cool fun idea 3: Burn Jordan with home-made 'flamethrower' while he is passed out. Set off fire alarm for the fourth time..

Really cool fun idea 4: Pick up shitfaced Melbourne chicks.

Really cool fun idea 5: Get drunk and decide that, in a room full of strangers, the need for wearing pants is unnessecary.

Really cool fun idea 6: Fuck up Nine Inch Nails.

And then there was "Keith," one of the rooms we stayed in... Keith's decorations, including sock, stuck on with peanut butter. Weed and alcoholic paraphernalia can be seen scattered around the place, as well as illegally-acquired potplant.

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Quotes from the trip:

- "Skinny little ferrets"

- "This aggression will not stand."

- "Cocky parrot."

- "The English royal family is German!"

- "Because this, this is the brotherhood of man."

- "I'm cracking skulls..."

- "Keith is an art gallery."

- "Let's go to the Bar and Bistro."

- (Michael's random bout of violence as he smashes eggs in a carton with his fist).

- "Can I come here later? I don't.. know.. much." (Mi Goreng)

- Forum thread: "The story how one guy FUCKED up the nine inch nails concert"

- "Angry Bill"

- "W'ere just talking about Greek philosophy man..." (reply) "I don't fucking care!"

- "8.90, only at Cafe Primo."

- "Where's that bitch gone???" (James' picking up skills.)

- "Miwanda"

- "General Kingshott's Balls." (uh..)

- "Nate the Snake"

- "Bill, my pants are in the fridge aren't they....."

- "We are the best people we know, and if we didn't know us, we'd hate us."

- "You know what she's doing? She's having a gooooooooood time."

- "Can we have some free toast?"

- "I LOST MY FUCKING DRUGS."

- "Guys, we gotta go. (5am in the morning)"

- "(on the tram) RUN!"

- "Here's a trick I learnt in school..... (throws up a beer bottle that crashes on table)

- "Have a beer."

- "I AM ME!" (Dylan walking out of the Crown triumphantly)

- "Can we have some money for petrol to Bendigo?"

- "You've said Karl Marx about 7 times!"

- "Excuse me, I graduated last night."

- "Since you cunts have been gone 12 cops in SA have been laid off"

- (To karaoke people) "No, no you don't have to pay us, we'll sing for free"

- "Can we have a radio show, we present both sides of the argument"

- "I'm going to steal this milk." (steals milk.)

An older post pt. 1/5

2008-12-14T03:01:00.000-08:00

There are a select few individuals in this world that should have been exterminated from the gene pool.

People like the "musician" Mika.

I find Mika extremely offensive in many ways.

Firstly, his name. I suppose having parents name you "Mica" in the first place is cruel enough. But changing the "c" to the "k" just to have a more marketable title is not the best of ideas. For example; search for "MIKA" in Google Images, and you'll see what I mean. Cough Japanese girl beaver shots.

Secondly, his music. Let's analyse his hit single, insert invisible quotations, Love Today.

I've been crying for so long,
Fighting tears just to carry on,
But now, but now, it's gone away.

Pretty deep lyrics. I might have been touched by the fact that Mika is "fighting the tears just to carry on" if I wasn't so distracted by this constantly annoying screeching sound.

Oh wait, that's just his voice.

Everybody's gonna love today,
Love today, love today
Everybody's gonna love today,
Anyway you want to, anyway you've got to,
Love love me, love love me, love love.

What... poetry.

Thirdly, Mika is a menace to the media world. Last Thursday evening, I thought it was safe to turn on the television to watch the ending of "So You Think You Can Dance," until to my horror the host announced there would be a "special guest" performing. Mika, I want the three minutes of my life I wasted watching your lip-synching stage-prancing shit back.

Fourthly, his lyrical connotations.. are... well...... an excerpt from "Lollipop" by Mika.

Yo Mika. I said,
sucking too hard on your lollipop,
or love's gonna get you down,
I said,
sucking too hard on your lollipop,
or love's gonna get you down.

Sucking too hard on your lollipop,
or love's gonna get you down,
sucking too hard on your lollipop,
or love's gonna get you down.
Say love, say love,
or love's gonna get you down.
say love, say love,

But most importantly, my reasons for not liking Mika as a musician all come down to his voice. Mika has nearly no singing abilities whatsoever apart from a high-pitched falsetto wail. People have said in reviews that Mika's voice is comparable to that of Freddy Mercury... no.

And anyone who aspires to be a princess, quote; "I want to be like Grace Kelly", is very questionable.

For free kittens (and a really really really annoying tune stuck in your head for the next few hours) click here!!!!!

In summary, Mika please just get out of the public eye.

Go and return to London, re-assume your real identity as "Mica" so your twelve-year old fans googling your name don't keep stumbling across hardcore Asian porn, and please stop wearing those tight pants.

It hurts my eyes.

An older post pt 1.

2008-12-14T03:00:00.000-08:00

Blasphemy

So there was this article in The Advertiser today that was talking about "Internet" language (at least the 23923920329 article they've done on this...)

They had taken comments from people's myspaces and used them as examples ie;

lol lol

yer ill get bak 2 u

lmao

xx

and translated them. Translation for the above was:

Laugh out loud. Laugh out loud.

Yes, I'll get back to you.

In my arrogant opinion.

Kiss kiss.

..... So let's just see that again.

lmao = in my arrogant opinion.

I am overwhelmed with disgust. So what the fuck does 'rofl' translate into then? Rape on fresh lawn?

Officially lost all respect for The Advertiser. Forever.

Parklife...?

2008-12-14T02:53:00.000-08:00

PARKLIFE

“Parklife: the music is good, but the drugs are GREAT,” was the most accurate thing I heard all day while strolling around Botanic Park for Australia’s mid-spring dance festival, Parklife.

It was Adelaide’s turn for the national dance festival this weekend, and with a sore lack of Goldfrapp on the bill, it was interesting to see how Botanic Park’s hospitality would pan out. Yet with a beautiful 29 degree day to work with, and a blinding sea of orange legs already piling in through the gates, things were looking up. Needless to say, whatever the turnout was - I was going to have a good time. I had spent hours toiling over four fucking metres of green tulle, and my hands were suitably pocked and bloody from sewing needles and I was going to party the shit out of this fairy outfit whether I wanted to or not.

With my two fellow Parklife fairies, Reezor and Eleazor, we strode in ready to unleash the carnage..

Early in the day at the Water Stage we had local indie/rock outfit The Touch. As the festival had really just started, most people were still relaxing under trees lining their guts with $10 cans of Smirnoff (I do not jest, $10 a can – effing robbery!) rather than dancing about. Yet the quintet had still managed to amass a decent crowd, complete with a handful of devoted fan girls with “The Touch” lovingly branded on their butt cheeks. Aw, what ......support? Things took an interesting turn mid-set, when one of the giant stage sheets came loose in the wind and fell on top of their drummer. Oh, how I love chaos..

Next up was US duo Neon Neon. Equipped with mini electric guitars and two highly conspicuous vocalists, their set of Summer-infused electro pop was so perfect for the Parklife formulaic it’s a shame they didn’t have a bigger crowd. Perhaps this was because everyone was over at the Air Stage going nuts over Grafton Primary’s I Can Cook. Grafton Primary may have lacked the charisma to rival Neon Neon, but what they did have under their belts to unleash on the crowd was Joshua Garden – their Star-Wars-nerd-on-ecstasy resembling front man adorned in a sparkly gold hat.

Ah yes, such spectacles as these only truly make sense, and are appreciated, at dance festivals. I think I even heard some drunk bitches to the left of me croon how "hot" he was. Well hey, if skeletal runts float your boat when you're pinging on a cocktail of pills, woooohoooo. We make the walk over to the Earth stage to check out the last few minutes of Slyde, but there’s no-one really here apart from a few punters snoozing on the lawn and a man wearing a Barney the Dinosaur cape with a joint stapled to it. Ahem. After some subtle sabotage (in which Eleanor tore off a corner), we moved on, only to then be cornered by more freaks who wanted to take photos of us with their phones. We stole ciggarettes from them and ran away.

On the other side of the park, electro/new wavers Ladytron were setting up. This group had been gathering some of the biggest hype of the day, and now had the crowd size to match it. Yet in spite of expectations, Ladytron turned out to be a very disappointing live act. ?" The climate may have been to too hot for Scottish vocalist Helen Marnie, as she just looked miserable on stage. It took a lot for me not to tell at her to "cheer the fuck up". Perhaps her performance can be blamed on the horrendous sound engineering they received. The sound quality had been unsavoury all day, but this group suffered more than anyone. The guitars were too distorted, the poor girls were barely audible and their charming Scottish drawl was like a distant white noise amongst the boom of the speakers. Still, they drew one of the most impressive crowds of the afternoon, and Ghosts was a highlight.

It was at this point of the day that the atmosphere grew in a couple of notches in weird. Maybe it was because the drugs were kicking in, or maybe it was because everyone had been in the sun for five hours and now had heatstroke – either way I was in no way prepared for a raver approaching me and asking; “Can you imagine life without kneecaps?” and then insisting on writing a rice recipe in my notepad. I took this as a signal to drink more, so at once beelined to the soft, cushiony safety of the bar. Ahhhh, bar.. you scary pillheads can't hurt me here...

It was now dusk, the perfect ambience for mashup pop veterans Soulwax. Fronted by Belgium brothers David and Stephen Dewaele, the two disc jockey’s otherwise known for their work in 2 Many DJ’s, Soulwax is a group certainly acquainted with the motions of performing at festivals. As the sun slowly crept away, the steadily mounting crowd was fed with tracks like E-talking and NY Excuse.

Night had set in – now it was time for the fun to begin. People had de-spectacled, diluted pupils were fully exposed and a tense anticipation was aloft. To be blunt, everyone was fucked. And what better way to kick things off than with electro clash extraordinaire Peaches at the Water Stage.After trying to use my media pass to get into the barrier next to the stage, and failing (so what if I had two drinks in my hand? SO WHAT?", with my tail between my legs I walked over with the rest of the cretins.

After a slightly embarrassing introduction, where the MC encouraged the audience a few too many times to give Peaches the welcoming fanfare she deserved, she finally pranced onto the stage. With her band dressed in mirror ball jumpsuits and the leading lady herself in what appeared to be a giant yellow loofah, she was by far most aesthetically impressive artist for the day.

Clambering onto amps, crowd-surfing and seducing punters beneath her with her microphone groans, all who were witnesses to this set definitely got their serving of ‘the teaches of Peaches’.

“This one’s for the ladies!” she screamed, launching into Shake Yer Dix and provoking chest shimmies everywhere. Performing a set of most of 2003’s FatherFucker, no hit song was left untouched. Even Kick It was duly included, her famed duet with Iggy Pop with Peaches’ keyboardist filling the role of Iggy’s vocals. He wasn’t too bad either, as everyone went crazy for this one before busting a move to set finale Fuck the Pain Away. Perhaps the definitive point of the show was Peaches announcing mid-set; “I don’t need your lights, I’ve got my own!” and hitching up her skirt to reveal a conveniently placed light in her crotch.

Ah, gotta’ love her guts.

The buzz was now overwhelming, and everyone was ready for Dizzee Rascal. It felt like every single bloody person in the festival rushed over to the Earth Stage, as the crowd was so dense within minutes it’s impossible to get in. “What’s my name, what’s my naaaaaame?” Dizzee asks the crowd, before launching into He’s Just A Rascal's drill sergeant chant. With his set backed by a wide screen of his video clips, I couldn’t help but feel that this was pretty lazy effort in terms of backdrop. Still, when the ever-so-infectious Calvin Harris duet Dance Wiv Me came on at the end, the crowd transformed into a giant, heaving mass of movement. Not particularly wanting to leave the festival covered in a thick slime of mosh pit sweat, I decided to watch from the lawn.

With the festival done and dusted, everyone filed out either to party some more, or home to nurse their dirt-caked feet to wait til next year.

I myself went home at watched Rage drunk off my ass.

Woo.

The Grates at The Gov, ow!

2008-12-14T02:46:00.000-08:00

Adelaide: we’ve got great food, but tiny water bottles. That is at least according to The Grates exceptionally lovely front-woman, Patience Hodgson. “This must be for a baby or something,” she breathlessly announced to The Gov’s sold-out crowd last night, holding up a miniature Mt. Franklin bottle. Given that the 21-year-old vocalist had just bounced around for the past twenty minutes like a toddler on twelve jugs of red cordial, it was no surprise she was breaking out in a sweat.

It was Adelaide’s turn for a serving from the Brisbane three-piece’s national tour tonight, and we were there ready and waiting to have our Teeth Lost, and Hearts won … over.

Upon arrival to The Gov at half past nine, we were disappointed to learn that both the support bands, John Steel Stringers and The Vasco Era, had been and gone for the night. Perhaps the Gov had pushed the bands on earlier in a bid to respect that the Sunday night crowd (likely hungover from the night before). Not to mention that the balmy weather had also turned the venue into a furnace. I managed to locate a source of breeze near the beer garden door, albeit it being next to a really, really scary couple dancing like they were on crack, and anxiously waited.

As the stage lights dimmed, two rotating 8-point stars were unsheathed along with the projection of a globe with “The Grates” branded across it. At once, the Converse’d feet below worked up to an excited shuffle. Then, with an entrance truly in Grates fashion, the leading lady herself Patience ran on stage in a combination of both star-jumps and hair flips, followed by guitarist John Patterson and drummer Alana Skyring and a backup bass player. The red lighting was especially harsh on the stage, perhaps to help hide the large burns marring most of Patience’s left arm. Yet sashaying to and ‘fro in her pink frock before any chords had even been plucked, she was clearly having a ball already.

Opening with Gravity Wont Get You High’s early hit Science Is Golden, the trio instantly smashed through the stickiness of the night with vibrant aplomb. You’d think that Hodgson had an annual subscription to Cottee’s, because the energy of this chick is amazing. She bounced, she bounded, she head-banged, and all the while still growled her way through lung-belting vocals without a breath. “We’re so happy to be here! Thankyou! They don’t call it Radelaine for nothing,” Hodgson chuckles with screwball charm, before pouncing on a punter below and clambering on his shoulders to holler out Carve Your Name.

Midway through their set, it becomes clear just how much this group have grown since their garage days in ’04 and ’05. Last time I saw this group was a few years back at Big Day Out, when no-one really knew who they were. Nowadays, Patience’s vocal palate is much stronger, they’ve got bass undertones, their songs are sounding a lot more polished and their fan base has certainly grown double-fold. Yet despite their surge in popularity, their music still maintains that kid’s-birthday-party charm. Their oldest tracks, Trampoline and Sukkafish were some of the most warmly received for the night, and the band seemed equally as happy to play them with toothy grins.

If a set rollcall of all their top songs wasn’t enough to please the fans, Patience had prepared for this – with a throng of party tricks! This included a rhythmic gymnastics ribbon, a voodoo staff with a plastic skull attached and a number of raspberries blown at the crowd. The people in front of me seemed happy at least – the spiky haired woman furiously punching at the air and her thick-necked, mulleted boyfriend desperately trying to keep up. It was at this point that I began edging away from them for fears of being knocked out.

Wrapping up the night with recent JJJ favourite Burn Bridges, followed by an encore of 19 20 20, the band bashfully burbled their way through the last few minutes of their set. “Wow, thanks so much guys,” Patience once again gushed, before prancing away like a deer in a forest. It was a sad sight to see their cheery faces walk off, but a real experience in itself to see just how much this group has absolutely skyrocketed since I last saw them. Something akin to a mother bird seeing her babies leave the nest and fly away…. sniff.

Great show, great music, and a lot of promise for this band. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I speak for everyone in that room in saying that Patience Hodgson is the most indescribably cute thing alive.

Just sayin’.