Tuesday, November 27, 2007

7-oh.

I know it's hard to believe for many of you, but there was a time long before this time, but a ways after the dinosaurs, where people lived in cities that looked pretty samey as the ones we live in now, but where no one was packing an iPod or a mobile phone. Where if you wanted to get a call, you had better be at home on time, or at the phone booth across the street. It was weird, but no matter which side of the street you lived on, the phone booth was always on the other side. If you wanted to listen to your favourite songs, that was no problem, you just took your transistor radio, and tuned it into your favourite radio station. And you'd get down with Dr Hook, or Cat Stevens before he converted, or whoever was big back then. In many ways, life was the same...people had stress and shitty jobs, they had to pay the rent. You could eat fried chicken that tasted exactly the same as it does now, although the Coke was different. You could go on road trips in big powerful cars, and get sunburns, and have sex with strangers. And there was no AIDS. The guys hair was longer, the girls had some crazy Farrah Fawcett curls happening, trends, just like any other time. And guys still played guitar at the beach, and hoped the girls would dig it, while their dogs got wet and sprayed everyone when they shook themselves out, same dopey doggie grin yours has right now, panting in the sun. People got loose, got drunk, danced, took acid...had car accidents, and jerked off to movies that came on a reel, genuine film. Chuck Norris was every bit as cool as he is today, and he looked identical, save for the room in his pants back then. We still fought useless wars, for exactly the same 2 reasons we still do now. Still got married, went to church a bit more often. Bicycles had one gear. Eye shadow was blue. Books were big. Star Wars was the most mind bending thing ever, and Jaws kept thousands of people out of the surf every summer. We used to send letters. Long distance relationships meant walking out to the mailbox breathlessly anticipating every day. You got to know the smell of it. And it was an art form, writing letters. Guess what? No hip hop yet. When you called a company, a person answered the phone, and they lived in the same country you do. Taxis knew where they were going, and had an opinion on everything from politics to which horse to back that afternoon. Cars were made of steel. Microwave ovens hadn't hit, if you had a grill in the stove, you were just fine. People were generally a lot more racist than now, ethnics weren't so integrated. Kids could buy cigarettes, and so they did. So it wasn't all sunshine and sepia tone. And you're wondering what the point is here, and I'll be honest and tell you that there are 2. One is that it's kinda nice to reflect, it's a little like a holiday, and seeing as it costs us nothing, then that can only be a good thing. The other is that I genuinely hope that in another 30 years, all the quad xeon dual processors and jumbo lcd's and titanium/carbon fibre fighter planes and bionic hands we're running this week will look as quaint to us as black and white tv sets the size of a fish tank in a swank bar do to us now. And I hope that with all that juicy technology we're gonna get out filthy hands all over, that we might have evolved a little more than we have so far, and stopped thinking being "grey space" is ok. Stopped believing that because we dress right and listen to the right music and look right, that we ARE right. Because you're not...sorry. You're mindless robots walking around thinking you have a life, when you're programmed via DVD's and tv shows paid for by people who hate you. And you look down on the hippies now, when they shit all over you for originality and style, because they do what they do despite the fact it's not in any more. You spend every cent you don't have desperately getting that shirt with the bird shit print, or the ridiculous pointy shoes, or that music to play in your car that really only little girls should listen to. If that. You think you're so superior because you fit in, when fitting in is nothing short of a nightmare to my people. People who aren't limited by your ridiculous mindsets, or hold your biases, or inherent racism, or total absence of originality. If you have to be told what to do by a magazine, you're dead already. If you write the magazine, full points to you. Consumer is actually a dirty word, now, we're not in the 70's any more, and can't get away with not knowing. Consumers are rapists. And the supreme irony is they are raping themselves as well. It's weird you have to write this down, and that some people would never have thought about it had I not. How with all the information at our disposal we as a race think less than ever before. I guess it's easier to ponder the mysteries of the Universe while looking at a sunset, as opposed to a full email inbox or a credit card statement.

I'll be at the phone box across the street if any of you want to talk to me.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Reflecting on a dull Surface.

Well, more than a year has passed since the final leaves fell from our tree, revealing it for what it was. It was dead, if it ever lived at all.

And you always know a sentimental blog post, when it starts with a "well". You can be sentimental about painful things, if you learned to love them somehow. But time truly does heal all wounds, and so now I can sit in the park where I used to walk your dog every day, now with mine. And a long time must have passed, because Raga isn't a puppy any more, she's a slobbering, grunting beast of a dog, pulling branches off trees, and eating rocks. And I've had the time to forge a meaningful and beautiful friendship with her, she's a great friend, considering she eats her own shit. Maybe that's what keeps her modest.

And I can look at the city lights that used to hurt when I saw them, because I could see in my minds eye all the things you used to do under them. But now, they're just city lights. And even though I still feel a twinge at your memory, I have seen so many more city lights since you walked out. Twenty cities all across Europe and North America. More probably, but it's late, you know...

And I've stood in those cities, with the hookers, strippers, dealers, artists, politicians, criminals, power brokers, and regular peoples, and every now and then I remember you. And in that moment, when I picture you brushing your teeth at night, or when I would bathe you, I realise you don't feel far away at all. Like those times are MINE, and I can keep them forever. I can pull them out, dust them off, and smile once every now and then. So despite my harsh words, despite that door closing, I still hold my memories of you very close to my heart. I treasure those, even the hurtful ones. I still loved you then. And it's nice too, because maybe you've never been to Kiev, but now these eyes that reflected you, and this heart that loved you have, and this mind thought a you-shaped shape, so for all the ghosts and phantasms of those places, it would appear you were there, shimmering away in my memory, in your underwear, spitting out toothpaste in the frosty air, with a total absence of steam. I still feel you in my hands.

There is too much I want to do, too much I want to see, too many things I gave up on, when I settled down with you. I still don't regret that, but now I have them back, I won't pass them over so easily next time. I'm no good to anyone, and I'm pretty happy with it. I thought my life was over. But look at that! New rooms, and arrangements of colour, and sounds, and looks, and a brand new junk food tour of America to look forward to soon. I was shocked and impressed to find someone on Myspace I really don't like much has started doing music, and it sounded INCREDIBLE. I like that sort of thing. I guess you can be a creep and have talent. Who knew? It's all inspirational. And suddenly I'm international again, only now I'M playing the music. How did I ever give up on that?! We were a powerful force. We put each other through so much misery, it makes me feel perversely closer to you, like we shared the experience, even though we did it to each other. Like WW1 trench warfare, ceasefire for Christmas, both sides meet in no mans land for cricket. Exactly like that.

And if you're reading this (I don't think you will), I'm sure your thoughts will be harsh. That's okay, they're your thoughts. I remember it was very easy for you to be angry, or to be cold. For your thoughts to point downwards. But I want to set mine free, and we all know the way I do that is to post them up for complete strangers to read, in places I may never go. It may be a sickness, I'm not sure. But I'm glad in my heart at last, truly glad. And these feelings don't mean "come back", or "I can't let go". They mean "good luck!", and "I don't want to let go of everything", because as much as I never knew the real you, and don't know you now, we had us some moments, and they were way too precious to just let them sink in minutes and days and years.

So time has passed, our dogs have grown, we're older and wiser, and I can sit in the park without feeling upset. Wait, I do feel upset, because I don't have anything left to feel upset about. The emptiness is more painful than the pain I used to cling on to. I never thought of emptiness as having spines before.

I send you my love, through the vastness of the internet, the same way I first said hello, across thousands of miles of cables and points, and with that, I am finally free.

Fondest memories. x.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Memories of skating...

Once, when I was young and wayward, all the kids from juvenille hall were taken out for a special treat to an indoor skating rink in a bad part of town. That's ok, we were all from there anyway. We skated around and around, and listened to music on the p.a. system we had never heard before, and had a pretty good time of it. Then the dj came over the mic and announced it was time for a SPEED SKATE, and all manner of flashing lights started going off. Now I don't know about you, but us young and wayward children had already had way more than enough of flashing lights and loud noises, so everybody ripped off their skates, ran out the door, and hightailed it over the back fence. Some were never caught, I'm not even joking. I, however, having never skated before in my life, and being worse than horrible at it, tried to make a line for the exit, but got caught in the throng of adults making their way to the starting line. An air horn went off, and I did everything in my power to get away from all the adults, and toward the door, desperately trying not to leave my teeth all over the floor as I did so. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was shocked to find once I had reached (read: slammed into) the barrier, that the speed skate was over, and lo! I won. Ah yes, that meat pack was mine. Pfft.

Many years later, my friend Ross International and I worked in a skateboard shop. It was the only skateboard shop in the city of Wellington in NZ, and we were pretty much the cool guys to know. We had a big ass reputation to uphold, and all the kids looked up to us to never do anything uncool. But this was the early 90's, and rollerblading (and EXTREME rollerblading) had pervaded the national consciousness, and Ross and I, tired of constantly deriding everyone who did it, decided (in absolute secrecy) to find out what all the fuss was about. We selected a deserted patch of road out past the airport, where the only traffic was service vans and criminals, and took 2 sets of hire skates out there to unravel. I can tell you it was hilarious to behold, as 2 rough young guys who could sail through the air like a couple of gazelles on skateboards, watched one leg go behind the other, to resemble a 2 legged octopus on an oil covered floor with some ball bearings thrown onto it for good measure. We spent way more time falling over than skating. And just as we got it dialled, and made a straight line, a photographer for the local paper who was walking along the rocks took our picture for a "Moods of Wellington" spread, and everyone in NZ saw it the next morning. It wasn't so bad as we thought though. Our reputations saved us, and instead of being ostracised or run out of town, inline skatings street cred went up about 5 bazillion points, and now knows the legitimacy it enjoys today. Thank me later.

I had a crush on a girl a few years after. Her name was Melanie. Her father was a famous politician, and she was a few years older than me. So hot. She made me shy and nervous, which was rare. So when she asked me out on a date one evening, there was no way, shy or not, that I would say no. We went to dinner at a little Italian family restaurant, and I swear to you I have never tasted Italian so good since. Then she decided we were to try Ice skating. With ice. And sharp bits under your feet. The smell of disaster was deafening. Well, you know what I mean. So there we went, and she took my hand, and I felt like I was constructed entirely out of pink fluffy clouds. And we swooped and swooshed and all manner of other fast noises around the rink until Melanie was tired and I drove her home. As we got to the door, her eyes searched mine for a sign of a kiss to come, and as I held her hands, and slowly stepped one step closer to finally know the sweet agony of her kiss, her father came out with a "Good work! You got her home on time! Tell me J, have you considered joining young Labor?", and with only our horrified looks to mark that moment of potential sweetness forever, I bade them both farewell and made haste to my 1966 Plymouth Fury, which was confidently taking up at least four parking spaces kerbside, and the comforting sounds of Van Halen in the tape deck.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Wow! I think I've got it!

Music. It's like this mysterious mistress I have.

No, wait, I'm single.

It's more like the tax department...always doing things you'll never know about or understand, in places you will probably never go.

No, wait...I've never enjoyed the tax department.

It's like a carnival, that shows you the best time ever, but sometimes the lights go down and everyone goes home, and you're there, lonely as hell, wondering when the fun is going to start again. And sometimes the lights stay off for years. And even though you've been able to turn lights on before, and even wire them up from time to time, for some reason you just have no control of it right now. The carnival decides for itself.

Wait, I hate carnivals.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that music is beautiful, and inspirational, and even though at times I can't play it or write it for long periods of time, it's always there, sometimes comforting, sometimes taunting. I've had lovers like that, and they were hot.

And it can even make us jealous sometimes, at least, those of us with pretensions of writing music. Jealous we didn't write it 'Ape Dos Mil'- Glassjaw.. Or embarassed that we did! Some songs fire me up 'Still Beats Your Name'- Killswitch Engage, some chill me out again (Japanese Koto music). Some do my head in...The Dillinger Escape Plan, anyone?

I think my favourite feeling regarding music is that it's one of the only things that evolves with you through your life. I don't mean musical tastes, although I hope that yours have. No, what I mean is that, as humans, we're travelling through time, and we have a time limit. Our life, is kinda like a really long song. And music passes through time with us, beginning, existing, ending. It keeps us company, and leaves us sad by its passing, or hopeful for its return. Or even, in the case of Fleetwood Mac, scared of the possibility of its re emergence.

When I listen to "Chill' by Big Bud, that narrow window of time, that moment we call now, where everything starts and stops, that tiny sliver in which we live, I feel so in that moment when I'm hearing that song. I realised that back in 2000, when I lived with a bunch of Drum & Bass DJ's, that kind of sound was the soundtrack to my life. And I had never felt more in the moment and real as I did back then with them.

And when I hear that kind of music now, it drags me from wherever my head was stuck in, back to this moment, here, live, with you and the world.

And I realise that right now, with The Postal Service playing in my store, and my dog chewing on the chair leg, with a belly full of hot chocolate, and the prospect of catching up with a good friend later in the day, that life, and right now, and this moment is a pretty comfy place to be.

Wherever you are, and whatever you're doing, thank you for sharing in my moment. Tell me- what are you listening to?

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Just a quick one...

Having spent a significant portion of my misspent youth in New Zealand, and having since emerged back out into the world at large, I have come to see the differences between kiwis and the rest of the world.

They're really great people, on the whole, and kinda cute like little forest creatures. They have their own peculiarities of custom and language, and it is one of these I would like to share with you today.

I like to read the ABC news (that's Australian Broadcasting Corporation, not, 'News for retards') over breakfast, and on doing so this morning I found the following pearler under the headline "NZ activists planned 'war on white people'":

Green Party MP Keith Locke says the use of anti-terrorism laws to crackdown on an alleged paramilitary conspiracy seems spurious.

"There's a temptation for the security intelligence service, police and that to try and have their terrorists to keep up with what's happening in America, Britain or wherever and there's a bit of that in this," he said.

"and that"????!!! "wherever"???!! holy shit dude, how rad is he?

That is all.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

The kids nowadaze...

One of the many things my ex girlfriend said that I remember was regarding her outing of a night to a Melbourne Indie scene club. Yeah, I've been, I used to go a lot, but kinda outgrew it 5 years ago, just like any other clique.

Her take was that it was full of little kids trying desperately to act spastic, each more than the other, and she was basically less than impressed.

I'd have to say, I concur. Newfound freedom is a heady mix, especially when poured over a nicely chilled psyche totally devoid of responsibilty or the capacity for empathy, and you basically have a room full of kids going spastic, and looking it.

It's not all bad however, as Gen Y (God I hate those descriptors!) are accidentally responsible for some of, what I regard as, the greatest writing in the contemporary zeitgeist. They have stumbled across a way to describe things that have no value whatsoever, in such a disaffected yet curious way, as to make them interesting. At least for that moment, before they move on to whatever is next.

Example-

"I wasn't paying attention and just glued 2 of my fingers together. Now I have this sweet claw, but I know I'll have to cut it apart with a scalpel. Or just boil it."

Myspace should be required reading for literature majors, what's left of it anyway.

"Burce and I got locked out last night, tried to get in the bathroom window, but fuckhead landlord had put in security. So we watched the stars lying on the patio, and drank whatever was left in the bottles and cans in the recycling. I got pretty wasted and pashed him, and he cracked it and now he's not talking to me. What a fag".

Classic. Such tension, under the Universe.

"Oh my god, Taya the slut actually fucked the singer from that band, and now she's pregnant. She's such a whore, I can't believe he'd choose her over me!"

We've all been there.

"this one time I slit my wrists heaps and it was so good and the pain just all went away and then I got an infection and had to get my hands amputated and that was really sore, but its okay because I saved up and now I have prosthetic hands and they clink when I clap."

Indeed.

Seriously, it's better than the newspaper, if you can get past the glitter graphics and the 5 songs loading and 18 YouTubes loading at the same time and the 23,000 jpegs.

7.5 out of 10.

God Complexxx.


Everyone who knows me, knows I fulfill an insanely important role in the Universe. I am ridiculously important, and without me, life and especially culture as you know it would come to a grinding halt.

You see, while you sleep, I decide what's going to be cool next week (or next year if I have time), what songs you'll want to buy, real estate prices and stock market fluctuations, who lives and dies...those sorts of things.

You thought it was God, The Reserve Bank, the free market economy, and Rupert Murdoch, but no. It's me.

I decide who's cool, what's in, what's out and when it's time for whoever to go to rehab...all from the comfort of my cosy chair.

It's not a bad job as far as they go. I mean, I get paid nothing, but the satisfaction is pretty unbeatable when you go to the shop and one of your friends comes up to you and says "Have you heard? The new Metallica album is shit!", and I can smile to myself and remember I had decided that before they even went in to record it.

So there I am, and I'm thinking about all manner of important and crucial topics, and basically sorting out what you think about them, for you.

Pretty fucking nice, right?

So it was during one of these extended remix sessions of brainstorming that it dawned on me suddenly why I, and so many other well adjusted people around the world, just love sniper rifles, or as we in the biz call them, 'telescopic-sighted, high powered accurised rifles'.

30 x magnification.


A lot of people think that it's somehow about taking life, or being aggressive. But then a lot of people think the Pope wants the best for them, or that smoking makes you look cool too.

Incorrect.


4 x magnification.


Face it, we all want super powers, at least those of us who don't already have them. Darth Vader didn't want to be Oscar Wilde, but I bet you anything you like the keyboard player from Duran Duran would have paid good money to be King Kong for a day.

And that's what this is about. When you look down that sweet Bushnell Elite 4200 scope, through the Mil dot reticle, and blow the living fuck out of an object 3 miles away, you are, essentially God.


















What's for dinner? Hot lead, that's what.


It's like you just teleported into that time and place, utterly affected whatever it is you were aiming at forever, then instantly disappeared again, to a safe vantage miles away. Like you were never there. And you know what? You probably weren't.












Long stick goes "boom".


And if it's a 50 calibre rifle, it needn't just be hapless organisms that you can "affect". It can be trucks, tankers, and even aeroplanes. M107.50 isn't a radio station, it's a tool for what is known in the field, as "tactical dominance". But to you and me is simply known as "unlimited cans of whupass". With a Muzzle Velocity of 2,800 fps, a maximum range of just under 7000 metres, and armor penetrating, incendiary, dual-purpose ammunition, there isn't much you couldn't hurt. In fact, if I had a direct line of sight to St Kilda, I could unleash a shot from North Melbourne, right down King Street, through the city, past the South Melbourne Markets, through Middle Park and Albert Park, straight down to Ackland Street, and blow a hole in your torso the size of...well...your torso; while you enjoy a macchiato and discuss rising interest rates with your wank friends.

But like I say, it's not about bloodlust. That's just a bonus.

There is a fascination, or has been for about 5 years now, regarding pirates Vs. ninjas. Pirates are great because they love to fight face to face, exchange witty reparteé, and wear funny boots with big buckles on them. But ninjas kinda own, because they kill you before they even get out of bed in the morning, just by thinking about it. You never see a ninja coming, and if you do, it's only because he wanted to give you a flash of black in the night, so you'll wee your pants that little bit more when he runs you through with a katana, or sticks you in the eye with a throwing star (if you pissed him off for some reason).

In this analogy, standard handheld weapons like Beretta nine millimetre handguns are pirates, all black (or silver, I guess), and ready to talk your ear off like Samuel L Jackson while stabbing you to death with little lumps of hot projectile.

And the ninjas are sniper rifles, blowing you into utter oblivion from the other side of town, while the shooter is having a cup of tea and maybe even solving a sudoku.























Oh hell yeah!


The best thing about them is that you don't have to listen to the person on the receiving end talking, or have to deal with begging, etc. They don't know it's coming, until they're already dead, which as well all know, presents logical problems only Socrates could approach. This is especially handy when talking to your art broker in London, and not wanting to be disturbed by inane chattering and pants wetting, especially if you have a supressor equipped unit like a VSS Vintorez or the like.

I know it sounds a bit harsh, but you really have to be in that situation a few times to realise how amazingly annoying it is.

"No, no...they will never find me. I am safe here."


The technology nowadays is getting so out of control and rad we now have weapons systems and scope-enabled tech like the
The ID-SNIPER scope, which contains an advanced computer image system, which is capable of capturing a digitally restored and sharpened
bitmap image, of the ID-SNIPER victim.























"Night Night!"


This image was captured during a 'test shot' using a
ID-SNIPER prototype on suspected terrorist in Beirut.
















This guy is about to have a very not awesome time.


The best tech ever though, is of course from the USA, where they are developing facial recognition optics that target enemy combatants for you. So whoever the Pentagon decides they don't like that day, can be uploaded to your arms via satellite, so if you happen to come across one of these individuals with your gunsight, your gun will automatically blow their frickin heads off for you.

That's convenience!

God bless America. Ha ha!


The next level is to work these systems into satellites themselves, fitted with intensely powerful lasers, so when some 8 year old kid from Finland is checking out Syria with Google Earth, he will witness a very bright light and a curious red mist where a guy with a funny costume was standing only seconds before. All automated. Killer robots in space with facial recognition. And hackers in Korea know this, already developing virii to be dropped into the control software of said satellites, programming them to kill anyone with a gross income of over $50,000, or people with the letter 'L' in their name.




It's gonna be AWESOME!

Of course, what the Government didn't think of, was that wanted criminals will take to wearing mirrors on top of their heads, sending the laser beam straight back up, and destroying these military satellites worth billions of dollars. It's that simple!

I have decided to sell my greatest idea to the U.S. defense department. It goes like this- fit all ATM machines with facial recognition, and internally mounted riot guns, so when someone on the FBI or CIA watch list turns up to withdraw some cash, they get a face full of Government issue buckshot instead!






















Hellbourne Choppers Weapons Division modified 3700 series.

Try telling me I'm not amazing. Go on...


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.