“You can do no wrong in my eyes”

Could it be any more ironic that the main lyrical hook in Thom York’s contribution to the New Moon soundtrack is “You can do no wrong in my eyes”?

Fucking hell Thom, why would you be such a bummer? Ben Gibbard is clearly a moron who’s been whining about the same shit his entire life and doesn’t know any better. (Although the fact that he leads us all to believe he is such a student of good literature would of perhaps prompted an assumption that he may have some semblance of sense when it comes to affiliating himself with a piece of it.) But from you Thom: I would expect better judgement.

The image below was taken from the Radiohead website (circa OK Computer). Tragic-irony should – if anything – be no more than a garnish on someone’s life or career, not be worn like a piss-soaked bed sheet.

The thing is, Thom York and the rest of Radiohead have worked so long and hard at maintaining their personal and musical integrity, that a foolish error like this is certainly not severe enough to cause him or them to lose it. However, although Thom’s integrity remains intact, it is now smattered with the cunny-juice of around one billion irrational (and unfortunately many – seemingly – rational) females. And even once the initial HazMat is removed, a stain will remain, and it is this brownish discolouration that will be the reason there will forever be a side of the Radiohead pillow on which we will all choose not to sleep. For ever summer from here on out, there will be none of the old “Oh man it’s so hot: maybe I’ll just turn my pillow over to the cold side.” Maybe nothing Radiohead fans!

Foot note: I’m not sure why I just made so many references to the soiling of bedclothes.

Another foot note: Who really even gives a fuck about anything to do what I just wrote? I’m not even really sure I do…

Missing

To type and let it all out. Why not type and let it all out and play it backwards. And then play it forwards over it playing backwards. All sounds being presented backwards, yet running structurally forwards. Fall and hear the sounds suck to a jutted beat.   “Two cripples dancing, to the bitter end we live.”

I just had every missing person in, I guess, the United States of America add me on myspace. No, a selected database of the planets missing persons – those we notices had gone. For those whom a lack is felt. Please help find the missing.

Sickeningly sad is the way something as strange as that experience will make you feel. Unable to properly organise a combination of emotions to deal with something so unusual and foreign in ones life hitherto is what you will be.

Without even consciously contemplating their fate – no matter how hypothetical – an uneasiness based in instincts cultivated over the years you have so far lived will turn your stomach in the safety of your body as it sits in the safety of your home.

Ridged clicks and smooth, sad, sickness will tick and ebb through your body.

And then you won’t feel it. Problems too big and (too) not your own. You will feel it’s absence. Then you will not.

Visual Vignette

This collection of photographs has been compiled in an attempt to create a kind of visual vignette of delicious foodz.

They were taken over the last two or so months by myself and Miss Lulu Wagstaffe.

“There’s a brand new dance, but I don’t know it’s name”

Today at 1:25pm I sat quietly in a white wooden chair holding the most recent issue of Harper’s Bazaar, a small box containing a chocolate that looked too ornamental to ingest (even if it were sans milk), and a black card which listed the designers who’s latest collections I would soon bare witness too in gold print. The collections were to be donned by beautiful young girls and two okay-looking guys.

The minutes rolled on and soon I was listening to our MC/musical accompaniment – a man named “Paris” who looked and moved like a mobile phone salesman – as he mumbled his way through a medley of eight or so random songs; replacing lyrics such as “come-on-ba-by-light-my-fi-re” with impromptu witticisms like “comeonBen-Sher-man-light-my-fi-re” – a real asshole.

The asshole sang on, and I watched pretty girls in interesting clothing walk by one after the other. Some awkwardly. Some entrancingly. I remained composed and reasonably inconspicuous as my girlfriend strode by elegantly. I did not, as I had threatened to the night before, pat the woman in her early sixties who sat next to me on the thigh, and remark “*sniff* …I’m hittin’ that.” and follow this with a straight-faced, eyes-locked penetration of the hole created by my thumb and forefinger. That joke, although I believe a good one, had run it’s course a smooth twelve hours earlier.

Girls came this way and girls came that way. I sat one story up in Melbourne’s GPO building where a “catwalk” had been, eh, fashioned around the southern chamber’s interior balcony. Bags and shoes and frocks and dresses. Slacks and coats and shirts. I watched them all as they made their way past me. Every detail: I tried to acknowledge and commit to memory.

The obviously pretty girls continued to dawdle towards and away from me. And given the (lack of) distance between myself and the models, I soon developed a technique by which I could view each outfit (and each model) in it’s entirety without feeling as though my show of interest could be misconstrued as being anything more than that – interest. As they approached: I would view the garments from neckline to waist. As they drew level: I would take notice of the footwear. And as they departed to shuffle hurriedly into another outfit: I would admire all I had omitted up to this point in no more than two thirds of a second.

This technique I thought proved invaluable, as girls whom I have met and know the names of, began parading by in see-through lingerie – thigh-high stockings. Alas, in spite of all my honing, I apparently was still to have been reported as having a “shocked look” on my face.

As “Paris” the asshole ambled apathetically into Billy Idol’s White Wedding, the final collection was exhibited. During which I watched my gorgeous girlfriend pace by in a flowing white wedding gown. This was an unexpected vision considering the mere months we have been dating; and certainly worth the queer smirk exchanged between us.

I put a dollar in the machine downstairs and realised I’ve lost seventeen kilos.

“It would be nice if you were nicer to me.”

I like to torment the things which I love.

I think I have always been this way. It’s not so much that I like to do it (although I do) but I just do it. When I see cute things I want to be cruel to them. There are a number of elements and motivations that make up this behaviour of mine. Here are just a few examples of it’s manifestation.

first of all, if it is a pretty girl, I find it amusing to call them horrible things, ugly things, to me this is ironic and funny; I will say to my beautiful girlfriend with a loving smile in my voice “Hello you weird little donkey… Hello you ugly, weird, little donkey…” (This is not something I’ve actually said, or rather remember saying, but an example of a random animal or thing I might conjure at a moment such as this) She may know that I am just joking, and indeed why I am joking, and indeed know that the fact is that she is so undeniably cute, I feel comfortable joking in this way (you wouldn’t play this kind of game with an okay-looking girl) but if you simply hear the words “weird little donkey” over and over again it starts to effect you.

Secondly, I had a dog called bobby when I was young, and one day I chased him around the four lengths of veranda that went around my house wearing a Scream mask (like the one from the film Scream – only that film hadn’t come out yet). I chased him around making monster noises until he collapsed in front of the locked doggy-door and started pissing all over himself. I knew that what I was doing was wrong when I was doing it. I knew how scared he was. He didn’t need to piss himself for me to realise that, but I kept doing it anyway. I was just a kid testing boundaries and I instantly regretted my actions. I burst out crying and got down and stated hugging and patting him while he was still peeing – all over us.

Now that last example isn’t really fair to bring up as it is an isolated circumstance that I learnt a lesson from, but it does nevertheless hint towards this hurt-something-cute-so-you-can-cheers-it-up kind of behaviour.

Last night myself and my current girlfriend or victim, were horsin’ around, poking at ribs and just generally messing with each other. She has an irrational fear of people tickling her feet (no matter how irrational, this is quite common) anyway, I think I’ve only actually tickled her feet once or twice maybe, but her fear is so all-consuming that all I need to do is act like I’m going to or threaten to tickle her feet. In fact, all I need to do is make a particular angry face in their direction in order to send her into hysterics! Now this is not something I’ve played at to often, but something that is giddily enjoyable because everything about it is weird and ridiculous. So after a low rib poke that made me flinch so hard my laptop hit the wall, I decided to step it up to foot threats! “No! You’re fucked! I’m gonna mess those little things up!” I said as I stormed out of the room to place my computer a safe distance from the melee that would ensue. But all of a sudden her objections broke off into intense whines of agony! I quickly returned to the room to find her on the side of the bed with both her moccasins almost completely laced up, something that she did in the one and a half seconds I was gone! She had done this so frantically that she had caused her calf to cramp!

The horsing around was over and her cramp quickly subsided, but I couldn’t stop laughing about the speed at which all this had transpired – she must have been a blur! “What the fuck is going on?!” I asked. ”I super freaked out and tried to put my shoes on…” she said. I laughed until all holes in my face were leaking or threatening to – so did she. Tormented and cheered up: see what I’m talking about?!

I’m sorry but it is too hard to not be this way.

:o~-8

So I have not posted in a long, long time.

I have gone to post a few times but either felt what I was writing was something too personal (maybe more suited for a diary entry or something like that) or something I didn’t want a large number of people to potentially find out about.

The intention of this blog from it’s inception was to have a completely honest outlet for myself, but as I’ve started to censor it before I even write on it, I’ve felt like deleting it a few times. But really, who gives a fuck? It’s just a blog and I might as well grab a tissue for my failed idealism, and just right some random things and leave out what ever the fuck I feel like leaving out – even if that which I omit is the most interesting or worth reading about.

For example: Last night I went and had some dinner with the GF, it was awesome. VS. I cried this morning because I felt so sick and even began punching myself in the stomach in a spasm of frustration brought on by the six years of gut pain and shitting myself I’ve endured.

The latter is probably more interesting than hearing about how much fun I had at Vegie Hut – any cunt can have fun at Vegie Hut – but I don’t really want talk a great deal about it.

*This section of the entry has been removed at the request of the domain holder*

I really need money.

I don’t care if nothing else goes my way all day.

This one is juuuuuust for me. Speak soon.

Some sandwich I will never eat.

I will forever rather be who I am, than a joke that people are simply careful not to laugh at.

You know who the fuck you are (for good).

Do you know what’s… funny?

The fact that it is taboo to use myspace messenger, but not facebook messenger. Regardless of the myriad reasons for this (perhaps), it’s just funny. I’m not even saying there is something wrong with this; i adhere to the same e-social guide line.

I kinda feel weird after writing that.

WWII collectible magazines.

I have seventy of these. My mum bought them for my birthday last year, and I was ecstatic! I have been a World War II buff for many years. Im not as into it as I used to be. It was at it’s height when I was 15: I was working in a bookshop by-myself , and would spend hours learning of all the major battles, figures and wartime culture as I poured over various different books. I also rented, watched and taped every film - documentary or dramatic narrative – that I could get my hands on. Oh, and video games.

Here are a few of my favourite covers. There are two different series’ ‘WORLD WAR II‘ & ‘History of the Second World War’. The final three images are a few back covers of the issues pictured.

I’m gonna go party and talk to chicks in an attempt to counteract the nerd-ness I just exhibited.