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Berlin, aren’t you pretty?

9 Jan

My friends, artsy pictures here, party pictures on FB later. Consider this a wafer-taste of what is to come.

What Would Kanye Do?

15 Oct

I am currently listening to this song on repeat. It makes me want to do the following things:

1. learn the piano

2. toast to douche bags, assholes, scum bags, and jerk offs at any opportunity I get (including work drinks).

3. Be a gangster, or, at the very least, not white.

4. Swoon. Kanye, you beast.

Self-flagellation

3 Aug

I have an irrational fear of zombies. Well, not really irrational- the idea of people you know and love turning into flesh-hungry, mutilated monsters (who according to more recent movies can run really, really fast) is abso-fucking-lutely terrifying. But I guess irrational in that such an event is pretty unlikely (and yet I touch wood; no harm in guarding against the infamous horror-movie last words: “xxxx don’t exist” right?)

My fear spawned from a movie jaunt where I had Sandra Bullock’s rom-com 28 Days in mind, and instead sat through the two hours of death and terror that is 28 Days Later. My bad. I hyperventilated the whole film, was sleep-deprived for weeks, and still can’t bear to be alone in large buildings. Or small ones, for that matter.

So last night, what compelled me to rent the ‘comedy’ Zombieland? Had I forgotten that I find nothing, nothing, funny about zombies? And why have I spent all day googling ‘zombie’ and reading plot synopses of other zombie-flicks? Am I some sort of computer-age flagellant, searching out images and stories to haunt my dreams? The fact that I am posting the images on my blog seems to suggest the affirmative.

The real messed up thing is that I console myself with the knowledge that should zombies somehow take over the world and come bursting through my bedroom door, my hysterical, fear paralysed, soiled-self would be an easy catch. Forget ‘survival instincts’; death and/or transformation into the living-dead would at least be quick.

Ay, Port.

28 Jul

LCD soundsystem are playing in Melbourne tomorrow night, and I want to go, real, real, freaking bad. But it had sold out before I even knew about it, so any yearning I had was well-thwarted; wrong city + no tickets = no go. But now they annouce last minute extra ticket sales, and the object of my desire becomes suddenly attainable.

All. I. Need. Is. Teleportation.

Is that really too much to ask? I mean, I dropped out of science in 5th form, and barely know my animals from my vegetables from my minerals, but surely teleportation could be sussed by now? Time saving, environmentally friendly, sparkly and/or psychadellic (I assume)- what more can we ask of science? Not much, I tell you, not much at all.

And I think we would all appreciate just how cool and futuristic teleportation would make us feel. Better than spandex, even. Especially if we called it something catchy like ‘iPort pro’. See Science? I’ve done all the ground work, all the marketing, all the consumer research; the window of opportunity is open, the wind of change is ruffling your hair! Can’t you just step up and take on your responsibility, like the respected dicipline you are? It is, I believe, simple physics.

Back to the future.

25 Jul

I just got home from a night at an amazing old homestead in the Wairarapa, where, like Mrs Havisham’s cavernous abode in Great Expectations, time stands still. The mist could hide a hundred Magwitches, and the stable (and carriage) is straight from Pip’s blacksmith childhood. Why is it that to me, everything old seems instantly British, and everything British seems instantly Dickensian? I blame it on the colonial-hangover New Zealanders just can’t shake, tempered with my geeky bookishness. Exhibit B? My description of the wallpaper as “totally Elvish”. And I meant it entirely as a good thing. Sadly no interior pictures were allowed.

Genius

23 Jul

These stories made me laugh out loud on my bus ride to work. You might like them too.

Your eyesight gets better & better in a very short space of time: Magic Eye

21 Jul

Walking home last night, I caught a very distinct wiff on the chilly night air, and was dragged sinus-first back to my childhood – bare feet, hot tar, ‘Alexis is a lesbeean and so is her brother’ tagged on the school fort, a brief fling with Christianity (mainly for the free tea and biscuits) – it all came back in an olfactory flood of deep-fried goodness: fush und chups. The Ngaio fish and chip shop was nothing special, far from it- soggy and salty, but what more could you want I guess. The one thing that really set it above the rest was its sweet sweet Magic Eye poster.

 

So the smell of deep fry is forever linked in my mind to those 90s fluro posters, each tacky colour jostling for a place in the masses, a refugee camp for rejected, overly-bright hues. So for a psychedelic trip down memory-lane, I looked some up, and here they are, as ugly and magical as ever. For a second I thought maybe they wouldn’t work on a computer screen – pixels etc etc, but happily, they, like the Da Vinci Code, remain crackable. Enjoy. And FYI, the post title is the name of the original, Japanese, Magic Eye book. Awesome.