Hey Ho!

Hey there Blog Fans,

I'm back with more Blogarities.

When I left yesterday to rush home to watch Life on Mars (three or four weeks in and it still puts the hairs on the back of my neck up at least twice an episode) I'd just finished mentioning how good Strength Through Joy was.

But I hadn't mentioned the reason that I didn't actually get home until Sunday Night.

The reason being that after STJ I got invited to an after party by James and a bunch of other STJ regulars that was being held in a terrace house a few streets away.

The after party was actually pretty chilled. Somebody fired up the I-tunes on the PC at one end of the living room and people sat around talking about history and stuff. The people there were all either students, or held philosophy degrees or even MA's.

It was a strange turnaround. Call me arrogant, but I am used to being (or at least feeling like) the smartest person in the room, most of the time. In this room, I wasn't even in the running.

Just a note about London: the stereotype of the well educated Londoner is becoming more of a lie year by year. The English Educational System is pretty damn terrible, not necessarily by fault of the teachers either. But the fact remains, if I ever have kids, given the choice I'll send them to school in Australia. Or Sweden, 0r Norway, or somewhere where people actually value an education.

Come to think of it, most Scandinavians I have met actually speak better English than so many people I meet in London, so maybe I would send my kids to school in Scandinavia.

Anyways, all of Sunday people were kicking back on couches, swapping notes, sipping drinks and at one stage playing a version of University challenge (refer: the Young Ones) where anyone would yell out a question and anyone could yell out an answer.

At one point I offered to keep score, until someone pointed out to me that it didn't really matter.

I did hear a lot of stuff I didn't know.

Trippy.

Later I took the Bus to Liverpool Street then took the tube back to Leytonstone. Neato.

Something I forgot to mention: on the trip from Leytonstone to Tottenham Court Road on Saturday Night, the driver came over the Tannoy and annouced: "Due to an incident outside Stratford Station, this train will not be stopping at Stratford Station". Bizarre. Since 7.7 there have been numerous stations shut down because of security alerts, but this was OUTSIDE the station.

As the train went past, before it submerged into the tunnel at the east end of Stratford Station I saw 8 police vans, lights flashing, lining the bus station road. Weird.

Yesterday, as I was at Stratford Station (I had to have the chip on my card sorted at HSBC) a newspaper seller told me that Saturday Night there was a riot at Stratford Station where 100 strong Riot Police turned up to quell it. Black youths running rampant, at least two stabbings and one person got shot.

Nasty.

This is the same night that Somali Drug Gangs murdered a man outside Camden Station.

London can be weird.

Other news: Yesterday morning I woke up with not one but TWO short story ideas, which I wrote down immediately.

Other than that, all else is normal.

Gotta go.

Over and out.

J

What a Weekend!

Hey Blogophants,

As I was coming out of WH Smith today, I was set upon by one of two Israeli girls manning a stand selling Dead Sea hand care products. Eg exfoliating salt mixed with Aromatherapy oils and a special for sided nail buffer.

Since I knew I wasn't going to be buying any of this but I felt like the attention, I let the girl do her spiel, including smearing my hand with cream and the aforementioned nail buffing, exercised on my right hand forefinger nail.

As it happens, the four-sided nail buffer works really really well, and as a result ten of my nails look relatively dull while my fore finger nail is bright and shiny.

I'm concerned that this is going to raise un-askable questions in the minds of some Londoners.

Nevermind.

No post yesterday, because I wasn't home yet.

As I said in last post: I was going out to see Paradise Lost and go to Strength Through Joy.

I got to Paradise Lost just in time to see the end of Anathema's set (Anathema being the Doom-Metal band from Liverpool). They were doing a cover of Hurt by NIN that sounded a bit like James (as in the 90s indie-ish band from Manchester, big hit with Laid).

I got talking to a random bloke in a velvet jacket (named Lee) who, on hearing that I was Australian, introduced me to his friend Belinda, who I initially thought was his Girlfriend. I later found out she wasn't, how about that.

Belinda was an Australian, from Brisbane, who moved to London eight years ago. She was curious about recent developments in Brisbane (relatively recent, anyway) and we also swapped survival tips about London. She also told me all she knew about getting work in Bookshop chains. After the show she gave me her e-mail address. Neato.

From there I jumped on the Victoria Line to Highbury and Islington for Strength Through Joy. Just outside the Highbury Station was the Buffalo Bar (I think it's called) that was running a club night called 'Glamorama'.

Interesting. A club named after a Bret Easton Ellis book. I decided to pass it up and come back for American Psycho.

On to Strength Through Joy. Which was BRILLIANT. Seriously. And not just because Chris finally remembered to add my name to the guestlist.

I mean, STJ does set a pretty high standard for a night out, but this time everyone pulled out all the stops. To begin with, there were so many people there. I later found out that 124 paying customers came through the doors, 6 people off a Sold Out House. Secondly, one of Chris' friends was running an interesting projection thing off his laptop. It would project a political quote (without citing who said it, very Post-Modern) along with a trippy background. Brilliant.

Finally, I don't know whether it is all the barbells etc I've been doing, whether I was just in a good mood or whether the vibe/music was exceptionally good, but I danced like a lunatic for three hours, give or take.

I also got talking to a couple of the regulars as well as a couple of first-timers. One of the first timers was a bloke who was wearing a T-shirt for the movie Scanners, so we had a laugh about various Cronenberg movies.

One of the regulars I spoke to was a trainee barrister who, like me, is a straight male who gets mistaken for being being gay because of his delicate hand movements.

I could dedicate a ridiculous amount of type to why STJ was great, but I don't have the time.

Because I'm out of time here.

Dammit.

Over and out.

Quickly Quickly:

About to get turfed out:

Went to see Children of Bodom last night.

Got talking to a Glaswegian who was down because it was a one-off London Show.

Ran into Hai Fung, the Vietnamese law-student who was kind enough to spontaneously plus-one me on his free entry into the Mean-Fiddler last friday (I probably forgot to mention him).

Ran into Hilary.

My mother called from Australia.

Took the tube home and talked to some Essex kids about metal and stuff. Swapped band recommendations and tips on picking fast.

Got home, read a whole lot of American Splendor.

Slept.

Woke up, read more of The Assassin's Apprentice.

Now I'm getting turfed out.

Tomorrow: Paradise Lost and Strength Through Joy.

Over and out.

Hoidy!

Hey there Blogophiliacs,

Yesterday I sent off an application for a job that I saw in the window of the Folyes in Charing Cross.

Then I took the tube to Leicester Square to go see Underworld Evolution.

While I was waiting in the line a tall, hairy, dirty bloke with a backpack was in front of me, slightly slurring his words, and when he got to the front and asked for a ticket to see Underworld, the cashier knocked him back on the grounds that he was drunk.

He denied that he was drunk but became so agitated that he headbutted the glass partition and threatened all of the staff, demanding that they come out of the box office to settle the matter. This went on for at least ten minutes, during which time he headbutted the glass again, and eventually a bouncer from a nearby club led him away, where he continued to rage.

I don't think he was drunk, but I'd say he was under the influence of something and he was definitely not the kind of bloke I'd like to be in a theatre with.

Bizarre.

Naturally the police turned up, in numbers with an armoured car, once everything was over. Nice one, Mr Plod. Keep up the good work.

On Underworld Evolution itself: boring, ponderous, irritating with occaisionally good set design.

Once again Kate Beckinsale was unconvincing as a Vampire, the other Vampires and Werewolves bordered on the ridiculous, and various Vampire Movie cliches were shovelled in for no terribly good reason.

I have a theory that no good vampire movies have been made since The Lost Boys (with the possible exception of the first Buffy movie, but that was a Parody more than anything else), and neither of the Underworld films have done much to prove me wrong.

Besides which, there just weren't enough gratuitous butt-shots of Kate Beckinsale in her shiny outfit. This isn't the kind of thing that I usually complain about...

Random Friend: What did you think of The Shawshank Redemption?
Me: It's rubbish! Not enough gratuitous PVC arse shots!

... Nope, not at all. But when a movie that clearly offers so little else, and is marketed heavily on the fetishistic nature of the material, suffers from a dearth of low-angle cinematography it almost constitutes false advertising.

Geez. Where's Carrie-Ann Moss when you need her?

In any case, it seems that critics around the world (or at least around America) agree with me:

http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/underworld_evolution/

Other bitches and gripes about the movie:

Vampires are nocturnal, and according to most traditions they can see in the dark pretty damn well: WHY DO THEY NEED TORCHES?

Why were there some secondary characters (eg the highway patrol officers) speaking Czech and others (the security guars at the wharf) speaking French? Especially when all the principle characters were always speaking English?

If Derek Jacobi's character was the original immortal, why did he look so sodding old?

I know that seeing a Vampire movie and complaining that it sucked is like buying a pie at the cricket and complaining that it's, but fuck me, it was awful.

So, feeling a weird mixture of underwhelmed and violated, I took the tube home and read more of The Assassin's Apprentice by Robin Hobb. Which at least runs the risk of having a decent story.

Today was laundry, food, buying magazines and checking e-mail.

I also received the letter from BT confirming that the details for my phone installation. Two weeks from now and it will be done. Neato.

Tomorrow night I see Children of Bodom.

Saturday Night I see Paradise Lost and the go to Strength Through Joy. Mental note: send Email to Chris reminding him I'm on the guest list.

Other News: in the SFX magazine I bought there is a nice big article of tips for aspiring writers, plus a short story comp running.

Cool, I'll be in that.

Over and out.

J

In stone were these words first hewn...

Hey Blogniks,

Since this is Monday, and I have resolved not to buy books more than once a week, I did another shopping expedition into London to raid the bookshops.

On my travels I picked up another Invisibles trade paperback at this natty little basement comics shop. While in there I had a cool conversation about Grant Morrison's writing style, Simon Bisley's artwork (Simon Bisley did the covers for another Morrison title, Doom Patrol), whether The Matrix was a blatant plagiarism of The Invisibles and a Rolling Stone article about Larry Wachowski.

Neato.

The Comic Shop Dudes disagreed with my assertion that The Invisibles was influenced by The A-Team but I think they appreciated my lateral thinking.

Then I wandered down Charing Cross road to check the seesion times for Underworld II, just to see if I could squeeze in seeing it and still be home in time for Life on Mars. Nope, next session 1920, no way I would be home in time.

Speaking of movies, last night I also wanted to see Underworld II, but by the time I got into Leicester Square (it wasn't playing at Stratford, I checked) the next session would have had me exiting after tubes stopped running, or very close.

So instead I went to see The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.

D'oh!

My sister had said it was lousy, some internet dude has described it as Thrill Sucking Crap, but I had to see it for myself.

Sure, for the most part it looked great, and there were moments of shivers.

But by and large I found myself bored, listless and wishing I could reach through the fourth wall and slap some of the main characters.

Edmund especially. I'm not a happy advocate of child abuse, but that kid really deserved a beating.

Furthermore, it has been a lot of years since I read the book, but I am pretty sure that Aslan, not Santa Claus gave the children their weapons.

The movie did succeed in showing me another way to look at a story I already knew.

Unfortunately that other way was 'Hells Bells, did I ever think this Schmaltz was good?'

Elea, I should have listened to your warnings.

Back to today:

After checking the cinemas, I wandered down to the Charing Cross Library and was surprised to find that it was a tiny little hole-in-a-wall compared to the Stratford and Walthamstow libraries. How does that work?

Although what it lost in size it made up for in the quality of it's selection. It was the first time I'd been there, but I reckon I'll be back.

On the backswing I read in a backstreet bookshop window that they were looking for a Tarot Card reader, and entertained the thought of inventing an East European ex-gypsy for the part.

I also stopped in at a stylish stationary shop to buy some magazine racks before hitting Blackwells and buying a Robin Hobb novel, the first of the Farseer Trilogy (I needed something to wash the taste of the Narnia Chronicles out of my head).

Reading some of the first chapter on the tube home, I think I made a good decision.

Here something unrelated: checking the wikipedia entry about Iain M Banks, it says that he writes his novels in three months and then spend nine months off, travelling and recording rock music.

I think I've found a new hero.

Gotta go, getting thrown out and Life on Mars calls.

Gotta assemble these magazine racks.

J

Hey all,

Hey Hey,

Playing catchup, yesterday I got up in the afternoon and found a Turnkey Audio catalogue which had arrived while I was either out or sleeping.

In the catalogue was a strictly limited number of copies of Logic Express V7, which had been marked down from £200 to £105, since V7.1 has since arrived.

Since this sounded like too good a deal to miss, I figured I'd hie into Soho and pick up a copy, if I got there in time.

Unfortunately the number of copies had already reached it's strict limits. Since I was stretching the budget at £105 I figured I'd cut my losses. I'll catch it next time. Or start a fund when I'm next employed.

I consoled myself by going across the street to Foyles, picking up a Django Reinhard double CD (jazzy and good) and taking notes on the latest Appointments notice in the window. Hmm, seems they want an administrative assistant for the cash office upstairs. I might actually be qualified for this. CV and cover letter coming.

About the Estonian Girls: Beautiful, multi-lingual and a little insane. Just my type it seems. One of them didn't believe that I was Australian because 'Australians are really aggressive.'

I never said I was a typical Australian, besides I vent my aggression other ways.

I'll probably never see either of those girls again, but they made the first half of a usually tedious bus ride home much less so.

Tonight I might go see Underworld II at Stratford.

Over and out.

J

Pretty interesting 24 hours...

Pretty interesting last 24 Hours.

The Bleeding Through show was fun.

Both Brandon and Marta recognised me from the last three times they've played London. I told Marta that the Keyboards needed to be higher on the record, which I'm shure she took as a attempt to impress her, but to me it's the god's honest truth: the thing that separates Bleeding Through from all the other Metalcore Bands, especially now that everyone is going for a Swedish Sound, is their atmospherics.

For Bleeding Through's actual set I was up on the Balcony, thus I managed to have a great view and not get beat up. Actually, possibly due to the different venue or possibly due to their broadening fanbase, pit violence was kept to an impressive minimum.

And I got a really good view of Marta's corner from where I was. Just a note: she was basically miming/shouting along to Brandon the whole set. When are they going to give her a mic? Are they afraid that a brutal female vocalist is going to upstage the rest of the band, Walls of Jericho/Arch Enemy style?

Nevermind.

Also notable about the show: ran into Katie Parsons, Metal Hammer writer just back from America. And a couple of folk I suspect were Metal Press of some distinction, possibly Terrorizer.

The reason I suspected they were Terrorizer scribes was because I went to a new every-third-Friday Terrorizer organised thing upstairs at the Mean Fiddler afterwards, and they were there.

As was the Drummer in Hilary's band. Apparently the new guitarist was there as well, but went home after imbibing too much. Ha. Lightweight.

Drummer: You see much of Hilary?
Me: [Pause] Not as much as I used to.

Boom boom.

I one of the possible scribes I was talking to (a tall Italian bloke I had been swapping notes with during BT's set) introduced to me his friend Matt. Matt is another Australian, only he's ex Bezerker and now playing guitar in Akercocke, the Black/Death band from London.

Turn's out his flatmate is a Mortuary Assistant. He told me stories he'd heard about chainsaw murders and old women dying in bathtubs, to be found three weeks later. I told him stories my mother told me about fourteen-year-old girls with Herpes Sores from her knees to her navel and women with ectopic pregnancies rupturing during tennis games.

In between that I also got to meet the two guitarists from Dragonforce, one of whom was so drunk he could barely stand up. I predict rehab for him within the next year. I wonder if Ladbrokes will be in on it. Hmm.

I bugged out of there around three.

The bus ride home was more interesting than usual. I usually like to ride right up the front, since if I can't see where the bus is going I feel a little sick by the end. It seems to be restricted to when I ride at the top of the double decker buses late at night, weird but true.

Anyways, the front two seats were taken up by two drunk East European blokes that got on when I did up toward Marble Arch (I walked all the way up there to beat the crowds that get on opposite centrepoint.

I sat two behind them.

At centrepoint two pretty east european girls got on. They sat in the seat in front of me.

The until they got off a funny conversation erupted between all of us in a mixture of Estonian, Lithuanian, English and Russian took place.

I'll tell more about it later.

Right now, I have to go.

Over and out.

J

Gotta be quick...

A quick post because I'm ruinning late to go see Bleeding Through:

Today I made the calls to BT to get a phone line organised. It's all sorted. Yay. Excited.

Unfortunately the soonest appointment to get it done was Tuesday the 7th of Feb. So I guess from the end of next week til then there will be pointing and laughing aplenty.

'There's goes mister No Land Line! Ha Ha Ha!'

No matter. It is done and sorted.

Anyways, gotta go.

Over and out.

J

Here's Tom with the weather...

Hey,

As it happens, I didn't manage to blag my way into the Moorcock/Moore thing. I must be losing my touch.

As it happens, it was a combination of things: first of all, I hadn't written down where the actual event was. Secondly, I got into the West End just before it was due to start. Anyone I could have blagged a ticket from had already gone in.

I found this out from a bloke in Blackwells who, like me, hadn't got a ticket. No matter.

Instead I looked through Blackwells and Borders, formulating arguments for coverletters etc.

Then I went looking for pancakes. This entailed wandering, street by street, eastways through the West End in the area bordered by New Oxford Street on one side and the British Museum on the other.

Mental note: Check out the British Museum.

I did find a cafe that made pancakes, but they were closed by the time I got there. I did find lots of little shops that I had no idea were there.

London's like that. You think you know the place then you go left instead of right and you find yourself looking at stuff you've never seen before.

One thing I found was a Gaming Shop that was looking for a shop assistant, relevant experience required.

Hmm... I guess I could pretend to be a gamer geek. I know what to do: I won't shave or shower tomorrow, wear my leather coat with a hood and silly shoes, eat as many cheeseburgers as I can in 24 hours and drop my resume in tomorrow. There's a plan.

Around 8PM I got a message from my landlady telling me that it was entirely kosher for me to organise my own BT Line Connection. Groovy. Just before I was looking at the BT site looking for the right contact numbers etc to organise the phone line connection.

Like I've probably said before: Landline = able to do interviews = building better folio of material = one step closer to being able to be a journalist as a paid job.

That and it won't cost so much when my Mother calls me from Australia.

Tomorrow night I see Bleeding Through play again. If I'm lucky I'll get a place on the gallery or right on the stage. Otherwise it'll be dancing with my guard up and hoping I don't get concussed by the knobheads who think that shows are for deliberately hurting people and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fag.

Still, I get the feeling there is a grass roots backlash against all that pit-slaying bullshit building as I type. We can only hope.

Winding up: I'm going to do as much reading as I can over the weekend, to make room for more reading.

And if I don't have a landline installed by this time next week, you all have permission to point and laugh.

Over and out.

J

Quick quick quick

Quick post:

Paid my rent.

Messaged my Landlady about installing a phone line in the flat for my own pers0nal use. Asked if I had persmission to contact BT directly about getting it done.

No message back yet. Silence Implies Assent? I'll wait till tomorrow on that one.

I'm just about to head to Charing Cross Road to see if I can blag my way into the Michael Moorcock/Alan Moore thing. Find someone with a spare ticket or something. Probably not, but it did work with Bleeding Through.

I wonder if he would be impressed if I told him that a friend in Brisbane did his Master's Thesis on him?

No matter.

Over and out.

J

Splam!

Hey Everyone,

Another Monday down, another episode of Life On Mars, which is already one of my fave shows this year, not in the least because of it's ability to irritate people who can't get their head around it.

I was reading in one of the Culture liftouts in one of the weekend papers (probably CULTURE from the Sunday Times, but I can't be sure) a short blurb where the reviewer said that 'Life On Mars continues to have it's cake and eat it.' referring to the perceived dichotomies within the programme in terms of genre, theme etc. Is it a gritty, street level police drama or is it a parody of seventies shows like The Sweeney? Is it a Science Fiction Time Travel or is it a Grand Hallucinatory construction within the rampaging subconscious of the comatose protagonistic copper? Are we supposed to feel any kind of empathetic connection with these characters while knowing that they are not supposed to be real? All this and more.

People who see all these things as flaws in the programme are really missing something important about culture and creativity in the 21st Century (or for that matter, any other time... but especially now). The point is that any piece of fiction, non-fiction whatever, be it a movie, music, comic, fine-art etc can operate on a myriad of levels and layers of meaning. To say that any one layer invalidates any other no longer holds water. These days Online comics effortlessly shift gears between styles of drawing (eg standard manga style to exaggerated Chibi style and back again - I'm pretty sure that machall have done this, among others) within the space of a panel. Movies directors leave coded love-notes to previous movie directors in the films.

All things are valid. The only thing that is not valid, in my opinion, is mediocrity and lies. Reality Television is a lie at all levels. I'm a Celebrity is a lie. Etc. If I don't stop now, I'm going to spray bile all over the keyboard...

Back to the show: Life on Mars could have been a trainwreck. The different elements could have mixed together to make it awful. It hasn't.

End of rant.

Other news: I may or may not have mentioned that Hilary's band made the finals for some band comp, which were to be played out on the 20th of this month somewhere in Islington. It turns out that the finals have been postponed until June, or something.

This is actually a good thing for me, because I was marking in my Diary and on my Calendar all the shows that I have tickets for (currently four, including Ben Lee, something I'm going to just so I can review it for Fasterlouder) and I realised that on Friday Night (the 20th) I would have been at Bleeding Through anyway.

For the Record, Ben Lee means that I can't see Dragonforce, who are playing the same night. The little fucker. First he scores with Claire Danes, now this.

Speaking of saying offensive things while in character and wondering if people will get the joke (although I am still pissed off that I will miss Dragonforce again), I saw Man on the Moon last night. The movie about Andy Kauffman that Jim Carey made. It was pretty interesting, in terms of how seriously people took the characters, not realising the separation of the character and the man. Although I did agree with the TV Exec who complained that Andy and his writer were guilty of making jokes that only two people in the whole world found funny.

I'm currently resisting the temptation to look for spoilers about the new season of LOST on the internet. I read a Warren Ellis maillout yesterday where he referred to Walt typing something to Michael on the keyboard in the Swan. I'm imagining that The Swan is a spaceship at the bottom of the shaft that the Hatch lead into, and it crashed on the island like everything every other vessel that comes near. The idea being that the Island exists outside time, and the bits and stuff from all time and space winds up there. For example, the Slave Ship from the Season One Finale.

I read somewhere that the creators of LOST have the Grand Arc of the Plot roughly mapped out for seven seasons. Which is assuming, on their part, that they make it to seven seasons. Or beyond, like the X-Files did, even though most will agree that as a cultural force it was effectively spent after the first three or four seasons. I'm sure that at www.jumptheshark.com they have a much better barometer of public opinion in that department.

Hell, Twin Peaks on did two seasons, and some people reckon that it lost all revelevance before the first season finale.

Different subject: while I was wandering around Blackwells yesterday afternoon, I spotted a bunch of Robin Hobb books for sale. Robin Hobb is an author that I've been meaning to check out for a while. Somebody on Noisetheory actually went as far as saying 'The Best Fantasy Writer there is', or words to that effect.

Here's the funny part: I picked up one of the books and read the About The Author Blurb and discovered that Robin Hobb is a woman who lives in Washington State. I thought Robin Hobb was a man. Silly me.

Anyways, I've been typing here longer than I meant to, so I'm going to go home and fry up a juicy steak.

Yummo.

Then I'm going to keep on with my project of rewiring my mind for the new year.

Over and out.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

Okay, presuming that all the people I offended with last post are still with me, Hey everybody out there in Blog Land.

I just got back from Bognor Regis after spending the weekend hanging out with my Dad, my Grandmother and assorted Uncles and other relations.

Did I mention that My Grandmother always overfeeds me? Here was the funny thing: this time I was actually hungry most of the time. How weird is that. Not only that, whenever I go down there I usually seem to gain a little weight. I bought some scales last week, and since Friday I seem to have lost two Kilos.

Weird.

I understand that 2 kilos is entirely within the fluctuations that a human being's weight goes through, but it is still a little surprising.

Notable things about the weekend besides: - reading the Times, the Telegraph etc and deciding that I should buy a dictionary if I'm going to continue to read English Newspapers. Australian Newspapers have a reading age of twelve.

- Seeing a movie called Heaven's Gate on late night TV. Caused me to re-evaluate Kris Kristofferson as an actor etc, especially after reading an interview he did on Enough Rope last year. I always wrote him off as a redneck. Guess I was off base with that.

- Reading a Zine-ish Extreme Metal Mag from here in the UK and finding a really intelligent, academic even essay on the 19th Century cultural roots of the philosophies which would be reflected in the Pagan Black Metal movement. Fascinating reading.

Did I ever mention that a girl once thought it was funny that I loved Slayer but I could use words like Attrition in a Sentence? I hate the stereotype that metal fans are stupid almost as much as I hate the metal fans who live up to it.

Anyways...

Since getting back to London I've been to the Bank, and after I finish here (I'm typing pretty damn fast) I'll going to be running around on a couple of errands.

For example, I want to get a ticket to go see Michael Moorcock and Alan Moore at Blackwells on Wednesday. Which means that I need to buy a ticket.

Seriously. Having missed over the last few months, through my own ineptitude, Neil Gaiman AND Bret Easton Ellis, if I miss this for any other reason than it is already sold out, I officially suck.

At least as a literary poser.

Otherwise: I need to get out some money to pay my rent and have a look at Forbidden Planet to see if they have anything in the sales I want.

Plus I need to keep chipping away at ongoing projects, the foremost of which is currently GET A JOB.

In any case, enough blogging, time for action.

Things to see and people to do.

Over and out.

Later on...

Okay, I guess I officially suck.

I went to Blackwells, and it turns out that not only were tickets to the Moorcock/Moore talkie thing sold out, they were sold out last Wednesday. Thursday at the latest.

That in itself isn't enough to convict me of suckage (I did give myself an out) but to add insult to injury, when I went to Forbidden Planet to look for another Invisibles Trade Paperback I found out that I had missed an instore a few weeks ago by Brian Froud. Brian Fucking Froud. Brian Fucking Labyrinth Fucking Dark Chrystal Fucking Lady Cottington's Book of Fairies Fucking Froud.

Let me show you this in interpretive dance: The Ball, stage left. Me, faffing about stage right, never looking stage left once.

Fuck.

Anyways, I signed onto the Forbidden Planet Mailing List, I'll do the same for Blackwells, and I'm not going to let something like that slip past me again. Not without a damn good reason.

To console myself I bought an Invisibles trade paperback at another comic store, as well as a few issues of a Warren Ellis title called Desolation Jones, all the while swapping one liners with the staff.

Me: Hey. You know the signs in the stairway saying 'Warning: Stairs can be slippery. Be Careful.'
Cashier: Yeah?
Me: You should put a sign on the ceiling saying 'We Tried to Warn You...'

Other discovery today: there is a guitar shop just up the road from me on the High Road. Which means that if I want strings, picks or even my guitar setup I don't have to take it Soho.

Anyways, this is me heading out to do some quick shopping before heading home to watch Life On Mars.

Over and Out Again.

When we last left our hero...

Hey All,

I know I promised to write some big exposition about something or other yesterday, but I honestly can't remember what it was supposed to be about.

In any case, this has to be a short post, since I am running late to catch a train down to Bognor Regis for the weekend again. I would have been leaving sooner, but my Swedish Flatmate had a compulsive urge to clean up the flat which proved to be contagious. Ergo I spent some time tidying up when I should have been packing and going.

Last Night: Watched Terminator while flicking back and forth to some Doco/Drama about animal liberationists imaginatively called Animals. Short interviews with people on all sides of the issue mixed in with dramatization and fictionalisation.

And it really got my back up. Don't get me wrong, I love small furry animals, but I do believe that animal testing is a necessary part of medical research and that the harrassment tactics by opponents of such research is just plain wrong. There is a point where legitimate protest stops and hooliganism ensues.

But the one thing that really stuck with me was one of the more militant animal liberationists from America, interviewed at the end, made a statement along the lines of 'America fought a civil war over slavery, it is conceivable that there will be a war over animal testing.'

First of all, the idea of a war over animal testing is pretty ludicrous. To roughly quote Bono, 'It's a revolution 90% of my country don't want'. Only in this case, it's closer to 99.9%.

Secondly, while not meaning to negate in any way the absolute evil that is Slavery (I say is because there are nations in the Middle East that still practise it), the American Civil War was so much more complex than can be summed up in one word. Slavery was a factor, it was a huge factor, but it was not the only one.

Naturally, (and I apologise in advance to Clyo for my sweeping generalisation), I guess I can't be too shocked at an American for not knowing what a war is about. Famous examples:

The Vietnam War: to America, it was about Communism, to the Vietnamese it was about reunification and the expelling of colonial powers.

World War Two: until Germany declared war on America post Pearl Harbour, they saw it as a European conflict involving the usual suspects in terms of national conflict. When in actuality it was the result of Nazi military insanity, itself the hangover from the economic, diplomatic and cultural maelstrom post WWI.

I could go on, but I think I'm much less likely to shoot myself in the foot if I lay the rifle at this point.

Besides I have places to be.

Reading Grant Morrison comics gets me thinking all kinds of thoughts about postmodernism and culture theory. The kind of stuff I try to read in a textbook and fall asleep after ten minutes. These threads of thought resonate when I browse DVD shops and think about the concept of Expanded Universes and so on. Layers within layers, meanings weaved into content, content weaved into narrative deconstructed into delineated hypertext etc.

I'm going to look at some more stuff here then I think I'll be on my way.

Over and out.

J

Life could be a dream, doo wop!

Hey Everyone,

I've been washing and ironing more clothes, listening to music and reading more stuff. I'm chugging through the Invisibles trade paperback I bought the other day... I know that spending a few days reading a collection of comics sounds slack, but Grant Morrison is a really intelligent and densely-layered writer, ergo after every chapter I have to step back and digest the stuff I've just read.

While reading Transmetropolitan made me want to be a journalist again, The Invisibles tugs the part of me that is tempted to go back to University. (I can just hear my parents wondering how they can prevent me reading any more of this particular title. Heh.)

For the record, there are things I want to do before I go back to University. And it probably wouldn't be U of Q again. Something about that place sucks the passion out of me. (Whinge Whinge suck it up, marine).

Sorry if this seems to be even more flow of consciousness than usual, but I have only got two minutes until closing, so I need to degurge everything that is on my mind a quick as I can.

Other stuff: went to the Mac Shop to try to find a typing tutor programme. The were fresh out. The had some when I went in Last Week. Dang timing.

Lost Finale was cool. Tempts my to prowl the net for spoilers. C4 claim that it will be back in the Spring. I think the English Spring falls on a Tuesday this year.

Gotta windup.

More tomorrow.

Over and out.

J

Woo Ha!

Hey Everyone,

I've been somewhere between busy and sick for the last two or three days. Headache, sore throat, cold etc mixed with running around banking cheques and stuff.

Ergo I've been lazy with my blogging. Which I shouldn't be, since the first lesson of putting content on the internet is the more regularly you do it, the more inclined people are to read it.

And my ego decrees that I want to be read.

No matter.

Picking up from last time: Life on Mars was actually pretty good. Not mind blowingly good, but a very strong start with occaisional hairs-on-the-back-of-the-neck moments. And it is good to see more and more SF coming onto TV again.

Seriously, anything that forms a protective dyke against the soul-raping tyranny of contrived 'reality television' with it's invariable attendant cast of morons is okay by me.

Speaking of which, George Galloway is in the current Celebrity Big Brother, which is stirring up all sorts of controversy. Not the least of which is that he is dodging an important vote on some issue or other to be in the house. Breaking the cardinal rule of Reality Television, he actually seems to be reasonable intelligent, although I am sure that some of his arguements don't hold water.

It's so hard to know who to trust in British politics. Tony Blair seems to be the British Paul Keating, whereas one bloke I do actually like, Boris Johnson, is a Tory Lickspittle who moved out of Islington to Notting Hill (!?) just so he could cosy up to the new Tory Leader.

I hate politics.

Something I'm proud of: Sunday night I put it on my To-Do list for Monday to go to the HSBC bank. Despite getting up pretty early Monday, I only made it there at five O'clock. Half an hour after they stop serving at the counters. The reason I missed the window was that I was on my way and I stopped to check my email. D'oh.

Tuesday I went again, this time walking past the net caff to the Tube Station (which, despite a ten minute walk, means I get to Stratford before the 257 Bus). Went to the Bank and sorted all the stuff I intended to.

I know it is pretty pathetic, but for me to have a list of stuff to do on a Monday, and to do it before the following Friday is pretty good.

After that I took the tube into London, stopped at a comic shop on Charing Cross road to buy some Comics by Grant Morrison, a mind twisting Scottish writer, and bought some CDs at Virgin. I also got myself some big fuck-off headphones. Possibly too big. Nevermind, they'll still be good for watching DVDs.

In between, I headed to Stratford Library, Monday, Tuesday and Today, since I had come home to find a note from the Library stating that they were holding The Third Preacher trade paperback for me. This was a bit surprising, since I ordered it about two months ago. (Of course, anyone who wanted a certain book on Taoism or another on working in retail would conceiveably have my face on a dartboard).

Anyways, I hit the Library on Monday, and they couldn't find the book.

Ditto Tuesday.

Today, having been waylaid by a whole lot of ironing, I got to the library just as the place was closing.

'We're closing now.' said a librarian/bouncer as I came in through the out door.

'That's okay,' I smiled. Subtext: I know that you're closing, but I'm not leaving until I'm good and satisfied. 'I believe you're holding a book for me.'

'Do you have the letter?'
'Yes. It's at home. I know the title,' My tone hardened just a little, just enough for him to notice, 'I have been waiting three days for it to come in.'

Sidle past him and up to the counter. They take my name and hand to me... a book about Star Trek. With my name on a book mark.

No wonder they couldn't find the right book Monday and Tuesday, they'd been sent the wrong book.

Nevermind. They re-sent the order, I thanked them and left. I've got plenty to read at the moment.

For one thing, I still have half of the huge American Splendor collection that I borrowed out yesterday. It is a curious read, as it seems to be determined to break all the guidelines for making good narrative (fiction or not) but it still seems to be compelling reading. I sat up reading it til three last night without even meaning to.

Of course it doesn't hurt that the art is generally pen and ink black and white heavily influenced by the alternative comix of the sixties. For some reason that particular style really turns my crank. Although I did also find a collection of old Slaine comics from 2000AD which were just horrific (for the most part, although as soon as another artist stepped in the quality leapfrogged).

If I had my own Badge Press (mental note, check Ebay) I would make one saying 'Am I Making Sense Yet?'

I think that's going to be my new mantra whenever I am writing, saying or doing something that even I know is not necessarily idicative of a sane human being.

Geez I'm pretentious sometimes.

Come to think of it, I could probably make a killing selling badges/T-shirts at Slimelight saying Blood is Not Just Breakfast to all the wannabe vampy-goths.

This is a sprawling post. Bouncing back and forth. Clarity, young man, Clarity.

Screw it, I'm going home to watch the season finale of Lost.

Over and out.

J

Back From Bognor

Hey All,

On Friday took the train down to my Grandmother's house in Bognor Regis with my Father, who had just arrived from Australia. We met up at Victoria Station, and despite some classic self sabotage by your truly (not packing until the last minute, stopping to check my email on the way to the tube) we both arrived at Victoria within a minute of each other.

This is after my Dad arrived at London Heathrow ahead of schedule.

Train to Barnham, Taxi to Bognor, dinner and reacquainting at my Grandmother's house.

Strangely, despite wanting to catch the first episode of My Name is Earl on Channel 4 I fell asleep at about Ten PM. Either it was all the early starts this week or my Dad's jet lag was contagious.

While on the tube down I got an SMS from Hilary telling me that Adastreia had scored equal fourth in the Best Unsigned Band in the End of Year Readers Polls for Terrorizer. Not bad.

Got up early Saturday, read some of the Books that my Mother sent over with my Dad. One about Buffy the Vampire Slayer and another about the principles extrapolated from the Velvetine Rabbit.

Had breakfast, went to the Iceland to buy food for Pearl (my grandmother). Bought a Terrorizer at the local WH Smith.

Came home, read magazines (one of my sisters sent over a copy of Blunt Magazine, a music magazine from Australia). Reading the Blunt magazine was funny, since a) Elea got her face in it at least twice and b) I could go through it the way Tovah used to go through fashion mags : I know them, I know them, I know them etc.

Visited Grampa Bill and Isabel. Walked both ways.

Fell asleep early again.

Today: Woke up at about half nine. Had a rough shower. The electrical water heating and me didn't quite communicate, and as a result the water would go oscillate from Luke Warm to Scalding in 90 second cycles. It made it hard to get a lather going.

Grampa Bill and Isabel came over but left just before twelve.

My Auntie Mary from Brighton and her family came for lunch just after twelve.

Lunch was at the Cabin Club across the road, who did an incredibly good Lamb Shank and Gravy.

After that I rode with Mary and family to Hove to catch the next train to London (hoping to stay ahead of the next tube strike). At Hove I was told to go to Brighton Station, so I did. I wound up catching the 1646 train to Victoria.

Train ride was uneventful. Read Terrorizer, watched kicked across the isle mess around with Garageband on his Mac. Watched girl tapping on her Vaio.

Unfortunately I had left my iPod Earbuds at Bognor Regis, so no music for me. I've been meaning to get some Sony Headphones in any case. I'll pick up my earbuds when I go down next weekend.

At Victoria I bought a few magazines and a 2006 Diary. I asked the cashier if she knew whether the Tube Strike was going ahead, and when it was starting.

Six Thirty.

Check watch: Six Nineteen.

Dang.

Luckily I caught one of the last tubes out to Leytonstone. Bought the Sunday Times at a convenience store. The Sunday Times I bought last, including the culture liftout, weeks proved to be good reading for a whole week.

Back at the flat: letter from Stratford Library. The Graphic Novel I've wanted them to hold for me for two months just came in. And I've got three items ovedue.

Okay.

That't that.

Just a random funny item I found surfing:

http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1519771/20060105/timberlake_justin.jhtml?headlines=true

Justin Timberlake's new album will be produced by Rick Rubin.

The same Rick Rubin that produced Licence to Ill, Blood Sugar Sex Magick and Reign in Blood.

Stop the world, I want to get off.

It's a week into the new year, and I haven't started my resolutions yet.

So to begin with, I resolve to start writing my resolutions earlier.

The Metropolitan Police want to talk to Kate Moss about her drug use.

From what Tovah told me, if every drug fiend, chickenhawk or bulimic was removed from the fashion industry there would be no-one left.

Part of me believes thats a good thing.

Speaking of which, Lindsay Lohan has admitted being bulimic and using drugs.

Vanity Fair took the sarcastic approach and Held the Front Page

I liked Lindsay when she was that much curvier and that much more ginger.

I'm going home to watch some show called Invasion.

Over and out.

J

Day O, DAY AY AY O!

Hey Everyone,

Sorry about the lack of blog action, I've been having a quiet first week of 2006.

Probably the biggest thing I have done is to go see the new Harry Potter movie, something on my To Do list for months. And it wasn't bad.

I just got an Email from my sister saying that she didn't rate Narnia, to say the least. But I'm still going to see it. I've had a thing for Tilda Swinton since Orlando.

Strangely, I've been waking up really early in the morning lately. Like Three AM. I spend the time until daylight reading or watching the international news. Damn shame about those miners in Virginia.

The last two days I've been reading more of Love All the People, a collection of routines and another miscellany created by Bill Hicks. I think I've mentioned it before.

My Dad arrives in the UK sometime tomorrow. I meant to tell him to bring some USB Flash Memory Keys and my Knee-High Red Doc Martins. Nevermind, he probably wouldn't have had space for the boots anyways. And I'm guessing he was hoping I had grown out of my penchant for militaristic footwear. (I only want to wear them to Strength Through Joy, in any case).

Never mind.

I have been corresponding with friends back in Australia. And I was surprised to get an Email from my Brother Big Pete. Didn't really talk to him at all last year. Still, it was nice to hear from him.

I'm going to tube into Oxford Circus and see if I can get some tix to see Children of Bodom in a couple of weeks.

Tomorrow I might rendez-vous with Mein Pater at Victoria Station.

Over and out.

J

Happy New Year

Hey All,

Sorry I haven't blogged for a couple of days, I've been disturbed to discover that London effectively shuts down for a couple of days at this time of year.

Ridiculous. Seriously. What kind of city is this?

So I'll throw in a quick overview of the last couple of days:

Like I said, I found out that my old metal band in Brisbane just broke up. The two members, besides me, most wedded to Extreme Metal (and ironicly the last two to join) decided that they had had enough and have struck out on their own to start an extreme technical death/grind band.

And I say hallelulluh (sp?).

Having said that, the news of my the break up was kind of like hearing that an old friend had died, or something.

Still, change is good.

Also: talked to family quite a bit over Christmas and the days afterwards. Which was really nice.

Friday: Went shopping. Bought a Cannibal Corpse album and two extremely marked down Goldfrapp albums. The Cashier at HMV didn't bat an eyelid, much to my dissapointment. He must have assumed that I was buying the Goldfrapp Cds for someone else.

Nope, they were for me. ME ME ME.

After raiding HMV I bought a ticket to a late session for King Kong. The Movie started around 2330 and finished just after 0300. Late, late session.

After the movie I didn't much feel like the N8 bus ride back to Leytonstone, so I figured that I would ride out the three hours until tubes started running again.

So I wandered through the West End, parallel to Oxford Street, past Regent Street, Regent's park, Marble Arch etc.

It seemed like everyone that would normally be in the middle of London were at home getting a good night's sleep before New Years. Even the Homeless were missing. It bordered on surreal. I looked at one of the buildings I nearly moved into (the rate of rent prevented me from taking the shoebox size room, though for the location it was actually a steal. Relatively speaking).

I wandered down the emty streets, trying to locate the things that has struck me interesting a year ago. I remembered the locations a little differently.

Eventually I jumped on a tube, raided the Tescos and went home. There I entertained myself until early afternoon when I inadvisedly took a nap.

I was woken up by my Mother calling from Australia just after nine. D'oh! I was supposed to be at the Marlborough Head by that time.

Shower. Dress. Street.

Even though the tube strike was flagged to go ahead, I thought I would check the stations on the outside chance that it might have been averted.

Weirdly, there were tubes running, but the trains were few and far between, and they were only stopping at selected stations. As a result I had to stop at Oxford Circus instead of Bond Street and run the distance to get to The Marlborough Head.

When I got there, the Bouncer told me that unless I had a ticket, I couldn't get in, since it was rammed to the rafters.

Dammit!I sent a message to my friend Richie (he who had invited me), but I later found out that he hadn't got in either. Back down Oxford Street I wandered.

I did find a small pub in Soho called The Bathhouse where I watched the countdown and sang Auld Lang Syne (one day I'll find a Gaelic Dictionary and find out what that actually means). Behind the bar in the pub, among others, was an Australian punk rocker with a Misfits belt buckle. He was cool.

I sipped Jack and Ginger and planned my next move. I figured that Slimelight was probably the best place to go.

On Oxford Street I ran into a couple of friends who were headed that way themselves. We all squeezed into an already full bus and rode up to Angel.

Slimelight was roaring in all it's decadent glory. The dancefloors were packed, lights and lasers, the whole nine yards.

Soon after arriving I was at the urinal in the men's room and a pillhead next to me was trying to carry on a conversation with a couple behind me. Which meant that his attention was distracted from where it should have been, causing him to piss all over my right boot.

When I protested I realised that there was no getting any sense out of him, so I decided against beating him up, since he wouldn't know why I was doing it and he probably wouldn't feel it anyways. Besides, nobody really saw him piss on my boot, so if I suddenly laid into him I would look like the sociopath, probably leading to me getting ejected from the venue. Besides, beating people up isn't really in my character. I'm the not-violent brother.

If anyone disagrees with my choice, maybe next time I will beat the guilty party up and explain that I was acting on advice.

In any case, I rinsed the boot under the tape in the sink and the rest of the night was much more fun. I hobnobbed with friends and danced around until dawn.

After leaving the club, I went looking for a cafe that some friends had told me to find, but I couldn't. I decided to head home.

The rest of the morning was notable in that it illustrated to me, for the first time in my life, what Bono really meant with the song New Years Day by U2.

London on New Years Day is deserted. 28 Days Later deserted. Nothing is open, no-one is seen. I'm betting there was more activity in Hiroshima on August 9, 1945.

Unable to buy any food at Tescos (because it was closed) I read a newspaper and chewed a cheeseburger in Leytonstone Macca's before heading home.

Since all the internet cafes were closed (along with everything else, save the Turkish Supermarket round the corner) my flatmate let me check my email on his PC in his room.

My other flatmate told me that most some European cities shut down entirely for two weeks or more this time of year. Bizarre. I wouldn't be able to cope. I'm so addicted to convenience I should have been born American (no offence intended, Clyo).

I collapsed into bed at three PM and woke up at 3 am.

Before daylight I chilled on a downstairs couch and read a few chapters in a book about working in retail while listening to the Goldfrapp Albums I bought on friday night.

I have laundry to do. And resolutions to write and break.

Over and out.

J