0 6 / 0 7 / 0 8:
your head in a way that excuses
-from 'mouthpiece' by shellac
y'know, it's sad when a brand turns around and violates you anally with a sharp rusty object. it's arguably true to say that it's a shame when anyone or anything does this, but, call me the rabid and retarded son of capitalism if you like, with a brand there's so much more of a feeling of ineptitude mixed in with the betrayal and outrageous sexual misconduct. sony seem to have set about doing just this to its customers. with great industry and fortitude. firstly their new playstation console appeared for the blink of a gnat's sphincter in a form that was backwards compatible, and then for some unknown reason, as if reason played a part in what i shall nevertheless refer to laughably as their 'thinking', the remaining ps3s for all time are to be as alien to the games of the ps2 as a giraffe is to a microwave. fucking idiocy. fucking commercial suicide. sod blue ray, let me play silent hill 2 on my new machine you incompetent bastards. it's like sony asking microsoft to bitch slap them and play with their children's genitals. now my new ps3 has decided to stop working. at all. first it spat out a warning that 'the hard disk must be rebuilt'. then it told us that the hard disk was corrupted and needed to be re-formatted, thus wiping e v e r y p i e c e o f d a t a on the fucking thing, including my hours and hours of play on gta iv. it then froze completely. angry doesn't touch it. doesn't even come close. my ps3 is a paperweight. and a fucking ugly one at that. what could sony have possibly done worse than the way they've launched the ps3? i can't think of anything. i say, i say, i say, what do sony do when the people from xbox walk in the room? they bend over.
i think this image speaks volumes:
please don't think me flippant or a liar but in my last week at university this year i wore a mustard coloured evening dress with matching bolero jacket and was later told that the dress in question had originally been worn by the queen mother. true story. o the heady circles in which i move.
it turns out that i like mushy peas. who'dve thought? it's a crazy world.
fellow student update:
perhaps the most straightforward spam illustration regarding viagra i have ever received:
impotence reduced to the simplest of mathematical equations. erectile dysfunction for the educationally subnormal perhaps. the slogun might as well be 'it does what it says on the tin'.
i'm not sure if i should be ashamed of myself but i have to admit to a moment of profound panic when, rounding the corner to the wimpy in greenwich, i saw the shutters down, the windows covered with newspaper and a sign on the door. not another fucking wimpy closed down?! thankfully no, the sign said 'closed for refurbishment'. phew. but if it re-opens as anything other than a wimpy i shall be filling coke bottles with rags and petrol and taking a trip.
this t-shirt made me laugh. which probably makes me a bad person. or, at the very least, "right-wing and reactionary". probably. thing is, it seems to be the function of humorous t-shirts to be funny on the shelf in the shop but then immediately embarrassing and profoundly twattish when worn.
came across these, i'm going to call them 'items', in the window of st. martins, charring cross road:
yes they are baby-sized, yes they have suspenders and nipple tassels etc. and of course, yes they are, if they haven't already, going to cause uproar. in a most atypical show of explanation (and no doubt damage limitation) the artist had included this reasoning behind the pieces:
an explanation which seems to me t o t a l l y bleedin' obvious. but of course we, the general pubic, cannot be left alone to decode or interpret art for ourselves, particularly when so many of us would leap feverishly at the opportunity to be offended and outraged. this need to explain the work seems to me weak and not a little pathetic, though thrown into sharp relief by its sad and stone cold necessity in the face of pandemic arseholery and moral panic. such is our country. such is our race. pathetic. what they'll make of these, which aren't safely qualifiable as 'art', is beyond me. i make no judgment. except to say, won't someone think of the children?
charity in action ladies and gentlemen. mo' better blues indeed.
in the doctor's waiting room, of all places, i was informed, via their oddly out of place doctor's-waiting-room-specific television station, that "the pilot whale is the cheetah of the deep". apparently. why it has been deemed necessary to have television in a doctor's waiting room seems beyond me... until that is i realise that the only alternative is to have people read or think. but of course.
good news everyone:
for the record, "it pays to be with the right insurer" isn't a clever advertising slogun. it's borderline retarded. it's stating the absolute bleedin' obvious. it's like saying "it pays not to have your genitals trapped in a threshing machine". stupid.
i recently purchased a copy of the soundtrack to 'the proposition' by nick cave and warren ellis. not only is it a great film written by cave but the soundtrack is one of the best things he's done in years. it's in the quieter area of his work granted, more yer melancholy cave, but it's really very good. first this, then the explosion of grinderman? proof that what i like to call 'artistic drop-off' is, at least in part, reversible.
overheard on the street, incredulous: "how can you not like celery?!" let me count the ways...
spam with a vaguely sinister subject line: "jessica alba stares at me". enough to scare anyone. is it wrong to feel smug that i had to look up who the hell this alba person was?
close the theatres. do it now. all the actors can go home, get proper jobs. it's o v e r. theatre is dead. someone has staged a musical based on the 'music' of take that. jesus.
this article of course doesn't 'prove' anything but it certainly puts those in their place those that argue "well, einstein was religious and he was intelligent..." um, no he wasn't and yes he was, in that order.
another gun / t-shirt debacle very reminiscent of my own brush with the idiot customs officials at heathrow. this time it's a robot that's to blame. f u c k i n g s t u p i d. we are being 'protected' by idiots against things that are of no possible threat what-so-ever.
another trip to the cafe bangla. go now. become engorged with their lovely foodstuffs. a real-deal indian (well, actually bangladeshi) restaurant. following the meal hostess elisabeth reports that the soap on the ladies' toilet is imperial leather. "wouldn't that make them feel uncomfortable?" she asks, suggesting as it does the echoes of empire. literalism and absurdity in one sentence. congratulations.
spatchcock panda is a great name for a band. shut up. it is.
don't go and see 'the happening' by m. night shyamalan-a-ding-dong. please. don't. i quite liked 'the sixth sense' in a commercial not-as-scary-as-everyone-said-it-was kinda way and 'the village' was good until the silly ending; but this... after a nice premise the film very very quickly degenerates into utter irredeemable bollocks. truly and monumentally awful. it contains some of the worst acting i have ever seen on screen and one of the worst scripts too. the 'twist' that mr. a-ding-dong is so famous for is so weak here and so obvious (or indeed pointed out to you) so early on that any reason you might have fabricated for wasting 90 odd minutes of your life with this fetid toss collapses under the pure stinking weight of excremenmt that this one trick pony arse hole director has shoveled onto the the audience. outside the cinema a man was asking if we wanted to fill in a form on our reactions to the film. i asked him which box i ticked to prevent the twat from ever making another film.
skull and crossbones ice cube tray from shazza marazza:
i have of late, -but whyfore i know not, -become quite, quite obsessed with quantum fucking (a fictitious real life account of young lovers in the streets); not so much a scientifically based coital pastime as an album by the wonderfully monikered fatal flying guilloteens. it's just fucking great. i actually have to ration the amount i listen to it in order not to 'kill' it, and it's been a few years since i've been able to say that about any album. there's a healthy dose of the jesus lizard in the band but also something profoundly more spastic and chaotic. the vocalist has a lovely tinge of the child-in-a-tantrum spite and vehemence and the whole thing just rockets forward with such energy and invention that it can tighten your tendons at twenty paces. buy it now and be s w a l l o w e d.
came across this fellow in a shop at spitalfields market. very odd. bit scary too. the packaging reads "put little penguins inside me" which for some reason sounds grotesque and perverse to me. but then maybe that's just me.
spent a very strange, if pleasant, day in a kent field sitting in a hole with an ex-t.v. vet. -got sunburned knees. i found the rock pictured below. the scan's not all that clear but i think it very much qualifies as a simulacra:
having barely recalled their hit 'buffalo' from the eighties ("how much is the fish? how much is the fish? does the fish have chips?"), together with their lead singer's tin-tin like hair style, i fell to thinking about the band stump. the very next day i wandered into rough trade east and lo and behold came across 'stump: the complete anthology'. so, after giving the thing a listen, and appreciating the low low price for three, count 'em, three cds, i bought the thing. worth a purchase. there are a number of unexpected influences in there, from captain beefheart to the birthday party, even a bit of the wolfgang press and virgin prunes. i have to say it's really very good, odd certainly, and decidedly eighties, but very much recommended. "ice the levant!!!"
a little gem
of information in relation to my uni(versity):
recommended: (audio) 'quantum fucking' -cd- by fatal flying guilloteens / (comestible) hostess elisabeth's chicken, mayonnaise and pesto sandwich on hovis seed sensations 'light and nutty' bread / (visual) a man in his late fifties, dressed in a white nightshirt walking across the field during a leonard cohen concert having a very serious telephone conversation into a banana / (sensorial) an 'a'? for my shakespeare essay? you sure?
reviled: (audio) the teenagers / (comestible) burger king onion rings / (visual) 'the happening' by m. night shyamalan-a-ding-dong / (sensorial) this time around it's a toss up between the two hells of playing 'nice' on the slim chance of £500, when what i really feel like doing is telling them to shove the job right up their arse and the intense and surprising pain of a hot shower on sunburn
"where there are suicide bombings... in those places where it happens, the survivors, the people nearby who are injured, sometimes, months later, they develope bumps, for lack of a better term, and it turns out this is caused by small fragments, tiny fragments of the suicide bomber's body. the body is blown to bits, literally bits and pieces, and fragments of flesh and bone come flying outward with such force and velocity that they get wedged, they get trapped in the body of anyone who's in striking range. do you believe it? a student is sitting in a cafe. she survives the attack. then, months later, they find these little, like, pellets of flesh, human flesh that got driven into the skin. they call this organic shrapnel."
- from 'falling man' by don delillo