Soaked in bleach.

April 29th, 2009 - 13:49

Ever wanted to pretend you are Robert De Niro but can’t stand the smell of semen on taxi seat vinyl?

Well, now you have an alternative.

Via the magic of the Internet (and a Korean translator) you can play-act as a returned Vietnam vet who aches to return to the days where the power of life (and death) was in your own hands. Of course, there is no real death, just the possible loss of your hearing.

I give (well, not give, more like show) you, Balloon Russian Roulette:

Let's go back to my room.

Apparently, there is a pin in only one of the revolting revolving chambers, so grab a friend, take a deep breath, and see which one of you is blown away.

via Geeky Gadgets.

I Can See You, Can You See Me?

April 29th, 2009 - 12:02

Aposematism is about, and I am nicking this from Wikipedia, the warning markings that bumblebees and the like have. So, because of this, we associate certain colours (black, yellow and orange) in a particular way and it gets used on all sorts of warning signs to try and keep us safe from harm.

So, this bumblebee warns other animals not to eat or attack it:

Eric's full brother.

This Bumblebee warns you about raping my childhood memories just to sell inferior toys:

Not a Camaro

These warnings should need no explanation:

It's a blast, Skip.

Which then brings us to the most important device for warning us in these modern times:

Hi-visibility is SAFE.

Yep, the hi-ves vest/jacket.

It is a Godsend for the sane, gentle person who doesn’t want to deal with backward thinking, selfish, illiterate scum (no offence is intended to the models in the stolen pictures above, for all I know they know how to read).

When I see that reflective yellow or orange, I know not to expect original thought (or any thought for that matter) from the psuedo-person incased within. I can safely assume there will be a bunch of stickers approximating the Southern Cross* on the back of their car/truck/ute. I know his/her children’s names will be vowel-less versions of Braydon or Brooklyn.

And, I know I will have nothing in common with or to say to them apart from “Oi, you just ran that red light” or “Jesus Christ, there are two lanes for a reason, dipshit” or “FUCKING HELL DID YOU EVEN SEEN ME BEFORE YOU DID THAT?”, but only from the safety of my car.

* Stay tuned for the launch of my campaign to get the Southern Cross renamed The Bogan Stars

Down, down, down.

April 21st, 2009 - 23:38

If they ever make another theatrical Revenge of the Nerds film or, fuck it, they just remake the first film (which I am sure is happening as I type this although, shockingly, a quick check of the IMDb seems to suggest it isn’t), they should ditch that “One Foot In Front of the Other” song and replace it with the Filthy Dukes‘ “Messages”.

See, this is the song used in the House Cleaning Montage scene from ROTN, the aforementioned “One Foot…”, by Bone Symphony:

And here is the Filthy Dukeseses’ (with, and I am sorry for this, another one of those “lets upload an MP3 with a dodgy graphic to YouTube” videos) “Messages”:

So, in summation, go buy the Filthy Dukes record “Nonsense In The Dark”, it is my current favourite and I want it to be yours too.

It’s something mysterious.

April 10th, 2009 - 15:59

Years ago, in 2006 to be precise, I made a general statement that 1986 was the single greatest year for movies and music.

And I still believe it. So I am going to post the list that I created in ’06 to prove that ’86 was the best.

And here it is. Right here. Wait, I mean here.

Read it, argue it, experience it.

I’m feeling pretty damn hard done by.

April 9th, 2009 - 11:51

I have a terrible confession.

I am in love.

Completely head over heals in love. That in itself is not terrible, but what is terrible is it that I haven’t told the subject of my affections how I feel about her (and yes, she is a girl, a real-life human female).

I love Lily Allen.

Everyone Loves Lily Allen (including me)

Everyone Loves Lily Allen

As in, I am in love with her. I want to walk down the street and just hold her hand, maybe share a hot chocolate and laugh and giggle at the other couples we see each day.

I would take her back to mine, attempt to cook her something complicated, but just end up drinking a bottle or two of fine plonk and talking total bollocks until she falls asleep with her head in my lap.

They I would carry her to bed, and whisper that I love her, and not just because her dad can introduce me to New Order.

Then I would fall asleep and dream of Katy Perry.

This is what the world is for.

April 7th, 2009 - 23:03

A friend online acquaintance I met through a friend who I met via a website that is a figment of my imagination asked if she should go see MGMT when they tour where she is.

I said no.

Now, this online acquaintance is a very pretty young thing.  A wonderful, youthful spring flower of a bud of a woman, but she will be like a grandmotherly old crone compared to all the blonde tipped little wankers who are there to hear one fucking song they downloaded off whatever P2P site fucking little blonde tipped wankers use these days, and they will think the song is called something else because the ID3 tags are all messed up and then I will end up in jail she will end up being arrested for stabbing 5 or 6 of the little blonde tipped fuckers in a blind rage.

I don’t want to sound all “damn kids, get off my lawn” and I know it was no different for the elderly hating us young ones  when I was going to shows as a youth, but I don’t remember people being so completely fuckwitty about music back then.  I don’t remember the majority of people going to concerts only going because it was a social event they were expected to attend, they went because they liked the bands or their friends liked the bands. It was all about the music, man.

Whinge, moan, complain, whine, groan etc.

P.S. MGMT are great, but they have become over saturated. I bet you can’t make it all the way through this.

But it’s not very clear.

March 26th, 2009 - 15:20

Here is the thing, I am all for fashion.

I am also a complete brand whore.

But even I have to draw the line somewhere.

Normally when I get my line drawing pen out, it’s sour grapes over the latest “in” fashion not being aimed at an old man like me, or a line of clothes that will never, ever fit my “husky” frame. But occasionally (ever so occasionally) it happens due to good taste. Or that my taste is not bad enough.

Either way, this is one of those times. I can’t even start to begin to wonder about complaining about what is wrong with these LOVA Trouser Shorts. I can’t. I am not even going to in-line a picture of them because that would involve looking at them again just to load the image, and every time I load my own site I would be faced with the depraved, rank horribleness which would surely result in me never, ever coming back here.

You might think that is a good thing.

You might be right.

But fuck you. Seriously, I paid for the domain. I paid for the hosting. I can do what I like. No, no, no, I’m sorry, please don’t go. I don’t mean to be so grumpy, it’s just that those shorts make me want to punch someone in the head over and over and over again until all that is left is a fine paste of face covering my fists.

And that shit is hard to clean off. Apparently.

All the world’s weight is on my back and I don’t even know why.

March 24th, 2009 - 13:46

Can you keep a secret? No? Really? Oh. Okay. I won’t tell you then.

No, I won’t. I could get into trouble if I told you that instead of busying myself with busy work today I learned about a new thing. And by new thing, I mean an old thing that is new to me.

Via the brilliant mind of Andy Baio and his excellent site I was directed to Rands‘ site to learn all about the Brooklyn Bridge, where by “all about” I mean “I learned a few interesting things about it”.

One of those interesting things was the “caisson”. Which, according to my first port of call is “a retaining, watertight structure used, for example, to work on the foundations of a bridge pier, for the construction of a concrete dam, or for the repair of ships.” Go read about it. I guess that due to the less sexy nature of the article you can trust the Wikipedia will be accurate on this subject.

But because it is not sexy, doesn’t mean it is not awesome. These things can be brilliantly simple and yet could be hideously complicated and involved airlocks and air compressors and require medical staff. Yep, need to have those white coats around for dealing with caisson disease, or the bends, or decompression sickness (it is all the same thing). I never wondered if people experienced this before the advent of deep underwater diving, and now I don’t have to. All I know is that I want one, and a small lake in which to dig in. Or a big lake.

And a powerboat.

And a hat.

Like this:

Now five years later on, you’ve got the world at your feet.

March 24th, 2009 - 11:07

Among my many unwise purchases are counted such things as: a modified sports car, another modified sports car with a seized engine, multiple laptop computers, an off-brand plasma TV, and a brand-new Suzuki GS500 motorbike.

This one:

And I love it. Lots. So much.

A month or so after I got it, I was in a cocktail bar (that much is true) when I got talking to the muddler behind the bar about his plans for the weekend. He said he was going to get back on a bike for the first time in years and I mentioned I had a bike and he offered me the three rules his father had passed down to him, and that he lived by. They were:

  1. Protection: Always wear a helmet and your leathers. Always.
  2. Assumption: Assume everyone in a car is trying to kill you and wants you dead.
  3. Reaction: Never, ever act out in anger. If someone cuts you off, don’t raise the middle finger or shake your head, just wave and smile at them through your visor.

I always knew the first rule, but had I known the second two I am sure I would have been able to avoid an incident that had occurred the previous week.  See, I had been riding at the speed limit and someone behind me, in a hotted up Holden Commodore, wanted me to go faster.  He kept speeding up to within a foot/30cm or so of me and then slowing down.  Then when he had a chance to pass me, he did so with two wheels in my lane, and attempted to hit me when he swerved back into the lane in front.

So I gave him the finger.

Which meant that he jumped on the anchors and tried to slam the back of his car into the front of my bike. It didn’t happen, thank gosh, but he then continued on up the road and stopped and waited for me.  As I got closer he spun up his rear tyres, did a clumsy 180 degree spin and aimed himself at me.  I tore open the throttle on the bike and flew away, darting into the first street I recognised in hope I could pull into someone’s driveway and seek refuge.  So I did.  After five minutes of no pursuit I thought it safe to ride home, and as I double-backed I got to see  two tracks that the Holden Commodore had left all over a grassy childrens playground. At the end of the tracks was a smashed up car and a very solid tree.

I also got to see a fatherly figure trying not to beat the ever living shit out of the Commodore’s backward cap wearing driver. He was the very model of controlled rage.

So, in summary: Protection, Assumption, Reaction. Remember them when you are on the road.

He’s so nervous, avoiding all her questions.

March 23rd, 2009 - 16:56

I have a twitter account. I have become quite addicted to it. I find it useful in stalking people, attempting to be witty and finding out what my favourite alt-models are up to.

I also like that twitter is popular enough to not only be spoofed, but to be spoofed in an amusing way:

I twittered earlier about how men need to have some clothing on to be regarded as sexy, but women don’t. It was pointed out that men in just socks is as far from sexy as you can get, and that is 100% completely true. But women in socks is 100% hot and sexy.

And these flickr links are the proof:

And these deviantART* ones back it up:
un (maybe nsfw)
deux (nsfw)
trois (nsfw)

Now, to round off this post, some more links:
The Peter Saville Show Soundtrack.
The backpack I need to own (but can’t bring myself to).
A camera for the macro-enthusiast.

* You may need a deviantART account to see these.