:: Monday, July 23, 2007

EGO TRIPPING AT THE GATES OF HELL

In writing this blog over the last few years, people have often wondered what it is that I do during the week, the off-hours, the daily grind. What ever elusive double life do I lead? What drives me with camera and keyboard in hand to think what I think and say what I say? Is there some other more tangible world that I exist within away from the all seeing eye and the faceless crowd? Do I have a 9 to 5? An office? A cubicle? A broom closet? Do I eat? Do I sleep? Am I secretly married? Am I even human? Can I killed by conventional weapons? Is there some kind've arcane incantation that could banish me back to the nine planes of hell that spawned me? Or am I a secret agent? A double agent? A spy? ASIO? CIA? FBI? NSA? MJ12? MI6? SD6? One of those freaky organisations that doesn't even HAVE initials? Do I make bombs? Do I defuse bombs? Do I have an engineering degree in advanced thermonuclear bucket bongs? Can I dismantle, clean and reassemble a M40 sniper rifle in the space of 3 minutes and then plug a kill shot square to the third eye of your head without even blinking? Can I fluently speak more than 12 dead languages? Perform intricate brain surgery from afar with articulated robots? Fly helicopters? Launch rockets into space? Do I come from outer space? Do I come in peace? Or am I the first wave in the oncoming invasion? Is it already too late? So many questions, so much mystery, so little detail revealed week by week in these rambling dissertations. Lets all pry into my personal life with screwdrivers and needlenose pliers and find out what REALLY makes me tick!

But lets face it, I ain't telling you shit. My life isn't that important, my details are not that significant: they reveal nothing but the same mundane shit that we all wish to escape from. We do not choose to live in this world you and I, we simply make up our own world. Artists, musicians, technicolour freaks alike; we're just ego tripping at the gates of hell and looking for a way out. Join us if you will! :)


THURSDAY NIGHT
Yup, it's been an absolute shitstorm here at Spoz HQ in these last few days: all these covert trips in international espionage, endlessly plotting the destruction of the human race from here to the Horsehead Nebula and killing multitudes of bloodsuckers in between (or what'ever the fuckarse else it is I actually do around here) have reduced me to nothing but a pile of ashes and dental records. Who knows how the fuck I ever get any sleep around here because I sure as fuck didn't get any this week! Still, despite feeling a few shades worse than an emaciated Christian Bale from "The Machinist", I somehow manage to crash land my spaceship here at Jive for a bullseye this lazy Thursday evening in search of the mother of all prey..



as tonight this kindergarten carnival disaster would not only play host to the face melting freak-jam that is Delusions of Grandma (the coolest damn experimental jazz band you've never seen), but also the opening night of a particularly illustrious solo art exhibition upstairs.. weeeeee! :)



And thus we present: "Monsters! Monsters! Monsters!" an exhibition by Chris Edser (the artist responsible for most of the art direction for The Dairy Brothers and The Beards), here at Jive and on display from July 19th to August 4th. Featuring: monsters, creatures of monster like ilk and other such similiar and disimilar (yet kindred) beings of monstrous origin. What follows are just but some of the shiny highlights you may discover for yourself..

Here we have a cheerfully fungus green monster by the name of Cameron..



this pairing of sepia toned monsters by the name of George and Albert..



a whole quintet of monsters by the names of Tom, Dick, Harry, Jasper and Seth..



this particularly devious rainbow cutting beast by the name of Jessie..



this political fiend: "Policies? Vote for us or we'll eat you!", by the name of Stephen..



and finally this interactive monster by the name of Adrian (with plenty more on display at Jive for the next 2 weeks if you happen to get off your fat arse and out've your climate controlled bubble to witness it for yourself). Personally, out've all the fucked up exhibitions I've seen all year (and I've seen my fair share of technicolour oddities), this would be the one I could relate to the most. Sheeeeeit damn, it was like I was looking into a mirror here! :)



Anyhoo.. now that I'm sufficiently enriched by that misfit cultural experience, its back downstairs drawn by the ever so creepy UFO glow over the mixing desk, to blow my brains out all over the swirly dancefloor to the following musical support act..



DELUSIONS OF GRANDMA
As we present the rarefied mental illness that is the Delusions Of Grandma: in short an experimental jazz band, or to be more lengthy and precise the most malevolent manifestation of the all expansive ever shifting primordial hell beast that spawns all music. Seriously, this chameleon conjures so many intangible influences and reference points in its instrumental miasma that it damn near does my head in to come up with any kind've concrete pigeon hole to label it by (which lets face it, is how all "original" music should be!). It's 70's heroin tripping Pink Floyd by way of St Germain, it's contemplative blues violated in the arse by Coltrane on an acid bender, it's Roni Size's 1st album mixed with Lamb, it's Primus playing "Hamburger Train" as a funeral dirge while the Titanic sinks, it's everything and nothing all playing at once cancelling out the sine waves and manifesting the truth and it is the sound of your head exploding whilst the cabin depressurises at 30,000 feet. There are no vocals, there are no easily defineable signposts but this sublime experience mixed with brilliant widescreen clarity and performed with utmost precision still nails the payload home in style. I'm also so endlessly thankful I managed to finally capture this entire gig without my camera crapping out a microchip like it did LAST time I dared face off against it.. wooooooo! :)






For those of you who ever wondered what the setlist to a full psychotic breakdown would look like, wonder no more! If you baked cookies according to this recipe needless millions of people would die horribly (but they would die happy) and for the next few hours THESE will be the only 14 words left in my vocabularly as I dribble like a mental patient on my way home..



thus, suitably stupified by both sight and sound, I refuel my spaceship with these chance dilithium crystals found hanging over the balcony and fly my way home to Zeta Reticuli. Mission accomplished. I may not've necessarily found signs of intelligent life here tonight, but I'm sure as fuck not gonna dare challenge this planet to a mothership invasion force anytime too soon!




FRIDAY NIGHT
This is me waking up dead. This is me clawing through upholstery, wood panneling and 6ft of compacted dirt to dig my way to freedom. Every week it's the same damn thing with the nursing staff here at Bellview Sanitarium. Don't they know about my irregular heart condition? Fuuuuck I really gotta stop eating all that pufferfish during my lunch hour if THIS keeps happening, everyone knows that those tetradotoxins are bad news after the third wasabi chaser.. yeeeeouch! As for how I ended up at Fowlers live for another lineup of bands on a Friday night and not mistakingly frontloaded into the crematorium furnace is anyone's guess? Either way, fuckit.. who's thirsty?



THE DAIRY BROTHERS
First band of the night is The Dairy Brothers. There's something awfully familiar about the lead singer here tonight but I just can't place it. Weird I could've sworn I saw someone JUST like him in a band at Jive barely 24 hours ago (perhaps THIS is why I got comitted to the sanitarium in the first place, as surely all this deja-vu can't be healthy?). Here tonight they're sounding like Tenacious D set upon by a marauding band of Vikings; naked, on fire and wielding chainsaws. It's the loudest, most psychotic pant's wetting intensity I've ever seen them deliver; 8:30 at night to an opening "crowd" of 10 people. Still, close your eyes and you could easily imagine an entire soccer riot breaking out around you. It doesn't get anymore fuckoff beserk as this, which is gotta be pissing off the next 3 bands who have the grand misfortune in following them. Rock!










TOKYO CITY SEX SHOOTERS
Next band, Tokyo City Sex Shooters still gives it a red hot go anyways. Missing is their signature robot drummer in lights, who must've been wishing all along like Pinnochio that one day he'd wake up a "real boy" as tonight he appears to be all-too human, if no less insane in percussive ferocity. Filling in his gaping novelty void tonight's performance theme appears to be the ever so popular Mexican art of Lucha Libre. Any minute now the band are gonna drop all their instruments, get naked and wrestle, and then things are gonna get a little bit awkward and dare I say it perhaps a little bit kinky: bring your cattle prod, your red ball gags, your southern cousin Zeke and lets go crazy! Yeeeeeeeharrr! *ahem* Besides referencing all the usual key points with this band's setlist: Pink Floyd, Frank Zappa and George Clinton; tonight's jamming shitstorm in guitar riffage and stompy stoner bass is starting to veer dangerously towards the lo-fidelity gutteral chug of Death From Above 1979; only at an ever more terrifying half speed. Oh yes kiddies, it's Tokyo City Sex Shooters and we're all gonna die! AAAUUGGHHHH!!











and no, you're not tripping balls and hallucinating just yet, that really IS Ernie from Sesame Street on the drumkit. People wonder why I'm so barking insane climbing the walls, and then I show them shit like this and tell them that this is normal! Yes, join my dementia! weeeeee! :)



SATIN HAREM
Following up in 3rd position is Satin Harem. Yes, I do realise that most of the band members are wearing pijamas and boxer shorts. Yes, I believe the lead singer is wearing some kinda fuckoff bizarre feathered masquarade facemask. Yes, the bass singer does appear to be wearing a straw hat; and yes chances ARE high to very likely that the keyboardist is NOT wearing any pants and may quite possibly be nude under that trenchcoat and NO I'm not at all alarmed by this! I also wouldn't be at all surprised if a crack team of male nurses came bursting through the front door any minute now to pacify this band with tranquiliser rifles as the sound they're spewing forth is doing absolutely nothing to dispell this illusion. This is the sounds of Queens Of The Stone Age vs Motorhead, Nirvana's In-Utero album vs Ministry's Psalm 69, Tool vs Mr Bungle. The entire band also appear to be conjuring up this dissonance in their sleep whilst the lead singer does a death metal scream that sounds rather like circular saws cutting into sheet metal. Long term exposure could very likely lead to my entire intestinal tract unravelling, flying out've my arse and fleeing for the nearest exit doing the "caterpillar" dance whilst my ears explode, but I think I might've actually enjoyed it. Maybe. If symptoms persist seek professional help!











TONY FONT SHOW
And now prepare to nail that coffin lid shut again for good as present headlining act Tony Font Show, aka: "Timmy Fart Show", aka: "Tany Fant Shaw" (as written on their brand new range of dyslexic shirt / shit wear). Fresh from a performance a mere hour ago at the brand new "Northern Sound System" venue in *cough* Elizabeth (AAAUAUAGGHH!!), they've since fled back to civilisation with a barbarian hoard in tow all wearing "Tany Fant Shaw" t-shirts and screaming for more. Beyond all the moshpit circus antics, sporadic fights breaking out between the infamous serial pest "Dave" and the 5 people he crash landed into in the crowd whilst attempting to slam-dance in a 10 metre radius and ever expanding monstrosity that is Lee's spastic poodle hair, writing anything here that approaches a coherant live review is utterly futile. In short, it's everything you've come to expect from these disco-metal idiots and brand new song "Selfish in Bed" with it's fuckoff Tom Morello style squealing guitar riff and pogo stick bouncing beat is becoming dangerously close to the sorta song that could easily rival 200 Motel's "Pants! Pants! Pants!" and Morals Of a Minor's "Flower" for song of the year. There was blood on the walls and teeth embedded in the ceiling this night. Oooooooh FUCK yeah!!












After painstakingly picking out my lower biscuspids from front left of stage, chasing my colon and duodenum down the length and breadth of the front bar and finding where the HELL I misplaced my pants (long story), I once again eluded capture from the waiting psychiatric staff waiting by the exit and ran fleeing into the night for more mischief and merriment..



Moments later staggering blindly down Rundle Mall in my furthering (and all too predictable) eastward trajectory, I'm then shocked to find myself in the midst of a makeshift book nerd shanty town all feverishly awaiting the arrival of the 7th (and apparently final) Harry Potter book. Wow! who says no-one reads books these days when you have a veritable hoard of mouth breathing dweebs like these running an all-nighter clamouring for a fix? Perhaps there's hope for this laughable excuse of a website yet? (don't laugh, it could happen!)



Since, as we all know, this website serves no clear purpose for me other than to provide endless amusement in the ridicule of others under the flimsy guise of rock photojournalism, we thus in passing present to you the sublime visual comedy that is Dumbledork and Harry Pothead..



and wish them all the very best that this book is aaaaall that they've been waiting for before running screaming into the night (am I correct in assuming that Hermoine dies and Harry leaves wizardry for good or is that just wild speculation? *cough*). Yup, you may've been victim to every passing drunk's idiotic jokes and late night heckling (mine included bwahahahaha!) but to be near insane enough to stick it out like a homeless person in the dead of winter for nothing but a book, I freaking salute you! Go you crazy dweebs! Go! Wooooooooooo!



Finally arriving at the east end of town, my next indoor misadventures in a shitarse dive off Hindmarsh Square (a place I dare not mention, although no guesses where) would be all-too short lived when the ever mischievious Simone somehow manages to get my arse turfed out by angry bouncers in the space of 2 minutes. I would like to think I did something quite spectacular to reward this outcome but considering Joe Blogs got equally booted mere moments after a girl accidently spilt a drink on him, one wonders what kind've Nazi regime this place has become. Either that or we're getting much too famous here for our PREVIOUS exploits, hmmmm? ;)



And so in reverse to all our usual late night migratory patterns (on a Friday no less) it's back to the Cranka again (the bouncers here are really ever so much more friendly.. aaaaaah!)



for more of the same 'ol retarding shit you've come to expect..






How anyone manages to play a decent game of pool when I'm running amok is anyone's guess?




and you know you're really waaaay too drunk at 4AM when you see Andreas do THIS..



and then attempt the same performance yourself, only to fail in EVERY SINGLE STUPID PHOTOGRAPH HE TAKES! Yup, I really was THAT mentally ill at the end of the night! Bonus points also for the bags under my eyes: I told you I got NO sleep this week.. yeeeouch!



And so with the sun due to rise any minute now over the horizon I do the Cranka a solid and throw my own drunk arse out, stagger blindly down Rundle Mall, wave goodbye to all the book nerds still feverishly awaiting their dose of Harry Potter, attempt to start a turf war between both Dymocks and Borders bookstores..



"duuuuuude Dymocks was soooo dissing you guys, they're telling passerby's you're all buying it in paperback! oooooooh! you gonna take that? huh!? HUH!? TAKE IT LIKE A BITCH!? FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!!"



But clearly they were in more desperate need of sleep than I was. So it's off to Hindley St, past Morphett St, where my taxi fare is but $3-4 less than what I would've paid outside the Cranka (damn I'm such a cheap bastard) and off home to collapse dead at the end of it all.. weeeee!




SATURDAY NIGHT
It was only 12 hours ago and I was in the middle of Budapest impersonating a man in a chicken suit handing out fast food pamphlets when the deal was gonna go down. It was meant to be so simple: I was to hide in plain sight, hit the signal jammers, tap in the pin number, activate the receiver, 20 pounds of C4 detonates and the Citibank branch downtown goes bye bye. The perfect diversion to the perfect crime. They wouldn't know what hit them! We planted all the evidence. Within minutes would have the circuit board and we'd be out've there. They'd think it was a bank heist. Never would they suspect us. By sundown we would be on the next plane out. But then right at that crucial moment that kid just HAD to come and kick me in the nuts didn't he? Damn, what is it about 12 year olds and people in novelty animal outfits? All I remember is shooting white pain to my midsection, alarms, nearly blowing out an eardrum from all the screaming com chatter, that kid laughing and next thing I know it I've blacked out and woken up here at Fowlers Live again for a pissy little all-ages gig. What the fuck maaaaan!?



LADY STRANGELOVE
To help the disorientation, first band on stage tonight is Lady Strangelove playing the most psychotic earbleed in shrieking klaxon synths and squealing overdriven guitar riffs that I've ever heard these spaced out hippies play. I kid you not, it was like a psychedelic space jam on the far side of the moon as performed by Slayer. Cranked so diabolically sharp and fuckoff loud it was like they were slicing lasers through my skull, stabbing my ears with red hot acupuncture needles and pulling my brain out through my nose (aaaaaah just like that black ops mission we did in Guangzhou last year! *sniff* memories!). Brendan on vocals attempted to summon the Balrog from the fiery pits of the under-earth to the pounding tribal rhythms of Azz and Damian whilst the guitar span so wildly out've control throughout the set that the only thing that seperated Josh's performance from Jimi Hendrix's infamous Woodstock '69 outing was ONE lit match. The band did everything short of raining napalm all over the stage just case one would eventuate. Clearly, I am already dead and communicating this entry via Ouiji board as nothing else could possibly hope to explain how this didn't kill me. WHOOAAAAA!







BIT BY BATS
And so for the spare few of us whose shadows haven't already been blasted into the walls by searing intensity of THAT white hot atomic blast, follow up act Bit By Bats would be sure riddle our carcasses with enough bullets holes to make us damn near see-thru. For those of you out there still unfamiliar with this band: imagine Robert Smith from The Cure on an elephant killing frenzy in cocaine and amphetamines fronting a bullet train derailment and you wouldn't be too far off, or fuckit just watch their wacky computer animated video to "One Six One" as it's pretty much the same thing. For those of you more than familiar (especially for all you trainspotter dweebs out there) two new details immediately leap to attention: not only does lead singer Owen Eszeki now sport a spastic platinum blond haircut (yes I know *cough* My Chemical Romance *cough*)..



but he's also ditched his signature pointy red shoes in favour of these brand new pointy BLACK shoes. A trivial detail I know, but after considering this photo from June 2005, this photo from August later in the year, or fuckit even THIS shot from 2006 and you'll understand the earth shattering magnitude of this event: NEW POINTY BLACK SHOES YO!



*ahem* anyhoo, as for the entirely trivial aspect of the rest of their show tonight; it was pretty much the same shrieking chihuahuas, gunning guitars, stabbing machine gun rhythms and flaring theramin squeals that you come to expect from a Bit By Bats set: with such spastic indie classics as Neon Flux and All Night (from their "Lets Go Romeo" EP) and "Six One Six" (from their debut album) getting blasted to within an inch of their lives and whipping the small but growing crowd into a hooting baboon frenzy. By the end of their 45 minutes there were dents in the ceiling, smoking holes in the floor and riot police everywhere.. absolute fucking carnage! :)












EXPATRIATE
And so, after being hit square in the balls with the fuckoff squealing white hot fury of these last two support acts, headliners Expatriate were really gonna have their work cut out for them tonight. If this was the same band I saw back in February 2006 they'd be totally boned, they'd be pissing in the wind. Back then they were nothing but a mild mannered bunch of East Berlin fashion rejects who sounded like a cross between The Cure, Bloc Party and The Editors, or pretty much yet another in a long line of bands trying to be Interpol: or just the sort've band that'd get massacred if they step foot on stage tonight (although to their credit, when they played Rocket Bar they still did a bang up job of it!). Now eighteen months, Triple J high rotation and a debut album on and they're an entirely different beast. This band has now become an ego, a massive ego, a hulking and ever inflating ego, an ego the size of a whale that threatens to swallow us all whole and spit out nothing but bones. In updating their look they're now dressed like rejects from the French Foreign Legion and sound like all the spastic self important 80's bombast of Duran Duran and New Order as channelled through the 1st Editors album and a bucket load of FM radio pop-rock polish. They're utterly pretensious and wanky as hell and the lead singer is having an absolute ball of it pulling every damn cheesy stadium rock Bono move in the book; yet in some weird way beyond my urge to profusely exercise my gag reflex it somehow all works. Sure they're obnoxious and arrogant as fuck (and there's really NO surprises they come from Sydney) but they're owning it, they're rocking it and at least one out of 4 of the songs they're thrashing is actually kinda damn catchy (their classic cut from 2006 "The Space Between" is especially nailing it). So as much as I would love to give this band endless shit for being obnoxious arrogant twats; when they do it this WELL, ya gotta damn near bow and applaud them for it!










Still, there's only so much of this pompous nonsense that I could handle (amongst a shriekingly midget Triple J all-ages crowd worshipping their every move no less) before had I to flee to the relative safety of Fowler's luxuriously spaceous backstage area..



Along the way, I pass by Lady Strangelove and their entourage hiding out on the couches doing their very best not to trigger a hail of smoke alarms and sprinkler systems above them..



before planting myself in the dressing rooms, drinking myself stupid whilst Stoner Andy and the drummer from Bit By Bats hazed out the room to a thick blanket of fog. How the hell Stoner Andy managed to find his way downstairs after all the beer, vodka, uppers, downers, happy pills and dope he consumed is anyone's guess?



Eventually I somehow managed to find an exit and crawl myself back upstairs to see if there was any action I was missing out on; only to arrive just in time to capture Expatriate's howling finale in lead singer Ben King's powering ego rock moves. Watch him do the one armed "flapping bird", watch him do the "point", watch him do the always popular charge into the crowd.. woooooooo! yeaaaaah! go you ego maniac! punch that fist in the air.. YEAAAAAS!





And yet, by 11:30PM the whole show was over and done with.. as.. well.. it was an all-ages gig (guuuh!!). So at a total loss over what the fuck to do next and losing all sense of direction, I stagger blindly out've Fowlers Live in an alcoholic daze..



only to miraculously wander back into Jive down the road..



Since as luck would have it, I'd arrived just in time for The Beard's album launch, an album launch that challenged me with this ever mysterious bearded chart as condition of entry. If you had a beard, a legitimate beard, a full bodied beard and fronted up to the Beards gig with said beard in tow you would get free entry into The Beards whilst everyone without a beard would have to pay $10 for the privilege to see the same said The Beards. Thanks to this chart, we would know in no uncertain terms which beards would be allowed in for free and which so-called pretender "beards" wouldn't. Thus instated this glorious regime of beard. Viva la Beard Revolutionne! Oh and if you think I've mentioned "beards" way too much in this review already then clearly you've seen nothing yet as this is about to get much much worse!



Yup, according to the chart I had no beard. I had a goatee. A goatee is not a beard, it is a goatee and not a beard, for a beard is much more than a goatee (although since it's better than no beard at all I still managed to bluff my way in for only $5 as a beard technicality). For the rest of you looking for a more accurate portrayals of actual beards in the wild, consider these two bearded freaks that they dragged in off the street for our amusements: Black bearded Nick from Soft White Machine and Delusions Of Grandma on the left, and the fluffy orange / red bearded Stoner Andy on the right. Study these beards well, so that one day YOU too might aspire for the same bearded glory! YES!



THE BEARDS
And so, after making my way through the bearded throng gathered around me and bluffing myself past the velvet rope that divided the 5 metres in front of stage between the bearded V.I.P. section and all the shaven unbelievers without beards left behind, I found myself at last in audience of The Beards: the band about beards, by beards, for beards and featuring all manner of guest stars with beards in the furtherance of all things beard. Yet despite the all pervuasive power of the beard and all that the beard represents, I again am struck with an odd feeling of deja-vu when faced with the lead singer here and his gloriously scruffy homeless person beard. Could it be that this is the exact same loon that I witnessed at Fowlers Live last night? Dare I even suggest he was the same bearded freak playing saxaphone on Thursday night? am I just going insane here? is there a greater conspiracy afoot? One that quite possibly involves beards? Who knows? Perhaps if I say beard a few more times I will find my answers. As such beyond the basic spaghetti western and deep south New Orleans blues these bearded monkeys conjured up on stage, beyond the hilariously inspired cameo appearance by Chris Finnen for one fuckoff blues jam (yay! Rolf Harris!), beyond that bearded lunatic with the triangle, beyond all that we all know that there is only one word that would be needed to describe this set tonight and that word would the "Beard". Beard beard beard beard fucking beard. All hail the mighty beard! Let us all banish the razor forever so that all our beards may rise to meet the sun and grow to reach the floors and usher in a brand new shiny bearded utopia in bearded bliss where beards above and below the belt can join hands in bearded harmony! YEEEEEHOOOOOO! :)













*cough* Now that we've been sufficiently weirded and bearded everyone out by the proceeding nonsense well into ZZ top extremes, I'm next sent screaming into the night when I come face to face with Ricochet Pete's freakingly beardless and much feared "Punisher" Bubba Gee, here at last to administer fiery retribution and judgement over that pissant little gig review I wrote whilst way too hungover on a lazy Sunday night more than 2 1/2 months ago! Oh help me JEBUS!! WAAAUUUGHH!! Funny to think not only the effect this pissy little blog has to present such an angry mob in singular; but also in how much I've managed to milk this joke for all it's worth ever since in their overreaction to it.. tee hee! As to whether her furious pointing and glaring at my camera is proving at all effective is anyone's guess? Either way best I don't make any eye contact and inch my way slowly towards the exit before she tries anything too crazy.. whoooooaaaa! (I wonder if she does children's parties too?).



As per usual, in following I quite predictably find myself back here at the stinky 'ol Cranka..



for even more of the same 'ol retarding shit you've come to expect..



take one very last drunken photo with Emma Lou (aka: the "Welsh Midget") as she's regrettably leaving this Tuesday to head back to Wales again (*sniff* come back sooooon!)



And of course like always at the Cranka it's all fun and games (and fond farewells) until DJ Fatboy Slum effectively scares everyone away with THIS shit.. GAAAUUGHHH!!



and so, in effort to flee the escalating tide of madness engulfing the Cranka (yup, just another Saturday night) I soon find myself all too surprisingly at a place that's NOT Shotz Nightclub at the blaringly retarded end of the night, but here at the equally retarded Sara and Kirsty's house warming party. Whooooaaaa, you mean to tell me I finally managed to make it to one of these parties in the 'burbs without passing out drunk in town first? whoaaa! whodathunkit? :)



As we present these final photos of the night that clearly need no captions in clarification as none of us idiots after 3AM have any freaking recollection over what the hell any of this shit means; except to point out that yes, Sara's gone and changed her freakin' hair again: it's all fluffy, short and spastically cute! I just wanna go and fuzz it all out!! wooooheehehahahahaha!



Yup, simply enjoy these choice shots for all the abstract weirdness, spastic off season xmas tinsel, spotted hatwear and drunken randomness that they represent. Like a fart in an elevator we huddled mental patients well and truly warmed up this house up tonight... weeeeeee! :)

















Thus drawing to a close yet another episode in the technicolour minutia that is our great escape from the soul sucking void. Reality and crushing despair may kill us all in the end, but till then why not dare to live an insane delusion of a life worth living like this? :)

Previously on Spoz's Rant: Burn My Shadow

:: Spoz 12:02 PM |
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