The Adelaide scene: to many of you it may be little more than a touring speed bump between Melbourne and Perth but to us it's a way of life. Feast within, on all its dysfunctional splendour, as we bring you the highly satirical, laughingly fictional and intellectually imbecile tales from our rock & roll wasteland...
THE WATERSLIDES + CASSETTE KIDS + FIRE! SANTA ROSA FIRE! LIVE @ ED CASTLE + ROCKET BAR / Saturday November 28th 2008
Regular readers to this wildly successful escapade in gonzo rock photojournalism (ie: all four of you in the Adelaide music scene who I haven't otherwise offended.. hi mom!) may wonder briefly what exactly goes into the inner workings of your weekly read. Granted this is probably just a brain fart in comparison to all the hours you'd otherwise spend in your nine to five: downloading criminal amounts of porn, flaming "lamers", bankrupting both Hollywood and the music industry (and collecting all those whimsical photos of cats eating invisible sandwiches that you can't possibly bear to live without) but it's there regardless and it's about time I addressed it. It's true Spoz's Rant IS an infinitely more complex endeavour than any of you could possibly ever imagine. It consumes most of my spare time, most of my braincells, a few too many compact cameras, two freshly store bought white mice and an AA battery each week (for reasons that don't bear mentioning) and apparently most of the milk I left in my refrigerator (bastards!). It also takes a lot of planning. Where do I find out about all these awesome bands? where else!? ouiji boards, tea leaves, goat entrails, the flight patterns of birds, hours spent staring into the white noise of my television set, the voices in my head and the many heartfelt pleas and death threats that you grace my inbox with every week (occassionally I've also been known to use myspace). After much deliberation I sift through all this junk DNA, dig deep into that nostril and I find that gold: the best, the brightest and the freshest new talent that this flourishing music scene has to offer in abundance (which let's face it ain't all that much!). Sometimes in the "slow weeks" I simply throw some spare change into a pack of homeless people just to see what happens: which may begin to explain everything I've ever seen at Urtext or The Metro (hi Megafauna!). I'm also no stranger to kidnapping, blackmail, extortion and grand larceny. Necessity is the mother of invention, it's also my alibi if ever they find all the bodies I stash in Electric Circus and experiment on in my off hours (they're all zombies there don't you know!) and as for why I chose THIS gig tonight: the grand opening of Modular's Friday night party "Abracadabra"? Fuck maaan why else!? I fell asleep on this stairwell thanks to too many nibbles of the "funny fungus" after Tame Impala's set last night and I couldn't bear to go home! This is my ongoing drug habit, this is my silent plea for help, DEAR GAWD why!?
Still I think we can all agree that I couldn't have chosen a better destination, as let's face it I'm nothing if not THE spirit guide to the very zeitgeist of this day and age. Where else but Rocket Bar would you ever want to be!? They're tapping into that golden vein, they're injecting it full of white heat, they're watching those eyes roll back and they're calling the ambulance minutes before they throw it crashing down those three flights of stairs again. It's the cutting edge on a glass top coffee table. It's take no prisoners. It's being so fucking out of your mind that you don't care when the music all turns to shit the minute the DJs start banging all that daft disco banging eurotrash shit the minute those guitars drop cause you're dancing up a storm until well after dawn. And what a lethal combination it is to bring Modular to this party! We all know they're the undisputed arbiters of cool in this country, the list is endless: The Presets, Cut Copy, Ladyhawke, Van She, The Klaxons, New Young Pony Club, Muscles and that fashion tragic stick-insect in the spastic running shorts, porn moustache, sweatband and the geometric v-neck that beats you over the head repetively with cowbell whilst screaming "LASERBEAMS LASERBEAMS ZOMG!! LOL!! ZOMG!!" (fuck I love that guy! who IS that guy!?). They're everything that is awesome about music RIGHT NOW! And tonight they're only bringing us the brightest and the best. How could we go past Fire! Santa Rosa! Fire!: newly crowned champions of the Adelaide new wave indie invasion that'll surely sweep the globe!? FUCK YES! Or what about everyone's favourite Sydneysiders the Cassette Kids (who I knew absolutely next to nothing about until moments before when I stumbled up all those stairs!?). Shit! no wonder so many people bookmark this blog! Strap yourself into that toilet seat kiddies, hold on for dear life, cause we're gonna be gargling upto our nipples in it tonight!
10:13PM - Yup, I don't know about you but I can really smell the excitement in the air tonight. I can also smell a hint of lavender, sandlewood, pine, sawdust, pigs blood, various illicit substances that may've originated from Electric Circus (and have absolutely nothing to do with any of the three bands that may've played last night.. isn't that RIGHT Josh from Lady Strangelove!?) and quite possibly the smell of something "burning" (quite possibly originating in my frontal lobe) but that's neither here or there. We all know Modular knows how to pack it out and cave the roof in with all fists swinging. We all remember fondly the chaos they unleashed upon these four walls just last night with Tame Impala, down those stairs, and stretching all the way around the block into the hazy distances that can only be measured in parsecs. We remember the night etched into infamy that was Cut Off Your Hands, Teenagersintokyo and Femme Fatales back in September 2007. And how could we forget the night The Presets played Fowlers Live supported by My Sister The Cop and Artax Mission back in May 2006 that ended with everyone up on stage and climbing the walls!? So much mirth, madness and mischief, we associate Modular with nothing less!
So it comes as no surprise that we would find Rocket Bar once again answering the clarion call of the über chic in this city, with the birthing of the very bohemian bacchanal itself: crawling walls to ceiling, teeming in the scenster elite, all crammed concave, breathing shallow, sweating as one, in a feverish throng of fashionistas, the avant art nazis, the tragically hip and the retro active. Fuck maaan you can see them out there in their hundreds! It's madness! They're sucking in all the sights and sounds insatiably, crazy straws in hand, eyes bursting with glee, minds exploding, imploding, skin exfoliating, like a bag of popcorn, like a golden shower, like the very best moments of the Future Music Festival, Parklife, Laneway and Pyramid Rock all colliding as one only to triple the population in nine months time! I'm truly ever so fortunate that I would find myself passing out drunk last night, so I could be blessed with such fortune as THIS tonight!
Wait.. you mean you can't see them!? Oh they're out there alright! There's not just hundreds of them, there's thousands, no millions! in all the colours of the rainbow spanning an infinite age of possibility and wonder! Sure they're invisible to the naked eye, inperceptible to human hearing, you won't pick up anything with an electro encephalagram, a geiger counter or a weird-shit-o-metre hooked up to a flux capacitor; but as long as you can drown out the all crickets singing and flushing that toilet as one you can feel it in your bones! Mark this down in your diaries, kick yourself repetively in the crotch for missing it, this is Modular and their "Abracadabra" party (opening night no less) shitting chocolate sprinkles on us all from above, this is their golden rays of sunshine beaming out of their benevolent bungholes, this is Adelaide answering in kind yet again proving once and for all why we're the most AWESOME illbient live music scene ever!! Fuck DAMN it feels good to be alive! Where's the bar!? I'm SO gonna get fucked up!
FIRE! SANTA ROSA FIRE! (****) myspace :: When it comes to being right in the thick of it, right in the very heart of it, tickling that pink spot and laughing hysterically at all the good fortune for hours on end (till they quite forget why the hell they were there in the first place); look no further than THIS ridiculously awesome opening act. Right now they're a band that can do NO wrong! After all these years, toiling in the shadows, snuffling away in the dark, noses to the grindstones, shoulders to the wheel, fingers to the gamepads racking up all those highscores waiting for the day: they've finally smashed through that glass ceiling, that invisible barrier, that inferiority complex thats held back SO many of their siblings in the Adelaide scene and now there's no holding them back! It's been two years, two long years of me making an absolute dick of them every step of the way on this blog (and don't we know it!), and finally they've made it: the much lauded (and often ridiculed) "high rotation" spot on Triple J (so much so they're the fourth most played song on radio in the week ending on November 22nd.. woweeeee!) and aren't the accolades simply flooding their way: Playground Weekender, Homebake Festival, Triple J Next Crop Artist for 2008, Signing onto Dot-Dash Recordings, the list goes on. It's about freaking time, they deserve it, and aren't the crowds just LOVING them tonight! (or at least they would be if anyone actually turned up *cough*). Still let it not be said that Fire! Santa Rosa Fire! ever need a capacity crowd to sustain their hysterical energy on stage. They're a self sustaining source of all things idiot savant: tambourines, sporadic handclaps, start stop rhythms on a dime, punchy little guitar riffs and keys that wind round and round like a clockwork cuckoo and an infectious groove that just won't quit. They're a teddy bear's picnic, a bohemian post punk, a head concussion collision of ecclectic space jams painted with water colour and detailed in crayon. They're Broken Social Scene meets LCD Soundsystem. They're The Rapture meets Architecture In Helsinki. They're all the kinetic song structures and carcrash cause and effect that comes when genius meets insanity! If ever there was a moment to tune into this band, it would be right here and now! (yeak ok: quite possibly not HERE but still in the general vicinity all the same). Oh yes! this is the start of something TRULY awesome..
You can't deny they've nailed their own sound. First there was "War Coward". We've already heard that played to death on the radio (that weirdly enough I can't seem to get sick of it.. which I find disturbing to no end!) but there's plenty more just like it and equally as infectious (and not unlike being fucked up on painkillers). I can't wait to hear the album they'd have in store for us, on record they'll be awesome, but for those of you who have yet to experience them for the first time live, for those of you who may be planning to see them at Homebake (pffft.. as if they'll ever be reading THIS blog!), I feel I need to warn you. They may sound like "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" on the radio, but in person they're a foul mouthed, trash talking beast. They're an impish gimp by the name of Dave Williams guitarist and vocalist. He'll treat you to his extra special "standup comedy routine" during the smaller gigs, quite like this one tonight (or the infamous set they played almost two months ago at Producers Bar when Dave's "father" made a rare appearance). Egged on by their manager Matt Hayward (who continues to berrate them with "get off the stage!" and "you suck!") Dave will rapid fire with a littany of abuse ranging from the mildly amusing to something you'd otherwise get from Richard Prior or Eddie Murphy from the mid 80's. He's the one who introduces the band as "Lobster Minsk", only to tell you in following that they've since "broken up", only to tell you at the end of their set that this is their reunion tour. He's the one cracking jokes about beating up on Michael J Fox, Parkinson's Disease, and dedicating songs to his (fictionally) "dead parents". Push him further (like say, yell out something simple and insulting like: "hey Dave, tell us a joke!!") and he won't hesitate to put you in your place. It's Dave trading insults with Art their keyboardist. It's both of them laughing it up and running amok. It's Caitlin their female vocalist rolling her eyes in between. As such for all the brilliant examples I could otherwise present of all things Fire! Santa Rosa Fire!: such as their flawless rendition of War Coward, or a brand new song that sounded like all the best bits of Pink Floyd's "Money" from Dark Side Of The Moon, but I believe THIS song "Strangehold" sums them up perfectly. It's every reason why this band deserves everything they get. It's every reason why I'll continue to egg them on for all the trouble they cause. It's every reason why Dave could easily be Adelaide's answer to Liam Gallagher from Oasis as a result. Oh yes.. don't say I didn't warn you!
CASSETTE KIDS (****) myspace :: Which then brings us rather incomprehensibly to our headlining act at Rocket Bar, their main drawcard for Modular, their "Abracadabra" party and the second reason why we're all breathing through holes poked into the ceiling because it's just so hysterically overloaded with people in here. Yup, this is the Cassette Kids. For all the infinite and illogical reasons I could've chosen to be here, it was THIS band that made me chose this venue over everything else. Why!? Not for any real reasons, I just kinda liked the name, and I'd never actually seen them before (and hey, I'm always up for something new!). Weirder still I hadn't even heard a single thing about them. Only later when all their press started rolling in: all the talk of their novelty touring van covered in band logos, the cheesy Channel V documentary and that ill fated appearance in "Adelaide Confidential" (aka: everyone's favourite buzz kill for building up street cred) did I start having my reservations. Listening to all their songs on their myspace earlier this week didn't help matters much either. On record they were indie sure, but a distinctly polished bubblegum "indie" more akin to what you'd hear on the soundtrack to 90210 (the remake, not the original) or worse still, making an appearance on Rove Live (and not the shit you'd otherwise ever see me dead at, clawing my eyes out, torn limb by limb from the "tweenie" stampede that would surely follow them in droves.. yeeeeouch!). Still I've done worse for the sake of this website in the past. I've taken risks. Who could forget the hilarity that was "Summer Party" featuring Vanilla Ice, Kele Okereke from the Bloc Party (his misguided attempt at being a DJ) and all the metrosexual wreckage in between? Or dare I mention the living hell that was MTV Kickstart again!? Sometimes I'll take one for the team for the sake of the greater good: sure they'll be HELL to live through but they're all the more awesome to make fun of! So I gritted my teeth expecting the worst, I half considered ditching this band altogether to hit up Transmission Live at Ed Castle, but I stood my ground. And when they finally made their appearance a good forty five minutes later (quite possibly due to all the riot police that were required to clear Fire! Santa Rosa Fire! off the stage in a hail of rubber bullets, water cannons and tear gas grenades) and tore into those first few songs: all fears were soon alleviated. The Cassette Kids actually turned out to be one of those awesome finds that makes taking all these insane (and near fatal) risks for this blog all the more worthwhile.
The Cassette Kids. You may know them for the punchy indie disco of their single "You Take It". That cascading bass groove. That unmistakable squeaky falsetto that runs halfway between a swoon, and a kittycat hissyfit. The infectious chorus bordering on obnoxious that sticks in your head for days. It's every reason why I should be destroying them. Ridiculously catchy: yes, but utterly disposable in the worst possible teeny bopper way. But as we've shown time again and again the true test of a band is on a live stage and it is here that this band shows a surprising amount of aggression and raw animal intensity. Granted it all begins with their lead singer Katrina Noorbergen, you can't miss her: she's the platinum blond implosion thrown about the room like a rag doll set upon by rottweilers. She's a voice that sound like a mix between Blondie, Kate Bush hitting all the high notes, and one of those opera singers who shatters wine glasses, having an explosive orgasm with a combine harvester. Alone you could accuse this as nothing but token gesture, but the rest of the band grounds her energetic flailings in a spiky post punk dancefloor collision that reminds me more of the ridiculously awesome paranoid refrains of The Valentinos' "Man With A Gun" and everything that was brilliant about The Dardanelles' "Mirror Mirror" than anything that would otherwise give you those "oh shit they sound just like The Veronicas!" alarm bells. It's a distinctly east coast Australian post punk feel, perhaps stretching all the way back to the 80's, INXS at their most immediate and energetic, or maybe U2's "War" album, but more so for every post punk band on the verge of a nervous breakdown that I used to see in Rocket Bar from late 2006 to 2007. Throw in elements of The Ting Ting's, a sprinking of New Young Pony Club and The Yeah Yeah Yeahs "Show Your Bones" and you've got an angular attack, lightly dappled in electronics, but driven and drilled raw to the reptilian core of the flight or fight response. It's the last thing I ever expected from this band tonight, and yet they're all the better for it!
12:34AM - I'm a little bit surprised to find things wrapping up at Rocket Bar so soon (and only moments after midnight at that) as I originally assumed "Anna Lunoe" the third artist listed on the bill was actually a live band of some description (although I hate to imagine exactly what) and not, as it turned out, just some token DJ spinning frisbees into the remains of the night. It's also any wonder how I managed to fight my way through all those crowds to fresh air again *cough*; but it also meant, with time to kill, I could easily slip across road and get a mad hit of whatever Transmission Live was serving up as a headlining act at the Ed Castle tonight..
12:41AM - And it was here front of stage that I soon found myself right in the thick of it: to a mad science array of keyboards, cables, synths, samplers, effect pedals, drumkits, quantum destabilisers and thermonuclear doomsday devices. It was an epic feat of electrical engineering that somewhat resembled what you'd half imagine a World Of Warcraft tournamet would look like if it was doused in one of those improbable comic book combinations of gamma rays, kryptonite and Redbull that gives you unbelievably freaky superpowers (instead of say: testicular cancer) and formed a mechanoid mutant that destroys half of Manhattan (except perhaps as animated by those two guys behind Robot Chicken). It was an awesome sight, especially when it destroyed the Chrysler Building and took a giant dump right in the middle of Yankee Stadium, but only till I realised that I was simply tripping balls to whatever chemicals they'd put into the accompanying smoke and bubble machines. Yup, it was anyone's guess just what the fuck all of this meant, but I dare say I was intrigued to see what kind of malevolent madness would manifest from it..
12:56AM - Still, before I could speculate further over exactly what form it would take and the military response required to take it down (I've got my bets on an oversized Robert Smith "South Park" style as our best strategy), I'm soon distracted by the usual swarm of Transmission Live scenster dweebs (and the otherwise metrosexually handicapped) who for some retarding reason love nothing more than to be ridiculed on my site in ways that will soon be deemed an offense by the U.N. and the Geneva Convention; simply for the dubious value that all these photos will later provide for their facebook profiles (and the twenty or so people I'll never remember meeting this night who will surely add me in following). Or in another words this is still me, Spoz, emphatically believing that Facebook is the most stupid thing ever invented on the face of this earth (despite the fact I have an account) and the sooner we develop a military response to THAT, the better!
I swear, something about one of these freaks is strangelyfamiliar too.. hmmmm. Is it just me or is it really just the same ten or twenty people appearing in my blogs each week, they simply don different disguises like funny hats and wigs to create the illusion that there's still more than a handful of people left in this city and I'm not going completely batshit barking insane thinking all of this shit up!? (I swear if Nick Hadley makes an appearance right now it's game over!).
THE WATERSLIDES (****) myspace :: And speaking of batshit levels of barking insane bordering on that which would be considered a "biblical plague", especially anywhere in the continental United States where "Intelligent Design" is still considered to be a "science" of some description (or where you'll be sure to find THIS band bookmarked just before the rain of toads, the locusts, the rivers of blood and just after that "wacky" plague where all your socks goes missing) here come's The Waterslides! They're everyone's favourite partytime fun band, they're all the illbient sounds of 90's bigbeat and 00's mashup mixed up like rubix cube pulled apart by a four year old and they're also someone's entirely warped idea of a joke tonight (I'm looking at YOU Ross!) for even suggesting this was a good idea in the first place: as clearly NONE of us here are getting out of this shit alive without suffering a violent case of the bends (oh and if ita wasn't total spur of the moment thing to see them tonight I would've totally brought enough gasmasks and flippers for everyone!). The Waterslides. When I first saw them back in August, I described them as "every single one of your orifices being gang fucked by clowns". I would now like to amend this original statement to include a further 50,000 colobus monkeys, a full mariachi band, Daffy Duck having a psychotic breakdown and any music video as directed by Chris Cunningham that possibly involves source material as derived from a Robin Williams standup comedy routine (and no I'm not going to draw you the diagram of just how that could possibly "work "without your entire house exploding). Yup clearly nothing about this band ever "mellows" with repeat reviewings, the same dosage will KILL you every damn time, and yet chances are if we look past the impenetrable fog, the flashing lights, the sirens, the bells, the whistles, the bubble machine and every one of them jumping around like dickheads screaming at once I'm sure there's actually some "music" in here somewhere!
The Waterslides are a shock and awe campaign in every sense that I've never taken LSD before, but if I DID, and I watched this band, I'd be missing a head right now and there'd be a sizeable hole above us where the ceiling once was. Still I believe there are strategies, rather like what you could employ in response to an alien abduction, that will enable you to see through the impossible murk: to find the real band beyond the hall of mirrors and that teeny tiny peanut nucleus that drives it. I find demagnitising all of your bank cards and bus tickets is always a good start, followed by turning all your underwear inside out, wearing a hat made of tinfoil and filling your entire bathtub with peanut butter and tabasco sauce (however making a giant replica of the Devil's Tower National Monument in Wyoming entirely out of mash potato will only confuse matters further). As such The Waterslides are a sound somewhat akin to that of The Avalanches (of which they most resemble), Apollo 440, Fatboy Slim, The Chemical Brothers, The Wiseguys, 2ManyDJs, Gerling, Regurgitator's "Tu-Plang" album, and every song you have on your ipod playing simultaneously whilst being smashed to bits by a sledgehammer. Beyond that, I don't think it's possible to understand any of what this band does, or even consider it a "live band" by even the broadest definitions of "music", or even anything else that may otherwise trigger hallucinogenic flashbacks to The Wiggles, The Banana Splits, the furthering adventures of Badger Badger "mushroom mushroom!" (or all of the above as performed inside of a bouncey castle) UNLESS you present the kind of illbient brain malfunction that readily understand the inner workings of Spongebob Squarepants *phew*. That being said however, I still believe it IS actually possible to dance to it.. and sometimes that's the all kinds of fucked up awesome you'd ever need!
2:29AM - I remember very little of what happened next, only broad brush strokes: I remember rats scurrying to the surface, a mad panic of flames, a loud popping noise, reality unravelling like a sinkhole and then nothing but static. Am I alive? dead? both at the same time and reenacting my very own "Weekend At Bernie's"!? These many mysteries (and what exactly happened in the hour that followed) are surely lost to the sands of time. All that I am sure of is waking up in the here and now taking yet more utterly ridiculous photos of DJ Ross Ross Ross making a complete dick of himself behind the decks for Transmission Live: simply for the fact that I do this shit EVERY time he plays, I piss myself laughing, and then both my socks go missing (fuck! not again!?).
(and yes this may very well be THE creepiest photo I've taken all night.. yeeeeeouch!)
2:40AM - Moments later I'm almost swallowed whole by the pirahna swarm of scenster dweebs burning up a hole on the dancefloor in front of me, as clearly they don't nearly get ENOUGH of this shit in this city of late: what with Count Dracula (aka: DJ Craig) running "Gosh" and "Glitter" every other fucking week now at Jive, "Sputnik" at Rhino Room, "Transmission" at the Bull & Bear, and whatever the fuck Fatboy Slum (aka: DJ Ian) is doing these days at Fowlers Live (ie: scaring small children) and let's face it they're all just scrambling to get as much of this shit as they can before the lights go out. Sheeeesh, we're SO starved for entertainment around here aren't we!?
2:49AM - Although speaking of being starved (ie: of oxygen to the brain for hours at a time) they still provided a few moments of cheap amusment, such as when THIS exciteable wingnut took his night to a whole new level (and by "whole new level" I clearly mean the exact same level of hilarious retardation I always see at exactly this time of night every other weekend)..
And yes I will be so freaking relieved when this "Movember" madness is over too: as without a doubt it is THE fugliest damn month of the year! (with the possible exception of anything we unleashed on this blog back in January, or for pretty much most of September *cough*)..
3:04AM - And no downward spiral into oblivion at Transmission Live (ie: all the beers you'll subsequentially be drinking to "fit in" with the room temperature intellects in abundance around here) is ever complete without the sight of Jimmy Beano from The Waterslides, pulling mad shapes on the dancefloor with his bass guitar for the simple fact he thinks THIS is the most awesome shit ever (and no, he's not far off either) and not because he suffers from some kind of congenital mental disorder. He's soon followed by the same riot police, rubber bullets, water cannons and tear gas grenades that cleared Fire! Santa Rosa Fire! off the stage of Rocket Bar hours earlier tonights, and once more it's game over for another night.. YEEEHOOOOO!!
3:17AM - Or at least it would've been if I didn't end up in Supermild afterwards, as clearly I'm not in here way too ridiculously often enough as it is, there IS such a thing as "choice" and "free will" and the teeny tiny pilot light in my head hadn't snuffed out long ago (hmmm is it just me or can everyone smell gas? oh wait, nevermind.. I'm just gone completely fucking insane, again!).
3:24AM - Still I'm not the only hopeless creature of habit around here of late, as for another night running Clive Owen (Hollywood actor for such films as: Sin City, Children Of Men, Closer and all those other weird "arthouse" movies you could never be fucked seeing) made yet another appearance in Supermild to the absolute surprise of next to no one. You'll find him waaay off frame to the right of this photo as clearly I'm no paparazzi (or worse still "Adelaide Confidential") but of course I couldn't help dropping by to annoy him again anyways. Still, thanks to a "wrap up party" he had earlier tonight with the cast and crew of the Scott Hicks film he'd been starring in, he's in a considerably happier (ie: drunken) mood tonight than he was last time, and wasn't at all disturbed when I (a) pitched him the exact same film idea I pitched to Scott Hicks at the Jade Monkey over three years ago involving "a spaceship full of howler monkeys in search of Uranus", or (b) when I kept asking him to give me Natalie Portman's telephone number..
4:10AM - But of course all hopes of getting him to pimp me all the those other numbers he's probably hoarding on his phone (Jessica Alba? Angelina Jolie? Jennifer Connelly? all three at once!?) were soon dashed the minute I'm visited by these dribbling fiends, all offering me to join their apocalypse cult. Yup, as it turns out, ever since the million and one blogs I've been writing of late all claiming the end was nigh (I mean shit, have you SEEN the stockmarket of late!? yeeesh!) it appears the trend has FINALLY caught on, and now everyone's into this shit (and people tell me I do nothing for this music scene!? pfffft.. there's evidence right here fool!).
And as much as their argument was convincing, if entirely improbable (I mean pfffft.. everyone knows climate change is a myth!) I wasn't quite willing to join just yet as lets face it: in between running this blog and being an active part of the Branch Davidian cult, who's got the time!?
Of course matters were only made all the more complicated by the fact that their fearless leader was none other than Izzy from Robotosaurus, and with this infamous idiot at the helm (and the reputation that precedes him) there's a good chance they could actually follow through with their plan. I mean don't get me wrong, I'd love to see the whole world go down in flames just as much as the next person (ie: who spends way too much time playing Grand Theft Auto), but I also rather like beer: and I fear that'll be the first thing to run out the minute those bombs drop.
4:39AM - Looking to get away from it all, I fled to the beer garden only to bump into Gandalf The Grey here. He entrusted me with the "One Ring" and a sacred quest to take it deep into the realm of Mordor, the raging fires of Mount Doom and destroy it once and for all before any of it's original owners: Dick Cheney, Adolf Hitler, Walk Disney, Oprah Winfrey or the Olsen Twins got their hands on it again and plunged this world into another dark age of despair (I'm told George W Bush also had it for a brief period between 2001 and 2003 but lost it in a game of "52 Pickup"). Knowing full well the weight of this moment in history I knew there was only one thing to do: lop Gandalf's head off with an axe, steal his funky hat, sprinkle whatever's left with a mix of rock salt and holy water and then burn his body. There's no way I could take any chances with this one! I saw through all of his lies: he was none other than ME from forty years in the future, travelling back in time to meet me, just so he could fullfill a variation of the "grandfather paradox" and there was NO way I could make any of that shit happen (I mean pfffft.. since when did I start smoking!?).
5:11AM - Clearly traumatised by the act of killing myself in ways entirely not specified by the Doctor Kevorkian user's manual, I took a few photos of the resulting carnage I caused, vowed never to publish them, along with all those "accidental nipple exposures" you just KNOW I'm hoarding (they'll make an awesome addition to my scrapbook!) and finally agreed to join Izzy's apocalypse cult. The time is nigh, the time is now, together we'll make a difference!
5:26AM - Only to wake up half an hour later left for dead by the roadside with both my kidneys missing (again!? thank fuck these things regenerate each week or we'd be well fucked!) as it appears I wasn't the only one visited by "Gandalf" this night (that crafty 'ol bastard!) and the only plan THIS apocalypse cult had simply involved me and my imminent demise.. bugger!
So as I lie gargling by the curbside, interrupted sporadically by neighbourhood kids poking me with sticks and laughing, people taking photos, crows and pigeons pecking at my eyeballs, cars grinding their tire treads all over my mangled remains in their speedy escape from the breathalyser (and finally the ambulance crew that sped me to the same small metal filing cabinet I always find myself waking in on a Saturday afternoon) I thought back to all the twists and turns that led me to this grisly fate. I wondered just what would've happened if I just stayed home tonight, if I chose a nine to five in a quiet little office FAR away from here, if I chose LIFE instead of killing myself retarded with beer every damn weekend for all YOU idiots: but alas I chose THIS life and I have nobody to blame but myself (and aren't we all the richer for it!?).
