tooth soup

Last Monday I had the opportunity to attend Parklife, a festival dedicated to dance and dance-inducing music. Now, I’ve never been to a Parklife event before, but I have been to the Big Day Out and Southbound festivals and thoroughly enjoyed myself at them, so I know how a day of music and atmosphere can be a great occasion. I can also definitely appreciate the dance genre, having been an addict in high school, even if I can’t actually dance very well.

Which is why I feel somewhat qualified to say that Parklife this year was pretty good. It certainly had its high points–the day was amazing, the atmosphere was upbeat, and the acts were varied and many. However, there was one feature of the day that blew me away with its ridiculous nature. Let me walk you through the gut wrenching terror of…

“The Line!”

If you want people to be pumped for a gig, you generally want to build some sort of anticipation for it. Usually this is done by ticket sales a few weeks or months before the event, coupled with a bit of media saturation; interviews, magazine spots, that sort of thing. That’s enough to place a mental barrier that’ll have the fans jumping up and down like Jack Russel fucking terriers (5 points for reference) on crack when the day comes. What you don’t need to do is translate that mental barrier into a physical barrier preventing people from entering the event. I should qualify this by saying that I’m not certain that this is what the Parklife staff were trying to do when they didn’t bother making sure the single entrance to the event was regulated for easy passage. I do dearly hope there was some reasoning behind it, otherwise we’d have to come to the conclusion that the staff are just Plain Fucking Stupid. The Line is actually a misnomer, as the complex arrangement of punters waiting outside the entrance would probably be represented a bit better by something a bit less linear, vis:

That’s right, a mandelbrot fractal that curls ever inward son itself, without losing complexity, complete with the psychadelic colours that 90% of the people in the line were experiencing the world through. Essentially there was no line, just a mass of people blocking the entrance with tendrils of what might have been orderly lines sweeping out to coil in fernlike fractal arrangements that confounded and amazed the poor sods that rutned up more than an hour late. There are probably still people stuck in the imaginary plane created by the entrance arragnements as I type this.

It took us a full hour to worm our way through the gates, which I spent the majority of attempting to ignore the pair of tits that were rubbing up against my elbow belonging to one in a group of four incredibly small, incredibly irritating girls. The Big Day Out does not have this problem, even with its participation swelling to almost triple that of Parklife. Southbound doesn’t have this problem, and it’s run with a full campsite chocked with attendees right next door. If the biggest drawcard to your event is the ability for people to get fucked off their chops on the white stuff and dance, you should probably assume they have the mentality of a bored heffer and adjust your herding techniques accordingly.

Anyway, once past that, like I said, the day was great. We saw Grafton Primary, Soulwax, Goldfrapp, bits of Blackalicious, Van She Tech, and Does It Offend You Yeah?, so no slouch on a strong lineup. I’m not sure I’ll be visiting again; the Mullet Per Capita ratio was slightly too high for my liking and cashed up bogans without t-shirts sporting shit-house tattoos aren’t exactly my kind of people. But it was worth checking out.

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Tags: honestly southern cross tattoos are probably the worst fad to hit australia since the dutch, parklife, perth

Heroes in a mosh pit. Found via this Daily Mail article. Thought it was highly amusing. That’s pretty much it, other than the observation that I can see someone trying to emulate this in human form at some point in the near future. You heard it here first.

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Tags: algae, punk, turtle

Apparently a single frame snapped during the fuzz of images that makeup the visuals at the drop of The Great Destroyer. See? Someone has a sense of humour. Probably a visual tech somewhere, but I hold out hope it was signed and approved by the band at some point.

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Tags: blue screen, bsod, great destroyer, nin

photo credit: rogiro

I found this website to be incredibly striking, especially with regards to the ‘Money’, ‘Skin Colour’, and ‘Education’ panels. From the site:

“This is a self-initiated project based on the scenario – If the world were a village of 100 people. There are a few different versions of this text in circulation about the world’s statistics. I found the data very striking and neatly summarises the world that we live in. So I used information graphics to re-tell the story in another creative way. I designed a set of 20 posters, which contain most of the information. I used simple vector graphics that related to a statistic in order to present the information in the simplest and most accessible way.”

Very thought-provoking.

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Tags: 100, village, world

If you’re like me and aren’t entirely sure of the deal behind the subprime market collapse, this handy comic will set you straight. Plus there’s a Norwegian villager having a swearing match with a mortgage broker. Pretty much win right there.

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…take photos with you:

This one comes via Boing Boing Gadgets:

“Wayne Martin Bleger makes pinhole cameras using a variety of materials including precious stones, metals, human organs, and bone. This piece, entitled Third Eye, features many of these materials, all constructed around the 150 year-old skull of a 13 year-old girl. The film is exposed to light through titular ocular cavity making a Polaroid momento mori. The photos taken with this camera (one of which is after the jump) stay with the theme, their blurriness and patina making them look as if they were snatched from the memories of the dead.”

And if you head to his website, you’ll see it really has taken some nice photos.

A lot of people seem to be taking exception to the fact that he’s used a 15-year-old girl’s skull in the making of the camera. The standard arguments apply: would they be as offended if it had been an older man’s skull? Does it matter if our bodies are used for a further purpose once we’re dead? Is this not a fittingly beautiful piece of art to enshrine the deceased in? And so on. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the macabre element here, but that’s probably because I’m a scientist and as most people know, Scientists Are Like That. That is, the majority of us don’t believe in any everlasting soul that may be desecrated by the act of affixing metal to it and turning it into an attractive piece of kit. Thankfully, we’re also usually the kind of folk that don’t mind people believing otherwise, maintaining that everyone is welcome to their opinion and beliefs.

Though I’d probably warn off those objectors from the piece entitled ‘Heart‘.

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Tags: art, camera, pinhole, skull

photo credit: Oliver Ingrouille

Going through a bit of a low funk period at the moment. It’s not that I haven’t been going out and  enjoying myself–I’ve had a couple of great nights out with dinner in Freo and hanging out at mate’s places, no problems there. I’m just not being very motivated to do…things.

By things I mainly mean constructive things. Things like writing, or making a new compilation CD, or photography, or painting, or even thinking about random ideas that pop into my head while driving or walking. It’s most likely down to having been buried in producing reports for my supervisor over at BHP; several tens of thousands of words of passive voice kills even the most enthusiastic of creative minds. I guess once you get into the habit of thinking in a very analytical way it can be difficult to let it go (as evidenced by a million conversations between physics nerds in social gatherings resulting in a very tight circle of physics nerds in a corner somewhere, while everyone else could be having a gigantic sex orgy for all they notice (and they probably are]). Which gets me on to thinking about whether or not I can handle not being able to think creatively, and whether or not in my future career (is it okay to assume I’ll have one of those?) I will have the luxury of ’switching off’ that analytical side of myself in order to not go batshit crazy/turn into the world’s most-unable-to-let-go-of-tedious-minutae person.

Which then gets me to thinking; what on Earth am I going to do once university is finished and the levy that has been keeping the real world from slushing down into my life finally breaks? Once (if) I finish I’ll have things like ‘research interests’ and ‘previous publications’ and ‘prior institutions’ to recommend me to workplaces (in addition to my charming wit and general unkempt appearance). But I’ve had insight into the world of academia, as well as the world of industry, and I’m not sure if I’m ready or able to fit into either of them. It’s a worrying situation. Essentially once I’m done here I’ll be stuck again in the same rocking boat I’ve had occasion to voyage on in year twelve, and again a year and a half ago. The S.S. Uncertainty, with its possible ports of call at Wealthtown, Jobsatisfactionville, Careerpathington, and Boringasawoodenpostonmonday…land. Okay, that was a shit metaphor. Freely admitted.

I think it would be a wise move to take a break once I’ve finished the ol’ doctorate. That break was supposed to occur between my undergraduate studies and The Real World, but the opportunity to get a PhD arose and I knew that with my 2nd class honours marks, that opportunity wasn’t going to come around again. A startling fact to think about is that once I’ve finished my PhD, I will have spent a total of 18 years in education. That’s a lot of time learning. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s been time spent relatively well. But if only due to the immense time I’ve been doing it for, I think I need to tag off and have a rest. What form that rest will take, I don’t know. Obviously I have to survive, and since money is this particular society’s way of dictating survival, I’m going to need me some of that cash stuff. I’m no stranger to retail jobs and the fun and satisfaction that they can possess, so that’s certainly an option on the table. It’d have to be somewhere where I didn’t have to suck off customers though, I’ve had my share of that. Wait, that probably means no retail. Okay fine, minimal sucking off.

Of course there’s always the distant, paradisical dream of becoming a writer (though if I keep making up words like ‘paradisical’ I’ll never make it). I’ve had small tastes of what it’d be like to have ideas and to write them out and for them to be deemed Good by the vast masses of eyes known as The Audience. But I’m ever a realist and I know that if I were to make that my life’s goal, I’d need to grow up. I’m too quick to forgive my indulgences, and that’s a fatal flaw when it comes to jobs that require self-motivation. I think I’d need maintain some other job in addition to freelancing if I were to be able to sustain myself on writing alone. As far as I can tell that’s generally the way people get by in the world of writing, until of course they get their dream break and end up rolling in great wads of cash (that still happens, right?). I’m already starting to scout around and ask about how this whole publishing shindig works, and it seems like I’d probably be able to find a niche large enough for me to fit my clunky prose into, or at worst I’d just need to learn how to properly construct an essay and start submitting my barely valid opinions all over the place.

Anyway, I’ve blathered enough for one post. If anyone who is still being educated, feels like posting their response and thoughts on where they are and where they believe they’re headed, please go for it. I’d be interested to have a peek at your life plans.

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Tags: god will this guy ever stop bitching about his future?, Life, plans, work

Some of you may think I have something of a vendetta against Cadbury-Schweppes for their supporting of this plain fruit drink with its ludicrous advertising campaign. I wrote this particular post a little while ago when I discovered that a suit with the mind of a new-age hippie had been scrawling horribly conceived hipster bullshit on the side of My Goddamn Fruit Juice.

I was content to leave it there; vitriol expelled, rant completed. Unfortunately, Spring Valley decided to give it one more poke and provide us with this little gem of a 9:03am wakeup call:

That’s right folks, married people are happier than anyone else. A quick run through the list of things that are utterly wrong with that goes something like this:

1. Where are your cited references? Country of origin? Demographic? Species?
2. Does that mean that single people are sadder than anyone else?
3. Does that mean that people in defacto relationships are in actual fact totally depressed?
4. What about cultures in which people are forcibly married? Does this provide them with untold riches of glee?
5. Uh oh, that brings up the question of couples who can’t legally be married. So gays are all miserable sods? Woohoo for homophobes!
6. What sort of marriage? Can I be married under the church of Satan and still achieve this happiness?

I could go on for days (and probably will, look out if you bump into me in the street). Whoever approved this ridiculous lump of text deserves to be fired. Along with the dickhead that approved the other ‘liddle fact’ decrying that the Earth is not spherical (obviously), it’s pear shaped. Pear shaped. Like a pear. Sorry, but the Earth DOESN’T HAVE BOOTY. Maybe the word you’re looking for is elliptical or, if you want to be actually accurate, ‘oblate spheroid’ may suffice.

Anyway, heaven forbid Spring Valley ever realise they’re selling something that needn’t have all this un-fucking-believable bullshit attached to it. It’s juice. Sell it as juice. Not Einstein, or a panel show, or a new-age hipster. Fucking. Juice.

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Tags: Beverages, Facts, Homophobic, Liddle, Marriage, Married people are happier than anyone else, Spring, Valley

Bit of a disclaimer before this one: I’m not someone who regularly vists the thee-ah-tah like some other people in Perth may do. In fact I think this would be the first time I’ve been to see a play since back in high school and the performance of ‘Death of a Salesman’ that we were forced to endure (damn is that depressing). So forgive me if my appraisal isn’t up to the standard of a seasoned taster of the performing arts, but it’s said that every form of entertainment must appeal to every form of audience, so really there’s no need to excuse my uncouth ways. Or something like that. Anyway, moving onto the meaty bits.

The play’s title was ‘Far Away’, written by one Caryl Churchill, who hails from Britland, in 2000. I’d give you the blurb for the play that was on the program but a) we lost it in the Belgium Beer Cafe afterwards, b) it didn’t really make much sense, and c) seemed to be written based on about 1/3rd of the play anyway. Wikipedia gave me this as a synopsis:

“The play has three characters, Harper, Joan, and Todd, and is based on the premise of a world in which everything in nature is at war with each other.”

Which I guess  is correct, but again really only applies specifically to the last third of the play. Seems like people are trying their hardest to ignore the first bits in favour of the more quotable/hook-inducing finale.

Before the play started, the set itself hinted at the mood of the play. Harsh, brushed, faux-metal, riveted doors loomed over the audience, with a subtle soundtrack of hissing and pneumatics in the background. When they opened, it was to the sound of booming metal-on-metal, revealing an elderly woman sewing. The woman was soon joined by a (very well played) young girl, who complained of not being able to sleep. The conversation soon turned from an innocent discussion of getting back to sleep and bed, to a disturbing admission from the girl that she had climbed out her window and seen the bodies of dead women and children in her Uncle’s shed. This is all explained away by her Aunt, in a style reminiscent of an elder persuading a child that Santa Claus is real, as being her Uncle’s way of helping people. The girl, being young and naive, accepts this. I can see this section of the play as being suggestive to the kind of blind acceptance of the superficial that is present in today’s society. We are asked by our leaders to accept their assurances that what we are doing is the right thing, while if we had the chance to ‘climb out the window’ and observe the world as it is, we may not like what ‘Aunty’ tells us. Interesting.

This scene ends with a close of the giant metal doors, and we are treated to a more gentle scene involving two characters, a man and woman, looking to be in their mid-to-late twenties, one of which we later learn is the girl from the previous scene grown up. They appear to be making something craft-like, confirmed in the ensuing awkward small talk as hats. Some kind of parade is revealed as being the reason for their craft, though the fact that they are making it as a job, and that Joan studied ‘Hat’ at university, hints that their hattery is a bit more than it might seem. The scene transitions through the time-lapse creation of their hats (i.e. they converse with their hats at a certain stage of completion, the lights dim, they swap their creation for a more progressed one, the lights brighten again and their conversation continues) and we see the two becoming closer. The male character, Todd, slowly gains the confidence to both interact with Joan more and confide in her that he believes there is something wrong with the way the money is handled in the making of their hats. Again there is a hint of an unseen higher power that everyone believes in, as Joan isn’t convinced, but she encourages him enough that he decides he will go and discuss it with their management. By the time they have finished speaking, Joan’s hat has been complete to form a blue swan-like creature, and Todd’s is a pair of punk jeans mounted on a helmet so that the legs would hang by the ears.

The next scene was both the longest and possibly the most confusing to be presented as an audience. The stage was set up a series of three ramps at varying angles, providing a path from the front of the stage to the back where a large door stands. A girl in an orange prison jumpsuit appeared to be lying down on the third of the ramps. From the left of the stage, a man in a similar orange jumpsuit and bound at the wrists shuffles slowly in, wearing a ridiculous hat. At this point I was reminded instantly of the easter hat parades that our primary school used to have. All the pre-primary kids would make a hat out of craft stuff and walk around the assembly area. Looking back at it, it was slightly ridiculous, and so was the sight of what were assumed to be prisoners shuffling despondently from one side of the stage to the other in a variety of utterly ridiculous hats. Sailing boats, lamp fittings, bonsai, Todd’s pants and Joan’s swan, flowerpots, all manner of utterly bizzarre creations mounted on the heads of these criminals. At one stage, a female prisoner falls to the ground and is offered help by by another. A warning alarm sounds and the compassionate prisoner is shot dead from some unknown location. Compassion, it seems, is not allowed. The stream of prisoners is seemingly endless, including children and the elderly, teenagers and middle ages that march up to the door before being let inside and supposedly destroyed. When one of the children reaches the door, he waits nervously, obviously not wanting to die. One of the younger men holds his hands and they step through to their death to end the scene. It was both a disturbing and utterly ridiculous scene. I believe it was supposed to have that dual nature, encouraging the audience to view the execution of these people, whose crimes we never receive any indication of, as a ridiculous farce. Something to be giggled at, at the appearance of each insane creation resting on their heads. All this contrasted with the sombre tone of the scene and the slow, regular heartbeat death of every single prisoner. Gritty stuff.

A short scene follows where we learn that Joan’s swan hat won ‘the parade’ (which we now know is some weird execution of prisoners/traitors/convicts) and will now be saved and stored in a museum. We aren’t told if this means the person wearing the hat is also saved, or if it’s just the hat that is preserved, but Joan and Todd talk only about how excited they are about her hat being the own that won, especially since Joan is only new to the job. All this further highlights the ridiculous nature of the process, in that hats are given more talk time than the death of humans. Todd and Joan are ecstatic and Todd lets Joan know he’s got an interview with the manager of their job to voice his concerns over the company. Joan promises to come with him if he is fired because of his complaint, and the scene ends.

The final scene shows Todd pacing in the house in the original scene with Joan’s Aunt still present. He is worrying over the fact that Joan has apparently not woken up since she arrived. Joan’s Aunt starts probing him on his allegiances, and why Joan has come to see him, apparently putting herself at risk. The conversation about allegiances soon turns towards the surreal, with Joan’s Aunt starting to talk about the rampages of wasps, or the allegiance of the elephants with the Dutch, or the raping of teenagers by deer. It seems that the entire world, animals, plants, even abstract concepts such as gravity, shadows, and light, is at war with each other. Joan comes down the stairs and confirms this with an account of her trip to the house to see Todd, saying she killed many ‘children under five’, and many other animals, until she came to a river. She didn’t know whose side the river was on, whether it would help her cross or drown her. The play ends with her reflecting on the moment of placing her foot in the water, the uncertainty and fear she felt.

Overall I did actually enjoy Far Away, though some of the elements meant that it wasn’t until I’d had some time to chew over everything in my mind before I really realised what was trying to be said. It’s something of a cross between 1984 and a Haruki Murakami novel; commenting on the ridiculousness of our dependance on media, government, and other authoritative powers, while presenting a world where the fantastic is made real. Recommended if you don’t mind a bit of social or political commentary with your acting.

3/5 stars

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photo credit: Spiros2004

Right now I am acutely aware of a sharp stabbing pain in my lower spine, a dull ache in both of my front-bit-of-legs-not-the-shin-above-that-sort-of-between-the-crotch-and-the-knee (apparently says people call that a ‘quad’ or some such thing) my ankles throb, and my arches have either collapsed or turned into a sort of bruise jelly.

Yeap, I ran the City to Surf yesterday.

The annual City to Surf event in Perth is a 12 kilometer (that’s about 7.5 miles to you imperial heathens) run from the heart of Perth out to whatever beach it is that we ended up in (honestly there’s so many beautiful beaches here it’s hard to keep track). I’ve never run a City to Surf before now, but Louise’s family has been pretty into it for the last few years, and her folks are quite into physical fitness and training. That is to say that they get up most mornings at the nonexistent time of five o’clock to go for jogs, bike rides, electrocution torture, getting spikes rammed through their elbows, or whatever else it is that people who enjoy early morning starts find their jollies in. I on the other hand, sit at a desk all day and then go home and play video games, write, watch television, and generally use up as little energy as I can after my exhausting day. Which is not to say that I’m fat (although the flubby bits are starting to expand even as we speak) but I just don’t engage in the kind of physical activity that the City to Surf and its attentive enthusiasts recommend.

So when Louise asked me if I wanted to come along and do a walk/run in it with her, I really felt like doing so. It’s not that I don’t like physical exercise, I love it. I love playing team sports, and running that distance with 37,000 other people is basically a team sport. Unfortunately, thanks to the above lack of energetic output, I am not fit. Not by a long shot. But hey, I was only walking it, so I didn’t mind that. Unfortunately I have a competitive streak in me, so when people began streaming past me in the first few minutes, I began to walk faster. Then jog a bit. Then jog faster. And once I got the taste of sweet, swift overtaking of dozens of people at a time, that was it. Bit was firmly in the mouth and I was off and racing.

12km doesn’t seem like a lot when you think about it. Maybe your workplace is 12km away. Maybe your booty call. It might take you five, maybe ten minutes to drive 12km depending on traffic. But fuck. Me it’s a long way when you’re running it. Longer still when the landscape dips and rises like some horrible drunken artist decided to sculpt the bit you’re running on entirely out of egg cartons. It is painful and it is desperate and it is filled with the sounds of hundreds of other wheezing, unfit types (since all the people that are actually made for this sort of exercise have finished the race, got their free gear, and run home with their family on their backs to go hammer splinters under their fingernails).

But, ultimately, it is rewarding. I’ve now got one heck of a thing I can point back to myself and go, “See? You did that, so why can’t you go for a light jog for twenty minutes a day? Or even a bike ride? Do yah’self a fave-aaah!” (not sure why I degenerate into Cockney, but it always happens). For motivational purposes it’s a blinder. And it’s nice to see where you come in the grand scheme of things, thanks to the reproduction of everyone’s times in the newspaper the following week.

Anyway, time to go limp around to my coffee fix for the afternoon. I might get there before my thighs explode in protest. Wish me luck.

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Tags: city, city to surf, oh the pain, running, surf, to