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Excuse Me For Laughing
Friday, October 28, 2005
  My eyes and ears are burning

So I made a comment about "prey mantis" being completely and utterly entomologically wrong. And it's actually called a "praying mantis". Though, of course, mantises do prey on bugs and each other, if they are ladies who have just taken out their men out for a glass of wine and a shag. But pedantry; my, how its complete glory burns in me for a few moments. To point out, to focus on the errors of others, it's a game others play when I'm setting the q's. I was overcome by paranoia this morning about a few sets that I filed. I was right, I got something badly wrong, and I changed it, but you know how my livelihood depends on it. I, who have done for "quizes" what that "Hawkin's" has done for the wheel chairs. I, who have unsuccessfully run for the mayorship of Little'Ampton from 1987-1996. Remember we must love one another or die. Or live in a perpetual cocoon of bitterness spraying acid into the world and corroding everything we touch. There's also an obvious reference to Lunar Park, which I thought was bloody hilarious for 30 pages then quite moving for the last 30 as well. As for the in-between, Ellis can do better than ape the Kings and Herberts of this world. Only he's a bit of a silly Koontz isn't he? BOOM BOOM. But then I read A Short History of Nearly Everything and came face to face with the certainty that humanity is doomed and progress is pointless. Mankind is so pitiable in its delusions that, quite frankly, it deserves to be vaporised and forgotten to the last syllable of recorded time.

Comments:

I believe it's called a preying mantis. Unless you are talking about a completely different species of mantis, the likes of which have only just been discovered by Wan in Japan. If you have, well done sir!

# posted by Me the Sarcastic Git : 10:37 AM

are you really sarcastic? i hadn't noticed.

yes it is a big fat error in my typing and i say sorry to all the preying mantis i have offended. the one in question though, the one i wrote about couldn't give a toss. he's dead.

ps. zulus do turn up. thousands of them.

# posted by wan: 8:03 PM

He should stop being such a pedantic shit. Leave wan alone in his preying mantis tales. I liked it. What a cock!

# posted by The Jayster who is never going to see him when he moves back to london : 8:17 PM

He certainly is a sarcastic pedantic git, but you know, i love that guy! (and so do you!)

he's an honest man in a bankrupt world and i wouldn't have it any other way.

# posted by wan: 12:46 PM

Of course I Love him! Where would we be in this world without his challenges and his sarcastic comments. He makes us all realise there is so much more we could achieve if only we applied ourselves. And for that I applaud him. Above all of that though he's still a cock and that means more than anything.

# posted by The Jayster : 7:27 PM
 
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
  The Weekly Wednesday Babble
I woke up late again today. Life is a miasma of confusion and screwed schedules. I have just eaten a Reece's Nutrageous bar and watched the end of Ice Cube family comedy Are we There Yet? I never thought the two phrases "Ice Cube" and "family comedy" could ever be combined in a single sentence, but then again, things change. LA living is almost over again, it's back to capital reality. Almost time for Estonia, then serious career appraisal and approaches. I'm yet again waiting for the future to blaze the way ahead. I don't really feel like going out on Friday and Saturday: not when there are books to be read. Don't judge me. I'll transform into a total fucking party animal after November 6. Last week I didn't go out except for Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday, so it's not as if I've been climbing the walls and growing my toenails to stiletto lengths. Saw Amusement Parks on Fire at the Freebutt: Fightstar* fronts My Bloody Valentine. The very very young frontman dressed like Prince William dressing for a punk-themed party. It was so loud I got a headache. And Venosa, Wiper and Venus in Cancer are great blow-out songs. I am discombulated so don't draw any conclusions. Probably explains why I bought the NME yesterday (I faced up to the fear that I might not know what 'new music' is, and gave into human frailty) This is me signing off and gazing into the distance. 
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
  What's New on the Shit-Heap
Blog commitment faltering. Blog posts actually coalescing in the mind. New Broken Social Scene album is messily good. Veronica Guerin was playing in the background annoyingly tonight or this morning, don't know time. Am about to enter the Land of the Sleepyhead. Been to see Brendan Benson on Saturday. He was meh okay, better than boring but some way from exultant fist-pumping joy. Been reading books. Been writing questions. My brain actually feels like it will implode. Eyes will pop-out having been sandpapered by text. But still the learning goes on. And on. Also thinking of completely ditching all social commitments for the next two weeks. Because of derangement. No partying, just books. There's more to life than books but not much. Hmm, stealing from 80s bands now, Note the lack of 'I'. Narcissism is lacking today.

Addend-Um
For those Londoners unaware of ultra-London geography. Littlehampton is not in Essex (I know this was said a few weeks ago, but you know you know you know) 
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
  Bore Like Me

Inspiration has deserted me. Either that or Sky Digital really has eaten my brain and my preparations for the Euro championships have squeezed every last creative urge from me. 'Tis a pity I am a bore. One thing I have been fascinated by is Nicole from The Pussycat Dolls (see the website), now you're saying you sad fuck you, never talk to me again, but have you seen her midriff? It knocks Jessica Alba's into a cocked hat (please tell me what the fuck a cocked hat). It seems to be incredibly thin, well sculpted and twisty. I can't stop looking at it. Of course, it goes without saying that Hawaiian-Filipino-Russian Nicole is incredibly beautiful and she is the next Beyonce and her choice of favourite film - Napoleon Dynamite - makes idolatry just a tad easier. It is just weird that it takes the US nine years to come up with their own version of the Spice Girls: attitude-stuffed breakthru song; array of ethnic and hair type ladies. Only the PCDs make the Spices look like council-estate dwelling mongoloids. Actually, every time I hear Doncha on a ringtone ad I do feel like killing a small animal. You know, I never said I liked Doncha. 
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
  Lost like the Library of Alexandria

I've just lost a post which included such classic lines as "I am a great cuncator" (that's not rude you know). Gone forever. It was twenty lines long. Haven't slept yet. Told to do more work. Been procrastinating ever since. Watched Paul MaCartney sing Silly Love Songs. Am getting addicted to The Match on Sky One. Feel like I'm midway between a frenzy and a sobbing fit. That is actually a pretty serene equilibrium. I have Golddigger in my head. Is Jamie Foxx okay? He sounds a bit ... anguished. Hope all is well in your world. I'm having arguments with my brother about Dad's Army. He says it's timeless, I say it is annoying. It makes him sound about 58. Now, should I have a cigarette. That might cure all ills. 
  Actually

Apologies to Jesse. He's not "some fucker"; he's more of a flibbertigibbet. With a strange and wondrous grasp of British geography.

Uncut Benicassim review

This will appear somewhere some time but not in this guise. Obviously, when I wrote it, I might, just might have been on something. Try and guess what. (Life? Adrenaline? Quaaludes? Marker pen? Crushed ants?)

Review
I went to Benicassim looking for something. And perhaps I found it; for now, it's too soon to tell. But what I remember most are the heat that sucked you dry but not before it soaked you in cascades of racing sweat, the beaches set against the azure skies, the orange-hued mountains and the sweet, cold showers provided by organisers to prevent bouts of insanity. Oh, and negotiating badly with unsympathetic Spanish officials about the location of the wallet that I misplaced as I sprung up to watch the DFA night (yes, I am an idiot and possibly a tool).

Let's get this out of the way: FIB is a cross between a Spanish package holiday and a festival. What could be more perfect for the thousands of similarly inclined Brits who invaded this resort year? But what about the music, you ask? The music, I must confess, seemed so incidental.

Yet you have to make an effort. It is a festival after all. While others baked at the beach and gazed in wonder at the madness of the rave tent, every day I decided to sit in the steam-sprayed bleachers at the side of the Fiberfib.com stage: the refuge for indie-kids who couldn't take the piercing sun rays.

Standard, the token guitar Spaniards strove for a turbo Primal Scream style but came off like Republica stealing couplets from The Killers. Not very interesting. Les Tres Bien Ensemble, a Catalan version of St Etienne too, failed to raise any interest apart from the way the lead singer swivelled her white leather-encased hips at suitably nothing moments. The Zephyrs produced music that had acted like heatstroke. Stargazer was the only high point from a band who now bore gently for Scotland. Promise lazily pissed up a wall. Diefenbach are brooding Danes who could do so much better. Sadly, they haven't got the conviction to not garland their quiet-loud rock with unnecessary and barely heard vocals. Sometime masters of mood, they looked aimless at other times and chose not to consolidate their promising excursions into Mogwai-Ten Rapid territory.

Devandra Banhart seemed to have been under the impression that most of his Anglo-boosted audience understood all his showboating Spanish and that we liked the appearance of a man who seems to have been conceived in some unholy experiment with the mutant seed of Vincent Gallo and Orlando Bloom. His shorts should have been illegal, but his set at least perked the bar staff up.

The UK's current indie-guard attracted the homesick Britishers in their hordes. Maximo Park are far less complicated than when I first saw them and perhaps they are better for that. Graffiti, Apply Some Pressure and The Coast is Always Changing are prime examples of sweet, but less than artful pop punk that will get you in the end. Paul Smith is a geek with a disgusting hairstyle, but he always has a sense of occasion and gift for dumb banter.

The tent filled for the Kaiser Chiefs. Or is that for the Fucking Twatty Kaiser Chiefs and their brand of annoying knockabout indie shit? I decided to flee as I listened to people constantly sing Every Day I Love You Less and Less before the band were anywhere near playing it. These bastards have invented some insidious code that taps into peoples lust for idiot music. May they grow rich and hated on their success.

But what of the old gits? Dave Gedge, being the contrary bastard he is, saw fit to wear a black sweater and then complain how he was crumpling in the heat while giving us stilted observations on why Spiderman's name is not translated literally into Spanish. The Wedding Present were on form. As they proved Take Fountain was worth releasing in their name; a precise meditation on the bereavement and anger caused by a relationship gone wrong, so wrong that he had to take up the reformation reins. But my excitement is saved for the salvo off Seamonsters: Dalliance and Dare. I shivered. Ooh, it felt good. Why didn't invite them to do it at Don't Look Back, I wondered? Then again, they probably will some day. Nowadays it seems they always come back.

Decamping to the main stage where those offering Don't Look Back dates were residing, Dinosaur Jr came on and said nothing as usual. But at God knows what time in the morning, the squalling and roiling guitar solos grated, if only because they dissolved my previous admiration with their relentlessly predictable nature. Mumbled words; just watch J Mascis go. Again. While Raisans and Freak Scene made welcome appearances, the rest of the set just drained me of all tolerance. Give me some light. Give me some Lemonheads.

Evan Dando has the benefit of a vast back catalogue that is free and easy and caustic enough to raise cheers so often that you wondered why he has wasted his wonderful aptitude for songcraft. Alison Starting to Happen has gone appropriately downbeat, If I Could Talk I'll Tell You still gets to me despite its quaint silliness. But set in the darkness and the beery natter was no place for them. Songs like It's About Time came off like requiems to a once very comfortable career. The Lemonheads work best in the sun, not in the shadows.

You have to keep on moving; many of the old warhorse bands (for this is no place to make your iconic breakthrough) were nothing better than dead sharks. Yet lest we despair, here comes Nick Cave and his gospel-rock juggernaut. The superlatives laid upon the high-kicking Hove resident since he unleashed Abbatoir Blues and Lyre of Orpheus have been too rich and frequent to make you believe he would fail to deliver. He overwhelmed us with ease. It's what he does so well now; the backing singers, thrashing percussion, sheer incandescent devilry and unity of sound may have reached their optimum peak (how can he keep this up in years to come, you ask). The hand clapping for Supernatural was not demanded but given so easily by a bewitched crowd, it charmed this cynical fucker's heart. And, of course, The Mercy Seat was a haunting but blistering rollercoaster. Fighting imaginary demons can be so exhilarating fun to watch.

But admire Benicassim not for its patchy line-up but its sense of civilisation. I felt clean; I even felt a touch pampered. The only time I felt physically sick was when I found myself subject to Pan Sonic, whose admirable aim to shake your guts out of your arse with their aural terrorism almost succeeded, and shed an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-related tear at The Polyphonic Spree's Light and Day. And I managed not to get mugged at knifepoint by the Ecstasy-dealing gypsies, who with their sculpted dreadlocks and demented canines, looked like they were auditioning for a future Mad Max film. The sights and sounds of a foreign festival rejuvenated this jaded festival addict. I liked the lack of impromptu pyromania and resultant blackened festival nose, the absence of that feeling that every shop, stall and bar is out to screw you financially, drinked in the surrounding landscape and loved the company. Just remember you are on holiday.

Addendum: Did I find it? Perhaps, but I'm too shattered to face the music. So I just ran away. (Doncha just love it when I write in code; a lot of this blog is written in code, if you hadn't guessed) 
  My ears were burning

Last night some fucker said that when I was normal I looked like Jamie Cullum, and when I was hungover I became Pete Doherty. Then he and fellow friends laughed. (Well, at least they have money.)

Now don't you laugh. I said DON'T LAUGH. I need to go to sleep. 
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
  You're so lucky

'Tis quiet enough for me to hear the cocktail of chemicals in my Marlboro Light snap, crackle and pop. 'Tis Tuesday night and yet again I have failed to manage my work efficiently and instead find myself sitting at a computer willing words on to the screen in time for the deadline first thing tomorrow morning. I'm sitting here in the darkness, in my little office corner thinking what to write on this blog before I commence the sifting and searching of the web, and still I feel insufficiently inspired to write anything here that is really deserving of post status. I could go into my cultural life. Yes, Sky Digital is rubbish times 1000 yet I find myself irresistibly drawn to flicking through all the music channels from 440, and getting lost in the reel of booty and indie shysters with bad haircuts, and then I descend upon the movies: crapola like Jeepers Creepers 2 and classics like The Goonies. When I was young I had singularly failed to notice the censoring of the word 'shit' in my pre-watershed video copy of it, and here it was restored to its shitty glory. "You guys" etc. I think I'm going to get a Chunk Loves Sloth t-shirt made so I can have people recognise it and talk to me for about ten seconds about its awesome significance. I quite like Somebody's Baby by Jackson Browne at the minute, as well as Finishing the Hat as sung by Mandy Patinkin, even if the way he sings the word hat sounds like someone is sticking a dagger in one of his earholes. And We Are Scientists. Sometimes. I can't seem to finish anything in the reading department, however. I've been reading On Photography by Susan Sontag for what seems like ten years, and I tried Humphrey Clinker (I really really tried okay?). Planet Simpson by Chris Turner I thought I would love, but the way it picks it apart (Turner is a Canadian leftie with high ideals about the decline of the American Empire) actually pissed me off and made me stop at page 120. So today I got Bret Easton Ellis's Lunar Park and read more than half of it on the train to and from London. It's very good, hilarious sometimes but scary? Are you taking the pee-pee? I vow to finish the bastard tomorrow. (Never read American Psycho, though it sits in the pile of the Unread, and has done for two years; I could be afraid of its reputation and cultural penetration; no pun intended).

And yes, I have been listening to Franz Ferdinand's latest single. It's really quite good isn't it? Especially the bit abou the Transmission party. Not that I would ever want to go to one. Oh, no.

Seeds of Plans Gone to Seed
I was going to do my random thoughts for October 4th, but this went up in flames. I could do the 7th, or maybe the 13th, if I can be arsed. 
Another go. How time flies. "It ain't like it used to be, but it'll do"

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