Through the torrent of a near endless week of rain, envelopes and letters sitting in the mailbox managed minimal warpage from the sopping wet of the outside. Chief among them, two C4 envelopes, bleached of any pigment outside the blank state of white. Only two notes hit a major chord of worthy.
From the publicity crew of RoadRunner records, a signed Beki & the Bullets poster, several button badges and a flyer about label mates in their oven. Bands which for the most part register nothing outside lots of eye make up, screaming and copious amounts of black garb.
Amongst the fray a postcard from the hand of the cerebral and gifted one. Dry and safe from the elements outside.
Wednesday, 29 June 2005
Time aside for another batch of comic reviews (usually no more than two it seems) drowns in the wake of another pushed week.
From the letters page of Last, a reader comments on the reeking absence of comicbook reviews seen inside their glossy leaves. A terse and rather punchy shot, the writer brings up a valid point of contemplation.
Why hasn't there been a move toward churning out more trade paperback reviews? Time to hit those comicbooks. If only even to read them at least for the first time. And to make possible collection of legitimate tax write offs.
Wednesday, 29 June 2005
Things fall apart to clear enough of a path from anything close to a pending engagement. Lord of the Pants out in the radar of the Air Force. Conflicts with students and teachers rendering null and void the run of performances for the weekend.
Taste the waters with an underlying squib of anti-social behaviour in another appointment. Leave without ever arriving. Make it clear that there is nothing overt.
Bathing in the hence of having no actual other people to interact against, the Dalek make its hit on Doctor Who. At least an upturn ends the night on an even higher high.
Sunday, 26 June 2005
Dropping down on kitchen counters across the entirety of the building main, a dozen six-packs of microwave ready soup. Each floor holding on to a dozen at the onset. Only two of the twelve marked by flavours different than the absurd stock of pumpkin bobbing inside the plastic metal containers.
"Free! Please Take One!" read each and all of the post-it notes. Movement was quick and well off the counter of the seventh floor within a minute of contemplation. Scoring an entire six-pack as one, taken to task several minutes too slow.
So began the running of the lifts. And indeed the registering of many security badge logs in the system.
Coasting and cloaking through various floors opening at the badge. Lift alarms beep as the accomplice held doors open with a foot. Payloads aplenty and still a disgusting lack of flavour variety. Bodies walking around with darting eyes taken away by an annual conference.
Chicken and corn, all gone.
Nothing but pumpkin.
Everywhere.
In the end, eight six-packs, split between two. Moderation and defeat hauling back the score.
Saturday, 25 June 2005
Consulting no one, dropping not even the faintest of hints, and stationed in the air around the fridge door, a heavy mix of poison, death and wet rodent pelt.
Palpitations of the heart lead into a disorientated womble. A stumble toward abnormal proportions of blood coursing through the valves. Heart attacks to wake up, nauseating odours to endure breakfast with. Metres away.
Thursday, 23 June 2005
Scratching out of its shabby brown paper parcel packaging, a buffy black belt. On one side of the strapping, a pocket with space enough for an iPod to sit inside. Even out on the velcro flap, a facsimilie screen showing the options available from the little Apple product. All that's needed now is to actually score an iPod from somewhere in order to bulge out this black belt. The idea of turning it into a wallet of sorts was considered, then promptly shot down. No actual wallet since 1997. No reason to start up again.
Wednesday, 22 June 2005
Flittering out there somewhere, after escaping the confines of a too crowded travelling compartment,
a blue note.
No longer a companion in the journey home, it's finding its own as the dismay of loss sets in for those left in the wake.
Now, possibly ruffling the lint of the pocket and wallet environs, there is no hope for its return. There for a time unaccounted for, gone in an instant.
Emptiness remains with a hand holding on to possibilities that will not see this light of day.
Wednesday, 22 June 2005
Walking back from the wrong direction, and nearly diving into a residential area replete with ankle biting dogs, the appetisers at the Lone Star in Warwick Farm meet up just on time. The other guys from the Comic Shop only just make it into the starters. Perfect timing thanks to not knowing east from west in the dark and street signs.
Bacon and cheesy fries dripping with cholesterol. Pumpkin wedges that are just on the right side of sharp and crunchy. Chicken that slips right off the bone. Garlic bread that can knock someone out. Fish that burn the mouth with the sudden release of air trapped under the bread crumbs.
Then comes the Big T on a medium burn and a pot of gravy. Salad? Yes, with French dressing. Though only the radish is worth breaking space. Taking off the charred, the steak makes an easy way over and down the throat into the stomach. A few ribs make an appearance and are done over in quick style. The food here takes no effort at all in consuming. The sauces may hinder, but more often than not spark a side dish.
Deceptive floors at the Steakhouse. Connections between the feet and the wood are made before they even have enough time to adjust. Boot scootin' line dancing to Cotton-Eye Joe isn't as hard to deal with as trying to listen in on what the girls are saying as they clap-clap to a birthday sundae. Light in ice cream, it's heavy in cake that keeps the eyeballs darting back and forth with an upright back in the breaking hours before dawn. The date is off a few months, nobody cares about the deception.
All the build up of the night flitters away as the others fall over in defeat at their not quite finished plates. Disappointing effort from their stomachs. The challenger takes the night with a constant stream of food that still feels like wanting more.
Saturday, 18 June 2005
Laminated notices have begun to take over the walls and tiles of the building. What was only one extra piece spotted on another floor soon revealed brethren looking to envelope with information and warning.
Placement and location exposes the carelessness of those who frequent such areas. The subtlety varies largely with the prospective audience.
With a passing trade of an entire floor, the kitchen features a rather polite, though still strongly assertive arrangement of words. Their intention is to hint at the prescribed services provided by Facilities. Services which include the routine maintenance of the dishwasher and food areas. Three times daily, they make it known all other times are up for the personnel to make with the cleaning themselves. Slobs that they are.
On another floor, in a toilet for the handicapped, a far sterner notice is shouting from the tiled wall. Apparently the patrons of the particular lavatory have constantly left the state in such a disgraced wreck as to raise the threat of locking the door off and made accessible only be request. Like a toilet at service station. Only the people here are corporate suits.
So where are their slaves?
Saturday, 18 June 2005
Clearly, any real intention of moving the slot of The Amazing Race up two hours never eventuated on this week in Africa. Consulting various TV guides is a deal in killing time. With two programs listed in both the 19:30 and 21:30 slots, clarity is shunted through the play dough mincer. Proving a double hit for a night separated by Lost would certainly have sparked some mighty double checks of puddings laced with many shot glasses worth of brandy.
Sheppard naturally exudes his magnificent Kirk powers on in Sanctuary of Stargate Atlantis. Scorching the heat, it's with a being who shimmers a remarkable flavour close to Princess Kitana from Mortal Kombat.
Friday, 17 June 2005
Side projects waiting for a polish -- or in most cases, crude assembly -- take a back seat to ventures down at the back waving in the after effects of heat, moisture and neglect. These are worlds and words living within 32 pages. Actual content count may vary from sample to sample.
So what's your problem emo boy? Many things, lots of things. Everything. Simpering wimp. We'll see what happens to you in the next issue.
Quirky is the first thing to come to mind. A world here, a world there, soon they will meet up. That is the course, that is what is seen. They are looking rather dystopic with the washing of the colours in a dark hue. Against this is the rather hip and happy nature of a few of the characters, oddballs for sure. Interesting.
Plato, Nietzsche and Bodhidarma take the spotlight in this debut issue. The writing takes a hand with the open and sharp art to deliver the most fun had in learning about great minds in such a long time. There are times when the amount of text cannot be overcome, copious strings flooding the space to at times lose out the comicbook feel and veer a little close to straight up shooting. Comes away clean though. Definitely a series worth tracking each subsequent issue of.
Pedestrian zombie tale with nothing more than mashed brains on the wall and litres of blood dripping all over the place. Repent sinner!
Monday, 13 June 2005
Finally, after the short bursts of done-in-one episode, Doctor Who breaks an outing in half, leaving off and behind a farty, farty cliffhanger. Villains of the piece in question are notoriously weak and limp, jokes coming off their backs looking worse at every chuckle. Were it not for having watched the Jon Pertwee sessions, the reintroduction of U.N.I.T. would start to smack about the rails of following all these flash drops.
Sunday, 12 June 2005
After running months on end, the voice mail message as delivered by Thadeus Crunch is no longer. Serious doubts were raised to the serious doubts raised on the absent welcome message heard by various callers. Of course, only the manager was listening and on those days, a slight loss in time in beating the morning entry.
Sadly, the new voice mail message was recorded under supervision. A more sedate, clear and even cluey introduction that leaves nothing to deception. Farming out the phone number to various drifters now, from this short period on, will point the finger direct to the source. Ever so much in a hushed tone.
As would be the case, the first person to hear the new and subdued was questioning the rather "normal" delivery.
Tim Ferguson might have walked through the lobby sporting a QANTAS tag strapped to his bag. Only one other guy crossing his path did a double take to this sighting.
Next opportunity for clear running, that disembodied voice is getting another throat.
Saturday, 11 June 2005
Walking around with an LP under the arm is hard enough. Reading Sydney Star Observer on the train next to a woman who takes up two while keeping the LP from falling, slipping and/or bending is even harder.
Temporarily holding on to the Tuning In EP and DVD from Beki and the Bullets brought nothing closer. Its presence and slight familiarity of the artists far better than the names and faces on the Curious City vinyl from Modey Lemon.
Never mind who this Modey Lemon trio actually are. What matters most is if the stylus on the PYE brand stereo system is liable to scratch the vinyl like the cats at the back door.
Saturday, 11 June 2005
Free and all the way from The Flying Fist Ranch in Credo, West Virginia, various prints featuring wrasslin' gun-toters and a few with Wynonna Earp.
All part of writer and creator Beau Smith's push to get the upcoming The Complete Wynonna Earp collection on the minds of readers. Those looking for some monster-slinging action and style in a western/horror flavour.
Out in a couple months from IDW, it's a pricey book if the included solicitation page with highlights is any real indication. And it usually is. Hopefully the conversion price won't hit too hard come release and on-shelf time.
Friday, 10 June 2005
Standing outside the doors of the Lyric Theatre watching The Producers on the small screen outside, late second plans to swap with a couple on the balcony were out of the question.
Fourth row down in the stalls, and at the centre of much consternation, the seats in question fed on a relative high of appreciation. Their location is far less a concern when the production on show is a more enjoyable experience afforded by their proximity.
Sneaking in at the close of the opening number, the noise from outside only made for a slight pause. Within the confines and just that far from the speakers, and indeed, the orchestra in the pit, taking The Producers through the ears was quite a pleasant endeavour. Median decibel levels up against moderate and high level jokes and a rapaciously witty script.
Fantastic costumes, wonderful sets, gloriously funny. Though the start to midsection the show wasn't as much so. It's rather belaboured and all the veins are clearly visible. Then the intermission hits and things definitely rise toward the end. Far to the relief of those sitting and laughing every other chance.
Sideshow entertainment is watching a candle maker making candles.
Monday, 6 June 2005
Weeks led up to the Saturday night taken by standing duties outside the comfort zone of pleasantries. At stake, beyond the mere line up of Monk, Doctor Who and The Iron Chef, hours of productivity. Or at least, the opportunity for such an endeavour.
Sporting an itch for the strike at the freelance writing bank, plans blew apart wide at night with a small gathering watching on as the Bulldogs and Rabbitohs played 80 minutes and golden time to a 21 point standstill.
Lacklustre off-field entertainment, coupled with the slow showing on the actual field, marked a night that would surely suffer if the pains of such don't serve well for future lessons in drive, determination and deliverables.
Sunday, 5 June 2005
Lindt cake, one lightly dusted in such a chocolate state as to trigger choking, stood centrepiece as another person from the floor saw their way out of the building. Taking point and out from the drawer, a 9 inch stainless steel knife with a serrated edge. Thus far only used in taking apart pens and shaving ink off paper, its role in the cutting of the farewell cake remained lost in the conversation.
Centre to the bidding, the person on their last day recounted a few events concerning one of the construction sites on the way to the front doors of the building. Wolf whistlers apparently roaming with their hard helmets. Whistling to the women mostly.
Whistles that, for what it seems, don't happen often for those who end up with the stink and crazy eyes shooting from one of the foremen. Or those that hold the Stop/Slow signs in sheer disgust at the act of having to warn people about the exiting and entering trucks and vehicles almighty.
They walked off with the knife from the drawer. Possibly never to see the darkness of the steel knee high drawers again. Lest someone rescue it from the confines of the kitchen.
Saturday, 4 June 2005
Down in row S of the stalls, with a clear shot of nothing behind, the stage of the Opera Theatre is a clear dark space. The faces of the dancers from the Sydney Dance Company are just within the range vision before it drops off into a blur.
Movement is largely smooth, except for moments in the night wherein staccato and stammer are required. Costume work starts of following the curves of the body to cap off the night with sleek and sheer tightness. Set design is sparse and limited to a huge shell and a dangling chandelier, both used extremely well. The shell more so given it plays longer in the eyes of the audience.
Pianist Scott Davie bangs and trips the ivory of the grand with a deft whimsy that counters sections that revel in a sombre cavern. Those dancers really put in a stunning effort to bleed the heart of the soundtrack of the moment they're in. A sweet and intoxicating look at what the grand piano can mean to someone.
Saturday, 4 June 2005
Elemunk scrambles the loose connections bouncing about the mind of Soon Van.
Feel free to ask questions on any topic. Or spend some quality killswitch time poking about reading the vintage synapses
Or maybe a torrid trail of job interviews?
Elementary Funk by Soon Van is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Feel free to read up on the scope of the copyright over the posts and photos.
Distributed amongst the proletariat