Sporks?Posted August 18th 2006 by Dae
So, the festival has come to town. The blues guitarists have emerged sleepily from their respective sheds, the fire-eaters from their lives of pyromaniacal crime. While a five minute walk down the Royal Mile inspires near immediate festival fatigue - egged on no little by the rain forest or two's worth of ineptly conceived pamphlets - some notable acts, Peruvian panpipists and Jamaican chess allstars among them, seem to be cashing in on their ethnicity to lucrative effect.
The film festival kicked off only a few days ago, and oh yes, I was there (in the exquisitely decorated and absolutely heaving Cameo screen one, no less). Exchanging pleasantries with people I'm surprised to find I know, I might be forgiven for being fooled into feeling part of the industry. Thanks to Anna, friend and box-office gal some may be familiar with from the Sugar Puffs anecdote, I've taken in more than my non-existant finances would otherwise allow: last night found me face to face (thirty odd rows of audience excepted) with the man responsible for the infamous video to Benny Bennassi's Satisfaction. Leaving the auditorium, I could barely contain the desire to race naked into the streets, camera in hand and boombox on shoulder, awaiting the spontaneous revelry that would inevitably establish my career as music video director extraordinaire.
But I didn't come here to talk about any of that. On Friday the eighteenth of August, a more propitious day having never occurred, what in the world would, or should I be talking about but some especially motherfucking snakes on one particularly motherfucking plane? It was at three this afternoon that I heard the door open, saw Ian look deeply into my blinking eyes and speak those words that my heart had so been longing to hear: "Do you want to go and see Snakes on a Plane?" The slow clamber out of bed, the hastily donned coat and passage through the scathing rain - we four (Aidan and Murray included) were never so intrepid - and after all that, we were not for a second disappointed. The film knew it's business: the three elements we needed, the Snakes, the Plane, and Samuel L., were held like golden carrots before our slavering mouths throughout the monumentally dull opening, before appearing in a dizzying succession. The audience cheering that greeted Jackson's entrance remained frequent throughout any use of the words 'snakes' and 'plane' in the same sentence. The meat of the film left nothing to be desired, consisting as it did entirely of shots involving snakes, planes, or in a number of notable cases, both. The script was peppered with some truly memorable lines, most worthy of mention being Samuel's when, searching the cabin-crew cupboards for weaponry, he indignantly reflects on a package of plastic cutlery with the line "SPORKS?"
This is Dae, thinking so you don't have to.
Dae Buys New ShoesPosted July 24th 2006 by Dae
Tim Tam SlamPosted June 30th 2006 by PaPa
My absence from the front page of this website has been lengthy, and already I hear many of you crying out in the long dark of the Internet, asking me why. Why have I left you without one of my poorly written and factually derelict rants? Why have I left you in the clutches of Dae and his masturbatory linguaphilia? These questions, and more, shall all be answered, but not now, and not by me.
Rather, in a rarity for this site, my post will concern itself with the subject matter referred to in its title – the infamous Tim Tam Slam. For the exact technique of this manoeuvre you may wish to familiarise yourself with the bullet points in the above link, but I am not myself concerned with the cold, unfeeling methodology; my intention is instead to describe my personal experience with this awe-inspiring biscuit dunking procedure.
It begins, as so many things do, underwhelmingly. At first I was unable to discern any effect at all, and I may be forgiven at least partially for believing that I was doing it wrong. Such was not the case. This period of inactivity was merely the time that it took for the hot tea to travel the length of the biscuit, and when it reached my mouth it struck me almost physically, so unexpected was its appearance. After this first shock I was unable to continue for more than a couple of seconds before I realised that what I held was no longer a biscuit, but had become a hot, sodden mass. Quickly cramming it into my mouth, I became aware of the horrific damage done to the structure of the biscuit by the tea, its alteration from crunchy snack to amorphous piece of faerie flesh being complete and entire. I was rendered almost insensible by this effect – my only response when an enquiry was made after my success was to shout a barely coherent string of affirmatives.
With the Ill BehaviourPosted June 21st 2006 by Dae
It's bad enough having to go through the ritual humiliation of saying the words "I'll have a Jumbo Sausage and chips, please," without having the fruits of the trial spoilt by the visual excrement that is Channel Four's 'The Friday Night Project'. The only bit I get any pleasure out of is where they force that grinning fuck Alan Carr to run into the audience wearing a jacket made of fivers, being unceremoniously stampeded over by an audience clearly desperate to acquire some kind of compensation for the fake laughter that is so relentlessly demanded of them. While C4 have not yet commissioned my suggested replacement - a show consisting in the main of unsigned indie bands being ritualistically beaten with living snakes - they have at least got a good thing going with The Album Chart Show. Non-singles played live has to be a plus, however fawningly presented.
I spent my day wrestling with DVD Studio Pro, software clearly designed for the retards who believe that gratuitous flashing bollocks is suggestive of professionalism. Nonetheless, in the spirit of computer users everywhere I persevered and have managed to extract from the bowels of my G5 enough copies of Minor Details to redecorate a modest semi. Remember this though, Apple Macintosh, nemo me impune lacessit.
SLN news. Where the Latin never stops.
Mood: ApatheticPosted June 18th 2006 by Dae
I suppose it's only fair that I notate the events of the last couple of days. I met Harry, a soft-spoken Scotsman of intermittent wit, just as Thursday afternoon was getting into its stride. After a brief banjo tutorial we availed ourself of the bus propitiously numbered 'sixteen'. Jom was four minutes late - time spent pointing at balding fat guys and saying 'there he is'. The evening inevitably found the coincidentally named Ian - Jom's father - Harry, Jom and myself taking dinner at a moderately palatable Italian on Lothian Road. It was some distance from what one might term 'comfortable'.
Praccy, Audrey & Jemmie turned up on Friday, as promised. Jom's dad made himself coveniantly absent. Games followed. Harry played Kirby, spending most of his time predictably metamorphosizing into a brick, while Jom's Young Link tracked a steady downward curve from the first glass to the last swig. Praccy, to his credit, played some G&W, though arguably his playstyle could have done with a lot less chair and a lot more parachute. SF2 quickly became a contest of whose retarded abuse of Blanka, Chun-Li or E. Honda was superior. There was pizza, there was wine (drunk too quickly by Jom, too slowly by myself, not at all by anyone else). Sleep was had by some (others, Audrey, elected to spend their evening reading Larkin's collected works chronologically, what the hell), fun was had by all.
If you weren't there, I can tell you this much: they're all pretty much exactly as you'd expect them to be.