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 | Meg has disturbing news, up there with my own Minor Earth community habit...especially as I am now reimagining Bros as composed of Matt and Luke.
Don't dream it, be it....
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| Ed needs a) your money (please give generously) and b) to get out more. Having a blog code is, I fain, a pretty sure sign of this.
Conversely, be a man and get your hairy beary code.
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| Monday, March 25, 2002 |
| Not that I'm going to hunt them down and kill them. Although I may hunt them down and sing Tom's Elves Song at them.
Elves!
How can you put up your shelves?
You're too short to do it well,
They'll be destructible,
Always with pointy ears,
For you are....elves!
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| See what I mean? It's like open season on elves. Or more precisely, open season on people who have declared open season on elves...
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| Elf-hunting madness has gripped the audience of Venusberg, who are now emailing me with handy info about elves and those who hunt them. Clearly this cuts deeper than I could ever have expected.
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| Friday, March 22, 2002 |
| Meanwhile, although I have no idea what it is, what it involves or what it is for, I am absolutely overjoyed to discover that there is a series (or possibly a comic, or maybe a set of films) called Those who Hunt Elves. This is the best title in the history of the universe.
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| The not-so-secret history of the Buffytastic Sadie Hawkins Experience.
I don't know if people do ask each other out these days - it's certainly been a while since I have. Generally the pattern of the modern world seems to be "have sex a half-dozen times, discover a mutual interest outside having sex, indulge it". Or is that Hollyoaks? I tend to mix them up.
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| Wednesday, March 20, 2002 |
| I have to admit I wasn't expecting an acoustic set from Laptop last night - as he observed as he shambled onstage yesterday evening, "For those of you in the audience expecting a synth-pop hero, I'm afraid you're screwed." However, much as I love his heavily-synthed studio work, the acoustic sets, like this one and the one I saw last year - demonstrate that the important part of the whole thing is the twisted, Morriseyesque lyrics, which are recontextualised but hardly lessened by a stripped-down delivery.
Just disappointing that so few people were there. It must be terribly depressing being genuinely good at something and still performing to 30 people above a pub in Camden. Especially when the song you wrote for the Strokes, I'm so Happy You Failed, has backfired so magnificently, to such an extent that he invites the audience to nominate bands they want to succeed for him to rededicate it to.
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| Ah, the Sun, bless it. I takes real style to be able to hold in your head all the different contradictory data that enable one to begin an "is this the lesson we want to be teaching our kids?" article about a soap storyline in which a 15-year old girl attempts to become pregnant with a picture of the 16-year old actress dressed in - you guessed it - school uniform, complete with bunches.
Quality.
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| Monday, March 18, 2002 |
| NB. Music playing throughout is "One" by U2.
A kitchen - very new, set in a loft, with lots of Alessi and other modern equipment in it. From the light coming through the skylight, we judge it to be early morning.
Pan l-r and moving up: we see every surface has some item of CAKE-based foodstuff on it (ie. Chocolate gateaux, Trifle, Fruit Cake [NB. Not wedding], Pavlova, Fairy cakes etc.) At the end of the breakfast counter sits a young woman with her head in her hands.
NB. Young woman is 25-30, glossy brunette hair and (when we see her face) extremely pretty in a fresh-faced manner. Slim and pert, dressed in stylish, smart-casual close-fitting clothes. She has not overindulged in CAKE.
Young woman [O/S]
I'm never prepared for it when it comes. Those mornings when the kitchen smells like a bakery.
It's a long quote, but George has excelled herself. Top quality caky goodness on the Upsideclown.
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| After my degree I went to the careers office. I said I was interested in sound, music and acoustics, to which they recommended a career in either deaf aids or depth sounding. So I applied for a job at Decca Records. The boss was at Lords watching cricket the day I had my appointment, but his deputy told me they didn't employ women in the recording studio.
This is the guy who turned down The Beatles, no doubt.
No doubt. I knew the BBC had a Research Department, and I knew that there was such a thing as the Radiophonic Workshop, that was credited with doing fantastic sounds for broadcast programs. People weren't generally allowed to work at the Workshop for more than three months at a time. They thought it would send people crazy.
I think it'd send me crazy.
Well, it's a beautiful way to be crazy, I can tell you.
....
I cried into my washing-up when I heard he'd died.
You cried into your washing-up!?
In the days when I used to do washing-up. I've perfected my minimalist living technique so it is no longer necessary. I can cry into my…
Garlic.
Into my chopped garlic, yes.
....
No, later than that. It would be '67 or '68. It was about the same time that she met John Lennon. Because when we were having our or… oh... orgy on the carpet. We had a… golly, my goodness!
I think two of the greatest regrets in my young life are 1) I am not Peter Wyngarde and 2) that I never had the opportunity, Wyngarde-fuelled or otherwise, to have dinner with Delia Derbyshire.
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| Thursday, March 14, 2002 |
| Ah, bless. This from the Minor Earth Community, which is sufficiently quiet that I tend to forget that I joined it:
They came to Vallhall, they looked like kings and they conquered the audience. The lights went out, and a jubilant cheer rose from this sea of people and rolled onto stage like a wave of warm delight. There came a-ha. The kings. Sauntering and confident. Before the band members even touched their microphones, people's arms were up in the air in a steady applause. It is no longer just 'hip' to like a-ha. It has become impossible not to like them!
I love A-Ha. I love A-Ha with a fierce devotion that never had that much to do with their music.
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| Thursday, March 07, 2002 |
| Meanwhile, Ben writes an article on Peer-to-Peer networking for the Guardian, even as his army of pointy little elves destroys it. You destroyed Morpheus. You did it. With your elves. Or maybe we all did it. With our elves.
Ahem.
Sorry.
Rush of blood to the head.
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| A fanzine once defined a "Masinga" as "something really good and useful which you put in the attic and forget completely that you have when you need it". I tend to do this with books, and razor blades, and batteries. What I didn't realise until recently, however, was that I was also doing it with my memories of Captain Zep - Space Detective, with which I may heal or destroy the universe.
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| Monday, March 04, 2002 |
| So let's say that once again you manage to miss completely all-out bloody war breaking out between in the red corner the Army of One and in the blue corner the might of the Pacific North-West London. And what is the topic this time? Who gives the best blow jobs.
Well, how can a curious young man discover who gives the best blow jobs on Earth? Short of lining these two worthies and everybody else on the planet up like performing cockseals, I'm stumped. But are we downhearted? No!
So here's the plan. You mail me with a complete list of everyone who has ever performed oral sex on you, with a mark out of 10, having first established that 0 is so unpleasant as to have you screaming for them to stop and finding that your genitalia have left town to get away, and 10 being the equivalent of Jesus Christ himself doing a bit of pudenda hoovering, with the Holy Spirit providing round-the-houses tongue support. Then, I can add up everyone's aggregate marks and discover who does, in fact, give the best head in the world.
Start now.
Please ask all your friends to help - we will need a pretty large sample, as it were, to create a meaningful response. And no sneaky voting for yourselves, either.
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| Ah, the wisdom of fanfic. "If everything were in plain English then the world would simply be a contest to see who reads fastest". Quality. Duraglit.
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| The usual house - whitewashed, deserted, possibly continental - laid out slightly differently this time. He ascends the half-lit stairs, throws wide the doors. Sensing the air thick with a discomforting presence he zooms in on the only object in the room. In the corner to the right of the window, through which the moon pales, is a tailor's dummy in hessian. He presses on, knowing damn well that there is something wrong, that he is not the only one in the room.
Dave has a problem on last Thursday's UpsideClown. Meanwhile, as the mighty eagle soars, the dark rises and whatever else the fuck John Ashcroft is wittering about today, it's time to summon the armies of the West...
Before we even get into this, I have a question.
Why is it that when somebody says "Rally the armies of the West," they always mean me? Trojans? "Rally the Armies of the West". Afghans - armies of the west. Fucking goblins - armies of the West, I dare say.
And what does that mean? It means that yours truly is going to end up bleeding and sweating, covered in mud and with some poor fucker's viscera halfway up my arm. Have you ever razored somebody's bowels open? It smells. It actually smells worse than shit. For some reason this always comes as a surprise.
Diomedes is on the offensive in my new UpsideClown.
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| Breaking silence to welcome Paul and Meg to their new home. Well, not to welcome, really, because I don't live there. But to say "Welcome to your new ho-"....oh, you know what I mean. Point being, they are in the process of newhoming, and best of luck to 'em. Saw them at Luke's birthday party, although we didn't get much of a chance to talk - by the time I had caught up with one set of online chums, it was closing time.
It must be in the air. I was chatting to my dear alligator-wrasslin' mama last night, who is also moving house, an activity described as one of the most traumatic of one's life. However, as she observed, since in the last decade she's done redundancy, breakdowns, terminal illness, divorce, more terminal illness, bereavement and, of course, the alligator-wrasslin', this shouldn't be too tricky. In a perfect world, she would then have directed a stream of blackened tobacco spit dead into the centre of a freshly-cleaned spittoon, making a brassy clanging noise.
But we don't live in a perfect world.
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Venusberg.org finds Blogger very attractive...
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elsewhere:
Interconnected
Plasticbag
Oh Skylab
Barcablog
Orbyn
moreover:
Brainsluice
Mo Morgan
Mothninja
Tajmahal
Wherever y'are
Prandial Post
thereafter:
Toby Kay
McCargow
Blogadoon
LinkMachineGo
Methylsalicylate
Hammersley
Joeblog
Grayblog
the Collective
Nick Jordan
Kooky Mojo
Betty Woo
Moth
Mr. Thomas G
the author:
danATvenusberg.org
and finally...
the archives
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