Don't Ask Too Many Questions, My Son...

(because I'll get confused and thus muddle the answers...)
Wicked men, you face...THENICK!

Greetings and welcome back to this ill-maintained and esoteric archive of my thoughts, recorded for all posterity (or at least until the account gets WIPED).

I have to admit that looking at the date-stamp on the last post makes me cringe andback off ever so slightly...it's been a while, hasn't it? I have a good excuse! Well, I have a good excuse for a portion of the lapse. As the last post suggests, Cabaret was a pretty big thing. Turned out good, too! The show did indeed go on (as they say in the silent movies), and we didn't sink the company, and we got good reviews too! DAMN THE NAY-SAYERS! IGNORE THE CYNICS! SCREW THE CRITICS! Well, except that one. SO yeah, was busy for a while. That excuse ran dry on about July 10. But I have a good new one.

I've been hiding from the Martians. True.
After a few of my previous posts, they seem to have actually twigged on to the fact that the human race (read: ME) is ready for them. They're everywhere. On the streets. On the television. On the moon. I've noticed them at my train station, pretending to read their newspapers (hint: us humans read them with the titles at the top), I've seen them at work. I had to lie low...I feared for my life.

Ahem.

And what has happened since then? A whole bunch, but nothing of much importance. In fact, it was only on musing over a recent news story that I realised my particular brand of stupidity has been in short supply when it comes to the internet. So I figured it was time to dust of the old Stupid Text 9mm, chamber a few rounds and see what kind of idiocy I hit. (don't ask about the gun analogy, I cannot explain at all - I'm listening to Jackson Browne for crying out loud!) But what can I speak of, you ask? Well, that's a very good question. As a long-time reader knows (and that goes for anyone who's ever seen this junk before), I ignore the big stories, I eschew the main-stream, I LIVE FOR THE LITTLE-KNOWN AND FABRICATED.

So the first thing I did was assess the impact this ranting has made on the internet. The first indication was the search results off googling for "Trouble Waiting To Happen". This implied I was less noticeable than spitting into a cyclone. So I did a search on the URL, thinking that if someone is talking of it, they're likely to link it...lo and behold..

I HAD A SEARCH RESULT!

Somehow, I was found due to my mentioning of Cesar Romero. You might remember him for looking like this. Now my interest was piqued -I wanted to know what they'd said about me, where I appeared in their list. I WANTED THE GLAMOUR AND FAME. But apparently there's none to be had, I couldn't even find myself in the full list. And so sadly I shuffle back to my crypt to come up with new schemes for world wide infamy. Got any suggestions?


Strictly no Martians.

Q: What do you see when you turn out the light? Daemons?
Song For The Day: "The Man Who Sold The World" by Nirvana (original by David Bowie)

ARC Theatre Needs YOU!

This is half-a-post, meaning that the entertaining half will come shortly, whilst I give the informative bit now.

Right now I'm involved in a production with ARC Theatre of Cabaret. Yes, "life is a cabaret old chum" Cabaret. Our production is reaching a point of critical mass, where due to a number of production and financial calamities, the show is looking more than a touch dubious.

To make sure we go to the stage, we need to reach 50% ticket sales by Tuesday, 9pm. If we reach this number, the show continues and we wow audiences. If we don't make it, the production closes and we slink off into the background.

I'm not interested in slinking.

The cast have done a phenomenal job of working through everything thrown at them, to the point that they have taken on artistic duties, as they are damned if they are going to have the show NOT open. Now I am laying my cards on the table, and asking, nay, BEGGING that all of you who can, and have even the slightest interest in theatre, ring this number and book your tickets:

9480 5309
(for performance details: www.arc-theatre.com)

And this won't just be a goodwill gesture - no! The show is packed with gorgeous dancers, saucy costumes and I personally guarantee a great time.

Thank you all.

-thenick

Being a short discourse on pop-culture’s ill-defining of stereotypes. Part TWO

It came to my attention shortly after writing the older sibling to this post, that I actually know a little bit more than I claimed.

I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was very wrong of me.
But I do. I know stuff. And apparently, to know stuff is a good thing. The stuff I know is not quite as robust or well-rounded as I may wish it to be, but I am pretty sure that between strategic exaggeration of the fact, and outright lies, I can probably cover myself adequately in that field. You will leave this piece convinced of the veracity of my writing, and you will spread the word, not unlike a gospel from a messiah.
Or a particularly virulent infection.
I’m not fussed – both work a-okay with me. On with the show!


Werewolves
To prove a point I only just made, I’m going to open this section with a warning: I don’t know much about werewolves.
At all.
What I do know is the following:
- They love Chinese food.
- They always have perfect hair.
- They howl around the kitchen door.
- They like London.
- They like dancing with the Queen.
- They drink Pina Colada’s.
As you can see, this is by no means an extensive or thorough analysis. But let me make the following suggestion:
AWOOOO.

Oh yeah. NOW you see. Outside of the above, the only other things we know about werewolves are the clichéd ‘silver is deadly’, ‘full moon makes them transform’, ‘re-runs of “Friends” irritates them’ kinda stuff. The other things I can say, without a doubt, are that werewolves are in fact one of the main ingredients in humans.

If humans are made of werewolves, and soylent green is people, then it’s a fair statement to say that soylent green is werewolves. Which I think you’ll agree makes a tremendous amount of sense out of the current events.


Clowns

Ah. A subject I know a whole lot more about. The modern interpretation of the idea of “clowns” is a gaudily dressed performer who is a possible master of a range of arts including (but not limited to) juggling, acrobatics and macramé. Derived from the character “Arlequino” and the traditional role of a court jester, it’s a clown’s reason for existing to be silly and amuse many.

Unfortunately, modern society hasn’t allowed clowns that opportunity, and due to this shortage in jobs, they are becoming a twisted version of the once permanently happy entertainers. They are becoming twisted and evil. Just look around you! Any examples of clowns you can think of, are a horribly perverted version of the above described performer. Krusty The Klown, Pennywise, The Joker – all are evil, twisted individuals whose lingering trademark is their pasty white complexion, affixed grin and shock of wild hair. All dress in outrageous manners, cackle maniacally, and scare children. I know personally that I have a problem with clowns, and it’s something I’ve had other people also relate to me – clowns are a hideous source of trauma and sleep-loss.

I put it to you, that pop culture has elevated and promoted this traditional prat-falling physical comic from light entertainment, into the coveted role of the Bogeyman.


Things go bump in the night. And now we know that they also go honk, wear red noses, and leave banana peels to be stepped on.

Q: Is There Someone Who Pops Into Your Head At Random Times? Ronald McDonald
Song For The Day: "Mexican Hitler" by the Doug Anthony All Stars

Fortune Favours The Bald

You know things are really beginning to suck when you’re listening to Roxette, and not only can you identify with the lyrics emotional content (odd European accents notwithstanding), but you also feel that they were an awesome band.
There’s an inordinate amount of broken glass in my world at the moment. It’s making life quite a delicate process to conduct. Egg shells are bad, but at least the most they offer in regards to physical sensation is odd discomfort, akin to walking on floorboards of peeling varnish. Walking on broken glass is just nasty - just when you think you’ve cleared an area, more of the stuff pokes it’s nasty transparent way into both your life, and the fleshy pads of your foot.

NOT. AMUSING.

Well, okay. The hopping and whinging routine is slightly amusing in retrospect, but only the first time. Getting three shards and the associated injuries in one day lessens the chance of me catching up with the event in a few years time and chuckling at it all over a beer.

My original post for today was to be the second part in my updating of a number of stereotypes spawned by that ADD-suffering social concept that we call Pop Culture. I guess it has kids, I don’t know. If it does, then I’m assuming they had a rough childhood, one of the parents being scatterbrained and changing it’s career daily, and the other being absent. Maybe due to work, maybe due to not existing, I don’t really know. All I can say is that those kids are messed up.


So that post is now waiting until another day for it to see the e-light of the internet. It’s okay, I still have it written, but the last week got me incensed and I had to write about it instead.

I had my car broken into midweek. Something about my car must have attracted the crème de la crème of thieves with an automotive leaning, but more on that later. I remember reading those urban legends about cars where the owners put a sign on the windshield reading “NO RADIO” only to return later and find a sign inside reading “JUST CHECKING”. Or cars locked up safely in a garage with all kinds of safety measures only to be found the next day facing the opposite direction, with a note describing that it was just to prove a point. I was always hoping that when the criminal element finally got around to my car, I’d come back to find the gearbox put in backwards, or the number plate re-arranged into a humourous slogan, or rebuilt as a 1960’s Volkswagen. Something I could be impressed by, shake my head at and keep as an anecdote for later.

Instead the perp in question is probably someone who wears Velcro-tabbed shoes, has a name they’ve reduced to a single syllable, and fists of solid iron. Returning to my car after a highly entertaining show, my closing comments to my friend had been jokes along the line of not being able to find the car due to the crazy backstreets. For a moment, I actually thought I HAD lost it, but then I saw the sleek grey shape that has this extraordinary ability to not reflect paint. OOO. Running all crazy-like to my vehicle, I flick out my keys and notice something odd. The locks on my car have a small glowing light behind them, hidden by a small panel that keeps the lock covered until a key is used. What this means is that without using a key, you barely can see the light, so imagine my surprise to return and find a veritable beam of light shining out. Yes, the alarms bells started a-ringing. The lock now is a bit chunky, but still works. (I think it’s sheer luck that the assailant couldn’t figure out what they were doing, as the lock was neither sprung nor ruined – it’s integrity and reputation are intact!) So I unlock and jump into the pilot’s/driver’s seat, start the car and zoom off into the night.


Then I noticed the breeze.

Turning in my seat, I saw what appeared to be a rolled up windscreen sun-protector in the back seat. Odd, I thought – I don’t own one. Reaching out, my hand came into contact with cold hard reality. My fingertips soon established themselves as the first officers at the scene of the crime, and politely informed me that the curled-up object was in fact the passenger-side rear window. We cordorned off the area, and awaited CSI, Columbo or Inspector Gadget. None of them arrived, I was crushed.

Which made me not that dissimilar to the window…


All right, I’m all out of anger now. One final thing to say: Lex Luthor, Daddy Warbucks, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Dr Evil – They all wear suits, they all have no hair, and they all have lots and lots of money. I think my future is now secure.

Q: What do you see when you turn out the light? I can't tell you but I know it's mine.
Song For The Day: "Hit Me Baby One More Time" by Kind of Pluto (they make it sound good)

Being a short discourse on pop-culture’s ill-defining of stereotypes.

(thenick thinks he’s being intelligent with that phrasing…)

I thought I’d give you all a bit of a treat today, and expose you to a side of my life I have previously kept hidden from this blog. Yes, the time and effort I devote to stupid photoshop jobs is indeed a large proportion of my life…it could be for the best, if I end up replacing the head of God on the Sistine Chapel, for example.

Instead I do this

Also, as the title suggests I would like to give my point of view on the way that a number of valid professions/ways of life have been distorted. These stereotypes have been given a fair amount of stick through uninformed commentary that has spread through the geek community like some kind of mental wildfire, igniting the dry-brush of your collective minds. (see what I did there?)

If there’s one thing I know about, it’s zombies and ninjas.
If there’s two things I know about, it’s zombies and ninjas and how to rip off Monty Python routines. (see what I also did there?)

Zombies

Zombies are not quite the shambling idiots you have been led to believe they are. If anything, they are actually a whole lot better than you or I. Their new state of being has left them completely oblivious to social convention, and so they live a blissful life of no stress. Man at the supermarket gets angry at you? Eat his brains. Getting booked for not having a Metcard? Eat the inspector’s brains. Cops going to shoot you for eating brains? Eat THEIR brains. Yes, zombies have it good.

Plus, zombies are never ever in a hurry. They live an idyllic, easygoing life that has them doing what they want when they want. It’s like living a perpetual holiday, and it doesn’t have the looming back-to-work date that a normal holiday is accompanied by. To be brutally honest, if it weren’t for the fact that they have such an insular community and are hard to find, I’d have signed up already. (in fact, at a number of parties people I have encountered have been convinced I’ve achieved this already)

The only thing that is preventing zombies from enjoying their post-lifestyle? Fascists like George A Romero, Danny Boyle and Zach Snyder. People who create their propaganda pieces portraying zombies as a swarming menace of unstoppable cannibals, or at best an allegory for consumeristic behaviour, and issues such as racism. Why they can’t have zombies represent what they are: a group of individuals expressing post-mortal athletic behaviour, I don’t know…

Ninja

The internet has got this one completely wrong. COMPLETELY. Like, so far off the mark that if it was any further off, it would hit itself (that sort of makes sense. Think “in the foot”). Ninja also lead a blissful existence. How can you do so, when your entire existence revolves around killing in a professional manner? I’m glad you asked. Ninja do this through the power of…well, I don’t really know. They refuse to tell me. In fact, real ninja refuse to do a lot of things with us normal people. Because we don’t share their same exclusive skill set, they look down on us. Real ninja don’t make public appearances, or make their profession known, or record regular blog videos.

Real ninja are machines of such destruction, that they have to be registered with all authorities (this includes the Spice Girls Fan Club), and monitored at all times. Due to such restrictions, real ninja don’t usually own up because living a life where you have to sign in every second gets old real quick.

Real ninja are a complete unknown. But like with zombies, because the stories are so persisitent, the chances of them actually existing are pretty good. They are out there, running the rooftops at night, and having a hell of a good time, whilst we slumber away…

Ninjas are real. And they love Danish pastries.

24 Today...24 Today...

Why didn't anyone ever tell me I talk out the side of my mouth?!?!



Oh, and everyone should head over to Trash Europe and wish Drummerthan a very happy birthday!

WITH CAKE!!!

JESS WINS! FATALITY!

fwawess victowy...

Wow, check this place out! I’m away for a month, and it DOESN’T fall down! I’m pretty damn well impressed. And here I was, having been convinced by certain ne’er-do-wells that without my constant attention and manipulation, it would fall in a deadly heap of broken words, and sharp fragments of mental imagery.

Harsh…

SO yeah. Through a campaign that involved pressuring of me to write, suggestions for titles, and a deluge of fan mail demanding I update (read: one comment pointing out the time gap), I have bent to public opinion and returned with a tirade of half-thought out opinions and even less-thought out plans through which I aim to make the world a better place.* (hint hint: spread the word and get more people reading- then I will be that much easier to guilt-trip into updating!)

And I have news. Oh yes…such news that you will not be expecting AT ALL! It’s true. In this last month, I have delved into those uncharted areas of science. The little cracks that form between rock-solid theories and discoveries. In these crevices of the unknown are the mysteries that we know are out there, but have yet to ask. They are the secrets of the cosmos that will change our world, but we have yet to unlock.**

But what is it? You cry with your mind-words. (Oh yeah, I know all about mind-words. Discovered in 1901 after a meteorite struck Russia and uncovered the first natural-occuring source of vodka.) It’s quite simply A NEW STATE OF MATTER! Yes! Naturally, we have four main states of matter: solid, liquid, gas and plasma. Well, now I know of a FIFTH.***.

It was a few weeks ago, I bought a container of jelly snakes with the intent of devouring the tasty reptiles during a particularly long and arduous meeting. In my infinite wisdom, I left them in the car. DUMB! But, by doing so, I completely forgot about their existence. (Reptilian hypnotic suggestion? You never know. Hiss) A week later, I returned to my car from somewhere, and was ravenous. I was so hungry, that the friendly neighbourhood horses looked panicky and tried to assure me their meat was stringy and tasted of old tyres. I ignored the horses (I had no sauce…in rhyming slang, ‘sauce’ is replaced with, ah forgeddit), and got into the Rhino**** And there, was the container of snakes – I had to eat them.

I popped the lid, and stuffed the first of the squirmy-looking lollies into my ravening maw. My teeth closed on it, almost ensaring my fingers in their eagerness. And they sunk in, chopping the snake into smaller jelly fragments, and then it happened – what had been a solid piece of confectionary, had altered it’s form and become a liquid substance not unlike PVA glue. My frenzied mastication paused, for at that point I realized I had made a significant scientific discovery. Jelly Snakes, left in the sun, take on a new form – for all intents and purposes, they are solid, but as soon as you damage the fragile ‘skin’, they dissolve into a gloopy, gelatinous mess.

But they still taste awesome.

I existed on a diet of these morphic snakes, and Kool Fruits during the training courses that were held last week. Kool Fruits are surprisingly addictive. They have something in them that gives you an initial rush, and then leaves you with a piece of rubberized lolly that you can only finish with, by crushing back down to it’s base molecules.
And then you want another one.

I had a shower this morning at President Ford’s place (I crashed well and truly last night. Indeed, there was a trail of debris that led to the site at which I came to rest at), and his bathroom has full-length mirrors. In those mirrors I caught sight of an out-of-shape, pale blob of a figure that depressed me and gave my self-image a beating*****. So on the strength of that, I made a resolution.

I’m not having a shower there again.


In other news…

-We have started our rehearsals for CABARET! I urge you all to get in early and get tickets – it’s bound to sell out this year.

-Big Big News: Warren Zevon’s back catalogue is getting re-issued, along with a brand spanking new collection of never-released material. Very happy thenick, indeed.

-Big Big BIG News: Ivy cat has returned! Yep, my itinerant cat has been re-captured and brought home. Harley cat was very pleased to see her sister, although is mystifed as to why Ivy felt the urge to go travel the world and not bring back and souvenirs...

Q: Would you get your nipples pierced? Highly unlikely. More so if the piercer is a guy named Ahab carrying a harpoon...
Song For The Day: "I Want To Par-Tay" by the Crash Test Dummies

*just not for Martians.
**much like the ability to balance a spoon on your nose.
***it’s not Milla Jovovich.
****The Rhino is my car: It’s grey and runs into things.
*****probably with a phone book.