“There Can Be Only One!”

But he may have a side-kick…

This week’s post is a belated last week’s post. The reason for the delay can be clearly seen here. I won’t make any bones about it, I spent well over two hours of my life reading that forum thread, and it was two hours or more I’d gladly spend again. THAT GUY BUILT A BATMOBILE. Ahem, sorry. To make up for it, you have some awesome links this time (please check them - that kind of nonsense takes hard work)

!!!

This might mean there is a slim chance of a double-posting in one week, to make up for lost time. The posts will be thrown up in such rapid succession that if you blink, you’d not only miss it, but you’d miss the big headlines in all the major papers and the constant news feeds announcing the event. The zeppelins hoisting giant screens announcing the outrageousness would also sail completely by.

Yeah, it’d be THAT big.

The topic of today’s post is: Mortality. Yes. The Big M. I thought, instead of my usual rants on topics that lurk in the shadows of our culture, and ill-prepared arguments on vaguely heretical themes, we’d talk about something happy and full of rainbows and puppies for once.

More importantly, I want to write about the growing sense of obsoleteness and decay that I’ve begun to experience. This sense has made me question my own mortality – I’m fully aware that I will only last so long, before my joints weaken, my eye-sight fails and my brain becomes a complete lump of raspberry jelly (it’s about 20% there already). What has brought on this impending sense of goo? None other than THE FUTURE. Yes, I met the future. But how?! You say with virtual semaphore – that’s temporally impossible!!!

I hear your temporal impossibility, and I raise it a statistical probability. We’re bound to cross paths sooner or later. There may be a knife-fight, there may just be a sullen sneer – I can’t be sure. But I know where it is. It sits casually on a bracket at Allans Music, languidly relaxing in the company of it’s less advanced siblings, safe in the knowledge that it will survive long after they are defunct and nothing more than expensive firewood.

I am of course referring to the GIBSON ROBOT.

"it's now more machine, than Les Paul...twisted, and evil..."

Sent from the future, the Gibson Robot is here to save us all with it’s precision-built servo’s winding it in to any tuning you desire. It’s high-tech mind allowing it to survey the requirements of a single artist, and within seconds transform it’s tonal array to suit their situation – it is a weapon with no equal. And this is where the mortality issue begins.

With the introduction of such a powerful beast, us fleshy types that get out of tune quicker than you can drink a beer are on the way out. We will be replaced by mechanisms that do not suffer from old age, do not lose their vocal range through repeated stressings of said chords. Stainless steel musicians from the future will take up our fallen instruments and usher in a new era of sonic conquest.

But we will not go quietly. Most of us, sure we’ll fall before the might of the machine, our sinewy forms no match for hard-welded steel. They will thin our ranks in the time it takes to re-string one of our standard issue side-arms. The few who stand will be immune to the ravages of time, and will be able to endure any hardship that environment, enemy or biology throws their way. These people are none other than: The Immortals.

(No, not the group that did the dodgy Mortal Kombat song – rather, people who don’t die!!!)

The first of these, is already amongst us. He has walked the earth for many years, and told us many a parable. His styles are famous, and his rhymes are atrocious. With a vocal tuning not unlike an out of tune guitar himself, he is: BOB DYLAN. Every few decades, Dylan wades into battle, his six-string in hand like a Japanese blade. He will strike down all who come to claim his head, and then retire into the distance, to make another two albums.

So far none have been able to stand before him, but there is one out there he is expecting. A warrior of equal renown and skill, who has walked the earth for decades, seeking a worthy challenge. With a face whose weathered look could not only tell tales, but probably does if you look closely enough, he has seen fashions come and go. He has made come-back after come-back. His body has now all but mummified and he continues his quest through sheer willpower. He is of course, KEITH RICHARDS.

These two icons of the Rock Age will stride into battle, their creaking frames limiting their top speeds, their faces locked into expressions that could only be described as old. Wielding their chosen implements, Dylan shall employ the time honoured “wakizashi” of the folk-hero: the acoustic 'katana' in hand, the ‘tanto’-like harmonica clenched between his teeth. At the same time, Richards strikes a pose, his powered implement held loosely, and his wild hair blowing in the strategic breeze. It would take a well-trained eye to spot he has frozen on the spot, almost as if his bodily functions have at last given up. But that well-trained eye would be a fool – his bodily functions gave up years ago!

And with the dramatic tension that only a slowly-raged battle can elicit, they strike their blows, back and forth. The sky is lit up with the impacts of their weaponry, the rumbling of their collisions sounding like thunder to the primitives, and scaring away and Simon & Garfunkle listeners. This battle rages for an eternity…well, it may. It started about 200 years ago. In the mean-time, they even found time to release new albums.

Two go in…One comes out…

And then there’ll be a farewell tour. Geez. Someone call Messrs Lambert and Connery - we must remove their heads, stat.

Q: Why can’t Bono find what he’s looking for? Because the streets have no names.

Song For The Day: “Hands Open” by Snow Patrol

“All Right: Stop, Collaborate and Listen”

(it’s a sad day when it can quite strongly be argued that Vanilla Ice has a better grasp of negotiation than the majority of current world leaders.)

This post has been a long-time coming. Buckle in, it's gonna be a while.

It has been a long time since last I posted, but this time frame does not indicate the writing I have been doing in the meantime. Writing with the main goal being to update this place of fevered and frequently alliterated fabrications. Now, with your mind-rebuttal, I can hear you forming the questions: “So Smart-Guy, if you’ve been so busy writing, why’s this place stagnant?”, “Good! Well crafted writing, and quantities of it! But where?” and lastly “I saw that, f’s all over the place, how come you are so cool?” To be fair, I must answer these questions before launching into my most recent soliloquy, satire and vitriol cocktail.

a) Because I haven’t posted anything – it just didn’t feel right. It’d be like taking to the football field wearing high heels: you could do it, but you’d deeply regret it.
b) Well, to be brutal, I’ve actually posted all my well-crafted writing in this downtime…yep, it’s true – you are most definitely your harshest critic. (probably pretty close to the truth though!)
c) Hey, maybe I was born with it: maybe it’s Maybelline. Mostly, it’s merely a method of manipulating the minor messages to more melodically move into motion together.

I discovered that no matter what topic I attempted to write on, to update you on and to fill your minds with vaguely philosophically points of view, it always fell back to the one constant. It was really getting on my nerves, every time I had an original idea to write on, this one theme would worm it’s way back in, like a platoon of greek warriors hidden in a giant wooden idea – Trojan Themes, clad in leather armour and brandishing topics sharpened to a point. But what is that theme, I see on mental-semaphore. (it’s like morse code on flags, but in your head. No really.)

It’s Jesus.

Parody and satire are my bread and butter. Which gets spread on the other, I don’t quite know, but it’s a liberal layer of one, on a thickly-cut chunk of the other. And I wanted to write about movies, and how the whole Hollywood machine is becoming outrageously out of control…but everything I did came back to Jesus.

When you boil it down, there’s only a certain number of stories Hollywood can tell. They can throw a twist on (they’re all ghosts! ARGH!), they can even change the setting (can you just be whelmed?), but it’s the same story. Now Jesus, he’s one cool cat whose got the story well and truly down-pat. You know what you’re getting with a movie about Jesus.

Or do you?

The problem with Jesus’ story, is you know exactly what you’re getting. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but the whole idea of getting a director on your film, is to get their personal take on the idea or story. With a premise over 2000 years in the telling, your ability to be dynamic is a little hindered. But I’d like to see a few different takes on the story.

Like, you could have a telling where the son of God was brought to us in the near future. He could keep the same hairstyle, same name just trim the beard a bit. He could have served in the compulsory armed forces, won the admiration of many, but then rebelled against the ruling class (all legit, true-to-the-story). Things go bad, he loses an eye and eventually goes down…or does he? Rumour surrounds that he lives, then he’s finally called in – they need him, they need his unique skills. He goes back into action to hunt down Guevo Judas, a gun-runner who has taken control of the local area with his militia and his charisma. And along the way, everyone JC runs into recognizes him, spawning the classic exchange.
Guard: “Hey JC, I thought you were dead!”
JC: “Yeah…I get that a lot”
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you a rollicking story of sci-fi takes on biblical bad guys, as Kurt Russell portrays Jesus in John Carpenter’s “Escape From Nazareth”

And then Mr Carpenter and Co. get lynched.
Even with the trivial name connection that the director shares. (No, I’m not spelling out both jokes there) See, the problem with the Jesus story is that if you were to view it as a franchise, much like those for Spider-man or Star Wars, the built-in fan base is arguably a whole lot bigger, and a whole lot more zealous. A studio put nipples on Batman, or flames on Optimus Prime – to do the equivalent with Jesus would have you on a cross of your very own in record time. And this is where the movie world comes unhinged.

We could very easily have a languid, Lynch-ian flash-back telling of the story, from the eyes of a recently risen Jesus, trying to piece together his memory, only to find he was really a failed starlet whose life was over on the corner of a particular Hollywood road. Or maybe a heart-touching outsider in a Steven Spielberg story, highlighting the importance of the father-son relationship (whoa, that’d work)
Or maybe even further, he could be from another planet (symbolistic!) and sent here to help us become all we can, and reach our own potential. He will eventually give his own life to save the entire world from an evil that we ourselves have caused…and then, miraculously get a second chance due to his own self-sacrifice.

Unfortunately, Bryan Singer already made that last film and called it “Superman Returns”, so maybe there is a way to tell the fabled story in a newer way. Or maybe Bryan Singer’s 2.5 hour love letter to Richard Donner required some kind of camouflage and he stumbled across the analogy.

Either way, I think without allowing a director to do his or her thing, we’re not going to have anything worth watching in a few years time.

In the mean-time, the little green men are lurking. They gather in the craters of their home turf, readying neon-rayed weapons and chattering to one another in an obscure dialect, which we hope will share enough similarities with English for us to interpret…hopefully before they announce their plans to render us all down to pet food for the omnivorous octo-dogs.

Me? I’m growing my hair and putting on an eye patch. There’s nothing that Snake Plissken can’t stop, he’s even beaten the fashion police into submission.

Snake, you’re the man.
*special thanks to Mr d'Licious*

Q: Learned anything new today? I learnt not to kick the corner of my staircase, and then learnt not to fall over after not doing the first action - how's that?
Song For The Day: "Radio Nowhere" by Bruce Springsteen

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.