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Where The Wild Things Are

I watched Where The Wild Things Are. (Semi-spoiler-alert.) It is a good movie, though nothing new really happens throughout the movie, nothing eventuates. And I don’t mean that it doesn’t have an acceptable ending, I mean that nothing actually develops–the things that are happening at the end are the same things that were happening at the start. But that’s okay.

It’s a story about a little world that is falling apart. Both the lives of the inhabitants and the environment they live in is in a downward spiral of disrepair. And so they long for a king who can make everything okay again. It is surprisingly funny. And I think we should all sleep in a pile.

Zoo Station

Saturday night I went as a friend’s ‘plus one’ to her work Christmas party. Which is mighty nice, ’cause if provision is made, you’d be wasting a decent meal by not taking anyone just because you’re single. And a decent meal it was, the whole shebang would have cost upwards of ten grand to put on.

The meal was prawns and salad, followed by chicken with pine nuts, and a dessert of chocolate fudge and fruit. Not bad, but also far from amazing. There was, of course, free beer.

The evening panned out much like an episode of The Office, right down to the company name having suspiciously similar air to ‘Wernham Hogg’. This is a tribute to the genius of the television series, I guess. The occasion was dinner, with a ghost tour in what used to be a quarantine station between the early nineteenth and late twentieth centuries. People arrived on a company bus and in taxis, dressed in smart casual–perfectly middle class. I was introduced to various people, however people seemed not to know the names of folk who didn’t work on their floor or in their department. I sat on the table of receptionists so conversation wasn’t the sharpest, but equally it was never dull. Everyone acted according to script. Half of middle management got drunk and loud, while the other half remained invisible. The factory boys were all matey and down-to-earth to start with, but soon started groping any lady they could while simply pretending to be matey. The plebs all seemed to enjoy themselves, but made sure they didn’t do anything outrageous.

The ghost tour was awful. The crowd was split into groups of 25, and our guide was a big scary looking man, who was funny and did his job well and would have been great had our group not been such a bad audience. As we walked around we got the back story–how many hundreds of people died and where and why, plus specific stories at each area (the shower block, the morgue, the galley, et cetera). After going through each area the guide would tell us stories of ghost sightings within the last year (“Hey, I’m just telling you what people who live here have said”), and times when people have ‘felt unwelcome’ in certain buildings. Highlights included stories of ‘The Matron’ and ‘The Doctor’, and the wandering Chinese man with a lantern, however I did not manage to spot any ghosts. At one point our guide told us a story of young girl who had been spotted standing against the wall of the kitchen, and as he did he shone his torch at the wall, only to illuminate a chef chatting on his mobile phone. The obvious jokes ensued–”Oh yes, I see the ghost!”, followed by laughter. Similar incidents made the tour more amusing than scary. The other problem was Will (from marketing), one of the members of our group. He was tipsy enough to be making up stories about hearing noises and feeling ‘like there’s someone watching’, but at the same time he would burst out laughing at the end of each story the guide told, effectively ruining the spooky vibe the guide was trying to create. At the last stop on the tour we could hardly hear the guide because they had started pumping Billie Jean back in the function room…

With danceable music like Brown-Eyed Girl and I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) playing, the middle management demographic were in their element. The inebriated half thus entertained the factory boys, by then beyond embarrassment and otherwise thoroughly bored. Outside on the grass the teetotaller middle management and the plebs chattered in the cool and ghost-free fresh air. Exactly how such a Christmas party is supposed to end.

I think it is well within one’s capabilities to legitimately crash at least two or three Christmas parties each year. I think the office Christmas party is an essential.

Bad Romance (Filter That, Baby Bump That Track)

Everyone sits very still listening to the music. The music is stopped, Lady GaGa freaks out. In a bath house, slippery-looking, white, blind beings hatch from pods. Lady GaGa sits in a bath in her shoes, with earbuds in, which incidentally, can be bought online. Lady GaGa, considered an endangered species and hunted for her eyes, is abducted form the bath and forced to drink Vodka (it has to be Vodka, right?). Her pain is highlighted by some kind of strange Christina Aguilera poses, with tears. She’s held in a cage, and forced to entertain a man with a beard made of solid gold. Devising a plan, she seduces seedy Russian golden-bearded man, thus… winning his trust. With a brief stop off to sell a million records. She distinguishes herself from the other dancers, who look dressed for synchronised swimming, by performing a trick with diamonds in what appears to be some Matrix meets James Bond episode which also demonstrates her interest in space travel and Tim Burton films. Dressed in a bear she just caught and skinned, she approaches Mr. Goldbeard’s bed. Tim-Burton-film-GaGa pulls the trigger, and the bed goes up in flames, engulfing her tormentor. She pauses to pose in front of the inferno for press photos. Unfortunately a happy ending is not forthcoming, as Lady GaGa later succumbs to drugs, and pathetically clings to her one trophy (being remembered for her clothing that spurts fireworks), while in all other senses being indistinguishable from Amy Winehouse.

I can’t decide if it’s the best or the worst music video I have ever seen.

The White Russians at The Excelsior

It’s exam time. Some days in exam time are great, others are lame. At one point last week I was having a terrible day. And by terrible I mean that I wasn’t revising anything. And I was tired. My brain wasn’t working, and I fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon. A similar occurrence the day before, incidentally, was the reason I was so tired–long afternoon naps and very late nights are not ideal. I woke up during the evening to discover via Twitter that Pinky Beecroft was playing a gig at The Excelsior, for the launch of The White Russians new album. With my brain feeling like mush nothing useful could happen if I stayed in. So I called Crin, who I don’t think ever turns down an invite to a gig. We headed into the city, a touch early to the venue as we needed door tickets. After securing tickets we went for a wander, we both wanted a beer and Crin wanted cake for some reason. We found a muffin at a dodgy convenience store, where the Arab clerk made jokes about it being my birthday cake, and offering to sell us candles as well. Those muffins look like they have been in a deep-freezer somewhere for years.

Crin’s cake-craving sated, we wandered into a kitsch looking pub, where I were promptly pounced on by a lass who wanted to know if I would like, “a free beer to start off my night”. She definitely looked like she was gonna try make me sign up for something though, but after establishing there was no catch I was all heck yes. So she led me over to a machine that had ‘ABM’ (Automatic Beer Machine) on it, and said that if I inserted my ID in the slot, a beer would come out. I found this somewhat astounding, but also quite hilarious, and was trying to figure out how on earth that could work, but she kept talking to me and also wanted to take our photo, which I didn’t really question as by this time the night was turning out to be full of unexpected hilarity. I inserted my ID, and sure enough a beer came out. Unfortunately it was a Pure Blonde. Free is free. But we were still pretty curious, so Crin walked around behind the machine and discovered a man inside it, whose job it was to check IDs, grab a beer out of his Esky, and drop it through the chute. Of course.

Back at the gig I figured I’d buy a copy of the new album at the merch table. Lucky I did, turns out there is no physical release of the album, aside from 200 signed copies sold at gigs only. I got number 5.

Turns out it’s a great album. Very different from the first one, this one is much more mellow. But like the last one, it’s a sensational blend of wit and heart.

They played two full-length sets, back-to-back. The first was an acoustic set, which was made up mainly of material from the new album. The second was a bit louder, and was mostly material from the old album. Like last time I saw them, Pinky was very funny, and the rest of the band just did a good job of looking funny. The last song of the encore was Fabulous Driving, which I enjoyed immensely, and as Pinky went to sing the very last word his voice gave out. he croaked, “Ya gotta be kidding”, and tried again. Could have been faked, but I felt like I had got my money’s worth.

On our way out Crin tried to ask the guest trumpet/harmonica player a question, but he kept squinting funny and didn’t answer the question properly. No idea what was wrong with that kid.

You can buy the album from iTunes. Or you could just buy one of the songs. In fact, go look under the cushions on your couch right now. Now, see that $2 coin? Good, now, buy any one of those songs (I recommend Letter From Ward Five, True Love Lies, You Make Me Nervous, or Roses Under My Feet), they are only $1.70. Okay, now, I have just made you 30 cents richer. Yeah, you can thank me later. Now, listen to the song a few times. Now you know that you want to buy the whole album! Or if you don’t want to buy the whole album that’s okay–we can stop being friends now.

The Difference Between Bono and Nick Cave

The difference between Bono and Nick Cave is that Bono sings love songs that could be about God, while Cave sings songs about God that could be love songs.

I stepped into an avalanche
It covered up my soul
When I am not this hunchback that you see
I sleep beneath the golden hill
You who wish to conquer pain
You must learn to serve me well

- Avalanche, the first song on Cave’s first record, a Leonard Cohen cover, 1984.

I will kneel at your feet
I will lie at your door
I will rock you to sleep
I will roll on the floor
And I’ll ask for nothing
Nothing in this life
I’ll ask for nothing–
Give me everlasting life

- There She Goes My Beautiful World, 2004.

Snap

Some kid in Italy who was sentenced to nine years for murder, has had his sentence reduced after his angry genes were blamed for the crime. Now I’ve got some genes that are probably okay with murder, rape, and pillaging, and definitely fine with at least a good bit of thieving, so if I can blame it all on them now, that’d be tops. +1 Darwin.

Matthew Friedberger’s genes don’t sit well with Radiohead, and are partial to the odd faux pas. He laid into Radiohead, and then tried to pass it off as a joke. “Nah, c’mon guys, I knew that, I made that joke deliberately…” And that’s why we prefer that you keep your mouth shut Matthew, and let Eleanor do the vox.

Meat & Three Veg

Growing up I was fed meat and three veg at least five nights a week. Meat is bothersome to prepare though, so I don’t eat it as much any more. Last Wednesday I had Korean barbecue for lunch, and I ate three plates of meat. On Saturday I could still feel it, and was considering some sort of detoxification. Last night I had pad Thai and went for the vegetables and tofu option, believe it or not. And then later last night I dreamt (that’s two dreams this week, that’s very unusual) that my doctor told me I had to stop eating meat. I was surprisingly sedate at the news.

I do not like where this is headed.

The Death of Bunny Munro & Kornwolf

I pre-ordered Nick Cave’s second novel, The Death of Bunny Munro a little while back. After a first novel like his, one doesn’t need to think twice. Unfortunately The Death of Bunny Munro wasn’t great. It was all Cave, that’s for sure. Any close follower of his could see his humour and style, and traces of other work written all over it. But by the time I finished it I seriously wondered if he hadn’t just deliberately written complete junk as some sort of social experiment to see who would lap it up as if it were genius. The hype was big before the book was released, but it’s been eerily quiet ever since. It’s supposed to be the tragicomic story of Bunny Munro, a sex-crazed door-to-door salesman who, on the death of his wife, takes his son on the road trip of his life. Well, the last road trip of his life. Is it tragic? Almost. It it comic? Almost. Is it pornographic? Very. Is the twist at the end worth it? Well, I’d hardly call it a twist. If one was to study the book, high-school style, there’d be a tonne of material to work with, but that in itself doesn’t make it a good book. It’s disconcertingly easy to read, and it’s definitely ‘a page-turner’, but when all’s done, there’s not much to it.

Kornwolf, on the other hand, is sensational…

“Kornwolf is about Rumspringa, fisticuffs, homecomings, alienation, and AMish whiskey ministers, as seen through the eyes of a young man who finds himself inexplicably waking up in the fields every morning.”

Much like Lord of The Barnyard, it’s a southern-gothic romp. It’s about The Basin, a collection of small towns–Lampeter, Intercourse, Blue Ball, Bird-in-Hand, Laycock, and Paradise (yep, those towns actually exist. You couldn’t make that up), made up of communities of Amish Mennonites and English Redcoats who are suffering harassment from The Blue Ball Devil, a werewolf, the Kornwolf, who for some reason looks a little bit like Richard Nixon. Rural American culture, religio-superstition, terror, slapstick, and wit are piled up as fast as cop-cruisers on Route 30. The end is apparent from the start, but you can’t help but read on for the sheer absurdity of it. Every lunge toward hysteria goes a little further than the last until the whole thing goes beyond the point of no return. It’s faster and easier to read (and therefore there’s much less grinding of the teeth) than Lord of The Barnyard, and it’s also more fantastical–both things I am not particularly partial to, but it’s almost as good anyway.