Rec and I went to see the new Spike Jonze film, the much anticipated Where the Wild Things Are. Overall, I must say I enjoyed the film, but for a full review, check out my blog.
The cinema was rather empty, except for a few single men. They all looked like they were clutching their safety blankets, or pictures of their mum. They all stayed and watch the entire closing credits, as I did, and as we walked out – Rec, me and a few single, lonely men – at least one commented on the brilliance of the film to no one in particular. I looked back at him, and nodded, hoping to perhaps start a conversation (I figured it could be good for my review to see what unemployed men thought) but he could only repeat the comment and turn away from me. His eyes looked red.
I looked at Rec and rolled my eyes. She didn’t notice, as usual, and we sauntered outside where we ran into Matt. Good, old fucking Matt. He was recently broken up again. Again. And he needed some counselling.
We sat down together – some place that served Lavazza Coffee (gross, sick, puke) and he started going on about his ex and their relationship and God knows what else. I tuned out. My coffee came and I drank that bastard down.
‘She was never there for me, not like you Rec. You too Steve. Always off…’ I turned away. Rec looked at him – bleeding heart – and put her hands on his. He reciprocated. I butted in; he was always hitting on Rec.
‘In my opinion Matt, she wasn’t worth much anyway. You only dated her for a month or so...’
‘…it was four actually.’
‘Yeah, okay, whatever. Anyway, she didn’t mean anything so, you need to just get the fuck over it.’
‘Matt, just ignore him,’ Rec said. She glared at me. I got up,
‘I need to make a quick call, I will be back in a jiffy.’ As I walked away, Matt asked the following question to my lovely Rec,
‘Is he still persisting with that horrible film review blog?’
I went to Borders and lamented the poorly organised comic book section, and so much Manga. Poor, so poor. I procrastinated there for as long as I could, and then found them again at the café, both looking rather light-hearted, as if they had been laughing. Laughing a lot.
‘…and you should have read his review about There Will Be Blood,’ Rec burst out laughing. They seemed to be rather jolly.
‘That film was brilliant,’ Matt said.
‘I know, but Steve… you know Steve. Oh hello there Steve.’ She looked at me, and then returned to Matt, ‘He tore it apart. Well, he tried to tear it apart. He could only do so as much as he could understand the film. The review was terrible.’ Matt burst out laughing and touched Rec (probably for the umpteenth time).
‘Listen,’ I said sitting down, ‘It was a well made film, sure, but it was boring as hell. Why was it so slow, and what was with the performance of Day-Lewis? So ridiculous…’
Matt counted, ‘How can you say that Steve? It was amazing. One of the best films I have ever seen. So masterful, and brilliant. Daniel Day-Lewis was amazing in that role, and how he missed out on the Oscar…’
‘..Oh Oscars, why is everything measured by Oscars.’
‘Thank you Steve, for interrupting. It was a superbly made film, so reminiscent of Kubrick. The score as well, was breathtaking in its ability to add to the story telling…’
‘I hate it when you see that guy,’ I later said to Rec. She was brushing her teeth at the time. ‘Not only is he a loser – he can’t stay in a relationship for more than 6 minutes – he is constantly hitting on you. He touches you, and the way he looks at you… I fucking hate it.’ Rec glared at me, and washed her mouth out. As she walked out of the bathroom, she said, ‘Steve, I hate it when you talk to me when I’m brushing my teeth.’ She went into our room, and slid into bed.
‘Do you not agree though? He has a thing for you?’ She kept ignoring my comments, making herself comfortable. She grabbed her book. I took my shirt off.
‘He’s a nice guy Steve, he has trouble with women,’ she then looked at me mischievously, ‘and can you blame him for liking me?’ Rec was trying to make light of the situation, but I wasn’t hanging around for that.
‘Yes. I can. There are millions of women out there. You’re mine. He can go like someone else.’
‘Are we a little jealous there?’
‘Well, yes, I am jealous. I am… I’m… he is a good looking man, in pain, women love that shit. Their hearts melt and they explode in cum everywhere.’
She looked at me in disgust, ‘Steve, you are a fucking animal sometimes.’
‘My point is, women love that sad dog shit. They love it. They want to take the man into their arms and let cry a little and then fuck him!’ I was starting to sweat.
‘You have no idea what women want. Steve, this argument is as flawed as your review of District 9…’
‘…Why do you have to bring that up?’ I yelled.
I stood there, exasperated. Rec put her book down and decided to do what she had to do.
‘Shut up you idiot and listen to me! You have no idea what you are arguing for, or against. You think you’re ideas, or better yet, prejudices are the truth, are fucking gospel. You assume the world is ordered into the Right, Wrong and Fucking-Steve-Says-So. It doesn’t work that way.’
She ripped the blanket off and lept out of bed.
‘Yes, men with feelings are attractive, but so are burly men and men’s men and areshole men and ugly men and hot men and tall men and short men…’
‘..NOT short men!’
‘ … ALL types of men. Even a man like you –with the assistance of a great deal of alcohol, drugs and severe, extreme loneliness on my behalf - can be considered attractive.’
Ouch.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
CountDown by Kate Barnaby
10.
They stand on a balcony, in a Melbourne apartment, waiting with party blowers, poppers and sparklers. Both think about the year gone past, and the events that had taken place between them. So much said and done, so much left to say and do, both too shy to admit it.
9.
Their hands move closer together on the rails of the balcony. The night a few months earlier - it had started off with a major make-out session and ended with a food fight on Elizabeth Street - flashes back into their minds. She smiles at the memory, he scoffs out loud, “Remember when I got sausage roll in your hair?!”
8.
They were as close as brother and sister. And initially, that was their relationship. In the past few months, she had realised that she was falling for him, and wanted nothing more than to start a new year with him. He, who had been there for her. He, who she had scorned unintentionally, before his feelings were known to her. He stands there and accidentally blows his party blower while breathing out, and she laughs at the boyish grin that followed.
7.
He had loved her since the very beginning. Well, almost. He’d never been able to speak so freely to someone in such a short amount of time, but she fell for someone else. He was always there for her though. Their last kiss was at Christmas. She was drunk and upset and he was angry. He helped her into a cab, and they kissed again. He needed time. She would wait for him.
6.
They were no longer angry when she came back from her Christmas holiday. It was so easy to slip back into the comfortable friendship they had before the fight. Now there was this new vigour between them, they sat closer together, held hands or hugged or brushed against each other more often, and were making plans to go to the movies, to hang out and get stoned, and to, subconsciously, just be together. Although too embarrassed to be the first to say it out loud, they are happy.
5.
Others come out onto the balcony with champagne corks ready to fly, stumbling from the pre-countdown consumptions. She is pushed into him. “Shit!” he cries, “you jumped on my foot!” Silly, clumsy girl was always doing things like this by accident. A nice girl, not at all classy, but proud of that fact. She puts out her cigarette and hugs him to apologise. He kissed the top of her head in forgiveness, and rests his chin on the top of her head for a moment.
4.
He moves away from her but doesn’t let go of her hand. They stand subtly, secretly, holding hands on the balcony. Images run through their minds, past events and the wants of the future. They were laughing, play fighting, making love, making out, making nachos while drunk. They can feel what they think is just nervousness, drunkenness, but its more than likely an energy, a spark between them. He sees her smile out of the corner of his eye.
3.
It’s getting louder, more enthusiastic on the balcony. They both know now what they want, what is the natural progression of their lives. This is it, them, together, for now. He swallows a lump down his throat, and she quickly licks her lips to moisten them. They turn to look at each other, seconds dwindling down to a new year, a new decade.
2.
They stare at each other for no longer than an instant, but there is so much more there. A new year, a new love, a resolution of amazing existences for both of them. It’s about time, she thinks. He pulls her close, and in the dying seconds of the year, he smiles, and kisses her.
1.
They stand on a balcony, in a Melbourne apartment, waiting with party blowers, poppers and sparklers. Both think about the year gone past, and the events that had taken place between them. So much said and done, so much left to say and do, both too shy to admit it.
9.
Their hands move closer together on the rails of the balcony. The night a few months earlier - it had started off with a major make-out session and ended with a food fight on Elizabeth Street - flashes back into their minds. She smiles at the memory, he scoffs out loud, “Remember when I got sausage roll in your hair?!”
8.
They were as close as brother and sister. And initially, that was their relationship. In the past few months, she had realised that she was falling for him, and wanted nothing more than to start a new year with him. He, who had been there for her. He, who she had scorned unintentionally, before his feelings were known to her. He stands there and accidentally blows his party blower while breathing out, and she laughs at the boyish grin that followed.
7.
He had loved her since the very beginning. Well, almost. He’d never been able to speak so freely to someone in such a short amount of time, but she fell for someone else. He was always there for her though. Their last kiss was at Christmas. She was drunk and upset and he was angry. He helped her into a cab, and they kissed again. He needed time. She would wait for him.
6.
They were no longer angry when she came back from her Christmas holiday. It was so easy to slip back into the comfortable friendship they had before the fight. Now there was this new vigour between them, they sat closer together, held hands or hugged or brushed against each other more often, and were making plans to go to the movies, to hang out and get stoned, and to, subconsciously, just be together. Although too embarrassed to be the first to say it out loud, they are happy.
5.
Others come out onto the balcony with champagne corks ready to fly, stumbling from the pre-countdown consumptions. She is pushed into him. “Shit!” he cries, “you jumped on my foot!” Silly, clumsy girl was always doing things like this by accident. A nice girl, not at all classy, but proud of that fact. She puts out her cigarette and hugs him to apologise. He kissed the top of her head in forgiveness, and rests his chin on the top of her head for a moment.
4.
He moves away from her but doesn’t let go of her hand. They stand subtly, secretly, holding hands on the balcony. Images run through their minds, past events and the wants of the future. They were laughing, play fighting, making love, making out, making nachos while drunk. They can feel what they think is just nervousness, drunkenness, but its more than likely an energy, a spark between them. He sees her smile out of the corner of his eye.
3.
It’s getting louder, more enthusiastic on the balcony. They both know now what they want, what is the natural progression of their lives. This is it, them, together, for now. He swallows a lump down his throat, and she quickly licks her lips to moisten them. They turn to look at each other, seconds dwindling down to a new year, a new decade.
2.
They stare at each other for no longer than an instant, but there is so much more there. A new year, a new love, a resolution of amazing existences for both of them. It’s about time, she thinks. He pulls her close, and in the dying seconds of the year, he smiles, and kisses her.
1.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Miguel Sanchez Presents… by Sebastien de Robillard
He wanted to make it up to her. To apologise, not too much, but enough, and also to give her something. What exactly? A music compilation: nothing original, but involves enough effort and can speak volumes. What was the intention of this gift you ask? Why bother bro? He thought he had been a little too rude. Not that rude, just too rude.
But where did this all stem from? Why the sudden guilt? It probably had a lot to do with Monday night. It was not a normal Monday night for Jack. He decided to go see a film (which did meet his expectations, but was not brilliant, which is a shame as it should have been brilliant) and a film he saw, friends in tow. The cinema was not too cold, it was actually quite full for a Monday night.
The film didn’t finish late. And he was in bed by 11 p.m. He turned the light off not long after this, and waited for sleep to take him to a world of red nightmares and black dreams.
But Jack did not sleep. And there were three reasons for this.
1) Coffee. Strong coffee. With three sugars.
2) The film’s central monster character reminded him of himself. He saw all of his bullshit in that one, fake character. His selfishness and his manipulative thoughtfulness (He wanted a king for him and his friends. Not because they needed leadership, but because he wanted somebody to blame when things went bad. Someone to hurt. He was nice so others would be nice to him; he gave so he would receive).
3) His not so nice behaviour on the previous Saturday. He had grunted responses throughout the night. Not that this was the problem. She had been fishing for attention no doubt, and she definitely wanted compliments, but she did seem to genuinely want to talk to him. Jack wasn’t that interested in any of these things. Compliment yourself! He probably thought. Get your friends to lavish you with attention, he would have pondered. He only grunted, and that was okay. Short, sharp responses were perfectly apt at this point. Jack didn’t feel like playing the losing game anymore. He had participated in this game for a long time, and was quite good at it. But then the losing game got too hard, so he pulled out. No games. But or however…? (No, however sounds better). However, as mentioned in the introduction, Jack felt he had been too rude. Too rude. Jack’s brain replayed scene after scene of him being a bloated, grunting, mono-syllabic arse, and felt like shit. Who was he to treat someone like this? Why was he so superior? At two or three in the morning, he admitted, out loud, to himself, in the dark, that he was an arse. “Now let me sleep!’ he exclaimed.
So, what happened? What was the tipping point? He was asked a rather simple question. Simple and harmless.
“Are you coming to my birthday party next weekend?” Jack, without missing a beat, looked her in her pretty eyes and said, “Probably not.”
In fact, and I cannot recall this detail as well as I would hope -I was busy scoring blow at the time - he probably just coughed some inaudible, bullshit, insensitive comment. For the sake of this tale, we will stick with ‘Probably not’.
Probably Not. What a bastard.
So, this rather cold response leapt back and forth in his head, all night long. He didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. Poor guy, he must have been pretty tired the next day at work.
So he wanted to make it up. He thought a mix-tape would do the trick. He hoped it would say the following but not the following after that;
1) I am sorry for acting a little rudely.
2) I don’t think I will come to your birthday party, but I hope you have a good time my dear.
3) Please understand that this is not a last, final grab for you affections, but rather an apology. This is not a present made my starry eyes, but a show of affection, respectful attention. We may not be friends, but that doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t respect you.
But Jack my dear boy, what about her, the girl?
1) What if she doesn’t remember?
2) Does remember but doesn’t care?
3) Thinks you are a boring bunt (silly kunt) anyway.
What if this piece contains too many lists? Will people lose interest?
If she doesn’t care, Jack thought, that was okay, and if she doesn’t remember, then that was okay too. This was about him behaving badly, and him feeling the need to make it up to her.
This was about him about doing the right thing and not doing everything for himself.
He wanted his mix-tape to travel back in time, to the previous Saturday’s party, and say the following:
‘You look spectacular tonight. Amazingly spectacular.’
But where did this all stem from? Why the sudden guilt? It probably had a lot to do with Monday night. It was not a normal Monday night for Jack. He decided to go see a film (which did meet his expectations, but was not brilliant, which is a shame as it should have been brilliant) and a film he saw, friends in tow. The cinema was not too cold, it was actually quite full for a Monday night.
The film didn’t finish late. And he was in bed by 11 p.m. He turned the light off not long after this, and waited for sleep to take him to a world of red nightmares and black dreams.
But Jack did not sleep. And there were three reasons for this.
1) Coffee. Strong coffee. With three sugars.
2) The film’s central monster character reminded him of himself. He saw all of his bullshit in that one, fake character. His selfishness and his manipulative thoughtfulness (He wanted a king for him and his friends. Not because they needed leadership, but because he wanted somebody to blame when things went bad. Someone to hurt. He was nice so others would be nice to him; he gave so he would receive).
3) His not so nice behaviour on the previous Saturday. He had grunted responses throughout the night. Not that this was the problem. She had been fishing for attention no doubt, and she definitely wanted compliments, but she did seem to genuinely want to talk to him. Jack wasn’t that interested in any of these things. Compliment yourself! He probably thought. Get your friends to lavish you with attention, he would have pondered. He only grunted, and that was okay. Short, sharp responses were perfectly apt at this point. Jack didn’t feel like playing the losing game anymore. He had participated in this game for a long time, and was quite good at it. But then the losing game got too hard, so he pulled out. No games. But or however…? (No, however sounds better). However, as mentioned in the introduction, Jack felt he had been too rude. Too rude. Jack’s brain replayed scene after scene of him being a bloated, grunting, mono-syllabic arse, and felt like shit. Who was he to treat someone like this? Why was he so superior? At two or three in the morning, he admitted, out loud, to himself, in the dark, that he was an arse. “Now let me sleep!’ he exclaimed.
So, what happened? What was the tipping point? He was asked a rather simple question. Simple and harmless.
“Are you coming to my birthday party next weekend?” Jack, without missing a beat, looked her in her pretty eyes and said, “Probably not.”
In fact, and I cannot recall this detail as well as I would hope -I was busy scoring blow at the time - he probably just coughed some inaudible, bullshit, insensitive comment. For the sake of this tale, we will stick with ‘Probably not’.
Probably Not. What a bastard.
So, this rather cold response leapt back and forth in his head, all night long. He didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. Poor guy, he must have been pretty tired the next day at work.
So he wanted to make it up. He thought a mix-tape would do the trick. He hoped it would say the following but not the following after that;
1) I am sorry for acting a little rudely.
2) I don’t think I will come to your birthday party, but I hope you have a good time my dear.
3) Please understand that this is not a last, final grab for you affections, but rather an apology. This is not a present made my starry eyes, but a show of affection, respectful attention. We may not be friends, but that doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t respect you.
But Jack my dear boy, what about her, the girl?
1) What if she doesn’t remember?
2) Does remember but doesn’t care?
3) Thinks you are a boring bunt (silly kunt) anyway.
What if this piece contains too many lists? Will people lose interest?
If she doesn’t care, Jack thought, that was okay, and if she doesn’t remember, then that was okay too. This was about him behaving badly, and him feeling the need to make it up to her.
This was about him about doing the right thing and not doing everything for himself.
He wanted his mix-tape to travel back in time, to the previous Saturday’s party, and say the following:
‘You look spectacular tonight. Amazingly spectacular.’
Monday, December 21, 2009
Stoker’s Horror Blog: Thoughts and Critiques by Steven Rogers - Part 15: Tears and Cartoons by Sebastien de Robillard
Modern cartoons don’t have the heat of old cartoons. I think that every time I see another crappy trailer on TV or before a feature. Crappy animation, crappy story telling and crappy acting.
Of course, you could argue that I, Steven Rogers, does not watch kids’ cartoons. I don’t have time for that shit. But some of my friends love them. Especially the Pixar films. I don’t get it. I don’t get Pixar and why they are so popular and wonderful. I mean who gives a rat’s arse about a fucking rat, or some stupid toy or some stupid car? I don’t.
I recently purchased the new Yeah Yeah Yeah’s album. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. They seem to have lost their old punk-styles, and developed a more generic, synthesizer sound. How dull and predictable. Rec didn’t think so. She thought it was marvellous.
‘Don’t type that. I never said it was marvellous Steve, I said it was really good. Don’t put words into my mouth.’ She was lying next to me, apparently reading the morning paper. She knew I would probably use the following words in my review of their album: “shit”, “popular” and “boring”.
‘Is this like your whole “Kings of Leon” thing? ‘Cos they are massively popular now?’
‘No, no, no. No. It’s not like that. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t understand how your opinions on things are based on the opinions of others? Right. Sure.’
‘Oh hey,’ she continued, ‘there is a documentary about a metal band form Baghdad showing this week in town? It could be good.”
I made a face. She didn’t look at me.
‘Is that your pretty face Steve? God I hope not.’
A few hours later, she picked me up from the comic book store down the road - new Green Lanterns, a new Robin, a one about Zombies (genius) and some Superman stuff. I had called her because it was spitting a little, and I didn’t want to walk home in the rain and YES I DON’T HAVE A CAR.
Okay?
‘Thanks Rec my sweet dear,’ I said, jumping into the back so I could lay out the comics as I opened up each one. She looked over her shoulder.
‘You know its only a few hundred meters home?’ I ignored her. I wish she didn’t fucking interrupt me when I was reading my comics. Fuck.
I started reading the first one, Ah Hal Jordan, you are spectacular. I finished it and then grabbed another. Something was wrong. We were in a car park.
‘Where are we?’ I asked. She looked at me, and said, with measured controlled,
‘We are at the movies.’
‘No, Rec, no, fuck off. Please no. I don’t want to go to a movie about stupid fucking metal. I won’t go. I refuse to go.’ She got out of the car and started walking away; I quickly jumped out and followed her. She locked the car with that beep beep sound.
We quickly reached the box office, and I grabbed her arm, with all the manliness I could muster.
‘No, no. I will not watch this film.’ I looked around; metal heads everywhere, all wearing the individualistic uniforms of black on black on black. Fucking losers.
‘These people are so fucked. I mean, look at that fat one, wearing a grey cardigan over an ice hockey top. Who fucking dresses like that? Is he trying to be ironic? Look at his glasses too…’
‘Steve,’ Rec cut me off, ‘I am seeing this film now. Are you coming in with me?’
‘No.’
‘Fine, meet you out here in 2 hours.’
‘What? No. Well…give me your car keys at least? So I can get my comics.’
She came up to me, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and gave me an almighty kiss. I kissed back – what else could I do? This was nice. This was very…
‘Fuck you,’ she said and turned to walk inside.
‘Well, what am I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR 2 HOURS?’
Rec shrugged her shoulders without turning around.
Of course, you could argue that I, Steven Rogers, does not watch kids’ cartoons. I don’t have time for that shit. But some of my friends love them. Especially the Pixar films. I don’t get it. I don’t get Pixar and why they are so popular and wonderful. I mean who gives a rat’s arse about a fucking rat, or some stupid toy or some stupid car? I don’t.
I recently purchased the new Yeah Yeah Yeah’s album. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. They seem to have lost their old punk-styles, and developed a more generic, synthesizer sound. How dull and predictable. Rec didn’t think so. She thought it was marvellous.
‘Don’t type that. I never said it was marvellous Steve, I said it was really good. Don’t put words into my mouth.’ She was lying next to me, apparently reading the morning paper. She knew I would probably use the following words in my review of their album: “shit”, “popular” and “boring”.
‘Is this like your whole “Kings of Leon” thing? ‘Cos they are massively popular now?’
‘No, no, no. No. It’s not like that. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t understand how your opinions on things are based on the opinions of others? Right. Sure.’
‘Oh hey,’ she continued, ‘there is a documentary about a metal band form Baghdad showing this week in town? It could be good.”
I made a face. She didn’t look at me.
‘Is that your pretty face Steve? God I hope not.’
A few hours later, she picked me up from the comic book store down the road - new Green Lanterns, a new Robin, a one about Zombies (genius) and some Superman stuff. I had called her because it was spitting a little, and I didn’t want to walk home in the rain and YES I DON’T HAVE A CAR.
Okay?
‘Thanks Rec my sweet dear,’ I said, jumping into the back so I could lay out the comics as I opened up each one. She looked over her shoulder.
‘You know its only a few hundred meters home?’ I ignored her. I wish she didn’t fucking interrupt me when I was reading my comics. Fuck.
I started reading the first one, Ah Hal Jordan, you are spectacular. I finished it and then grabbed another. Something was wrong. We were in a car park.
‘Where are we?’ I asked. She looked at me, and said, with measured controlled,
‘We are at the movies.’
‘No, Rec, no, fuck off. Please no. I don’t want to go to a movie about stupid fucking metal. I won’t go. I refuse to go.’ She got out of the car and started walking away; I quickly jumped out and followed her. She locked the car with that beep beep sound.
We quickly reached the box office, and I grabbed her arm, with all the manliness I could muster.
‘No, no. I will not watch this film.’ I looked around; metal heads everywhere, all wearing the individualistic uniforms of black on black on black. Fucking losers.
‘These people are so fucked. I mean, look at that fat one, wearing a grey cardigan over an ice hockey top. Who fucking dresses like that? Is he trying to be ironic? Look at his glasses too…’
‘Steve,’ Rec cut me off, ‘I am seeing this film now. Are you coming in with me?’
‘No.’
‘Fine, meet you out here in 2 hours.’
‘What? No. Well…give me your car keys at least? So I can get my comics.’
She came up to me, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and gave me an almighty kiss. I kissed back – what else could I do? This was nice. This was very…
‘Fuck you,’ she said and turned to walk inside.
‘Well, what am I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR 2 HOURS?’
Rec shrugged her shoulders without turning around.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
How to Bake a Bliss Pie by Luke James
This is an age-old recipe popularised in fairy tales.
Serves: 0 to 2
Preparation time: 16 years +
Ingredients
• One human
• Rose-tinted glasses
• Yourself
Method
1. Place human in mixing bowl.
2. Add rose-tinted glasses.
3. Add yourself.
4. Mix well until all ingredients are combined and gooey to the touch. Break down any resistant chunks of human with a good spoon.
5. Transfer mixture to baking tray and place in a moderate oven until risen.
6. Remove from baking tray and serve hot.
Note: this recipe can be the most delicious dish ever tasted, but if incompatible ingredients are used or oven is set at incorrect temperature, pie may crack or lack flavour. This can cause extreme discomfort to one or both humans involved, and may also affect family or friends in the vicinity.
Serves: 0 to 2
Preparation time: 16 years +
Ingredients
• One human
• Rose-tinted glasses
• Yourself
Method
1. Place human in mixing bowl.
2. Add rose-tinted glasses.
3. Add yourself.
4. Mix well until all ingredients are combined and gooey to the touch. Break down any resistant chunks of human with a good spoon.
5. Transfer mixture to baking tray and place in a moderate oven until risen.
6. Remove from baking tray and serve hot.
Note: this recipe can be the most delicious dish ever tasted, but if incompatible ingredients are used or oven is set at incorrect temperature, pie may crack or lack flavour. This can cause extreme discomfort to one or both humans involved, and may also affect family or friends in the vicinity.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Hunting by Amanda Kramer
It was a drizzly and white late afternoon but the clouds showed signs of retreating and unveiling a calm dusk sky. He stepped up over a jagged rock and scuffed the toe of his boot on some crumbling debris. Placing his right hand down on the shrubby slab of rock, he used the ball of his palm to secure himself so he could dust off his boot quietly and, using his left shoulder, adjusted the strap so the rifle lay across his chest, like a seatbelt. The muzzle pointed up towards his lower ear and when he turned his head to the left he could smell the old residue from last week's hunt. He was never frightened at the closeness of the muzzle to his brain and the fact that only a few millimeters of bone lay between him and his fate. His expertise was paramount. He'd been hunting for a long time now.
The lonely wind blew a vacuum around his head but he could hear himself panting. Like clockwork, he assumed his position. Now crouched low like a python, he wriggled his body beneath some thick bushes, nestled amongst sharp sticks and ragged branches. Already the sky was clearing to a seamless milky grey and the wind retreated slightly. He lifted a finger and felt the direction of the air against his wet print. He took a pretend shot into the distance just slightly cocking the rifle, making a faux-explosion sound with his mouth. The immaturity of the act relaxed him and he smiled to himself and wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. He was pleased now. Perfect view, perfect aim. Now he needed the gold. He waited, picking something from his teeth using a thin piece of dried shrub. All was still. Then he saw it. Not one but two beasts, one behind the other, making their way around the base of the outback hill. They were completely unaware of him. This repulsed him. They were so clumsy and lumbering, their breathing heaving noises and sounds into the quiet. They had a lot of meat between them; he would certainly be proud of himself if he could mark both of them from here. He thought about how to tie the bloodied carcasses to his Hilux and remembered he brought with him some winch straps from the yard.
He waited until the beasts were stationary. They sniffed the air and grunted at each other hungrily. He drew a sharp intake of breath as the leader turned to his stumpy sidekick. Then the beasts were moving again. Slower this time. Perhaps they had sensed a predator. Not likely, he thought. The only thing they could sense was the arse of another of their kind. He felt disgust, the familiar precursor to the blind hate that drove him away from his family and to places like this. Places cold and lonely, where he cramped for hours in disguise, waiting and waiting for a chance to slaughter even one of this obtuse species.
They halted again and he cocked his rifle gently, one finger slowly easing itself onto the trigger. The only sound was the slowing whoosh of the wind and the rustle of the eucalyptus up above. He squinted, they stood still and dumb. Not moving, positioned in their own predatory formation, crude and offensive. Up ahead, a male kangaroo held its paws together and sniffed the wind, while a joey scuffled in the cracks behind him for some greenery amongst the dirt.
He fired two shots, like drum beats. The first hit the hunter in the head, sending him flat down into the crud. The second hit his sidekick, but in the ribs. The two men lay there, one dead, one dying, neither killing.
He got up, right hand on the rocks, left hand steadying the rifle behind him this time. His anger retreated from him like the rain had from the dusk. He smiled and walked away, leaving them bleeding into the dirt with no choice but to stare straight ahead at the roo and the joey retreating, shocked, but alive.
The lonely wind blew a vacuum around his head but he could hear himself panting. Like clockwork, he assumed his position. Now crouched low like a python, he wriggled his body beneath some thick bushes, nestled amongst sharp sticks and ragged branches. Already the sky was clearing to a seamless milky grey and the wind retreated slightly. He lifted a finger and felt the direction of the air against his wet print. He took a pretend shot into the distance just slightly cocking the rifle, making a faux-explosion sound with his mouth. The immaturity of the act relaxed him and he smiled to himself and wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. He was pleased now. Perfect view, perfect aim. Now he needed the gold. He waited, picking something from his teeth using a thin piece of dried shrub. All was still. Then he saw it. Not one but two beasts, one behind the other, making their way around the base of the outback hill. They were completely unaware of him. This repulsed him. They were so clumsy and lumbering, their breathing heaving noises and sounds into the quiet. They had a lot of meat between them; he would certainly be proud of himself if he could mark both of them from here. He thought about how to tie the bloodied carcasses to his Hilux and remembered he brought with him some winch straps from the yard.
He waited until the beasts were stationary. They sniffed the air and grunted at each other hungrily. He drew a sharp intake of breath as the leader turned to his stumpy sidekick. Then the beasts were moving again. Slower this time. Perhaps they had sensed a predator. Not likely, he thought. The only thing they could sense was the arse of another of their kind. He felt disgust, the familiar precursor to the blind hate that drove him away from his family and to places like this. Places cold and lonely, where he cramped for hours in disguise, waiting and waiting for a chance to slaughter even one of this obtuse species.
They halted again and he cocked his rifle gently, one finger slowly easing itself onto the trigger. The only sound was the slowing whoosh of the wind and the rustle of the eucalyptus up above. He squinted, they stood still and dumb. Not moving, positioned in their own predatory formation, crude and offensive. Up ahead, a male kangaroo held its paws together and sniffed the wind, while a joey scuffled in the cracks behind him for some greenery amongst the dirt.
He fired two shots, like drum beats. The first hit the hunter in the head, sending him flat down into the crud. The second hit his sidekick, but in the ribs. The two men lay there, one dead, one dying, neither killing.
He got up, right hand on the rocks, left hand steadying the rifle behind him this time. His anger retreated from him like the rain had from the dusk. He smiled and walked away, leaving them bleeding into the dirt with no choice but to stare straight ahead at the roo and the joey retreating, shocked, but alive.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Sunny Side Up by Seb de Robillard
“So?”
“I’m happy.”
“Yeah? So what?”
“Well, you asked.”
And it was true. Mike was happy, and had been so for a few years.
“A few years.”
“Bullshit.”
It wasn’t bullshit, it was the truth. Sure, not everyday was a holiday, not every day was Christmas, but fuck Christ all mighty, he was happy.
“How? How did you get happy? Become happy, sorry?”
“ I apologised.”
That was it. He said he was sorry.
“That’s it?”
It sure was.
He decided, that he needed to swallow his pride, his ego and just show some humility. He got rid of his “bullshit” and just apologised.
“Three words? “I’m Sorry”?”
“That’s two words idiot, and it was a little more complicated than that.”
Of course it was a little bit more complicated than that, most things are. What sent it off this time? A book? A song?
“I don’t really know how I ended up in the park, but there I was. I think I passed out, after drinking with some hobos, and then a few hours later, the sun came up.”
“Did they rob you?”
“No.”
“Really?.”
“I was covered in a fine film of dew, this was in early summer. The sun slowly crept up, gently nudging me awake, and I just thought of her.”
“Because of the dew?”
“The sun. It wasn’t a cold morning or anything, but the sun warmed me. Pulsed through my body. I breathed in deeply, and I smelt her.”
“Huh?”
“The warm sun, it smelt like her.”
Mike never worked out how he ever associated her and her smell and summer, never quite worked out what summer even smelt like.
Mike’s friend was a little confused. He had not read Patrick Suskind’s Perfume like your trusty narrator, therefore had no real understanding of the power of the nose and stuff and how it makes you feel or remember things without you even realising.
“Then what?”
“I called her, woke up her, and told her I was sorry. Sorry for the way I had been, the way I behaved. I said I was sorry for not being honest and not allowing myself to be hurt. For not taking a risk. I apologised for taking her for granted, for just expecting her to be there when I wanted her to be there. I apologised for being a selfish person.”
“Did you tell her you loved her?”
“No. We met up a few hours later for coffee, I still stank of hobo goon and morning grass.”
“So you were wearing cheap as cologne?” Mike’s friend laughed.
“Sure. She looked like she had just woken up; her skin was paler than her usual lovely tint. She looked like morning, you know?. It was like her blood hadn’t really started flowing yet, flowing to give her that glow. Her beautiful glow. “
“And you told her this?”
“No. She looked annoyed, but there was flicker of curiosity, of interest in her eyes. We hugged, I should say, I hugged her. I held her for a long time. At first she was not to keen about it, even did the old pat on the back a few times, you know, “Get-off-me-pats”, but then she relaxed. We embraced, held each other like that for some time.”
“And then…”
“And then I told her I could smell the sunlight on her skin. She looked at me, and smiled.”
“I’m happy.”
“Yeah? So what?”
“Well, you asked.”
And it was true. Mike was happy, and had been so for a few years.
“A few years.”
“Bullshit.”
It wasn’t bullshit, it was the truth. Sure, not everyday was a holiday, not every day was Christmas, but fuck Christ all mighty, he was happy.
“How? How did you get happy? Become happy, sorry?”
“ I apologised.”
That was it. He said he was sorry.
“That’s it?”
It sure was.
He decided, that he needed to swallow his pride, his ego and just show some humility. He got rid of his “bullshit” and just apologised.
“Three words? “I’m Sorry”?”
“That’s two words idiot, and it was a little more complicated than that.”
Of course it was a little bit more complicated than that, most things are. What sent it off this time? A book? A song?
“I don’t really know how I ended up in the park, but there I was. I think I passed out, after drinking with some hobos, and then a few hours later, the sun came up.”
“Did they rob you?”
“No.”
“Really?.”
“I was covered in a fine film of dew, this was in early summer. The sun slowly crept up, gently nudging me awake, and I just thought of her.”
“Because of the dew?”
“The sun. It wasn’t a cold morning or anything, but the sun warmed me. Pulsed through my body. I breathed in deeply, and I smelt her.”
“Huh?”
“The warm sun, it smelt like her.”
Mike never worked out how he ever associated her and her smell and summer, never quite worked out what summer even smelt like.
Mike’s friend was a little confused. He had not read Patrick Suskind’s Perfume like your trusty narrator, therefore had no real understanding of the power of the nose and stuff and how it makes you feel or remember things without you even realising.
“Then what?”
“I called her, woke up her, and told her I was sorry. Sorry for the way I had been, the way I behaved. I said I was sorry for not being honest and not allowing myself to be hurt. For not taking a risk. I apologised for taking her for granted, for just expecting her to be there when I wanted her to be there. I apologised for being a selfish person.”
“Did you tell her you loved her?”
“No. We met up a few hours later for coffee, I still stank of hobo goon and morning grass.”
“So you were wearing cheap as cologne?” Mike’s friend laughed.
“Sure. She looked like she had just woken up; her skin was paler than her usual lovely tint. She looked like morning, you know?. It was like her blood hadn’t really started flowing yet, flowing to give her that glow. Her beautiful glow. “
“And you told her this?”
“No. She looked annoyed, but there was flicker of curiosity, of interest in her eyes. We hugged, I should say, I hugged her. I held her for a long time. At first she was not to keen about it, even did the old pat on the back a few times, you know, “Get-off-me-pats”, but then she relaxed. We embraced, held each other like that for some time.”
“And then…”
“And then I told her I could smell the sunlight on her skin. She looked at me, and smiled.”
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