Christmas Straight Up Sucks

I figure that the most irritating holiday of the year requires input from yours truly, because we seem to be the generation that has perverted it to such a degree no one knows why we sit around a table, eat a damn bird that no one eats during regular times and other shit that we only care to think of during December. Surely, this process could all be mediated instead over Facebook, somehow?

If it were up to me, I'd probably order Chinese food with hell of egg rolls and chicken wings instead. (Provided I was somewhere that did that kind of order.) I'd sit around, download more episodes of The Wire and watch them on a big screen TV, oblivious that my local bar, CD store and Discount Tyre outlet were all closed. I lead an interesting life, dammit - I exist as an eternal mixture of intrigue and backwater sass. (Hah, who am I kidding.)

Talking about The Wire, its cerebral television; it has this uncanny ability to draw you to its narrative, even though the bulk of it is ego-driven political dialog the likes of which Aaron Sorkin loves to masturbate over, losing his jive whenever the characters say "fuck." (And they say "fuck" quite a lot!)

If you can imagine your best friend - as complicated and imperfect as they are, you can get a handle on how compelling and brilliant The Wire is. You probably met at some time in your lives where you both had the same interests and conversation flowed so freely you didn't even notice the sun rising after spending all night on the phone, greeting their brothers and sisters and tagging along to strange as hell events like their Dutch migrant piano recital or application for tags at the DMV. (Er, VicRoads? Screw it, y'all know I want to be seppo)

The Wire is the televisual equivalent of your best friend - the tension between their own self-interest and your need for attention - exists like allegory on the screen. You see cops beating on their own, drug dealers aspiring for the average life and the corrupt, perverse nature of institutionalizing humans at their worst, at their most demonized. As it plays out, you understand and feel everything it offers in and of itself and beyond - much like your best friend does - without even realizing.

Next year, we should all watch The Wire instead of having Christmas.

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http://twitter.com/crushtor

Pain and Pleasure

Judas Priest's penchant for ostentation was not stifled last night at the Hisense Arena; the band was surrounded by huge black and red draconian sets, watched over by a canvas Nostradamus with glowing red eyes who saw Rob Halford elevated into the stadium, clad in flowing suits of leather and studs. (He even was wheeled out on a motorcycle during the encore, not forgetting his trademark moves.) They shied away from newer material (opening with Nostradamus), electing the "Maiden" method of playing crowd favorites from their golden era, less talking and more rocking. Though wearied by age, there was no denying their energy to keep their unique brand of heavy metal mania alive. If there's one thing to be said about Judas Priest, is that they've always been the sensuous metal band - while Maiden can be very rocking and inspiring, they can sometimes feel distant and over-intellectual - Halford and co. really know how to get under your skin and run a gamut of emotion.

Strangely, later on while riding the train home, a short, sandy blonde middle-aged yet well-drunk woman who had devolved into child-like inquisitiveness launched into a incessant inquiry of anything and everything, asking some rather inane questions of some bemused metalheads.

"Does your t-shirt have France on it?"
The not-too-friendly rivethead sporting a clean shaven head save for a mohawk and long, braided pony-tail laughed and shook his head in amusement.
"What?" he exclaimed. "Who cares? It's irrelevant, etc." His mates couldn't help but quietly piss themselves laughing.
She asked if one of his mates could have a look for her. He declined. She began to pout, while being scolded by her husband. "But I'm just being friendly! I just wanted to know." she protested.

A fellow witness to this ridiculous display sitting across from me rolled his eyes and shook his head. I agreed. Wearing a faded leather jacket and a mustache like steel-wool I asked whether he had been to Judas Priest as well. He said he hadn't, but just as he opened his mouth, Ms. Inquisitive started up another one of her tantrum-like rants when he said "Women are like beings from another planet." She asked us what we were talking about. I told her, in no uncertain terms. She shut up. I also had to inform her that Amsterdam was a city, not a country. My new mate reminisced about his time there; "It's a great place. I can always remember arriving there but never remembering how I got home." A further stimulation of my wanderlust.

What was he doing tonight? "Went to see a lady friend," he says reservedly, while heaving a sigh. "She's very, very highly strung. She kicked me out." What for? "She wanted me to show a pic that flashed up on my phone. I said she wouldn't like it, I relented, she saw it and the told me to piss off." He was clutching a motorcycle helmet too; "I have to go get it in the morning." Fuck that, I thought. "I know," he continued, "my mates think I'm mad. I have about a 25% hit rate with her." My face was obviously in disbelief. "Well, having that said, she is very, very, entertaining." She must be if she's only letting you in for entertainment 1 in 4 times. "I know I'm stupid. But entertainment like that only comes around once in a lifetime." I said he was crazy, but he insisted "If you knew what I knew, you'd do it too." True enough; men are dumb creatures. Luckily enough for me, I don't have to date them.

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http://twitter.com/crushtor

Why don't you just ask her yourself?

"You shone a light on my life / now I'm just sentimental" - Biffy Clyro - Semi-Mental

Saw the monumental and frenetic Biffy Clyro at the Hi-Fi. It was an unusual experience, in the literal interpretation of the term - so accustomed to black-clad metalheads with long hair and little regard for personal safety, I found it completely refreshing to stand in a crowd with a metal t-shirt (if you can call Limozeen metal) and be a bit of an individual. The power trio sizzled through a killer set, despite the power going off half way through one of my favorite songs! Heavy enough to melt your face but still catchy and raucous to get everyone jumpin'. The Scottish ex-pat/backpacker crowd was out in full force - I heard accents everywhere and met one bloke who had been backpacking since last May but hadn't gone to any Aussie gigs until that day!

On the way home, the Taxis were on strike to protest against conditions as one driver was stabbed. Leaving the gig that night (in a taxi, funnily enough) the mob was still camped on the intersection of Swanston and Flinders st. when I went back into work the following morning, decrying the Victoria Police for not adequately protecting them (although vigilantly patrolling the perimeter for exactly that reason) It was bizzare to see so many taxis lined up the entire length of Swanston St. without moving an inch.

Beat Magazine? Your reign of Wikipedia-sourced terror will end soon enough!

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http://twitter.com/crushtor