Thursday, April 28, 2011

The Thirty-Five Steps to a Healthy Lifestyle

One - Wake up at around 9:30am; think about getting up because your bedroom is getting quite warm.

Two - Don’t get up until 12:30pm because otherwise Girlfriend will get angry that you are waking up ‘abnormally early’.

Three - Forget to put on real pants for around 45 minutes because you haven’t actually left your room yet.

Four - Look in the mirror and contemplate shaving your face for the first time in five days because your patchy puberty beard even though you’re now 21, goddamn it, is starting to look ridiculous.

Five - Turn on laptop to Google the weather forecast even though your front wall is entirely window so you can then see the weather and you have already complained about the room getting quite warm (see One). Logic would therefore suggest that it’s going to be a nice-to-warm day.

Six - Google that shit anyway.

Seven - Get up and have a shower like an adult.

Eight - Wear your Ceremonial Towel Toga for 45 minutes.

Nine - Get off the bed when you realise that your Ceremonial Towel Toga hasn’t quite met at the back and now you’ve left a suspicious wet patch on the bed.

Ten - Go back to the bathroom and shave your face, being sure to leave a Puberty-Stache.

Eleven - Laugh at your own brilliance.

Twelve - Show Girlfriend Puberty-Stache. She is not impressed but you shrug it off as her being unable to understand the finer points of moustache humour.

Thirteen - Comb your hair back so you look like Clark Gable.

Fourteen - See Eleven.

Fifteen - Shave off Puberty-Stache.

Sixteen - Finally put on real pants.

Seventeen - Wander around your room in random directions, stopping occasionally to kick through piles of clothes. Every now and then mutter something inaudible to yourself.

Eighteen - Get scrutinised by Girlfriend as to what the hell you’re doing.

Nineteen - Decide that none of the twelve shirts on your Floordrobe™ are suitable to wear.

Twenty - Rummage through the dryer and find the most crinkled shirt you can. Put that shirt on.

Twenty-One - Model shirt to Girlfriend. Get called a dickhead. Take off Crinkled Shirt.

Twenty-Two - Pick up that one shirt you’ve worn for six days now and put it on. Model Musty Shirt to Girlfriend.

Twenty-Three - Acquire outfit acceptance.

Twenty-Four - Venture out of the bedroom into the kitchen to forage.

Twenty-Five - Absorb nutrients from Tim-Tams and warm Coke.

Twenty-Six - Sit down on sofa to rest from steps One through Twenty-five.

Twenty-Seven - Complain that it’s already 3pm and that you never do anything productive with your time anymore.

Twenty-Eight - Try and write articles for four hours.

Twenty-Nine - Argue with Girlfriend about why an article about take-away curries would be funny.

Thirty - Eat questionable leftovers for dinner.

Thirty-One - Try writing articles some more.

Thirty-Two - Get interrupted by stomach exploding as a result of Thirty.

Thirty-Three - Come back from the Emergency Room.

Thirty-Four - Realise that it’s 3:45am and that you should probably go to bed.

Thirty-Five - See One.

- Tom

Xylophone Guy

Whether you're cruising along the mall on a sunny afternoon in search of delicious grease, or stumbling toward delicious grease at 1:30am after your fourteenth imperial pint, he is always there.

The man. The man with the plan. The man we all aspire to. The man sitting in the gutter, possibly asleep, instrument always in-lap, legs sprawled in absolute comfort. Possibly the greatest man... ever.

I speak of course, of Xylophone Guy. Some say he's but a humble musician, lost in a world of tyranny and deception, reaching out with whimsical charm to those who dare to listen. Others say he's a filthy drunken idiot who can't play the Xylophone for shit.

Our friend recently had a close and personal encounter with Xylophone Guy. There wasn't much of a conversation but it did end with her being violently knighted with xylophone sticks. An interesting move, especially after being given actual currency in exchange for what seemed like a random, painful arrangement of single notes.


Despite an overwhelming amount of distrust and anguish from the general public, he is very important, like Over-confident-circus-performer-Guy, or Fucking-brilliant-at-whatever-that-instrument-is-Guy. We need these people. Without our freaks, Adelaide would surely perish in a hellish fire of buskers who actually know what they're doing, subsequently requiring many dollars.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Leopards & Lions

Air-Ports, Time Machines and Dashboards used to be real things. Tangible things. In the real world. It makes me sad that in the future our kids won't know what the fuck Leopards & Lions are.

Apple's strange obsession of robbing real-world items of their definitions will undoubtedly prevent kids or really stupid people from differentiating between things in the real world and these blatantly unnecessary features. Launch Pad, Mission Control, Versions and Air Drop are just some of the headlining features in Apple's new operating system Lion, which is due for release this winter.

This is ridiculous.

Now, software companies have been doing this for as long as we can remember with Word, Apple, Explorer, Finder, Photoshop etc, but it's getting to the point where Apple has decided to push the insane notion that things in the real world haven't earned their place, and they won't stop until they have ownership rights on every fucking word in the dictionary.

- Aaron

Out of Context Ramble #1: Admiral Excitement

Today I impressed a guy I had just met in my house with almost every sentence I said, which made me feel like God or a T-Rex. At the time of writing this I can’t quite remember his name, so instead of writing the wrong one and making a dick out of myself I’m going to call him Admiral Excitement. I decided to rank him Admiral to negate any possibility of ‘hard feelings’. Our conversation went something like this:

(Me standing in the kitchen when Admiral Excitement walks into our house)

Me: “Hey”

Admiral Excitement: “Oh, hi, is Kostas here?”

Me: “Um, I think he’s in his room…”

Admiral Excitement: “Oh, so you’re like his housemate or something?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m basically here to make pies.”

(I forgot to mention that I was making taco beef mince leftover pies at the time, it is also here that Admiral Excitement becomes impressed the first time)

Admiral Excitement: “Wow! That’s a lot of pies you have there!”

Me: “I guess so, my pie maker makes four at a time, so…”

(My pie maker is like a sandwich press that has holes cut into the shapes of pies. You dump pastry and whatever the hell else you want in there and it turns your half assed jumble into delicious pies. It is literally the greatest kitchen utensil I own. Also at this point Admiral Excitement’s level of impressed-ness begins to escalate, which I will represent with an increase in font size, based on his level of excitedness at the time.)

Admiral Excitement:  “That’s awesome!”

Me: (Having run out of pie-related conversation) “So, what are you and Kostas up to tonight?”

Admiral Excitement:  “Oh, we’ll either watch a movie or play some video games.”

(Having found a topic I actually held an interest in, I tried to steer the conversation towards it)

Me: “Oh ok, cool, Girlfriend and I spent all of last week playing Portal 2.”

(At this point Admiral Excitement becomes fascinated that Girlfriend could somehow enjoy playing video games whilst owning a set of female genitalia simultaneously. It had also become apparent that Admiral Excitement's internal excitement production centre was the world's first authentic example of perpetual energy. It fed on itself. There was no stopping it now.)

Admiral Excitement: WOW, you are a legend! How did you manage to find a girl that likes video games??”

Me: Uhh, I don’t know, she just likes them I suppose. Oh if you’re going to watch TV I downloaded (insert names of two 90’s cartoons here) if you guys want to watch them.
Admiral Excitement: WOW!”

Me: ….?
Admiral Excitement: YOU ARE A LEGEND!”

- Tom

How Nintendo controls our lives.

On the day it came out, I was at Uni. I knew what that day meant, and I’d be damned if I missed it. All of the others had been incredible, so there was no way that this one could be any different! I was at Uni that day, but I could surely find time to sneak to JB HI-FI and buy myself the newest version of Pokémon. That’s right, I’m twenty years old, and still playing Pokémon. What’s more, I purchase every new game from the series that Nintendo release, despite knowing full well that they’re going to be almost exactly the same. You’re still going to wander from town to town beating the shit out of random animals, because that’s the way to go in this whacky Pokémon world.

I encountered Pokémon for the first time when I was about six, and the show had just come onto television. It was my first taste of anime, and it probably changed my visual interests forever (though they’ve somewhat evolved since this point in time). It’s strange that the mention of Pokémon, even now, still interests me. I know that the cartoon just involves the hero winning the day, every day, and several suspicious people with colorful hair incessantly attempting to steal his small, electric rat. But when my friend, another fan, mentioned that he’d downloaded the first five seasons of the show over the previous week, I almost jumped with glee. What could be better!? FIVE SEASONS OF POKÉMON?

But why the hell does my interest in such juvenile things continue? Nurse Joy wishing me well in a Pokémon-centre, and my love of RPG games doesn’t explain why I continue to pay good money for games that I know will be almost exactly the same as those purchased previously. It’s because nostalgia, and Nintendo, control my life. I have little to no interest in platformers, but Mario still brings a large, stupid smile to my face. And don’t even get me started on Zelda. If Pokémon has been repeating the same formula, it’s only because they got the idea from the team developing Zelda. Just how many times can one small, blonde mute defeat the evil Gannon?
After I bought Pokémon, I tried to explain why I had to my father, who was highly amused. He mentioned that the last time he’d visited Greece, he’d spent a good deal of time talking about nostalgic memories with his old friends. Of times that had occurred forty years before. Not my dismal fourteen year old memories about fuzzy animals with super-human powers, and the spirit to unite foolish adolescent children. 

Anyway, I expect that I’ll never really learn any self-control when it comes to these childish impulses. I know my girlfriend; Emma, of Hypothetical Ducks has basically purchased the last five Pokémon games, and played each for half an hour.  I’ll probably still be playing Pokémon when the artistic team has completely given up on designing any new ones, and just started painting stupid names on colourful blocks and throwing them at us. Do you think Nurse Joy will still heal the blocks? We can only hope so. 

- Kostas

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Perhaps Reese Witherspoon isn't all that bad

Now I know what you’re thinking: "What the hell are you on about, Aaron?" "I hate Reese Witherspoon with a fiery passion and nothing you can do or say will ever change this!" Well, prepare to have your opinion-blaster holstered and your outlook on seemingly repulsive actresses violently re-arranged.

I recently made the time to watch Walk the Line, which somehow managed to surpass every expectation I had blindly formulated before watching the film. Granted, much of the praise should be accredited to Joaquin Phoenix, who played the role of Johnny Cash. Really, quite a mind-blowing performance, considering he is often cast as the weird or creepy dude we’re not supposed to feel empathy for. Anyway, this film could’ve been a pile of dog shit if it weren’t for Witherspoon. For an incredible 135 minutes she somehow managed to shed the ‘Blonde’ façade, revealing an amazing, remarkably convincing and (let’s face it, surprising) ability to act.

I’ve had a bit of a think about it, and this could be caused by a number of things, such as a sudden increase in brain cells, dormant layers of acting talent seeking the light of day, Witherspoon simply holding out on us, or the much more likely option that she’s becoming far more powerful an actor than we could have possibly imagined. In any case, they don’t just give away Academy, Golden Globe, BAFTA and Screen Actors Guild Awards for no reason.

- Aaron

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Life's a lot of Little Things...

We get pretty annoyed about the smallest things. Wars have been started over a few words. When George Bush was hit in the face with a shoe, we all thought it was merely hilarious. The Arab world cheered at the just insult delivered to their enemy. Either way you look at it, the president was a bit of a bastard anyway.

The other night, blood was nearly spilled over a leaf. Not just any leaf, mind you, but a chocolate leaf. It was quite delicious, though I’m told it was just cooking chocolate. Anyway, this leaf came close to resulting in the murder of yours truly by Tom’s girlfriend Katrina. I think the story needs some sort of background, however.

I came home from work at around 6:30 PM several nights ago, in order to celebrate Tom’s 21st birthday with dinner and drinks. The latter of which there were many. By the time I arrived, the kitchen was a whirlwind of activity with Katrina and her friend Charlotte, preparing seventeen different dishes while simultaneously practising their yoga and sipping tea. Just kidding. I was lying about the tea.

At any rate, this flurry of activity produced a delicious feast of salad, steak and incredible chocolate cheese-cake. The cheese-cake was swirled, and had obviously required a great deal of time and effort to painstakingly create. Katrina had lovingly crafted this Cake over many hours, devoting her blood, sweat and tears to the effort, and managing an amazing creation. I promptly slid up to the kitchen counter, and removed one of the six chocolate leaves from the cake. Considering its incredible taste, I think that it was well worth the complete and utter shit-storm that ensued. There was yelling, left, right and center. Shoes were thrown, despite a lack of any arab heritage. Knives were also drawn, and juggled.

Again, I exaggerate. But Katrina did yell at me for destroying her amazing cake. Personally I think that the asymmetrical image of a cake with five beautifully crafted leaves was a good one. But then... I got to eat the sixth leaf.

Have you ever ruined someone else’s perfectly crafted reality, thinking it was just a small thing? If so, leave a comment.

- Kostas

Friday, April 22, 2011

Attempts to Impress Second Girlfriend

Those of us who aren’t lucky enough to be impossibly handsome and/or beautiful (which allows everything to be handed over on a silver platter made of gold and sexy ladies) know just how difficult and frustrating attempts at seduction can be sometimes.  We are frequently reduced to desperately gathering together cobbles of social skills and talents to try and impress whichever sex we’re attracted to.  More often than not these attempts result in ego shattering giggling, awkward silences, or in one particular instance from my own experiences; small house fires.
When I got my first real girlfriend I was fifteen years old. By the time I got my second serious one I was twenty. I’m sure it goes without saying but five years without having to win over someone new leaves a rather serious lacking in the impressive skills department. When you’re in a long-term relationship you form bad habits without realising. You get too comfortable; you gain an automatic sensitivity of partner’s thresholds for your stupid jokes, you can tell when they’re messing around or when they genuinely want you to fuck off. When you start seeing someone new it’s like beginning all over again. You have no idea what you’re doing. You’re a nervous wreck. You’re going to screw things up and die alone. To make things worse Second Girlfriend was out of my league in every sense; she was catastrophically gorgeous, incredibly intelligent with a wicked sense of humor, loved good books, old movies and gourmet food. I knew that I would have to lift my game quickly and to an extreme level to impress her right from the get-go. An idea had formed, I was going to cook her the greatest meal… in the world.

A week before the date night I began burying my head in cookbooks. Now I consider myself to be a fairly proficient cook anyway, but I would have to bring out the heavy artillery this time. I wanted to cook something that would be so memorable, complex and delicious that she would have no choice but to instantly fall in love with me without question. Job done. Mission accomplished. I chose a particular French dish that I had made once before, but with a head full of ambition I decided to elaborate by adding to the complexity with side dishes, matching drinks and a choice of desserts. The project was fast becoming biblical in proportion; the cost for all of the ingredients and drinks ran well into the hundreds, it would take me at least two days to do all of the preparation.

Finally the big day came. I had politely asked my housemates to make other arrangements for the night so they wouldn’t get in the way or ruin the atmosphere. Things actually went quite smoothly at first; everything was going according to plan. I had left myself with around four hours extra which I called ‘Oh, shit!’ time, in case something went horribly wrong. It seemed like the Gods were smiling down upon me however, as all of my culinary judgment was functioning with surprising accuracy. Second Girlfriend was due at around 7:00pm and at around 5:45 when I was around 90% finished, disaster struck.

I had been in the kitchen for around six hours at that stage without rest. My feet were killing me; I was covered in flour, sauces, meat juices and grease. I placed the main course into the oven to cook and headed towards the shower to freshen up, leaving the kitchen unattended. After showering and getting dressed I walked back out into the kitchen to see black smoke billowing out of the oven. 

Panicking I opened the oven door, it seemed that some baking paper had come into direct contact with the heat element of our 30+ year old oven and had caught alight. Opening the door gave the fire a fresh serve of oxygen and the whole oven, including 48 hours of cooking work burst into flames. I put it out quite quickly but the damage was irreversible. My hard work was blackened and unrecognisable as edible food.

I was devastated. Second Girlfriend was due in twenty minutes and I had completely lost the will to live, let alone cook. Having no other options or patience left I took the scumbag way out; cooking up two pre-made chicken kievs and then took the credit for myself.

Second Girlfriend said that they were delicious.

- Tom

Being a Dickhead's cool

Alright. So you're walking down the street, past the usual over-abundance of generic overpriced coffee shops and sub-standard Italian restaurants, searching for a table somewhere. Despite the numerous venues, there aren't any free tables. Could it be that you've chosen the complete wrong time of the day to sit down to enjoy a burnt coffee/plate of subpar pizza, or could it be the growing infestation of Hipsters?

You want to scream in frustration with every part of your body "YOU FUCKING HIPSTERS! DON'T YOU EVER LEAVE RUNDLE STREET?" But you don't. Instead, you shut the fuck up and keep walking. You go around the corner, walk some more, around the next corner and walk a little further. By this time you've covered 12 blocks, your feet have fallen off, and you're no closer to sitting down to relax because the city is full of jobless, fashion-ignorant Hipsters.

Below are examples of good Hipsters and bad Hipsters:

Why, you ask? Why are Hipsters such a plague to modern society?

Simple. Regular people become trapped in Hipster World, through possible fault of their own.

You see, in Hipster World, bicycles don't exist with more than one gear, cigarettes only come unassembled and everyone has perfect eyesight, therefore needing no lenses in their frames. Bands can be cool if their music is only liked by you, and it's a rule that all male/female hairstyles must be variations of the cover of David Bowie's Aladdin Sane.

Being trapped in Hipster World forces you to conform to a sub-culture of sub-culture-haters. It's a sad state of affairs when this happens, and is the primary cause of my frustration, but I won't go into that right now. 

Here's the simple version:

When you're a Hipster, you forget who you are, what you did for a living and where you live, so leaving the coffee shop/pub/restaurant never really becomes necessary. Your misdirected and poorly executed rebellion against society has blinded you of your purpose in life.

- Aaron

Monday, April 18, 2011

The iPocalypse

First of all for the record, I am an unashamed fan of Apple products. My laptop, phone and MP3 player all bear the Apple logo. I would probably own an iPad as well if I could think of a single justifiable excuse to do so. My obvious fan-boy attitude doesn’t alter the fact that you’d struggle to find a household that doesn’t have at least one Apple product lurking in the shadows. 

Most people these days don’t even think twice about their options when buying an MP3 player, they usually just trudge towards the Apple store like a brainwashed zombie. In fact this is so much so that the term ‘iPod’ has for the most part become the every day lingual substitute for ‘MP3 player’. “What songs are on your iPod?” “My iPod is dead” or “Shit, I dropped my iPod in the toilet” have become very commonly heard phrases in the past few years.

MP3 player = iPod and that seems to be the end of it. I expect the hipsters will all be out buying Creative ZENs now in an attempt to be different. Maybe Creative could partner with Ray-Ban to colour coordinate their merchandise.

Apple has released thirty-four different iPods over the past ten years, from the original pocket-bricks to the recent Nanos and Shuffles that are so small that I’ve been dared by friends to eat them on several occasions. You don’t need to be a genius to figure out that ten years of iPod market saturation means that there is approximately 466,529 buttloads of iPods in the world today. 

When a product gains an enormous portion of the consumer market like the iPod has, the third party manufacturers show up in the hundreds eager to make as many compatible products as they can possibly envisage. You’ve all seen them; every sound system, alarm clock, wristwatch, microwave, refrigerator, BBQ, car stereo and vacuum cleaner has an iPod dock as standard now. Having just done a lap of the Two Finger Scroll offices I found seventeen hundred dozen electrical devices that have an iPod dock on them, not a bad effort for three guys who barely have two pesos to rub together.

Now there’s a very obvious dilemma coming out of all of this; with Apple’s insatiable upgrade lust combined with ten years of third party electronics ALL with the same iPod dock built in, what is going to happen when Apple finally decides to upgrade the iPod’s connection mechanism?

Complete and utter chaos.  Fire and brimstone will rain down from the sky. The ground will open up and the streets will flow with blood. Only those with the freshest, most succulent livers will be saved.

The iPocalypse

Or we’ll all cue up to buy a new sound system, alarm clock, wristwatch, microwave, refrigerator, BBQ, car stereo and vacuum cleaner.

Whichever is more likely.

- Tom

Beyond the End of Time

A firm grip on the status of 'longest-running science fiction Television Show in the world' will automatically earn you a top-shelf position right next to Top Gear in our lounge room. Aliens that look like charismatic Englishmen combined with 'I-Win' gadgets, a kick-ass 'Time-And-Relative-Dimension-In-Space' Ship that's bigger on the inside and a plethora of gorgeous sidekicks will always make an excellent combo in my book.

If you haven't guessed what I'm on about yet then you may as well stop reading because I'm not explaining it any further.

They have this uncanny ability to out-do themselves every time The Doctor regenerates. Is this a good thing? Let's face it, Eccleston and Baker (next on the awesome-scale) were brilliant in their own way, but the only real contest is the proverbial 'out-awesome-the-other' contest between Tennant and Smith over the last few years.

You can't go past Tennant's ridiculously convincing, over-the-top acting that (almost) made me cry. Possibly more than once. He's just that good, alright? Anyway, he suits up every day, cruises around the universe befriending big heads in jars, saving entire worlds from certain death, all while rockin' a giant quiff. How they keep that thing upright is an impressive engineering feat in itself. It's really no wonder why every woman he comes across falls madly in love with him. They often die, but that's ok. It's usually justified because he gets all sad about it.

On the other hand we have number eleven. Smith's eccentric charm is only matched by this 'devilishly handsome' thing he's got going, even though it looks like a steamroller ran over his face and made it all square. Leaning more toward a more fickle personality and deeper psychological obscurity rather than a predictable emotional platter like his predecessor, we think he's definitely lived up to the challenge, and all that remains is to exceed Tennant's level of awesome, but in his own way.

I don't think words can explain that one properly, and until Smith leaves we can't be certain of anything, so this Chart I prepared earlier should explain things.

As you can see, Tennant & Smith currently retain such a high percentage of awesome, they have their own Pie Chart. For now, that's all we can determine.

We're all wetting ourselves with excitement over the new series that's been confirmed for this year, although we're not sure of the release dates.

- Aaron

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Capitalist Manifesto

Now, I promised a capitalist manifesto, and I'm going to deliver it. I went out to tea with my girlfriend, and several friends this evening, at an Italian restaurant in Glenelg. Have any of you really thought about what you order when you go to a restaurant? I ordered a fettucine puttanesca. It was delightful, I must admit. My girlfriend, Emma, bought a fairly sizeable schnitzel, while two of our other friends also bought pasta. Stop and consider: we averaged around $20 each, on food that we could have cooked at home in about half an hour. Yet none of us batted an eye-lid.

We live in an extremely capitalist society. In fact, our society is SO capitalist, that it attempted to ban capitalism about fifty years ago. The legal system soon put a stop to that! Huzzah for the legal system! But still, a number of people felt that their way of lives were so threatened by the terrors of "not-spending-and-making-fuckloads-of-money", that they felt the need to illegalise the practise of communism, and imprison all those that practised them.


As I mentioned previously, people clearly aren't meant to be happy.
But hey, I can't talk. The law building that I have to enter by force of conscientiousness is a veritable fort of capitalism. A strangely ugly one at that. Try walking in there without spotting a girl that has spent hundreds of dollars on a leather hand-bag. Or some furry monstrosity, that's keeping them fashionably warm, inspite of the more than sufficient air-conditioning permeating the building.
On the topic of capitalism... anyone want to buy my soul? Apparently it's unnecessary in my chosen profession.


Assignment Rage

Now, I’m sure all you readers have noticed that there are three names added everywhere on this site of any importance. I’ve been credited with this blog’s creation, but haven’t contributed anything thus far. Convenient for me. Boring for you. For all of you eagerly awaiting some input from the one and only Kostas (the ‘s’ is silent), your misery will now come to an end!
The main reason for my lack of input thus far has been homework. I’m a law student. This means that I have a huge amount of work to do. Not that I actually do it. However, about mid-way through every semester, we have a week or so that is just ball-breakingly horrific. This is what I like to call "The-Law-is-proper-fucking-me" week. It involves an assignment for every subject. Although different teachers take each subject within the faculty, I have a sneaking suspicion that they conspire to cause us pain.

No wonder Lawyers are universally considered to be horrible bastards.
This week usually involves tears, fears, threats, ultimatums and pleas for extensions from the students in Adelaide Law School. I only succumbed to the latter of the mentioned responses, but the assignment is starting to tell on me regardless, and has hindered me from entertaining you, my dear readers! A conundrum which will soon come to an end.
I’m sure that this is a situation that most of you are familiar with. How many people have forgotten about an assignment until the night before it’s due. Or more commonly the week before, followed by six days of extreme procrastination and anxiety. Generally I tend to realise my own failure to complete the assignment… then begin it the night before it's supposed to be handed up. My marks are based on a constant coffee-fuelled haze of confusion and exhaustion. Can I get a HELL YEAH people?
Procrastination seems to be a common problem. In fact, it more or less rules my life. I have every intention to become a brilliant student at the beginning of each semester. In fact, I know full well that I’m going to become some sort of super-star lawyer – hey, if no one else is going to tell me, I have to reassure myself. However, despite my best intentions, my dedication and motivation have usually tapered off by around week seven. Which is to say… now.
I mentioned to Aaron today that I thought the idea of a trade would be incredible at the moment. No homework. I could come home from work – which I was actually paid for – and sleep. Or threaten cats, as Aaron apparently does. However, this comment received only a vehement no. I guess people just aren’t meant to be happy. Let's all heave a sigh, people.

In conclusion, if you have assignment rage, I sympathise with you. And if you're happy, then I'm going to take a stab and say that you're lying.

Just you wait for my next post. A Capitalist Manifesto.

Jony Ive loves the Scroll

Jonathan "Jony" Ive is a man whose face we all should recognise although most of us wouldn't know his name. He has been the Senior Vice President of Apple’s design department for over nineteen years, and he gets excited nearly all the time. That's right, he and his team of skin-headed boffins are responsible for designing all those overpriced-yet-tempting products that Apple churns out every four minutes.

Ive has been praising the Two Finger Scroll in Apple's press release films, and we think that's awesome. Granted, to the untrained eye it may seem as though he is simply talking about Apple products, but we know better. Here he is pictured below, getting himself in a knot of excitement talking about the Two Fingered Scroll. Notice how words have failed him and the hands have taken over.

So thank you, Jony Ive. It seems all those years of consumer loyalty have paid off for our site. Even if that loyalty was built on continually buying your products because we kept dropping them.

- The Two Finger Scroll team.

A Letter to My Car

To my dear and beloved Car,

                                                I really need you to know one thing; I’m sorry. I know that this is too little, too late, but I just really need you to know that I still care.

I know we haven’t had the best relationship. I know that there were times when I was first learning to drive in you that made you uncomfortable; the sudden, jerky braking, that time I accidently put you into first gear down a steep hill making you work too hard and rev well into the red zone. I only did those things because I wanted to impress you and I know that you were a kind and forgiving car, in the beginning. You forgave my over eagerness with a gentle and nurturing soul.

 Your kindness only makes my actions in following years more deplorable.

I know you were distraught when I reversed you into that telegraph pole, it was a mistake and I begged you for forgiveness. I could tell your pride was injured and your disfiguring wounds embarrassed you, but still you forgave.

I’m sorry that I did not make the effort to buy you nice new tires that gripped in the wet. This was one of my harsher errors, as it sent us both hurtling into the road barrier last winter. I had hurt you badly this time; you needed rest, to get away from my destructive behaviour.

I’m sorry that I was weak and that I cheated on you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t go two months without you and found comfort in the cabin of another. She was no good for me as you know but I’m sorry that I put you through it. Yet still you came back to me with the same devotion.

However I could tell that things would never be the same again.

The spark was no longer there. You were tired, defeated and worn out. You had developed a nasty cough. The cold didn’t agree with you and on those freezing spring mornings you could barely make it up the driveway. I’m so sorry that I did this you, Car. I’m so sorry that things have gone this way.

But why, Car?

Why did you have to do it?

Why did you have to go and turn on the engine warning light?

- Tom

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Five Astounding Figures

 Thom Yorke

Look up ‘Asymmetric Nutbar’ in the Oxford and there’ll be a picture of Thom Yorke lopsidedly staring back at you. He is in essence what it means to be a famous musician; he stands for things, he hates the music industry despite being an enormous part of it, he writes songs that when you hear them you instantly think ‘That’s so fucking easy I could write better music than that while simultaneously receiving a prostate exam!”

But then you try. And of course, you can’t. There’s something organic about Yorke that flows into his songs. Forty plus years of anguish and cynicism penetrate your being with every note. Listen to Radiohead at the right moment and you’ll come out the other side wondering why you haven’t given up and killed yourself already. However if you listen to them again at an alternate right moment and there’s Thom, quietly murmuring in your ear about home invasion or fist-fights at weddings, and yet everything that was totally fucked in the world feels sedated and at peace.

Only Thom Yorke can take you to the brink of Oblivion and make you understand the entire universe all at once.

- Tom
 Jeremy Clarkson
or “Jezza” as he is referred to most often. Some say his colourless hair can’t be governed by any known branch of modern-day law, and that every blazer he wears is the result of a bet. All we know is he’s a Television Host that talks about cars to people that don’t know anything about cars, and we think he’s alright.

The main thing to remember when watching Top Gear is to forget everything you think you might know about everything, because Jeremy will soon tell you his ‘correct’ version, using flamboyant metaphors and the longest mid-sentence pauses …in the world. If you’ve never watched Top Gear, get into it. 350 million worldwide viewers can’t possibly be wrong; although there’s probably a great many that refuse to accept that the show is partly scripted.

In any case, Top Gear just wouldn’t be the same without Clarkson. A word of warning though; the quirky banter between Jeremy and his co-hosts Richard Hammond and James May has been known to cause laughter, and in some cases, floor-laughter. That’s just something to watch out for. If this is the part where you say “Wait a minute, aren’t you talking about that English twat that just talks out of his arsehole the entire time?” my response would be “The very same.”

We know damn well what a poor excuse for a role model Jeremy is. We choose to ignore that part. The important thing to us is that he’s one of the most entertaining hosts in television history.

- Aaron
 Sean Connery 
To many, he is the only Bond. Me included. However, there are several other reasons why Sir Thomas Sean Connery deserves your respect:
  • Played an Immortal in Highlander.
  • Taught Harrison Ford a thing or two in the last decent Indiana Jones film.
  • Won 'Sexiest Man Alive' in 1989
  • Falsely declared dead by Japanese and South African media in 1993.
  • Convinced the world he was alive on Letterman shortly after.
  • Knighted in July 2000.
  • Refuses to act anymore because retirement is too much fun.
Lastly, he is the only man in documented history who has a sexy speech impediment. Need I say more?

- Aaron

  Nikola Tesla

Dear People of the Internet, I know that most of us dorky blog-goers would already know of Nikola Tesla and his impressive CV of Gigantic Balled Insanity Projects, but if you’re like me then you won’t mind regaling the tales again. I’m sure that the notion of hundreds, if not thousands of people all over the world using portable communication devices powered by electricity to agree that Tesla was a massive Badass would have him smiling in Mad Genius Heaven right now.

First of all, he was unbelievably intelligent. Yes, most people think of Einstein when they think ‘genius’, but I seriously think that Tesla would’ve given him a run for his money in a Way Crazy Smart Jelly Wrestling Competition.

The guy spoke ten billion languages, invented a shit-tonne of stuff we still use today, like FM radio, remote control, robots and fluorescent lights. Tesla designed and successfully pulled off experiments that still leave modern-day technology boffins scratching their arses in confusion.  Around four years ago some MIT nerds gave each other huge dork-boners because they wirelessly transmitted energy around two metres through the air. Tesla could pull that shit off in his sleep; he lit around 200 light bulbs with a power source over 40 kilometres away.


With a machine made from scraps.

In 1899.

"Holy fuck", you say?

"Holy fuck" is right.

My favourite thing about Nikola Tesla, however, is the fact that he also had a bit of a fetish for building stuff designed to make people die, or that generally fucked up the established order. One of his most famous and ridiculous inventions was the Wardenclyffe Tower, an enormous cock-shaped building that was built to hold a massive Tesla coil. What he wanted to do with it, people weren’t sure, but shortly after it was completed there was a 10-megaton blast in the wastelands of Russia (where the Tower was located) that obliterated anything within several hundred kilometres. Tesla’s Electric Dick Tower was never proven to have anything to do with it, but many people speculate that he probably was involved somehow.

The dude was a mentalist.

 (If you’re still not convinced then I suggest you watch The Prestige, he’s wicked smart and handsome in that, not to mention that David Bowie plays him. Plus it's an awesome movie)
- Tom 

 Raffaele Esposito 

Now we get tricky, kids. If you’ve heard of this guy already I’ll be impressed, I might even buy you a slice of pizza. (Clean segue, fifty points!)

Yes, you guessed it; this sexy Italian bastard practically invented the modern pizza. He owned a little café in Naples called Pizzeria di Pietro e Basta Cosi in the 19th century. Pizza had already been around for ages, but in 1899 when Queen Margherita of Savoy was heading into town Raffaele was appointed with the task of designing a tasty treat to satisfy Queenie’s munchies.

Raffaele Esposito (Raffa to his friends) thought that the traditional plain garlic and olive oil topping found on pizzas of the day to be ‘unfit for a royal palette’. So, armed with his trusty really wide pizza-spatula-thing, with bronze hair glistening in the sunlight, Raffa summoned all his glorious patriotic culinary skills and came up with a recipe. The most simple, beautiful, elegant recipe ever created; he topped the traditional pizza base with tomatoes, mozzarella cheese and basil, to emulate the colours of the Italian flag.

Needless to say this new pizza was a massive success, you can still order one today; the Margherita.

So next time you’re prematurely shitfaced at 9:23PM inhaling a flavourless large Dominoes pizza that cost you $3.50, stop and say a little thank you to Raffaele Esposito; the most brilliant, talented and dashing Italian to have ever lived.

- Tom 
PS: Clearly there are no visual records of Raffaele, but we assume someone with such overwhelming genius would be devilishly handsome to match, hence the portrait.

PPS: Casanova didn’t invent pizza, so he can go suck it.