Right, so the newsletter is going out tomorrow and if you're not on the mailing list you're going to miss out. There's some absolute ramble in it this month, some pictures I found on the internet, some AWESOME personal ads and, apparently, an unprofessional amount of spelling mistakes. Whatever. You try writing it then.
Anywho, if you want to be part of the crowd that's getting this advertorial FREE every month, then send 'subscribe' to info@bookgrocer.com.
I'd like to say you won't be sorry, but there's every chance you will be. Still, that's why computers come with a 'delete' key.
April 30, 2008
April 29, 2008
CALLING FINAL SUBMISSIONS
Exciting times, people. The new monthly newsletter for TBG is about to be released, and the personals column looks like it's going to be the proverbial hotbed of romance that you expect from your local bookstore. No remaindered loving here - it's all full, pouty value if ever I've seen it.
Don't forget that there's a $20 book voucher on offer for the best personal ad. You can find/steal some good ideas from here.
And I've taken the time to select some more juice for you from archives. Can you believe this shit? Do you not want to be a part of this FOR THE REST OF YOUR GODDAMN LIVES? Are you reading what they're saying here? They're all BONKERS!!! In the name of all that's holy - get involved!
Don't speak, you'll only destroy my already low opinion of you. And put your pants back on. And your wig. Terminally disappointed woman (38, Barnstaple) WLTM a man. Form a queue, then I'll negotiate the criteria. Box no. 16/03
Every woman I’ve ever met is painted with unnerving accuracy by the ads placed in this column. You’re all my mother, aren’t you? M., 37, Worcs. Box no. 07/11
Ordinary woman seeks ordinary man for the usual. Box no. 01/01
Angry trollop, 37. Offers? Box no. 21/14
Male LRB readers. Drawing little faces on your thumbs, getting them to order meals, then shouting at them for not being able to pay is no way to win a woman. You know who you are. Men to 40 with working credit cards, reply to once bitten, twice bitten, three strikes and you’re all out F, 35. Box no. 12/12
Employed in publishing? Me too. Stay the hell away. Man on the inside seeks woman on the outside who likes milling outside hospitals guessing illnesses of out-patients. 30-35. Leeds Box no. 17/08
American man, 57. I just want a girlfriend. What the hell is going on here? Box no. 16/08
Whenever I try to cancel my LRB subscription, I suffer stigmata and holy visions dance around my bedroom like so many drunken midgets. Man, 41, Leicester. Possibly the Messiah, or something. Box no. 18/12
The Schrödinger’s cat of personal ads. Box no. 11/08
Don't forget your web-based email address.
Don't forget that there's a $20 book voucher on offer for the best personal ad. You can find/steal some good ideas from here.
And I've taken the time to select some more juice for you from archives. Can you believe this shit? Do you not want to be a part of this FOR THE REST OF YOUR GODDAMN LIVES? Are you reading what they're saying here? They're all BONKERS!!! In the name of all that's holy - get involved!
Don't speak, you'll only destroy my already low opinion of you. And put your pants back on. And your wig. Terminally disappointed woman (38, Barnstaple) WLTM a man. Form a queue, then I'll negotiate the criteria. Box no. 16/03
Every woman I’ve ever met is painted with unnerving accuracy by the ads placed in this column. You’re all my mother, aren’t you? M., 37, Worcs. Box no. 07/11
Ordinary woman seeks ordinary man for the usual. Box no. 01/01
Angry trollop, 37. Offers? Box no. 21/14
Male LRB readers. Drawing little faces on your thumbs, getting them to order meals, then shouting at them for not being able to pay is no way to win a woman. You know who you are. Men to 40 with working credit cards, reply to once bitten, twice bitten, three strikes and you’re all out F, 35. Box no. 12/12
Employed in publishing? Me too. Stay the hell away. Man on the inside seeks woman on the outside who likes milling outside hospitals guessing illnesses of out-patients. 30-35. Leeds Box no. 17/08
American man, 57. I just want a girlfriend. What the hell is going on here? Box no. 16/08
Whenever I try to cancel my LRB subscription, I suffer stigmata and holy visions dance around my bedroom like so many drunken midgets. Man, 41, Leicester. Possibly the Messiah, or something. Box no. 18/12
The Schrödinger’s cat of personal ads. Box no. 11/08
Don't forget your web-based email address.
April 26, 2008
The Learning Curve
Things I have learned this weekend:
1) If you are going to a dinner party which requires an email RSVP and you don't know the hostesses, do not forward your acceptance along with your private correspondence in which you describe them as 'apparently loose'. It makes for an awkward evening and is productive of justifiably reproachful remarks.
2) Expensive champagne given as a gift will solve most problems.
3) Looking at your bank statement online on a Sunday is a mistake. It makes for uncomfortable reading and stimulates questions which have no satisfactory answers.
4) Wantonly poking people on Facebook seems hilario at 3am - not so funny the next morning.
5) That story you tell about your sister and comedian? Not 'A' material. Probably more like 'D' these days. There's nothing quite like a deadpan 'Wow, that's hilarious' from a group of listeners to ram that fact home to you.
6) Setting aside your well-noted ability to argue with anyone about anything, and the success you enjoy in most arguing situations, you are absolutely NOT getting into the cab while eating a pie.
7) If you take two bottles of expensive wine to a dinner party, you will ALWAYS be blown out of the water by the guy who shows up with a bottle of Vodka and a gram of Chicken.
8) 'Shivers' is the best song ever.
1) If you are going to a dinner party which requires an email RSVP and you don't know the hostesses, do not forward your acceptance along with your private correspondence in which you describe them as 'apparently loose'. It makes for an awkward evening and is productive of justifiably reproachful remarks.
2) Expensive champagne given as a gift will solve most problems.
3) Looking at your bank statement online on a Sunday is a mistake. It makes for uncomfortable reading and stimulates questions which have no satisfactory answers.
4) Wantonly poking people on Facebook seems hilario at 3am - not so funny the next morning.
5) That story you tell about your sister and comedian? Not 'A' material. Probably more like 'D' these days. There's nothing quite like a deadpan 'Wow, that's hilarious' from a group of listeners to ram that fact home to you.
6) Setting aside your well-noted ability to argue with anyone about anything, and the success you enjoy in most arguing situations, you are absolutely NOT getting into the cab while eating a pie.
7) If you take two bottles of expensive wine to a dinner party, you will ALWAYS be blown out of the water by the guy who shows up with a bottle of Vodka and a gram of Chicken.
8) 'Shivers' is the best song ever.
April 23, 2008
LSD - The Obituary
Hi.
So, it didn't work out so well. There was an initial surge of interest when I announced this whole LSD thing. People flocked to the blog, anxious for more details. Friends stopped me in the street, ruining my stride, asking to be part of the night. Passers-by wondered if they might serve wine and cheese, doubtless eavesdropping on the would-be lovers engaged in literature-judgment of their opposite number.
As kind as these useful offers were, they weren't really what we were after. When the dust settled, and all the excuses had been made, we had 5 member of each sex who were willing to participate. And I use the word 'willing' in the loosest sense of the word in several cases. I had two journalists lined up to cover the night, but could see it morphing into a story with a moral like 'see what happens when you fail to plan correctly?'
All is not lost, however. I got a couple of cracking excuses from people who had previously said that they'd be a part of it, "I can't actually read" being my favourite. Especially since it was sent in an email with correct grammar.
I suppose I must take some of the blame as well, for my slipshod organisation of the evening. In my innocence, I thought it would be the sort of thing which ran itself.
The personals column is alive and well, you'll be happy to hear, and I encourage all of you to submit yours before the next newsletter comes out. Mine is in there, ready to go. It's shit, but what can you do on a Thursday before a long weekend when your mind is clearly elsewhere?
So, it didn't work out so well. There was an initial surge of interest when I announced this whole LSD thing. People flocked to the blog, anxious for more details. Friends stopped me in the street, ruining my stride, asking to be part of the night. Passers-by wondered if they might serve wine and cheese, doubtless eavesdropping on the would-be lovers engaged in literature-judgment of their opposite number.
As kind as these useful offers were, they weren't really what we were after. When the dust settled, and all the excuses had been made, we had 5 member of each sex who were willing to participate. And I use the word 'willing' in the loosest sense of the word in several cases. I had two journalists lined up to cover the night, but could see it morphing into a story with a moral like 'see what happens when you fail to plan correctly?'
All is not lost, however. I got a couple of cracking excuses from people who had previously said that they'd be a part of it, "I can't actually read" being my favourite. Especially since it was sent in an email with correct grammar.
I suppose I must take some of the blame as well, for my slipshod organisation of the evening. In my innocence, I thought it would be the sort of thing which ran itself.
The personals column is alive and well, you'll be happy to hear, and I encourage all of you to submit yours before the next newsletter comes out. Mine is in there, ready to go. It's shit, but what can you do on a Thursday before a long weekend when your mind is clearly elsewhere?
April 21, 2008
Human Tetris
Possibly the best thing I've done in the last few years was agree to living with Sir Parmalot. There are, as with any housemate, some disadvantages. There's the strips of ham I'm constantly finding around the house, a steady trail of tomato sauce wherever he's been, and a pot glass always seems to hover nearby.
The advantages far outweigh the negatives. I say that, but it's a honeymoon period, isn't it? We're less than 2 months in, and I haven't caught him cleaning his toenails with the good knife, and there's no dental floss hung over the showerhead in the bathroom. That's a marked improvement on some of the ex-housemates.
Far and away, though, this has been the thing that has confirmed for me that I did right, done good, 'bogan positive', etc.
I'm going to try and embed this now, so if doesn't work, talk to the interhand.
Is it not genius? Do you not totally respect Asian game shows? Are you not in love with how seriously it's being taken? Would you dare to guess what the prizes might be?
I'd stay, but in light of this video, I have a world view which needs re-jigging.
The advantages far outweigh the negatives. I say that, but it's a honeymoon period, isn't it? We're less than 2 months in, and I haven't caught him cleaning his toenails with the good knife, and there's no dental floss hung over the showerhead in the bathroom. That's a marked improvement on some of the ex-housemates.
Far and away, though, this has been the thing that has confirmed for me that I did right, done good, 'bogan positive', etc.
I'm going to try and embed this now, so if doesn't work, talk to the interhand.
Is it not genius? Do you not totally respect Asian game shows? Are you not in love with how seriously it's being taken? Would you dare to guess what the prizes might be?
I'd stay, but in light of this video, I have a world view which needs re-jigging.
Ye Olde Fictione
From the genius of Sir Parmalot comes this literary swerve.
Pulp Fiction, as performed by the King's Men
ACT I SCENE 2. A road, morning. Enter a carriage, with JULES and VINCENT, murderers.
J: And know'st thou what the French name cottage pie?
V: Say they not cottage pie, in their own tongue?
J: But nay, their tongues, for speech and taste alike
Are strange to ours, with their own history:
Gaul knoweth not a cottage from a house.
V: What say they then, pray?
J: Hachis Parmentier.
V: Hachis Parmentier! What name they cream?
J: Cream is but cream, only they say le crème.
V: What do they name black pudding?
J: I know not;
I visited no inn it could be bought.
...
J: My pardon; did I break thy concentration?
Continue! Ah, but now thy tongue is still.
Allow me then to offer a response.
Describe Marsellus Wallace to me, pray.
B: What?
J: What country dost thou hail from?
B: What?
J: How passing strange, for I have traveled far,
And never have I heard tell of this What.
What language speak they in the land of What?
B: What?
J: The Queen's own English, base knave, dost thou speak it?
B: Aye!
J: Then hearken to my words and answer them!
Describe to me Marsellus Wallace!
B: What?
JULES presses his knife to BRETT's throat
J: Speak 'What' again! Thou cur, cry 'What' again!
I dare thee utter 'What' again but once!
I dare thee twice and spit upon thy name!
Now, paint for me a portraiture in words,
If thou hast any in thy head but 'What',
Of Marsellus Wallace!
B: He is dark.
J: Aye, and what more?
B: His head is shaven bald.
J: Has he the semblance of a harlot?
B: What?
JULES strikes and BRETT cries out
J: Has he the semblance of a harlot?
B: Nay!
J: Then why didst thou attempt to bed him thus?
B: I did not!
J: Aye, thou didst! O, aye, thou didst!
Thou hoped to rape him like a chattel whore,
And sooth, Lord Wallace is displeased to bed
With anyone but she to whom he wed.
Original page is here.
Funny, innit?
Pulp Fiction, as performed by the King's Men
ACT I SCENE 2. A road, morning. Enter a carriage, with JULES and VINCENT, murderers.
J: And know'st thou what the French name cottage pie?
V: Say they not cottage pie, in their own tongue?
J: But nay, their tongues, for speech and taste alike
Are strange to ours, with their own history:
Gaul knoweth not a cottage from a house.
V: What say they then, pray?
J: Hachis Parmentier.
V: Hachis Parmentier! What name they cream?
J: Cream is but cream, only they say le crème.
V: What do they name black pudding?
J: I know not;
I visited no inn it could be bought.
...
J: My pardon; did I break thy concentration?
Continue! Ah, but now thy tongue is still.
Allow me then to offer a response.
Describe Marsellus Wallace to me, pray.
B: What?
J: What country dost thou hail from?
B: What?
J: How passing strange, for I have traveled far,
And never have I heard tell of this What.
What language speak they in the land of What?
B: What?
J: The Queen's own English, base knave, dost thou speak it?
B: Aye!
J: Then hearken to my words and answer them!
Describe to me Marsellus Wallace!
B: What?
JULES presses his knife to BRETT's throat
J: Speak 'What' again! Thou cur, cry 'What' again!
I dare thee utter 'What' again but once!
I dare thee twice and spit upon thy name!
Now, paint for me a portraiture in words,
If thou hast any in thy head but 'What',
Of Marsellus Wallace!
B: He is dark.
J: Aye, and what more?
B: His head is shaven bald.
J: Has he the semblance of a harlot?
B: What?
JULES strikes and BRETT cries out
J: Has he the semblance of a harlot?
B: Nay!
J: Then why didst thou attempt to bed him thus?
B: I did not!
J: Aye, thou didst! O, aye, thou didst!
Thou hoped to rape him like a chattel whore,
And sooth, Lord Wallace is displeased to bed
With anyone but she to whom he wed.
Original page is here.
Funny, innit?
April 19, 2008
Allergy Lane - Part 1
One of the great things about business is that it's just so dynamic. One moment you're hawking crocodile's teeth at a flea market in North Bondi, the next you're wondering whether you, as CEO of Yahoo, really needed to buy Skype and burn the odd billion or so.
The hardest thing, I assume, about having a million dollar idea, is recognising it when it comes along. There are a lot of things lying about the planet which have clearly made their inventors rich and, I'll continue to assume, happy. Glass, for example. Beach towels, the camera, chux super-wipes, chocolate and the dustbuster - the list is endless.
On the other hand, there are also some very, very stupid ideas which have gone through the full design and production stages, and now languish in stores or in the homes of idiots. On this list, you'll find pool ponies, the lamps you can attach to the top of the book you're reading, and rolls and rolls of suitcase wrap which was panicked into production in our modern post-Schapelle environment.
Since I'm struggling to come up with a genuine million dollar idea, I thought I'd workshop a few really shitty ones and see what comes out in the wash. To that end, "Allergy Lane" is the extremely funny name for my new line of stupid products. Here's the first one.
Lego Lollies (Patent Applied For)
Fig 1. A Lego Brick
Fig 2. A Lego Lollie
The advantage/idiocy of this product should be apparent to all. The lollies look like lego bricks, ensuring all manner of hilarious choking incidents with unsupervised children. Add to that the structural issues you'll have when it turns out that the foundation block of the space station is actually a cola-flavoured glucose derivative, and you've got, in my opinion, a sure-fire winner.
Send requests to purchase this uniqueish design to info@bookgrocer.com
The hardest thing, I assume, about having a million dollar idea, is recognising it when it comes along. There are a lot of things lying about the planet which have clearly made their inventors rich and, I'll continue to assume, happy. Glass, for example. Beach towels, the camera, chux super-wipes, chocolate and the dustbuster - the list is endless.
On the other hand, there are also some very, very stupid ideas which have gone through the full design and production stages, and now languish in stores or in the homes of idiots. On this list, you'll find pool ponies, the lamps you can attach to the top of the book you're reading, and rolls and rolls of suitcase wrap which was panicked into production in our modern post-Schapelle environment.
Since I'm struggling to come up with a genuine million dollar idea, I thought I'd workshop a few really shitty ones and see what comes out in the wash. To that end, "Allergy Lane" is the extremely funny name for my new line of stupid products. Here's the first one.
Lego Lollies (Patent Applied For)
Fig 1. A Lego Brick
Fig 2. A Lego Lollie
The advantage/idiocy of this product should be apparent to all. The lollies look like lego bricks, ensuring all manner of hilarious choking incidents with unsupervised children. Add to that the structural issues you'll have when it turns out that the foundation block of the space station is actually a cola-flavoured glucose derivative, and you've got, in my opinion, a sure-fire winner.
Send requests to purchase this uniqueish design to info@bookgrocer.com
April 18, 2008
If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
April 17, 2008
Pitch Meetings - Part one
Hi again.
There's a fair bit to love about today, aside from a cracking hangover and early morning garbage collection. They're a foul-mouthed bunch for 6am, aren't they? I can't get the swearing gears going until mid-morning, but then again I don't collect garbage for a living.
It's Friday, which I l adore, and there's no cricket tomorrow, which I heart even more. I'm going to spend some weekend time deciding which of the 5 pillows I bought last weekend are going to make into a 'on-field' role, and which are going to be relegated to 'the bench', which is the cupboard. Space restrictions may mean that one of them has to go, but I haven't the heart to tell them that yet. As far as they know, they're a few hours away from getting out of that plastic wrapping and into a nice cotton cover. Poor fools.
I'm also going to bake ANOTHER cake, as I am a God in the kitchen. And I have plenty of left over Ganesh, which needs a home.
At the moment in my living room, there's a giant inflatable cactus with a smiley face and two arms, 'raising the roof'. Around the base, there's a bucket-style arrangement, which I guess could be used to store things which aren't sharp. It also came with three small plastic hoops, which you can try and throw over the arms or head of the cactus from a distance, if you're a little bored.
It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?
One of my obsessions over the past few years has been imagining horrible 'pitch' meetings, where someone is trying to get a terrible idea 'up'. In this case, I'm seeing some young upstart in a cheap suit standing in front of a po faced 'Dean of Design' kill-joy type figure, insisting that the world needs this cactus. Goddamn it, he needs it to. In fact, it needs it so badly that he's prepared to stake his career on it going into mass production. I imagine he's sweating slightly, as he realises that he's pinned everything, the car, the house, the kids, to this one decision, and in a moment of clarity realises that it's a CACTUS, for fucks, and wonders whether he should pull out. And as this executive presses him for detail - "So hang on - it's a cactus, with a face drawn on it, two 'arms', some hoops, a bucket at the base, and it's inflatable? Is that what you're telling me? Is that what you think people want?" - he's getting more and more nervous, because any idea like this has to sound monumentally stupid when you say it out loud.
In the end, he gets away with it. The idea gets up, and eventually some poor chap in China gets a design schedule for this zany product. He shakes his head and says to himself that it's no wonder the western world is going down like a shot duck, if this is the sort of thing they're wasting their time and money on.
Future pitch meeting scenarios which I may deal with:
Revolving restaurants
Oven Mitts - I like to think that this was a 'heated' argument!!!!!!!
Dental Floss
There's a fair bit to love about today, aside from a cracking hangover and early morning garbage collection. They're a foul-mouthed bunch for 6am, aren't they? I can't get the swearing gears going until mid-morning, but then again I don't collect garbage for a living.
It's Friday, which I l adore, and there's no cricket tomorrow, which I heart even more. I'm going to spend some weekend time deciding which of the 5 pillows I bought last weekend are going to make into a 'on-field' role, and which are going to be relegated to 'the bench', which is the cupboard. Space restrictions may mean that one of them has to go, but I haven't the heart to tell them that yet. As far as they know, they're a few hours away from getting out of that plastic wrapping and into a nice cotton cover. Poor fools.
I'm also going to bake ANOTHER cake, as I am a God in the kitchen. And I have plenty of left over Ganesh, which needs a home.
At the moment in my living room, there's a giant inflatable cactus with a smiley face and two arms, 'raising the roof'. Around the base, there's a bucket-style arrangement, which I guess could be used to store things which aren't sharp. It also came with three small plastic hoops, which you can try and throw over the arms or head of the cactus from a distance, if you're a little bored.
It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?
One of my obsessions over the past few years has been imagining horrible 'pitch' meetings, where someone is trying to get a terrible idea 'up'. In this case, I'm seeing some young upstart in a cheap suit standing in front of a po faced 'Dean of Design' kill-joy type figure, insisting that the world needs this cactus. Goddamn it, he needs it to. In fact, it needs it so badly that he's prepared to stake his career on it going into mass production. I imagine he's sweating slightly, as he realises that he's pinned everything, the car, the house, the kids, to this one decision, and in a moment of clarity realises that it's a CACTUS, for fucks, and wonders whether he should pull out. And as this executive presses him for detail - "So hang on - it's a cactus, with a face drawn on it, two 'arms', some hoops, a bucket at the base, and it's inflatable? Is that what you're telling me? Is that what you think people want?" - he's getting more and more nervous, because any idea like this has to sound monumentally stupid when you say it out loud.
In the end, he gets away with it. The idea gets up, and eventually some poor chap in China gets a design schedule for this zany product. He shakes his head and says to himself that it's no wonder the western world is going down like a shot duck, if this is the sort of thing they're wasting their time and money on.
Future pitch meeting scenarios which I may deal with:
Revolving restaurants
Oven Mitts - I like to think that this was a 'heated' argument!!!!!!!
Dental Floss
Northcote Stock
Hi everyone,
In a sideways step from recent posts, this one's about books.
I have just finished breaking a couple more Penguin returns pallets, and you wouldn't believe your eyes. The books are exceptional, and I thank the good folk at the publishing company for investing time and effort in bringing these books to the warehouse door at a fraction of the cost I would normally pay. These books are, for those of you with shabby memories, the source of the stock which inspired my "We Didn't Start The Fire - Of Books" attempt at songwriting which went so horribly well.
To fill you in on what the hell is going on here, let me explain.
Penguin publishes books. Are you still with me? Good. They send them out to other, lesser bookstores to sell at full price. Let's assume for the moment that these bookstores make their best efforts, and fail. Sucks, I know, but that's the book trade for you. Populated entirely by fickle buggers who think an undergraduate degree excuses them from further reading or the use of manners for the rest of their lives. But let's not digress.
So the books go back to Penguin, and after an afternoon of blank stares and "what are we going to do with all these books" kind of looks being exchanged, they draw a black mark on the base of the book (more on that later - or not. Go to one of the shops and ask, it's easier) and stuff it into a box.
After they've got a few boxes together, they sell them to 'bottom-feeders' like me. It's not like I'm constructing bridges or anything, but I'm saving less popular literature from being pulped and for that I deserve your gratitude.
So once I get these boxes in the warehouse, I sort them into piles - Gold (delivered directly to the wonderful TBG stores, in a convenient location near you), Silver (perfect to wholesale to other, less discerning booksellers, who perhaps enjoy other segments of the market to us) and Paris Hilton, which is trampled on and thrown angrily into a nearby bin.
The gold is the interesting stuff, so let's talk more about that. We're talking the rizzle dizzle here. Nabakov, Kerouac, Freud, Dr Johnson, Livy, Hornby, Sedaris, WHATEVER. There are books on the fall of Singapore, the history of the world broken down into six distinct time blocks which are named after the most popular drinks of the time - water, wine, tea, coffee, coca cola and something else. There's a book on the science of Murphy's Law. Another on Trafalgar. A misleadingly educative book entitled "Flesh in The Age of Reason".
In short, it doesn't stop.
Unfortunately, supply is always limited in the remainder trade, and if you're not in the Northcote store tomorrow afternoon, you're going to miss the creme de la creme (fr).
If you're there at 10am, you can see what I actually look like. But I'm off to drive the taxi after that, so best be early!
In a sideways step from recent posts, this one's about books.
I have just finished breaking a couple more Penguin returns pallets, and you wouldn't believe your eyes. The books are exceptional, and I thank the good folk at the publishing company for investing time and effort in bringing these books to the warehouse door at a fraction of the cost I would normally pay. These books are, for those of you with shabby memories, the source of the stock which inspired my "We Didn't Start The Fire - Of Books" attempt at songwriting which went so horribly well.
To fill you in on what the hell is going on here, let me explain.
Penguin publishes books. Are you still with me? Good. They send them out to other, lesser bookstores to sell at full price. Let's assume for the moment that these bookstores make their best efforts, and fail. Sucks, I know, but that's the book trade for you. Populated entirely by fickle buggers who think an undergraduate degree excuses them from further reading or the use of manners for the rest of their lives. But let's not digress.
So the books go back to Penguin, and after an afternoon of blank stares and "what are we going to do with all these books" kind of looks being exchanged, they draw a black mark on the base of the book (more on that later - or not. Go to one of the shops and ask, it's easier) and stuff it into a box.
After they've got a few boxes together, they sell them to 'bottom-feeders' like me. It's not like I'm constructing bridges or anything, but I'm saving less popular literature from being pulped and for that I deserve your gratitude.
So once I get these boxes in the warehouse, I sort them into piles - Gold (delivered directly to the wonderful TBG stores, in a convenient location near you), Silver (perfect to wholesale to other, less discerning booksellers, who perhaps enjoy other segments of the market to us) and Paris Hilton, which is trampled on and thrown angrily into a nearby bin.
The gold is the interesting stuff, so let's talk more about that. We're talking the rizzle dizzle here. Nabakov, Kerouac, Freud, Dr Johnson, Livy, Hornby, Sedaris, WHATEVER. There are books on the fall of Singapore, the history of the world broken down into six distinct time blocks which are named after the most popular drinks of the time - water, wine, tea, coffee, coca cola and something else. There's a book on the science of Murphy's Law. Another on Trafalgar. A misleadingly educative book entitled "Flesh in The Age of Reason".
In short, it doesn't stop.
Unfortunately, supply is always limited in the remainder trade, and if you're not in the Northcote store tomorrow afternoon, you're going to miss the creme de la creme (fr).
If you're there at 10am, you can see what I actually look like. But I'm off to drive the taxi after that, so best be early!
April 16, 2008
Ayn Misbehavin'
I don't know. I shouldn't be surprised by American anymore, but what can you do? There's just so many of them. They've all got a little bit of crazy in them. There's an unhealthy percentage of them who think that being famous would be totally cool. And, since I'm dealing in gross generalisations, they all seem to want to appear to be different.
Having taken an interest in matters of the heart in recent months, I'm always on the lookout for new, fresh, exciting ideas which I can steal and profit from.
Who would have thought, though, that an evening spent idly googling random words would be quite so rewarding?
A combination of "Ayn Rand" and "Dating" will get you to:
THE ATLASPHERE
WHICH IS excuse me which is of course, the dating site for appreciators of Ayn Rand's masterpieces, "The Fountainhead" and "Atlas Shrugged".
"If you liked the books, you'll love me!"
OK, so I've read her books, and I like them. However: I'm not a right-wing gorgon who lives in a tube, briefly emerging only to erect a steel-mill or break free from poverty through adherence to one's true calling.
And what on earth goes on on these dates? Do people talk about the characters in the book? Worse, do they talk LIKE them? Do they style themselves on Dagny Taggart? Do they all feel horribly insecure about living up to the standards of personal integrity which Rand seemed keen on stuffing into humanity?
Of course, the answer to the question "Won't someone think of the children?" is a resounding "NO!"
I'm all for common interests, but this society and its 15,000 members seems to me to be a little wrong.
Having taken an interest in matters of the heart in recent months, I'm always on the lookout for new, fresh, exciting ideas which I can steal and profit from.
Who would have thought, though, that an evening spent idly googling random words would be quite so rewarding?
A combination of "Ayn Rand" and "Dating" will get you to:
THE ATLASPHERE
WHICH IS excuse me which is of course, the dating site for appreciators of Ayn Rand's masterpieces, "The Fountainhead" and "Atlas Shrugged".
"If you liked the books, you'll love me!"
OK, so I've read her books, and I like them. However: I'm not a right-wing gorgon who lives in a tube, briefly emerging only to erect a steel-mill or break free from poverty through adherence to one's true calling.
And what on earth goes on on these dates? Do people talk about the characters in the book? Worse, do they talk LIKE them? Do they style themselves on Dagny Taggart? Do they all feel horribly insecure about living up to the standards of personal integrity which Rand seemed keen on stuffing into humanity?
Of course, the answer to the question "Won't someone think of the children?" is a resounding "NO!"
I'm all for common interests, but this society and its 15,000 members seems to me to be a little wrong.
April 12, 2008
Apres Moi...
After a hefty week of book and warehouse moving, I decided to go over the river to check out what's on offer, recreationally speaking.
Frankly - it was disappointing. I wanted a release, a dull, gun-metal grey night out on the town; something to take my mind off university sales, retail stores and the book trade in general. And I expected Fitzroy St to deliver exactly that - I'd heard the rumours of drunken trashbaggery and idiotic, alcohol fueled behavior. I was thinking big sunglasses and bad attitudes.
But. St Kilda, as it turns out, is a veritable hub of the literati and Melbourne's thinking set - authors and readers mingling in a heaving sea of letters and thoughts. Strolling down the Fitzroy street strip at 11pm on Saturday night, I encountered retired academic dons quaffing sherry over a hand or three of bridge. I saw thinkers congregating in small groups, and each taking turn holding court. Books appear to be exchanged as frequently as ideas. In just a few steps, I overheard conversations on subjects ranging from the challenges faced by the Iranian construction industry to the moral bind with which Albert Speer struggled throughout his career, while a nearby community-run book swap helped satisfy urgent educative needs.
Of course, the great thinkers of any age attract members of the opposite sex, some of whom are so desperate for attention that they will resort to the basest of methods of seduction. Fortunately, these number only a very few, and they are soon moved along with polite but firm resolve.
Conversations can grow heated at times, as points of view are proffered with vim and vigour. Voices struggle to be heard in this modern day equivalent of the Athenian school, but by and large good manners are observed, and each speaker is afforded sufficient time to put forward his or her stance.
Some say that one of the greatest achievements of the Fitzroy St meetings is its open acceptance of members from any cultural or religious background. Tolerance is a crucial element of social cohesion, and any breach of convention is quickly noted and addressed by members and on-lookers alike. Similarly, gender and sexual preference seem to be far less important than the weight of an argument presented by a speaker.
Two ladies discuss the complications thrown up by an unexpected bishop move in the 'poisoned pawn' variation of the Sicilian defence - one of the openings which Bobby Fischer helped to revive during his career.
There is an obvious emphasis on style at these gatherings. Speaking to a group of enthusiastic supporters is an opportunity to put on a show of intellectual superiority. Those in the public view are unapologetically intelligent, but the case to be stated should be bound in leather, not wrapped in old newspaper. A particularly persuasive argument delivered with panache will often earn a round of applause, and calls of 'bravo'. A deft syllogism or a graceful segue will draw murmurs of approval. Wandering scribes jot down ideas for their own reference and posterity.
A young lady despairs after misquoting Kant - she will be better prepared next time.
A young couple enjoying the first blush of romance - an impromptu performance of a Mozart aria on the corner of Gray St leads to a swelling of emotions amongst onlookers.
On the corner of Canterbury Road and Fitzroy, bystanders are often treated to a 'point/counterpoint' argument, where two protagonists state their views in the strongest possible terms. The conclusion of this 'mano a mano' struggle is always a gracious acknowledgment of an opponents views, and a brief reflection on the advantages afforded to society by adherence to the most basic Voltariean principle of free speech.
Frankly - it was disappointing. I wanted a release, a dull, gun-metal grey night out on the town; something to take my mind off university sales, retail stores and the book trade in general. And I expected Fitzroy St to deliver exactly that - I'd heard the rumours of drunken trashbaggery and idiotic, alcohol fueled behavior. I was thinking big sunglasses and bad attitudes.
But. St Kilda, as it turns out, is a veritable hub of the literati and Melbourne's thinking set - authors and readers mingling in a heaving sea of letters and thoughts. Strolling down the Fitzroy street strip at 11pm on Saturday night, I encountered retired academic dons quaffing sherry over a hand or three of bridge. I saw thinkers congregating in small groups, and each taking turn holding court. Books appear to be exchanged as frequently as ideas. In just a few steps, I overheard conversations on subjects ranging from the challenges faced by the Iranian construction industry to the moral bind with which Albert Speer struggled throughout his career, while a nearby community-run book swap helped satisfy urgent educative needs.
Of course, the great thinkers of any age attract members of the opposite sex, some of whom are so desperate for attention that they will resort to the basest of methods of seduction. Fortunately, these number only a very few, and they are soon moved along with polite but firm resolve.
Conversations can grow heated at times, as points of view are proffered with vim and vigour. Voices struggle to be heard in this modern day equivalent of the Athenian school, but by and large good manners are observed, and each speaker is afforded sufficient time to put forward his or her stance.
Some say that one of the greatest achievements of the Fitzroy St meetings is its open acceptance of members from any cultural or religious background. Tolerance is a crucial element of social cohesion, and any breach of convention is quickly noted and addressed by members and on-lookers alike. Similarly, gender and sexual preference seem to be far less important than the weight of an argument presented by a speaker.
Two ladies discuss the complications thrown up by an unexpected bishop move in the 'poisoned pawn' variation of the Sicilian defence - one of the openings which Bobby Fischer helped to revive during his career.
There is an obvious emphasis on style at these gatherings. Speaking to a group of enthusiastic supporters is an opportunity to put on a show of intellectual superiority. Those in the public view are unapologetically intelligent, but the case to be stated should be bound in leather, not wrapped in old newspaper. A particularly persuasive argument delivered with panache will often earn a round of applause, and calls of 'bravo'. A deft syllogism or a graceful segue will draw murmurs of approval. Wandering scribes jot down ideas for their own reference and posterity.
A young lady despairs after misquoting Kant - she will be better prepared next time.
A young couple enjoying the first blush of romance - an impromptu performance of a Mozart aria on the corner of Gray St leads to a swelling of emotions amongst onlookers.
On the corner of Canterbury Road and Fitzroy, bystanders are often treated to a 'point/counterpoint' argument, where two protagonists state their views in the strongest possible terms. The conclusion of this 'mano a mano' struggle is always a gracious acknowledgment of an opponents views, and a brief reflection on the advantages afforded to society by adherence to the most basic Voltariean principle of free speech.
April 11, 2008
Apology
My apologies. After 36 verses of the "Kristen Schall is a horse", you'd think I'd know her name.
Surprisingly, her agent hasn't contacted me to correct my error, but thanks to everyone who got on the email to tell me.
One more time:
Kristen Schall.
Surprisingly, her agent hasn't contacted me to correct my error, but thanks to everyone who got on the email to tell me.
One more time:
Kristen Schall.
April 9, 2008
Comedy Festival Part 1
I'm like this every bloody year, I swear. Coming into March/April, I'm full of anticipation. I don't buy tickets, because in my mind, I look to the future and I see myself in the city every night, flitting between bars and comedy shows with friends quietly murmuring to one another that I should be working as a stand-up comedian, such is my command of hilarity. "You'd be SO GREAT", they simper enthusiastically in my imagination, while I sipped on a flute of Champagne and discussed Deleuze with Daniel Kitson.
Reality, of course, is always different, and rarely fails to disappoint. Kitson sells out, and I'm left clutching at the metaphorical, sustaining myself for another year on half a radio interview I heard by accident. We don't talk about philosophy in the bar after the show, thank Christ, since all I know about Deleuze is that he was French (I think). I do, however, tell my story about Tony Law every year, which basically revolves around repeating the "I don't like sharks - too bitey. Don't like dolpins either, TOO RAPEY" line. Heh. Yes, it's wrong. Deal.
Mercifully, this year I have avoided watching Mike Wilmot with a girl who I like/ am related to. It's difficult to know where to look when a comedian uses the term 'skull-fuck' in place of the slightly more demure 'fellatio'. And highly stressful, I might add, when you've been raised a catholic, and you're on a date with a conservative. Ah, the mistakes we make!
So tonight, I saw this girl. Louise Schall.
"American, SWF, seeks audience for laughs"
It was pretty good, although like this picture, the subtext is all about Flight of the Conchords, about whom I have been having inappropriate thoughts. Get in line, etc. Apparently she was in their show once or twice, and that was good enough for me to get a ticket.
The comedy was great, really, really great, but I don't think we could live together. She spent the night refusing to look at me, understandable of course, but it does make our future look grim, and her seem a little churlish. Plus, I suspect that deep, deep down, she's into NASCAR, The Bathurst 1000 or something similar. That's a deal-breaker, I'm afraid, regardless of how funny you are.
Tomorrow night - homemade pizza inspired by Woodstock.
And this: A make up company will be born. Called "Kissand". Thoughts?
Reality, of course, is always different, and rarely fails to disappoint. Kitson sells out, and I'm left clutching at the metaphorical, sustaining myself for another year on half a radio interview I heard by accident. We don't talk about philosophy in the bar after the show, thank Christ, since all I know about Deleuze is that he was French (I think). I do, however, tell my story about Tony Law every year, which basically revolves around repeating the "I don't like sharks - too bitey. Don't like dolpins either, TOO RAPEY" line. Heh. Yes, it's wrong. Deal.
Mercifully, this year I have avoided watching Mike Wilmot with a girl who I like/ am related to. It's difficult to know where to look when a comedian uses the term 'skull-fuck' in place of the slightly more demure 'fellatio'. And highly stressful, I might add, when you've been raised a catholic, and you're on a date with a conservative. Ah, the mistakes we make!
So tonight, I saw this girl. Louise Schall.
"American, SWF, seeks audience for laughs"
It was pretty good, although like this picture, the subtext is all about Flight of the Conchords, about whom I have been having inappropriate thoughts. Get in line, etc. Apparently she was in their show once or twice, and that was good enough for me to get a ticket.
The comedy was great, really, really great, but I don't think we could live together. She spent the night refusing to look at me, understandable of course, but it does make our future look grim, and her seem a little churlish. Plus, I suspect that deep, deep down, she's into NASCAR, The Bathurst 1000 or something similar. That's a deal-breaker, I'm afraid, regardless of how funny you are.
Tomorrow night - homemade pizza inspired by Woodstock.
And this: A make up company will be born. Called "Kissand". Thoughts?
April 8, 2008
Further Inspiration
Women to 35 – you’re all invited to the party in my pants. It’s bring a bottle and, please, remember to remove your shoes before you step on the carpet – mum’s just had it cleaned. Stupid man, 33.
box no. 07/05
The bad jokes were a great start. But it's the sign-off which makes it.
Surely you can do better?
box no. 07/05
The bad jokes were a great start. But it's the sign-off which makes it.
Surely you can do better?
April 7, 2008
LRB
The London Review of Books talks about high-falutin subjects like litchritchure and stuff. It's a really great publication, and the people who publish it deserve to be rewarded in the afterlife.
I'm sure they're continually disappointed, however, by the fact that their particularly insightful reviews, witty asides and acidic snipes are ignored in favour of the always hilarious personals column.
Here's a couple from this edition. You can find the complete listing here.
Getting laid through Match.com isn’t as easy as the adverts make it out to be. I’m hoping for better pickings from this column. Woman, 87.
box no. 06/06
Authors! Don’t ever let Peter Strauss take you out to lunch. Bankrupt M, 47. On a camper-bed in his sister’s front room last night, tonight, and every night for the rest of his damned life, dreaming about going back in time and not ordering the tiramisu. Curse you, delicious espresso-soaked, mascarpone-laden lady’s fingers of doom and ignominy! Curse you, latte of shame, hubris biscotti! Curse you, Satan’s discretionary service charge of 12.5%!
box no. 06/07
If you're not laughing now, close the internet browser, go and put your head in the toilet and start flushing.
In keeping with the level of originality with which I'm comfortable, I've decided to get a personals column going in our monthly newsletter. Ideally, it will be exactly the same as the LRB, only funnier.
This is part of my long-term plan, which of course is making money at the expense of other people's effort and dignity. Using other people's ideas, as you can see.
I'm offering a $20 book voucher for the best entry. Send yours to info@bookgrocer.com. A couple of things:
1) Make sure you include an email address. I'd suggest a web-based email rather than, say, your work address. Not that we encourage psychopathic subscriptions to our newsletter, but you can't be too careful. Maybe the address could even form part of the witty joke which your advertisement is striving to achieve.
2) Make it funny or the publisher of the newsletter will make an example of you.
I plan to include one of my own. There will be no prizes for guessing which one it is, but it will give me something to do. I might even win the book voucher.
All submissions will be published next month, so long as they remain within the boundaries of reasonable taste.
I'm sure they're continually disappointed, however, by the fact that their particularly insightful reviews, witty asides and acidic snipes are ignored in favour of the always hilarious personals column.
Here's a couple from this edition. You can find the complete listing here.
Getting laid through Match.com isn’t as easy as the adverts make it out to be. I’m hoping for better pickings from this column. Woman, 87.
box no. 06/06
Authors! Don’t ever let Peter Strauss take you out to lunch. Bankrupt M, 47. On a camper-bed in his sister’s front room last night, tonight, and every night for the rest of his damned life, dreaming about going back in time and not ordering the tiramisu. Curse you, delicious espresso-soaked, mascarpone-laden lady’s fingers of doom and ignominy! Curse you, latte of shame, hubris biscotti! Curse you, Satan’s discretionary service charge of 12.5%!
box no. 06/07
If you're not laughing now, close the internet browser, go and put your head in the toilet and start flushing.
In keeping with the level of originality with which I'm comfortable, I've decided to get a personals column going in our monthly newsletter. Ideally, it will be exactly the same as the LRB, only funnier.
This is part of my long-term plan, which of course is making money at the expense of other people's effort and dignity. Using other people's ideas, as you can see.
I'm offering a $20 book voucher for the best entry. Send yours to info@bookgrocer.com. A couple of things:
1) Make sure you include an email address. I'd suggest a web-based email rather than, say, your work address. Not that we encourage psychopathic subscriptions to our newsletter, but you can't be too careful. Maybe the address could even form part of the witty joke which your advertisement is striving to achieve.
2) Make it funny or the publisher of the newsletter will make an example of you.
I plan to include one of my own. There will be no prizes for guessing which one it is, but it will give me something to do. I might even win the book voucher.
All submissions will be published next month, so long as they remain within the boundaries of reasonable taste.
Cuts Both Ways
It's a beautiful day to wake up in Melbourne. The sun is shining, flowers are singing, etc. Keilor Park is in a holding pattern as far as tasteful design goes, but I wasn't expecting anything different, and am therefore not disappointed.
But despite the gorgeousness cramming itself into my life faster than a b-format into a box, something is missing.
I heard the timeless classic "Cuts Both Ways" on the radio this morning. And it got me worrying- where is our current Latin singing sensation?
Gloria Estefan rocked it with massive hair in the early 80s. Ricky Martin thrust his coiffus interruptus in our direction for a good part of the 90s. I wonder what he's up to now?
"Livin' La Vida Push-Up"
That's a good example of an idle wonder I wish I hadn't followed up on. He's gay? WTF? Did everyone know that? Jesus. Or maybe he's not. Maybe he's just doing push-ups on a beach wearing budgie smugglers with a really, really good friend.
It's always the tanned ones who dance really well, isn't it?
I'll be honest with you; that's thrown me. I was hoping to tie this post off with some social commentary about the inherent laziness of anyone who speaks Spanish which has been demonstrated by their (all billion of them or so) lack of recent music success. I'd hoped to draw some humour out of such a sweeping generalisation about Spanish speakers. I'd planned to then qualify my remarks with an aside about my terrible taste in music, and how I might be wrong. Then I would have invited comments.
So. Imagine all that has happened and do what I'm going to - put it out of your mind.
Some notes may appear below this line.
_____________________________
NB. Hope for Latin Music Industry Gag #1 - Future world cup
NB. Inc photo of 'Latin' if poss.
But despite the gorgeousness cramming itself into my life faster than a b-format into a box, something is missing.
I heard the timeless classic "Cuts Both Ways" on the radio this morning. And it got me worrying- where is our current Latin singing sensation?
Gloria Estefan rocked it with massive hair in the early 80s. Ricky Martin thrust his coiffus interruptus in our direction for a good part of the 90s. I wonder what he's up to now?
"Livin' La Vida Push-Up"
That's a good example of an idle wonder I wish I hadn't followed up on. He's gay? WTF? Did everyone know that? Jesus. Or maybe he's not. Maybe he's just doing push-ups on a beach wearing budgie smugglers with a really, really good friend.
It's always the tanned ones who dance really well, isn't it?
I'll be honest with you; that's thrown me. I was hoping to tie this post off with some social commentary about the inherent laziness of anyone who speaks Spanish which has been demonstrated by their (all billion of them or so) lack of recent music success. I'd hoped to draw some humour out of such a sweeping generalisation about Spanish speakers. I'd planned to then qualify my remarks with an aside about my terrible taste in music, and how I might be wrong. Then I would have invited comments.
So. Imagine all that has happened and do what I'm going to - put it out of your mind.
Some notes may appear below this line.
_____________________________
NB. Hope for Latin Music Industry Gag #1 - Future world cup
NB. Inc photo of 'Latin' if poss.
April 6, 2008
Searching questions
I know it's been done, but...
Three searchers have found my blog through google, after entering in the following terms:
1) Gentlemen Prefer Bronze - a blog post title I stole from someone but passed off as my own.
2) Tim Campbell Anthony Callea - Clearly, I appeal to the pink dollar as well.
3) thevine.com.au - doubtless the work of one of Fairfax's minions.
These sorts of results aren't the kind you would describe as 'rewarding'.
Three searchers have found my blog through google, after entering in the following terms:
1) Gentlemen Prefer Bronze - a blog post title I stole from someone but passed off as my own.
2) Tim Campbell Anthony Callea - Clearly, I appeal to the pink dollar as well.
3) thevine.com.au - doubtless the work of one of Fairfax's minions.
These sorts of results aren't the kind you would describe as 'rewarding'.
New Stock & News Stock
Following the conclusion of the Sydney Road store's first birthday sale, we're dumping a stack of new stuff in there at Midday today. This is a huge opportunity to see some excellent new remainders before every other bugger has picked through them. There will be stock from Penguin, including a great selection of modern and ancient classics, more quality from MUP and some random ends-of-line selections from our friends overseas.
You should get along.
There'll be more blogging in the near future. We lost cricket, thanks for asking. On the upside, it gives me more time to spend with you, the readership, and with my possessions. Exciting, no?
Also, you can now check this out: www.thevine.com.au
A friend of mine works there, and I'm trying to persuade her to give me a writing job. Apparently the 18-24 demographic don't read. Which is, like, totally crap. I can be the voice of literature for the kids. I'm chillin' like Bob Dylan, man.
University sale season is well underway. I'm neglecting everyone, but here's a brief summary of the places I have been in the past two weeks.
1) Crown Casino to attend Cricket's 'Night of Nights'. I compared it on the night to vomiting in a bag, keeping it in your laundry for a year, then taking it out and pouring it all over your face. It's not a great evening, but I felt compensated for its shitness by being in Crown - it really is a place where dreams come true.
2) Laundry Bar, Johnston St, Fitzroy. I've now been asked to leave this place 3 times in a case of mistaken identity. Someone with an angular nose and messy hair out there is giving me a bad name.
3) The Spot, Sydney Road Brunswick. I went for a friend's gig, and while it's a hovel which should burn like a supernova, I didn't get stabbed, so everyone wins.
There's more, but then there's the books, and they won't move themselves. We'll talk again soon, xo, etc.
You should get along.
There'll be more blogging in the near future. We lost cricket, thanks for asking. On the upside, it gives me more time to spend with you, the readership, and with my possessions. Exciting, no?
Also, you can now check this out: www.thevine.com.au
A friend of mine works there, and I'm trying to persuade her to give me a writing job. Apparently the 18-24 demographic don't read. Which is, like, totally crap. I can be the voice of literature for the kids. I'm chillin' like Bob Dylan, man.
University sale season is well underway. I'm neglecting everyone, but here's a brief summary of the places I have been in the past two weeks.
1) Crown Casino to attend Cricket's 'Night of Nights'. I compared it on the night to vomiting in a bag, keeping it in your laundry for a year, then taking it out and pouring it all over your face. It's not a great evening, but I felt compensated for its shitness by being in Crown - it really is a place where dreams come true.
2) Laundry Bar, Johnston St, Fitzroy. I've now been asked to leave this place 3 times in a case of mistaken identity. Someone with an angular nose and messy hair out there is giving me a bad name.
3) The Spot, Sydney Road Brunswick. I went for a friend's gig, and while it's a hovel which should burn like a supernova, I didn't get stabbed, so everyone wins.
There's more, but then there's the books, and they won't move themselves. We'll talk again soon, xo, etc.
Friday Storytime - The Fallout
Some headlines to emerge from last friday's storytime at TBG Northcote:
Owl, Pussycat Lost At Sea - Cow Remains Airborne
Wild Things No Longer An Issue, Says Max
Super-Sheep Marvin Still Eating, Say Observers
Bill The Bull's Nerves Shot After China Shop Trouble
More details next week...
Owl, Pussycat Lost At Sea - Cow Remains Airborne
Wild Things No Longer An Issue, Says Max
Super-Sheep Marvin Still Eating, Say Observers
Bill The Bull's Nerves Shot After China Shop Trouble
More details next week...
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