~times have changed~

We made a glorious jaunt to the South Freo Power Station a month or so ago, a jaunt that, strictly speaking, broke a bunch of arguably arbitrary laws, a probable fact which, given the absence of any law enforcers just doing their job, was neither here nor there.

Featuring our mode of transport running out of juice before it rolled into a conveniently close petrol station, Benny Hayes risking life and limb at 30+ feet, us nearly getting mauled by a greasy, fat, swarthy-lookin’ (bit of a poor man’s John Kizon, really) fellow who didn’t appreciate us having a good time at 4am in 2011 in the recently opened, massively massive Beaufort St McDonalds über-Haus, and a basketball ring, it was truly a night to forever cherish in our hearts and minds.

It also featured the flying Scotsman from those Shetland Isles, David Boyson Cooper, some blow-in radge we let sleep in our veggie patch, who was so overwhelmed with excitement and wonderment at the dilapidated delights of the Power House that he pissed all over it. My mate’s dog does that when it gets excited, too.

"i luv dis city"

I flew 15 000 clicks to eat Maccy Ds @4am

mooving forward ptII

More Cow Parade Cow, at Ya Yas on the last Friday in September. Totes negs to that grimey promo cat who swiped my Cow does it feel? call, jeez lou-eeze  :|

stop da goats

Neilson Poll
The vast majority Labor voters support onshore processing.

A slim majority of Liberal voters support onshore processing.

And yet, Labor wants to alter legislation to circumvent a High Court ruling and continue with offshore processing.

A rogue party changing the laws to avoid our UN obligations against the will of the majority…

Interesting.

Stinks like… marginal seats in here.

mooving forward

SixThousand held a 1st birthday bash for themselves a few weeks ago in a storage space out behind Connections nightclub featuring fairy bread and glitter and nerds (the delicious sugary variety) and and and other things (like a heinously long line). More importantly, it featured the first live performance by Cow Parade Cow (totes a Moo Sensation), more rad’ (perplexing?) times wit’ the [Electric] Toad and what I’m pretty sure was a dope set by Astral Travel. I have no photos of them. There’s probably a common causative element between my muggy recollections and my lack of photos, but I’m pretty sure (100%) that it aint 11 dolla Tooheys Extra Dry stubbies (here’s cheers to hip flasks!.. oh, and that free cider/alcocordial!).

big ups Electric Toad #SWAG #letthatboycook! #based

perplexed!

guest (rock) starring!!1!one!

collective thoughts on 11 dolla TEDs…

kaarn Kinga!

Went and watched my old footy club Kingsley playing in a couple of finals matches a few weeks ago. Entertainment plus++. The abrasive heckling was even more obscene than I remembered, and the curious aesthetic disparity between the rough as guts rat’s tail brigade and the super-slick trendoids seemed to have widened further. One gromet’s bold, loud, crass and persistent courting of a giggling club matriarch was a true glory to behold.

The heckling skills of a few of the colts have a fair way to go, though. One seemed incapable of speech (and/or wit) and so settled for a good couple hours of hooting and hollering like a retarded hound baying at a non-existent moon. Why this was received with enthusiasm by those around has got me proper fucked. I kept waiting for an older voice to break through with a stern “fuck up, c**t”, no such luck, though.

Matty even had the good form to get into a spot of light biffo right in front of me after kicking a few too many goals on his niggling parasite.

The ressies won,
~~we drink, we smoke, we have a toke, we think the world’s a fucking joke.. the Kingsley Cats aaare.. on the piss again!~~

league boys lost,
~~ he drinks and he smokes and he fucks all the blokes… Scaaaaarborough footy club’s a wanker!~~

yyyeah yeah yeah footy!!

On the way home from Freo the other week I thought I’d stop by City Beach groyne on a slightly stormy arvo and see what was going down, all the while silently bemoaning my still buggered knee. F**k.

 

Dada

Dada Records, a shit-hot, history-laden old record store in the guts of Perth recently held a gig in their garage to celebrate the release of a special compilation, the Dada Tapes (listen/download here), a gloriously eclectic collection of recordings from all sorts of dardy Perth locals playing sets in their garage. For a good write-up on what the joint is all about read this article.

Was a plethora of acts playin’ on the day: Water Temple, New Pollution, Donnie Rat,Electric Toad (who managed to spend 15 minutes shouting something about golden vaginas and fixing a TV), The Painkillers and GUM (project of that fella from Tame Impala). Only took a handful of lazy shots of the Toad and GUM because, well, I couldn’t be arsed gettin’ off my arse and I was too busy enjoying myself.

tuuusk

dardy tusk set from a few weeks ago at the Norfolk Basement in Fremantle, supporting Wolves at the Door, who I took no photos of… should probably stop doing that.

Also, was first crack at using some fuji 800 film, which was expired… not convinced. In fact, I think it’s a little shit. Probably gonna stop using that.

Melbourne… great place for a wander.

easter escape

We went for a cruise south over the Easter weekend in pursuit of waves and times. Expectations were high of a delicious time upon return to the timber-clad Margaret River bakery, which then dashed my dreams by having the nerve to actually take some time off over the holiday break. Failing that, we made tracks to Gas Bay via a blown-out Cowaramup Bay, finding more of the same at Gas, sans any recognisable wave at all. Heads were shaken and mumblings made before turning back to head further south, stopping back in Margaret’s to pick up supplies and squeeze a drink at the lavishly appointed, thus curiously named Boho Bar.

Pemberton pub and a coupla pints at sundown and Nicko finally gets back to us only to inform us of babes and probable debauched times that night in Dunsborough… ugh. To compensate we drove into the forest in the dark, drank more beers and got high in the car and crashed out in a pint-sized dome tent, just the two of us. Sick.

On the move again and it turns out that Windy Harbour is just about the prettiest tiny shack-town since… ever. Denmark is reached and sound lads are met, good times had, mediocre waves surfed. But a fun session at a scrappy Parry’s Beach is close enough to what this self-diagnoser ordered for himself five days before a legit doctor stuck a scalpel into his knee and took to the bone with a saw.