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| An interesting attempt at continuing a blog Joe, though you seem to lack concentration, and appear to favor slaughtering computer generated enemies over impressing your peers through literacy skillz.
4/10 - room for improvement.
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| listening to: ex_cowboy - Mogwai.
on nothing in particular: Today it is raining.
Normally, this would hold no importance, and there is no reason in particular that it should hold any today, but there's something about rain which makes it both infuriating and incredibly relaxing.
There is scientific rationale behind the thousands of cheesy 'Blind Date' style answers given about rain. You know the kind I mean, those gameshows hosted by an F list late-70's has-been, in which an attractive young lady asks questions of three upcoming gentlemen in an attempt to discern which of them would make the most suitable companion for a date.
Obviously, the three suitors lie through their fucking teeth to try and get into the young lady's pants (to use a cliche americanized phrase), and one of the questions which always comes up is about the perfect date, which inevitably invokes a response involving walking in the rain, dancing in the rain, fucking in the rain, making tiny hats for small woodland creatures in the rain and most importantly sleeping in the rain. Not in the rain, inside, while its raining. Only the poor, homeless, and those on reality TV actually sleep in the rain, and the poor and homeless arent nearly as arsey about it.
Again I digress. The reason these men talk about rain is because of the subconscious memories the repetitive noise of rainfall invokes in all of us. This memory is of when we were in the womb, and spent nine months listening to a steady heartbeat and blood rushing through veins. Think of it like the conditioning in Brave New World, only without the class supremacy, though come to think of it, I am glad that I'm an Epsilon.
We have fond memories of this time in the womb, I mean shit, It wasnt that bad. We were warm, safe, curled up into a ball, devoid of the need to breathe and had all our nutrients fed into us through a tube. The only people that get that kind of treatment after birth are the senile, but no-one needs that.
This was a time when we were truly content, and we miss it. The sound of rain on a roof reminds us of this time, and thus we are happy. You should by now be aware that this is old news, but hell, I needed to write something.
I could continue on about these gameshow contestants, and how the fact that they mention rainfall as a verbal aphrodisiac has Freudian connotations of Paternal loathing and Maternal lust, but I'm tired of writing this, you're tired of reading it, and I want a coffee.
slater.
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| listening to: Being alright - Tsunami Bomb
on punk: This is a subject I hold close to heart, and I am becoming extremely distraught about witnessing its perversion on a daily basis.
You see, punk is more than a daft haircut and a stylish casual jacket, punk is a righteous sense of superiority, while simultaneously maintaining a position at the bottom of the human shitheap. Sure, you may have a job, cool friends, a pretty face, exciting weekends and great hair. But fuck me, at least I'm not a wanker.
Its that sense of superiority which gave punk its internal definition, and set it apart (in some cases still does set it apart) from all other subcultures. Whats that I hear you cry? Why aren't punks wankers?
Its all about resistance, and forgive me if I stray into anarchistic territory here. In todays rebellious world of psuedo hippies and student activists we find fuck all actual resistance to... well, anything at all. We all just stand by and take it; you want to go to war? pass a law granting MP's autonomy in the legislation making process? shove what up my arse-hole? oh, ok, go right ahead, I suppose you know best.
Ahh, I saw that, you thought to yourself "I wouldnt let anyone shove anything up my arse-hole." Well I'm glad, because I bet its pretty full in there. Amusingly, this talk of anal insertion leads very well into my next example.
The last Joe-Approved act of punk-esque resistance, late 2004 (regrettably, despite much searching I cant find a relevant article, so I'll have to relay this in anecdotal form.) The scene is a speech given by a right wing politician in America, running for senate or somesuch. At the end there is a question and answer session, and inevitably the subject of gay couples comes up. Obviously, the right winger is against this, and cites the bible among other equally valid sources as reasons against homosexuality.
Enter our hero. A man steps up to the podium and poses a simple question.
"what are your opinions on heterosexual couples who just like to fuck eachother in the ass?"
Our hero then runs back down the isle, making wanking motions with his hand at the speaker, before being taken into custody.
Childish you say? Purile? Innefectual? Let me ask you this, what do you think every single person leaving that conference had on their minds? The mundane questions posed? the policies of the governess? Or the crazy motherfucker who brought up a valid point in the most vulgar way possible?
The man took a stand against what he felt was wrong, and instead of being a tit about it and following official routes, he shook some shit up. He actually did something about it, and it fucking worked.
Punk is a huge two fingers to just about everyone. To politicians, do-gooders, criminals, self absorbed teenagers (myself excluded. I'll be as self absorbed as I fucking want, junkslut.) suits, standardised education... I could go on, but as I say, just about everyone.
And now for the point I've been trying to get at. Punk no longer exsists in anything but small splinter groups in towns and cities across the world. It has been killed off by its involuntary commercialisation, and by those who accept this commercialisation as the glorious subculture known as punk.
The result is what kills me every single day. The 'punks' that I know over here all have myspace (not that theres anything wrong with that, how else would we comment on all the genuinley good bands that are on there,) and everyday, I log in, check up on gigs, maybe see if friends have blogged, and inevitably look down to the bulletin section to see that my 'punk' friends have posted something, usually with a descriptive and suitably punk title like 'oi' or 'wankers.' I click. Perhaps there is a gig coming up I've somehow missed, maybe a new band has been formed, or maybe someone's been arrested for chucking bricks through the windows of the court where BNP leader Nick Griffin is standing trial for race-hate charges.
Nope. The message reads:
"Oi oi oi! av got a new piccy up, hawk spiked wiv me and Mike smashed off us tits! Comment us up! oi!"
I have now come to terms with the fact that all my punk friends are in fact, cunningly disguised emo kids (yes yes, calm down emo kids, I'm using this term generally, I know you're all unique in the same way and WOAH LOOK I JUST SAW FUNERAL FOR A FRIEND, GO EMO KID GO!) vying for attention, and having the same inclination to rebel as a salmon, unquestioningly swimming up-stream to its death, because:
a) They might get laid at the top
b) All the other salmon are doing it.
What? Sheep was too clich?
Its true what they say. Punk is dead, and Anarchism is already decomposing. Neither of them have to though, If once a day everyone does something to question authority (KGV'ers, I'm looking at you and your immaculate uniform) something may actually change. As long as resistance is visible, It cant be ignored, and as long as something exists it can be destroyed.
If thats all too much, just try, at least on some small scale, to do this.
 slater.
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| listening to: Cliqhop on www.somafm.com
mood: ambivalent.
Ahh xanga, my safe haven. Far from the madding crowds of myspace.
Yes, in xanga there remains something not found in other blog / circlejerk sites;
Intelligence. Here, I can browse site to site, comfortable (or perhaps comforted) in the knowledge that for every three attention seeking shells I will stumble across one genuinley opinionated person, and agree or disagree with their views, I will enjoy reading them.
And too in xanga, I find an escape from Leeds, my pet reality. Don't misunderstand, Leeds is a fine place, and I'm not having a bad time, but I cant escape the fact that six thousand miles away lie eight years of my life. I had a clique, I had a routine, I was happy in my ignorance of the outside world, and I have no doubt in mind, that had I stayed, the two years of sixth form would have been the happiest of my life.
But I digress.
Yes, It's been a long time xanga, I'll do a proper entry soon.
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