Pelican Edition 5 Volume 83 by UWA Student Guild

VOL 83 EDITION 5

Heat 1 - Friday 10 August Heat 2 - Friday 17 August Heat 3 - Friday 24 August

ALL HEATS START 3PM @ THE TAV

Contents

INEXPRESSIBLE I S L A N D A c e n t u r y o n , P e l i c a n e x h u m e s t h e d i a r y o f t h e l a t e R a y m o n d P r i e s t l y t o u n c o v e r t h e n a s t i e s t s e c r e t s o f P e n g u i n s a n d H u m a n s by

kate prender g ast

ABSTAIN! ABSTAIN!

Notes on an abortion

A former Soviet beetle that thinks it’s

William

Faulkner

takes

Pelican’s music editor looks back on the horrific experience of producing a free form feminist cover of the I Dream of Jeannie theme song

the might of the United Nations by

LACHLAN

KEELEY

b y

alex

g riffin

NERD HULK Conventionist Calvin Connors was an ordinary passive aggressive nerd until one day gamma radiation turned him into the strangest monster alive b y

INSIDE

K e v in

chiat

POLITICS

MUSIC

FILM

BOOKS

ARTS

05 ED/PREZ

20 THE MISEDUCATION OF THE SPIDER

07 ZEITGEIST: BRICS

28 REVIEWS

34 REVIEWS

06 DATING W/ MARNIE

22 FEATURED INGREDIENT: WHALE

08 INTERVIEW WITH THE QUEEN! THE! QUEEN!

30 GRAILS INTERVIEW

36 EROTICA 101: ENTER THE mills

44 SIGNS OF THE APOCALYPSE: THE HUMBLE INDIE BUNDLE V REVIEW

26 SPORTS SCIENCE: BLACK CAVIAR

12 POLITICAL PERVERTS: THE WORLD’S MOST DEPRAVED BORDELLO

14 DONNES PI: PART 1 18 MONSTERCHEF: COOKING FOR THE VAMPS

27 WHAT’S HAPPENING? 46 HOWL

38 REVIEWS 40 50 SHADES OF Grey: A SURVIVOR’S TALE 41 GERALDINE: BOOKCAFFE MATRON

Pelican vol 83 edition 5

Bacchanalia

Contributors

CREDITS

YASHI RENOIR Cover artist Yashi Renoir is the daughter of the legendary Yoshi Renoir, star of the popular Super Marios Bros series. Originally from Yoshi’s Island, Japan, just off the coast of the Mushroom Kingdom, Yashi is a full-time exchange student studying a Bachelor of Arts at UWA. While she enjoys drawing, she hopes to follow her father’s footsteps into the game world. Look out for her appearance in the new Wii game Yoshi’s Island 5: Here’s Yashi!. In her spare time, Yashi enjoys collecting eggs and hanging out with her boyfriend, Baby Mario.

Josh Chiat // Editor Alex Pond// Advertising Tersia Elliott// Advertising Yashi Renoir// Cover Art Camden Watts// Art Director Alice Mepham// Film Editor Alex Griffin// Music Editor Lachlan Keeley//Arts Editor Yvonne Buresch// Books Editor Richard Ferguson// Politics Editor

Illustrators//

Sub-Editors //

Gideon Sacks (Photography)

Yvonne Buresch

Grace McKie

Richard Ferguson

Jo Ormiston

Alex Griffin

Alice Palmer

Lachlan Keeley

Arti Pillai

Alice Mepham

Kate Prendergast Yashi Renoir Ena Tulic Camden Watts Wenny Yeo

Contributors// Marnie Allen

Alexandra Leonzini

Yvonne Buresch

Katrin Long

Matthew Bye

Patrick Marlborough

Josh Chiat

Kira McPherson

Kevin Chiat

Keaton McSweeney

Lauren Croser

Alice Mepham

Simon Donnes

Eunice Ong

Sarah Dunstan

Lachlan Petersen

Richard Ferguson

Kate Prendergast

Alex Griffin

Tom Reynolds

Trent Howard

Connor Slight

Blair Hurley

Mark Tilly

Lachlan Keeley

Connor Weightman

Zoe Kilbourn

Natasha Woodcock

The views expressed within are not the opinions of the UWA Student Guild or Pelican editorial staff, but of the individual writers and artists. And sometimes not even them. We take no responsibility for any perceived offence caused by one of our writers. If you wish to contact us you can send an email to pelican@guild.uwa.edu.au.

Apology We would like to apologise to Sarah Pallister for any offence caused as a result of the article on page 22 of the third edition. Although Pelican seeks to be a censorship free zone, it was an error to allow an article containing comments aimed at her personally to be published. We assure you that we will try our utmost not to allow content that targets individuals in this way to be published in the future.

I hope you had great holidays. I will tell you what I did, full time, in my office, while you were busy sinking cocktails in Bali: The Guild’s new look website, after four years of “fixing”, will apparently be unveiled at the start of Semester Two. This is good, because I can’t even navigate it at the moment, so I’m guessing everyone else probably struggles too. We’re putting a fair bit of money into improving the Tavern – which will hopefully look a bit different by the start of next year. For now, we’ve got new plasma screens! Hectic.

Preztorial Hi Guys, Welcome back to Semester Two. Time goes by so quickly... One day, when you’re seventy, you’ll think back to this day, and it will seem like yesterday. So make the most of your time here, because I can assure you it’s more fun than being out in the workforce. I think the theme for this issue of Pelican is very

Ryori no Tetsujin Lately I’ve been watching lots of Iron Chef. Like. A Shitload. Original and American. Partly it’s the camp commentary and overdubs. Mainly it’s because I love watching sport, and I admire the Japanese for realising that elite cooking was a far more edifying competition than say, amateur singing. As a sport it’s engrossing (at least chopped down to its highlights reel format as it’s shown

We’ll be opening expressions of interest for more independent catering outlets on campus in the near future. This will be fantastic, because it will mean there will be more quality, cheap food available for you, and more revenue for the Guild to spend on Student Assistance and Clubs. I wouldn’t expect the new outlet to open any time soon, however.

With regards to the SSAF, it’s been an interesting month. I’m planning on meeting the State Education Minister, and perhaps also the Federal Minister, to discuss the concerns many of you have raised over the past few months. I also did an interview with West TV, but I haven’t seen it yet so here’s hoping I didn’t stuff it up. You might know that I’m not in favour of the SSAF, but while we have it, you can see how we spend the money on the Guild website. Finally, the University is undertaking its Orientation Review in the next week or two, probably before this goes to print, so I’ll keep you updated about the outcome. Responsible orientation activities are an important part of introducing students to uni life, so hopefully we can get a good outcome for everyone. I want to finish by acknowledging Lorraine McKenzie, my Grandmother who passed away a few weeks ago. I wouldn’t be who I am without you. Have a great semester, and enjoy it.

Texchange is now online, so you should go and use it to buy your books second-hand. It can be expensive being a student, so we like to provide you with opportunities to save money.

Regards,

To my friends in the Business School – 24 Hour Access is still coming, although I understand it

Matt McKenzie

on the show); as a display of bizarre excess it’s both garish and impossible to look away. In its Japanese run, Iron Chef spent over $7,000,000US on the grocery bills alone, with one episode featuring over $40,000US worth of swift’s nest. Another contestant bragged about using over $1,000US worth of lobster just to flavour a broth. The only way to ever get a piece of this excess, in America or Japan, is to be either a top food critic, or a C-Grade actress – probably stage, maybe television.

nymphomaniac penguins, Alexandra gives you an introduction to your journey in erotic literature, a beetle thinks it’s William Faulkner, a spider thinks it’s Herman Charles Bosman and idiots at a convention turn the mild-mannered Calvin Connors into the furious ‘Nerd Hulk’.

Interestingly whale – a creature whose consumption is virtually ingrained into our image of Japan was never a featured ingredient on the Japanese version. It is, however, a featured ingredient in this edition of Pelican, ‘Bacchanalia’. While Pelicans are more commonly than not found frolicking in the woods, stripped bare to our skinniest jeans, drinking gleefully from our finest goblets (straight from the bottle), we’ve stretched ourselves outside even that to welcome you hedonistically to the new semester. Old readers, hello, new readers, be prepared. In this edition Patrick goes to Japan to taste the aforementioned minke whale*, Griff aborts a day of recording from his memory banks, Kate unearths the secret journal of Antarctica’s

In this edition you’ll find writing and art from more than 30 students all up, from first years all the way through to doctoral candidates (well, a doctoral candidate). If you’ve ever thought of writing, doing art, or photography, Pelican is the place. Come down to our Writers’ Nights (we got one on Wednesday August 1 folks, Guild Council Room), or just pop into the office, first floor up the stairs in Guild Village. Believe me, one day you too could be a beetle that thinks it’s Nobel Laureate William Faulkner.

Josh (xoxo) *This article is on p.22, if you find the eating of whale offensive I would suggest you don’t read it. All opinions are the writer’s own, and then maybe not even his.

Editorials

has been delayed until next year.

appropriate. According to Wikipedia, Bacchanalia refers to any kind of drunken revelry. As Uni students, we’re obviously unfamiliar with this concept, so I guess we’ll learn something.

Marnie Allen

Dating With Marnie

Dating With

Dear Marnie, I’m thinking of buying some sex toys to spice things up with my boyfriend. Can you recommend any particular products to try? From Quaniqua-Jaye Dear Quaniqua-Jaye, For economic and discreet pleasure toy shopping, I wouldn’t go past your local discount variety store. They are swarming with hidden sex objects cleverly disguised as dog chew toys, gardening accessories and bulk buy party goods. If you shop here, you can tie someone up, cover them in whipped cream and insert a ribbed phallic object into their orifices for the low, low price of $7.43. Pity the fool who invested in the Flashlight Vibro Pink Lady Touch Masturbator at $159.95, or the Hercules Bathmate Hydro Penis Pump at a whopping $169.95. For that price you could essentially build an entire sex dungeon. Just watch out for chafing. Love Marnie

Dear Marnie, I’ve just started dating this girl and we haven’t slept together yet. I keep putting it off because I’ve got gonorrhoea. How do I tell her without her running away?

Illustrations by Jo Ormiston (www.ohjo.co.uk) and Ena Tulic

Tim Dear Tim, It is certainly a difficult situation, but there are ways around it. When I was infected with the Clap via my fifteen year old ex-lover Kenneth I had to conceal it from my husband Patrick. Firstly I slipped him a forget-me-now, infected him with the STI through an injection, planted empty bottles of whiskey and body chocolate, and then hired a prostitute to lie next to him in bed. When he woke up and discovered no prophylactics on or around the scene of scandal and deceit, naturally he got himself checked out and I was in the clear. If you’re worried that taking a similar approach to mine will be ‘illegal’ and ‘immoral’ then I suggest you butter her up with some wining and dining and temple rubbing, before gently breaking the news to her via Frank Zappa’s super hit ‘Why Does it Hurt When I Pee?’. Best of luck, Marnie

Dear Marnie, I’ve been having sex dreams about my stepmum. I’m definitely not attracted to her, so can you think of any reasons why this keeps happening? Polly Dear Polly, I think you need to steer away from the psychoanalytical approach here and ask yourself the following question: Is your stepmum hot in dream bed? If so, then you can think of the sexual encounters in your dream as metaphysical encouragement to pursue a palpable intimate relationship with your biological father’s wife. It may sound radical, but if I were to have ignored my sexual dreams I would not have had thrilling erotic experiences with my local pharmacist Morris, Pelican contributor Alice Psalmer, or Kamahl. I’m still working on Malcolm Turnbull. From Marnie

Dear Marnie, Is there any good masturbation material out there for women who are offended by mainstream pornography? From Kirsty Kirsty; copies of my pornographic film Acres of Mirkin have not yet been distributed in Australia but if you feel like a trip to the Czech republic then you should be able to pick up a copy fairly easily. Our director took great pains to maintain sensitive undertones and emphasize mutual pleasure throughout the film. Furthermore, it ended with a cast performance of ‘We Are the World’ which demonstrated the effectiveness of

using low budget erotica as a platform for raising social conscience. In the meantime, you can email me at pelican@guild.uwa.edu.au and I will forward you the manuscript for my upcoming semi-autobiographic Mills & Boon novella, ‘The 50 Shards of Marnie’. It’s a hybrid of the categories ‘Blaze’ and ‘Medical’. Regards, Marnie

Dear Marnie, Can you give me some suggestions for cute couples activities in Perth? From Stuart Dear Stuart, I’m guessing that you are seeking advice for whimsical, sugary-sweet, ironic indie adventure dates. But as far as I’m concerned, couples crocheting classes, trying on silly clothes at Vinnie’s retro before sharing a pot of chai and checking out some street art, or nursing a boutique beer for three hours at a local gig while interlocking fingers and shoegazing are simply annoying ways to delay sex. Dating is for virgins and people with low self-esteem. Just make some Mi Goreng, take off your pants and bone all night long. It’ll save you lots of money (see my budget sex-toy shopping guide above) and you won’t have to endure another minute of pretending that you’ve read Jane Eyre or telling people that you’re thinking of going vegan. Be yourself, have sex and don’t get relationship advice from Frankie. Regards, Marnie

Zeitgeist

revenge of the nerds Tom Reynolds (@tsareynolds) I like the BRICS. They’re the equivalent in intentional politics of a band of schoolyard nerds who band together to defend themselves from hallway wedgies and change-room towel whippings. This underdog quintet is composed of Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa. Originally conceptualised as as part of an investment thesis for Goldman Sachs, the BRICS have begun to organise themselves into a more formal association with the intention of using their combined economic strength and mutual interests to leverage their interests. In other words, it’s the revenge of the nerds writ large. By the mid-2000s the BRICS are anticipated join the United States and the EU among the most dominant global economies. They have relatively fast rates of economic growth, rapidly ascending personal income levels, and large populations; nearly three billion people are presently citizens of a member country. Within a generation hundreds of millions of people will be mobilised out of poverty. That’s pretty exciting news if you’re into historically unprecedented humanitarian achievements and/or selling consumer goods. The BRICS have already pledged their intention to use their strength to establish a multi-polar world order that will displace the (Western) jock fraternity’s hegemony. Barring a catastrophic event like a meteor strike or a global re-broadcasting of The Shire, the demographic changes affecting the BRICS are locked in. While America will remain the king of the campus for most of this century, they’re going to have a tougher time enforcing who gets invited to the fraternity keggers. So for your erudition I stretch this analogy to breaking point and present to you the geek club of international politics, the BRICS.

Brazil: The transformative geek beauty trapped within an unflattering back brace. Like most geeks the other BRICS possess obsessively finely tuned, if limited, skills. Brazil manages to balance her economic talents in exporting commodities (soy beans, timber and mining), manufacturing, and services (tourism and finance). Brazil also maintains a stable and progressive policy mindset having moved on from an abusive relationship with dictatorships and a co-dependency on mega-infrastructure projects. Of all the BRICS Brazil presents the most promising long-term prospect for graduating with a well-rounded post-doctorate after decades of unfulfilled expectations.

Russia: The cocky guy who peaked in high school, since shunned by the jocks. Obsessed with former glory Russia periodically menaces the neighbours and harasses the EU fraternity by threatening to withhold natural gas deliveries. Commodities are Russia’s special skill, with large surpluses of natural gas, grain, timber and minerals. Ever since leaving Soviet High School Russia has been in a state of arrested development and failed to move on from his old habits. As such the prospects of recapturing his glory days as the schoolyard bully are unlikely given how far the rest of the world has moved on. His lack of economic skills, political immaturity and an unwillingness amongst others to indulge his latent megalomania will likely result in a passing grade on his engineering degree, but no high honours.

India: The tubby asthmatic fresher who holds back. Oy, is India is a slob. Every year he manages to lose up to a third of his food due to things like a lack of refrigeration, and not getting the food from the market to the table quick

enough. Lacking natural resources India has undertaken a degree in telecommunications with a minor in scientific research. India’s a habitual fence-sitter, despite recent overtures of friendship from America. To their credit India has remained democratic, and has also been achieving modest grades - despite a lack of organisation and a tendency to misplace large sums of public money. Expect India to graduate several years after China, if they can find their study notes.

China: The shrewd leader of the gang. China is clearly the leader of the gang, being the biggest and wealthiest of the group. They were also responsible for inviting South Africa to join – a clever decision given their interest in dating some of the African nations. Despite their leadership and achievements China is fragile and prone to fretting unless occupied in studying, working, or partying. Well, less partying and more like modernising their four million man armed forces. With significant resources and a broad manufacturing base China looks set to join America on the Honour Roll in the coming decades. Of course all of this depends on China’s ability to remain focused and fairly distribute the benefits of increasing prosperity fairly.

South Africa: The plucky high school geek advanced into college a year early. The economic and demographically smallest of the gang, South Africa will never mature into a great power. Despite a traumatic upbringing South Africa rivals Brazil as the most liberal and inclusive of the other BRICS. Like Brazil they are well rounded in their skill set, and have a matured services sector. Unfortunately crime, creeping authoritarianism and stubborn unemployment continue to slow South Africa’s progression. Expect South Africa to graduate with a BA And find a comfortable job in middle management.

Politics

Richard Ferguson speaks with Her Majesty, the Queen

Your Majesty, Welcome to Pelican Magazine. Charmed, I’m sure.

Your Majesty, you have reigned for sixty years without giving any interviews. Why have you decided to speak publicly now? Well, you have cornered one next to the portaloo and security will take another fifteen minutes to get here.

A lot has certainly changed in Britain in sixty years, hasn’t it?

Illustrations by Ena Tulic and Wenny Yeo

Oh yes, quite a considerable transformation. Our empire’s greatest assets used to be the Indian sub-continent. Now our biggest assets are the Arctic Monkeys. It has certainly been a fall from grace.

Do you think there is any way that the monarchy that can help Britain return to its former glory? The monarchy is the key to the economic and cultural life of this dreadful little rock, dear boy. The people of the world have only paid the slightest attention when there has been a royal event on the television. Therefore, I decree that every palace in the United Kingdom will be demolished and replaced with a chain of “Royal Lands”. From the Will-and-Kate Tunnel of Love to the

What has been the biggest change in terms of your role as monarch in the past sixty years? Well, I cannot behead anyone anymore. Shame, really. Margaret Thatcherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head would look great next to the stuffed moose in the drawing room.

Who was your favourite Prime Minister then? Gordon Brown. Lovely bottom.

Do you think that Australia should replace the monarchy with an elected head of state? Oh yes, because that worked out so fucking well for America.

Do you not think that it may be good for Australia to form their own national identity, instead of maintaining out-dated ties to Britain? What identity? The British monarchy offers the Australian people a connection to a thousand-year dynasty steeped in history and culture. We are a gateway to an ancient

Without the monarchy, what do you have? Bert Newton?

Some commentators worry about the prospect of Prince Charles becoming king. Do you believe there should be any changes to the planned succession, such as skipping a generation to Prince William? Absolutely, there should be a change to the succession. Charles may be my first-born child but I do recognise the fact that he is a complete berk. As for William, any man who chooses Kate over Pippa is clearly an idiot. I have decided that Dame Helen Mirren shall be Queen when my reign ends. After that bloody film people think we are the same person, so it should be a smooth transition.

You do not think that William and Kate have rejuvenated the Royal Family in the eyes of the public? We do not require rejuvenation. We are not a film franchise. William and Kate may be fashionable but fashions also go out of date. This family has earned the respect of the globe by being anything but hip. Your husband, Prince Phillip was unwell during your recent Jubilee celebrations. Can you give us an update on his condition?

Phillip is absolutely fine. The man still manages to chase his secretary around the desk so his heart cannot be as bad as the doctors make it out to be.

What would you consider your finest achievement as monarch? Maintaining the same hair-do for sixty years whilst staying fabulous.

Finally, what do you hope to achieve in the rest of your reign? One does hope to release my first record next Christmas. It is a cover album of Shirley Basseyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s greatest hits.

Politics

tradition of empire and art, science and conquest. We have given you lot everything we have got.

Princess Anne Petting Zoo (where you can even feed Anne some sugar cubes), these great family parks will generate more money than an IMF bailout. Brilliant idea, I think.

Politics

the United nations as seen by a bug Lachlan Keeley

AN IMPORTANT MEETING AT THE UNITED NATIONS AS VIEWED FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF A PARTLY-CRUSHED INSECT OF THE GENUS COLEOPTERA ATTACHED TO THE SOLE OF THE SHOE OF THE MEMBER FOR THE FORMER EASTERN BLOC NATION SHIMASLAVIKA AND SUFFERING FROM THE DELUSION THAT IT IS NOBEL PRIZE WINNING AMERICAN AUTHOR WILLIAM FAULKNER

And so he says to me “What would you know of politics? You’re just an insect not even that, a petite bourgeois insect stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe and not even impartial, nobody is impartial, specially not a bug of all things.” Well you know, what could I say back obviously. I was shocked for a moment at his hubris because he thought he knew me but not well enough clearly.

Illustrations by Camden Watts

So I did all I could, all I would be expected to say in this kind of circumstance but then my brain sort of didn’t work with me in synchronising so all I could say was, “But just

because I may be an insect and I may not play the games that are the norm in this bloated corpulent thing some call politics, I may not have any politics but I might still have ideas about things. Did you ever think of that?” And he just stayed silent, he wouldn’t even respond that’s what he was like whenever someone confronted him sitting there grinning to himself like he was still in the right all the goddamn time. So what did I do the only thing I knew how to do I kept on talking. He was blind all right, blinded by his own brain. I knew he wouldn’t listen anyway. What are all those names for it a paper tiger, impotent declawed sterile creature, just gums without even veins anymore the veins are all shrivelled up and dropped off like a severed umbilical cord? Ain’t nobody woken up in the middle night ‘cause they scared of gums. The only thing might threaten you is gone, so what can they do? Just make you feel uncomfortable maybe, if there’s still some veins writhing around like kelp in a monsoon, but then it’s over and nobody’s changed, they can’t do anything. It’s a recording, a chamber play. Plastic knife that’s just as like to break when you try to slice anything, what I say. But you can’t hold no grudge at ‘em for it, it’s not their fault in the first

it’s history that’s to blame. History bandaging itself with some kind of stinking wrapping, decaying little bits of cloth stinking of aborted bacteria. And then I looked at him right directly in his horrible beady little eyes and I said what I had to say. “Do you have any concept of true pain? Have you ever felt something actual, real pain? Do you even know what that is? Do you?” Course he didn’t even respond, just sat there grinning still but there was something behind his eyes. I couldn’t tell you what, something obscene like he was not seeing me at all. Me, the man on a shoe in a goddamn meeting but I couldn’t hate him for it, it was just the way he was. An idiot maybe but who am I to judge? I’ve done things that people could call me, and probably have called me, idiot for many times but I’m none the worse off, it’s life. That’s what happens we do stupid things and we die. No point in trying to prevent it with any kind of organised system, that’d be the last thing anyone needed. But he read books. I had a book near me, it was called What is Wrong with the United Nations. Like anyone needed a serious answer to that question. Systems of something or other always did no good for me, I was just a man who was a bug on a shoe. What did I care of some country I never even heard of? People throwing explosions at each other and being told not to? Not my business. I said, “Internal policy’s the only thing people should worry about first, then worry about what your

Politics

11 neighbour’s doing.” Course what I really meant was to worry about plumbing. Nobody ever been happy if they can’t have a hot shower in the morning, let alone flush away their ablutions. All these people nested in filth can’t ever be happy that way. That was my point. Plumbing. Who could see something wrong with sending people pipes instead of bombs. Sanctions against internal architecture wasn’t the first thing on their business, him just staring at me thinking I was lying. I never lied about tubes. “Send them plumbers” I said. “United what, united in comfort?” And that was me gone, that was my argument. That would have been the best thing, plumbing and clean water. Course, I was a bug, not a plumber. He didn’t even have the courtesy to respond. What else was there to say?

Politics

POLITICAL PERVERSIONS Connor Slight

Illustrations by Camden Watts

From Slipper to Berlusconi, polticians play out an international saga of narcissistic candidates for dirty old man of the year. No doubt these various men and women harbour extremely refined sexual fetishes only years of equivocatory banter and baby kissing could produce.

I’m sure there’s a brothel somewhere whose political clientele means the venerable madam can actually claim they’ve seen it all. Well actually, I know there is. It’s called the Platinum Congregation, and its owner has literally seen it all. Because her real identity has been concealed to avoid her seeking refuge in a shithole like Cuba, the pseudonym Sally Sallyson will be used instead. I asked her which politicians rank among the most refined sexual fiends, only to be confronted with a sad saga of disturbingly specific paraphilia. Apparently, there’s an Australian politician who, in an act of extreme vainness, films and stars in his own sexual reality show. The client jury-rigs a room with hidden cameras and unsuspecting prostitutes in a nod to his ‘hero of sex-place craftsmanship’, a man called Clive. Over 72 hours, ‘Mr. Rudd’ engages in videorecorded selfcelebratory sexual acts. Freud would call it autoeroticism; Mr. Rudd calls it RuddVision™.

”

In one act, the ‘Cannonball Rudd’, he runs through a corridor of mirrors naked. Another, the ‘Omnilinguist’, involves Mr. Rudd performing cunnilingus while attempting to speak different translations of the phase “better Rudd than sorry”. Throughout the entire marathon, Mr. Rudd collects his ejaculate in an empty sauce bottle. At the very end, Sally reveals how the emotionally and physically damaged client throws the milky brew on a particular redheaded hooker in a non-comittal state of bemusement. Sally’s seen RuddVision™ and she assures me it’s still better than Being Lara Bingle. There is a room in the brothel that is shrouded in secrecy. In 1995, Sally received undisclosed cash from a group of suits. In ’96, a contingent of military figures spent three weeks in the brothel’s basement. After that it remained unused until 1999, when Dick Cheney marched straight into the room, where he remained for two weeks. As it turns out, the room is a machine called the Cerebrum, and it serves Cheney as a technological agency for unrestricted and unlimited sexual fantasies. Sally remembers how she curiously used the machine only to be confronted by a violent Marlowesque decent into unfathomable darkness, which she compared to an even more homoerotic Rambo. Eventually, Cheney stopped using the room as it turns out he broke the military grade technology, it just couldn’t handle his sexual destruction. Antonis Samaras was a normal patron of the congregation (there were rumors he had to cut healthcare for a week to gain entry). He’d engage in the internationally accepted amount of debauchery and lechery, but recently, Sally has noticed a rise in his sexual dependency

on prostitutes. He started paying them to chain him to a wall and poke him with different kinds of phallic shaped meats, growing affectionate towards a particular frankfurter called Karl. Samaras confessed this to Sally during one of his more reserved times where he likes to dress up in a Dirndyl and plat her hair. He also bought lavish gifts for all of his favorite hookers. Not because he values their work, but because he’s seduced by the sense of endowment it brings. He can be heard throughout the building shouting, “tell me who’s generous!” It isn’t just men who frequent her bordello; there is one woman who literally shits all over men when it comes to sexual depravity. Angela Merkel may seem conservative on the outside, but once she’s fitted with her gold strap-on and given an uncorrupted male, she turns into an unstoppable hussy. Sally had to introduce the compulsory use of a safe word due to one incident involving Merkel, 26 gimps and a bull. Sally thinks there’s deep personal anguish behind it all, others just think its cause she’s German. I think the lesson we can learn from Sally and her patrons is that politics just has a huge effect on a person’s sexuality. The weight of power and a whole country’s dependency comes down harder on someone than a spanking paddle. Sex can work as an intimate means of personal expression, maybe through the personal defecation, harmful masturbation, the bondage, slavery and sadistic stimulation politicians are trying to tell us something. Maybe they’re calling for help. Or more likely, they’re just very, very sick people.

Politics

Over 72 hours, ‘Mr. Rudd’ engages in video-recorded self-celebratory sexual acts. Freud would call it autoeroticism; Mr. Rudd calls it RuddVision™.

“

Bacchanalia

Donnes P. I.:

A BREW TO BILL FOR Simon Donnes

Illustrations by Grace McKie

Work as a Private Eye comes slow in the winter. Most of the Jacks and Janes of the world don’t like getting all windswept and wet. I’d had no work for months so when a pretty little dame walked into my office, pining after her missing man, I jumped at the chance. The cops had been no good to her and she’d heard about me through a friend. So much for the ad in the paper. As it happened, this man of hers worked at that new Rocketfuel, a coffee shop in the UWA Refectory. The goon at the counter didn’t have any idea where my guy had gone, said he’d just stopped coming in a few days back. I had a feeling he was hiding something, but I thanked him anyway and headed off across the lawn. Close to the solstice, it was almost dark by four. I lit a smoke, thunder growled low in the distance and tiny raindrops began to fall in a steady staccato.

From under the darkness of the trees, the voice of a gal rang out. I cocked my head at her and I caught her eyes, those big saucers of eyes; peering right at my soul. I moseyed on over to her secluded spot. The pale marble of her skin fought with the black of her shirt, where I could make out the Rocketfuel logo. “You got something for me, Dollface?’ My words pierced the static of the steady drizzle. ‘Got a friend of yours that’s fallen off the grid.” Such a delicate looking thing, all porcelain smooth features and look of concern. The Doll washed her eyes over my face, drinking in the features. “Leave this. It goes deeper than you think.” Leaning in and whispering into my ear, she trailed a finger down my spine “I wouldn’t want to see such a fine specimen all messed up.” She found what she was looking for, a small muscle in the dip of my back, and pressed hard

with her long, slender finger. There I stood, a paralysed schmuck caught in the rain, as my best lead slinked around a building and out of sight. All my other leads ran cold. The guy I was after had no grudges or hits out on him, no major debts and no real presence in the world. He was just a barista, a nobody trying to get by. I still had a funny feeling about Rocketfuel, so I set up a stake out in a building across the lawn from it. It had a lot of customers, especially considering the semester was still over. After a few hours, I started taking down descriptions, if only to take breaks from the cheap scotch I was drowning myself in. There was too many return customers; too many people in general to be coming to this specific place for their coffee. From all accounts, this place wasn’t even that good. Dollface showed up too but not like I remembered her. She wasn’t in uniform, just went and spoke with the goon

In the dead of night, against a backdrop of howling wind and bitter cold, I snuck into the place to have a snoop around. Most of it checked out – the grinders, the fridge, and the register – but not the beans. They’d left a sack from that day lying against the wall. Product of Langley, Virginia. What was coffee grown in the backyard of the CIA doing here? How was this related to my guy? I grabbed a handful of the beans and hightailed it out of there. Back in the stake-out, I started running tests. They just looked like average joe coffee beans. The sun was coming up soon and I felt like breakfast, so I drew the last smoke from the pack and boiled some water to mix with the beans. From the first sip I knew something was up. My head spun and the room contorted in the shadows of steel blue smoke from my cigarette. I felt like old, fat steak, dead and ready for the pan. I poured myself another drink to get my bearings and stared into the storm. Why was Rocketfuel drugging its customers? What did it achieve? At least one person could shed some light on the situation – John Smith. I didn’t know if that was his real name or just a cover, but he was a full time narc and a dealer on the side, making him the most qualified man for an ID job. He had a place out in Hilton I needed to pay a visit to. I arrived at his house with an itch in my gut and my piece at my side. It was a bad neighbourhood. Not being the closest of relations, neither of us wasted time with the formalities. He eyed me up and down and drew hard on his hand rolled smoke. I gave him the pot of now cold coffee and the last bean from my late night search. One taste was all it took. “It’s LSD” “Why would someone lace people’s coffee with Acid?” “You remember MKULTRA don’t you?” He dropped his smoke and stubbed it out on the rotting carpet. “CIA mind control experiments with Acid back in the Sixties. They reckon that –“ A car door slammed outside, and his head flew to face it, cutting him off. It was right outside. ‘You were followed!” His head snapped back to me, fire burning in his steely eyes. “What were the results? Did it work?” He never gave me that answer. A burst of lead rained in from the window, a round catching Smith in the chest. I dropped behind the couch and pulled out my cannon. The goon was climbing through the window, and I stood up to take a look at him before I blew him away. It was Dollface, and she had had a gun trained on me the whole time. “Well this is a predicament, Toots.” I fished a smoke out of my coat with my free hand.

Before I plugged her, I wanted some information. “So you ain’t working for Rocketfuel then?” “Who do you think put them on campus?” The penny dropped and all the pieces fit together. After plugging her full of holes, I checked her purse but I knew what I’d find. A guild card with one of those student politicians’ faces on it. The same one that was plastered all over the guild. They’d cut a deal with Rocketfuel to drug their patrons to ensure continued political support. In return, they gave them a piece of prime real estate and first dibs on a population of coffee crazed hipsters. My missing guy probably started asking questions and got a pair of cement shoes for his trouble. I finished my fifth smoke and checked the pack. One left. Every time I went up against worse odds than usual, I’d leave myself one lonely cigarette. Sort of a good luck charm – something to come back to. Now, going after this Guild head honcho, who’d demonstrated just how far he’d go to keep his secret quiet, seemed like a good time for some luck. The door to the lobby flew open and a pack of pencil pushers behind the desk spotted me. I cut most of them in half before they had time to yell out for backup. One of them had worked his fingers round his own piece and fired a few rounds off from under the counter. Next thing he knew, I’d hauled him up on top and had my cannon was in his face. “Where’s your boss?!” All I got back was a whimper. I smacked his head down on the counter and asked again. “E...End of the...hall.” The trip down there didn’t have any surprises. Either all the other goons figured the Boss Man wanted to do me in himself or knew that if they stayed out of my way they might survive the night. The halogens threw a sickly pale glow on the hall, and washed out the deep mahogany of the hand crafted door labelled “Guild President”. Barging into the room, I levelled my Cannon at the figure staring out the window into the rain. A stark contrast to the rest of the

building, all the lights were off in the head office. Atop the hand carved writing desk that matched the door, lay a placard. The half shadows cast by the moonlight coming through the venetians illuminated it just enough to read, “The Boss.” A growl escaped my lips “Where’s the Barista?” His back rippled in a shudder. I seemed to have disturbed him, either by bringing up an unpleasant memory or, more pressingly, threatening his life with my gun. “The bottom of Matilda Bay - An unfortunate necessity. He risked everything we had already achieved.” He turned with a grandiose flourish, coat tails flapping and mouth snarling into a grin. ‘All I’m doing is protecting the people by protecting myself. It appears our little operation has reached an impasse. And so have you, Detective!” Tune in next month for the thrilling conclusion to A BREW TO BILL FOR!

Bacchanalia

“I told you to stay out of this, but you’re in too deep and you know too much now.” This gal was cold. The piece in her grip was serious kit; Smith ought to have half his chest missing.

running the till. He seemed right spooked by her, like he’d seen a ghost. She didn’t even buy a coffee. Something was up.

Bacchanalia

The Secret Journal of

Raymond

Priestly

In June this year a manuscript written by one of the men from Scott’s infamous Polar expedition, Dr George Levick, was unearthed from a long-forgotten archive within the British Natural History Museum. Contained was a revised compilation of his observations on the “sexual depravity” of the Adelie Penguins, which detailed instances of rape, necrophilia and homosexuality. Deemed too inappropriate for delicate Edwardian sensibilities, the pamphlet was limited to a strict and secret circulation amongst professionals. Only now has it been made public. Levick’s original notebook itself was encoded in Greek. The curator who uncovered the files suggests that since “at the time homosexuality was still illegal... it could be that he was fearful of the legal implications of his observations.” What authorities have not yet disclosed is the journal of another member of the Northern party – that of Raymond Priestly. What follows is an extract from that very diary, revealing for the first time the secret of Inexpressible Island.

Illustrations and words by Kate Prendergast

17th February 1912 My companions and I are very eager to return to base-camp. It has been a trying year at the Cape, and we suffer daily under the torment of what was witnessed there. In such inhospitable conditions one expects to encounter Nature in her most primal form. But never had we dreamed that a creature of such celebrated dignity and charm was capable of acts so horrendously vile, so liver-quiveringly base, so gaspingly lewd. Waiting here on the edge of this moraine for our return ship, I long to speak of the horror that still waddles about our minds on webbed feet but it is hardly the stuff of gentlemanly conversation. In every attempt I have made to broach the matter, I have succeeded only in eliciting a mixture of fear and repugnance amongst the men. And so, enclosed in our private traumas, we stand in silence on this rocky depot – Levick, Campbell, Dickason, Browning, Abbott and I – pitching and rocking in the unfriendly wind, eyes fixed to the horizon. 19th February 1912 Our ship never came. The Antarctic seas are perilous, and Campbell is certain the Terra Nova and all her crew have fallen prey to an iceberg. If this is true, our hopes of escaping the Antarctic Winter are dashed. We have excavated the side of a snow drift for shelter, some twelve by nine feet— cramped quarters for six men. They have begun calling this place “Inexpressible Island”. It so happened this afternoon I chanced upon Levick’s journal, which he regularly secretes in his pyjama bottoms for safe-keeping. To my astonishment, it was filled with innumerable

notations on the very topic that our company holds taboo! That is – I suppress a shudder – the Adelie penguins of Cape Adare. I recalled then that despite being no scientist himself, Levick had shown a singular keenness of interest in the penguins’ obscenity. Many times did I espy him ducking and weaving about the boulders skirting the colony. Once I tried to uproot him, thinking his head to be a rather ugly tundra weed, for he had halfburied himself under the snow for the “purpose of discretion in the pursuit of scientific knowledge”. Though the journal was written in Greek, luckily I possessed the learning to penetrate its meaning. “There seems to be no crime too low for these penguins”, he had scribbled. He thence proceeded to methodically document the rape, sodomy, child-abuse and necrophilia that were commonplace amongst those perverted little avian gentlemen. Some passages were so explicit that on several occasions I had to shut my eyes and think of England. 4th April 1912 God! This icy hovel is a wretched place. Every surface is befouled by the acrid smoke given off by our make-shift blubber stove. And what with poor Browning’s dysentery not improving, I fear things will be covered with something a great deal worse in a very short space of time. It is deathly cold in here, but when hunger forces us to venture outside to hunt for seal, it feels as though to pause is to risk becoming a frozen effigy. Upon removing my ski boots last night, I discovered two of my toes had been left behind. It took three hours to chisel them out with a handy narwhal’s horn. An extremely trying labour. Tugging at my ear in frustration, I

“Priestly, don’t you see what you’re becoming?” Levick wailed. “You’re becoming them!” “Oh don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped. “I’m not about to go and bum a dead chick.” Lowering my voice, I murmured “you didn’t seem to mind sharing a little human heat back in England. Until you married Lady Jane, that is.” Perhaps I was a little too forward, for at this his eyes widened to the size of omelettes, his mouth shut like a trap, and he would say no more. 11th April 1912 Being very low on supplies, petty officer Abbott volunteered this morning to step outside and club some baby seals. He seems to derive rather more enjoyment from the task than is necessary. 14th April 1912 Levick slipped into my sleeping bag last night, as did Campbell, which I did not expect but was not opposed to. I had to draw a line when Dickason tried to slide in though, on account of his dysentery. Abbott and Browning remained huddled beneath their furs on the far side of the cave. I thought both to be asleep until I saw Abbott’s eyes reflected by the flames of the blubber stove. I can’t be sure whether it was this murky, sulphurous light that gave to his stare its malicious gleam. 16th April 1912 A nasty confrontation with Abbott today. He announced he would not tolerate our nightly activities. Vile words were spoken. Browning on the other hand has no qualms. “These are hard times,” he shrugged. I like the man.

Bacchanalia

It was this selfsame concern which led me to a new method of warming myself the other night. I was obliged to desist when Levick woke abruptly, letting loose such a terrible squawk of outrage it roused the rest of the men. Heated words were exchanged, with Levick bellowing about “sanctity of boundaries” and “upholding the tenets of civility”, whilst I fiercely countered that arbitrary ideals like “civility” are irrelevant in a frozen Antipodean hole.

17th April 1912 Abbott has turned barbarian! He rushed at Levick with a harpoon and would have impaled him had Campbell not knocked aside the spear at the last moment. We were forced to thump him out cold, and have built a small dome of ice about him. Until his senses return, we intend to lower all necessities through a small opening in the roof.

succeeded in pulling that off too. I confess to being extremely anxious not to lose any more extremities.

The absence of his ever-glowering face is something of a relief. Perhaps now we can enjoy ourselves a little. 18th May 1912 Great Scott! 26th June 1912 I mean, I say! 29th June 1912 Oh, crumbs! 30th June 1912 We released Abbott from his ice-cell this morning. He seems to regret his violent outburst. Hmm. 12th July 1912 Abbott dragged a live seal into our cave yesterday. When he triumphantly declared what he intended to do with it, I almost caused myself an injury. Drawing him aside gently, I told him that bestiality had no place now or in the future, and was, simply, wrong. I think he had gotten a little confused and excited in this exercise of transgression. A sad and addled logic he must have fuddled through alone in that cell, to conflate man with Adelie penguin. Thus by judicious intervention, the seal was spared, and instead chopped up and minced for supper. 11th September 1912 Spring has returned! A week has passed since we left our icy burrow, and we now make for base-camp. This means a long trudge south across 200 miles of ice, and a perilous crossing of the Drygalski Ice Tongue, but our resolve is set. Things were getting boring back there – spirits failing, energies flagging. Not much fun for anybody. 7th November 1913 A year has passed since our safe return to Queen and Country. A strange despondency

has overtaken me, but I must keep reminding myself what a lucky bugger I am. Scott and his men never returned from their failed conquest on the Pole. Their bodies were discovered some months ago. I am somewhat relieved, for reports confirm that whilst the corpses were extremely stiff, they had not been interfered with. For months I have suffered nightmares in which something foul and feathery stumbled across them in the snow. Levick left for the Royal Navy three weeks ago. Sharing our last drink together at the local Mouse and Marmalade, I felt him slip an envelope into my coat pocket. Opening it later, I found enclosed a pamphlet entitled ‘The Sexual Habits of the Adelie Penguin’. Reading with some earnest, my eyes stumbled across a passage near the end that gave me pause. “The road to hell might be paved with good intentions” Levick had written, “but it seemed probable that hell itself would be paved something after the style of Inexpressible Island.” Sorrow and anguish overcame me, as I thought of the hidden import of his words and what it revealed of my dear, troubled friend. It seems Levick is, after all, too much a man of this intolerant age. I sighed, stowed the pamphlet in a drawer, and called my rent boy for some anal sex.

Food

MONSTER CHEF Kate Prendergast In the last month of this year of Your Lord, a few days before yuletide, the world as we know it shall end. Yeah whatever, so over our imminent demise. Prophecies do have a habit of losing that shock effect when they’ve been circulating for several centuries. All that hype and hysteria just makes people complacent. Dangerously complacent, given this is the time they should be joining cults or marshalling armies, making furious love to strangers or finding Aragorn, saviour of mankind, and making furious love to him.

Illustration by Kate Prendergast

Whether you spend December 21st watching Mock the Week reruns or drinking lots and lots of Jesus’ faux blood so as to imbibe his holy spirit, the apocalypse will descend upon thee and thine own. Make no mistake. And it will be upon this day, the Great Unveiling, that all the evils creeping about in the interstices of the known world shall at last be disclosed to our waking eyes. Already, disturbing news reports suggest that the host of preternatural beasties is growing ever bolder. Cannibals tear at the faces of slumbering vagrants on sun-drenched Miami causeways. Frenzied zombies rip out their own intestines and fling them at police. Sallow-faced, sunken-eyed, melodramatic ninnyfops host cooking shows. Insatiable, this demon whose name is Preston – and who admitted to owning over 90 cravats and having names for each – will devour anything set before him, smirking his disgust and grimacing his pleasure. If we are to survive in the midst of such fiends, ingenious strategy is required. Depending upon myth will not do, for myths are easily misinterpreted. What if the weakness of the vampire is not a stake, but a steak? The damn trappings of figurative language could in this case be fatal. Only one thing is certain: They are

hungry. They must feed. If you don’t want to be on the menu, you must make the menu. You must become a Monsterchef. So hearken to me now. Lend me your ear – I need at least thirty for the ear ragout. These are grave platters that we speak of. As is generally known, monsters like a good mash. Memorise the recipe and preparation as follows:

The Monster Mash Salted spuds

The powdered tusk of an Eritrean Warthog Boris Pickett, lightly fried Horn flakes

Ten thousand bumblebees’ appendices The bark of the prairie wolf A dash of Em

A twist of the unexpected

Toss it all into a big pot and mash. Continue pulverisation until your forearm seizes up into a cramp. Garnish with a pinch of Rosemary’s baby. Best served with mould – It’ll be a graveyard smash!* *Disclaimer: Might not be a graveyard smash.

Obviously, onions and garlic are strictly forbidden. The vampires only known allergens, both cause their skin to erupt, though not into flames, only in hives. As it happens, pumpkins are also off the menu. Inclusion of the pumpkin would constitute a grievous insult to your fanged guests, who – according to Serbian gypsy folklore – share an (un)natural kindship with these vegetables. Whilst carrying out ethnographical research into the customs and culture of the Kosovo region, a Mr Tatomir Vukanovic penned this curious superstition in his journal for the bewilderment of posterity: “There are only two plants which are regarded as likely to turn into vampires: pumpkins of every kind and water-melons...This transformation occurs if these ground fruit have been kept for more than ten days: then the gathered pumpkins stir all by themselves and make a sound like ‘brrrl, brrrl, brrrl!’ and begin to shake themselves.” Thence working themselves up to a fermented, oozing fury, they begin “fighting one another”. Allegedly, it is the sheer vitality of spite that causes their thick orange skin to drain to a deathly, vampiric pallor and a spindly body to erupt from beneath. The dread legion of squashes will then proceed to “go round the houses, stables, and rooms at night, all by themselves, and do harm to people. But it is thought that they cannot do great damage to folk, so people are not very afraid of this kind of vampire.”

However, if you want to sup on it yourself in an attempt to “fit in” or “chummy up”, Tru Blood happens to be an actual merchandised product. Manufactured in the States by Omni Consumer Products (the “omni” part being misleading), HBO advertises the drink as a “uniquely carbonated, slightly tart blood-orange beverage”. It sells at $25.93 for a four-pack – double that if you want an import. In an online user review, Fukuronnie posts: “I make mine at home by using Sobe bottles and I print my own labels and fill them with anything I want that

Such plasma poppers will not go down well with your new masters. You therefore have no alternative but to order in a batch of humans. It must be done on the sly though, what with all the controversy over live trade at the moment. But say! You’ll do. You look...fresh. Tasty. Now you look green. Not a vegetarian are you? No? Good. Varney the Vampire needs his iron. I mean...my God. That neck. Nice. Supple. Elongated. Like a swan. Anyway. Only by giving them something to sink their teeth into other than your rump or neck will man and monster be able to coexist. When the time comes, we must henceforth acknowledge our new status as subordinates and relegate ourselves to the domestic sphere *echoing shrieks of enraged feminists are heard*. If you don’t find the Monsterchef arrangement too unsavoury an idea, it’s little wonder. Has it never struck you as odd— this mass,

FETID FACT#1 !! Renfield Syndrome, also known as clinical vampirism, is a rare and controversial psychological disorder wherein the sufferer is consumed by a craving for blood. The name was inspired by Bram Stoker’s character Renfield – Dracula’s mad, insect-gobbling minion. He was diagnosed by Dr Seward as a “zoophagous maniac”. Allegedly, the disorder has its origins in an enduring childhood association between blood and excitement. During puberty, the fascination with blood is infused with an erotic appeal. Moral of the fetid fact: Never allow adolescents to make out and watch Saw simultaneously.

FETID FACT #2 !! Varney the Vampire (also known as A Feast of Blood) was a serialised penny dreadful written by James Malcolm Rymer in the mid-19th century. The story spans over 220 chapters, and introduced to literary culture fiction’s first “sympathetic vampire”. Depicted as both victim and villain, Varney set the archetype for the accursed anti-hero engaged in a futile battle against his irrepressible brute desires. [Spoiler Alert] So tormented and repulsed is Varney by his vile condition, he ultimately commits suicide by throwing himself into Mount Vesuvius.

competitive cooking show phenomenon that’s taken over our screens of late? Through the subtle workings of such programs, kitchen slavery is rapidly becoming glamorised, with the struggle to please a ruthless minority the underlying, celebrated logic. In short, this unprecedented cultural fixation with cooking is nothing less than uncanny premonition. It’s circumspect adaptation; it’s pre-emptive training. It’s our gustational, sensational means of preparing mankind for the worst. Also note how the shows’ competitors may as well use an ice-cream scoop when applying butter to the pan or mix. Clog up the beasties’ arteries with cholesterol, and you’ve got a greater chance of outrunning them if (oh calamity!) your culinary creations fail to sate their appetite or slake their thirst. So ready, steady, cook or run for your goddamn life. Allez Cuisine!

Food

looks red!” Another described it as “just fanta”.

Have it in mind though, those that you’ll be catering for will be of a far higher pedigree, and therefore possess an infinitely more evolved palate. One must therefore never serve a drop of that insipid Tru Blood swill to your guests. Old Drakey wants the real deal, not a synthetic substitute. Moreover, it would be quite unendurable to see the ancient Nosferatu – Prince of Darkness, Phantom der Nacht, Incisorman – sucking away on a bottle, getting his fangs stuck in the straw, dribbling down the front of his red velvet double-breasted vest. How utterly degrading to his proud mystique.

Arachnophobia

The Miseducation of the Spider Johannes Steyn As told in the voorkamer of the spider Lourens Josh Chiat

It is true I think (the spider Lourens said) that while one receives his degree in the lecture halls, he receives his education in the tavern. It was a funny thing that happened that time when Johannes Steyn decided to leave his corner of the UWA Guild President’s office because he wanted to become educated. This was not a normal thing for a spider. Jurie Jost said that Johannes had come down with the sickness. Paul De Groot said it was the fault of Steyn’s dimwitted funnel web grandfather on his mother’s side. De Groot retreated when Steyn reminded him that they came from the same sac.

Illustration by Camden Watts

I happened to come across him one day when he was considering his options. Johannes had never seemed like a curious spider. He did occasionally head outside when the storms came and the flies were forced to the ground, away from the second story window they had to enter for him to convert them to prey. However, the President’s room was a smelly one, and this generally brought enough flies for Steyn even in the winter. Not that a spider can smell smells – it cannot taste, and therefore cannot be offended – but with his feelers, long nerve endings, of which Johannes had some of the longest of all the spiders, he could feel the density of the air that drew the house flies and suffocated the humans. That Johannes could sense a good position and stay there as long as possible was a great skill for a spider to have, which made what he said next all the more queer.

“Lourens”, he unspooled his web about to leave it to cob, “you’re a wise spider, and you tell the best stories in the exact way, so that the only thing you express is truth. So tell me: What happened to the last spider that tried to … get educated?” “I don’t have a story for that” I said, slightly embarrassed by my answer. “Why not?” “Because it’s never happened before, and I can only recite the truth as you know.” “Well then I will give you a story to tell. I was reading – it was a book in human tongue, I found it when I used to meet Jonty at the library – about a spider who teaches a pig. I want to do something like that. I can be good too.”

“I could feel the density of the air rightly enough. It is good to see you, though that Jurie Jost was a real menace. I sure showed him, ha!” We sat down at a beam with a glass each of peach brandy that he’d swiped from the counter downstairs. It wasn’t as good as Paul’s, which everyone knows is the best peach brandy in the village, but it was enough.

births, renewals, deaths – some by the weather, mostly eaten by their wives. So while Johannes’ loss was a sad day for us, it was hard to think of him for more than a day or two. Anyway, the male redback has a notoriously short memory.

Over the next few days Johannes tried to find friends to join him on his journey, but they all had him diagnosed with orientation disease, a peculiar madness where one elects to undertake an act without the genuine intention of ever doing it. Only I knew how serious he was about leaving his place; it was something in his eye and the deliberateness with which he tore down his web. And I was a better judge of those little unspoken conversations than any spider. When he did leave Paul De Groot was inconsolable. Johannes was his only family in the guild building, and he was surely bound to die now. I told the other spiders the story Andre Smits, a young redback who crossed the veld looking for a lady spider, only to be eaten by her sister in a cruel twist of fate. And then there was Louis Oosthuizen, who made it all the way to the Lecture theatres chasing a fly only to be put upon by a British human with no remorse. We all agreed (though really I had stated and the other spiders had conceded) that a spider in a clean theatre was like a wildebeest to a hunter. He may be quick enough to escape, but he was too ugly to survive without notice for too long. And so we treated the village as if Johannes were already dead. I believed he was, though I never told anyone a story about him. The turnover is incredibly quick in these parts: I survive for my stories, but others are not so lucky. Constantly

It was not for a long time that I received word about him from Jurie, who claimed to have seen him within the bounds of the UWA Tavern. What was more, he really had become educated, said Jurie. According to Jurie, Steyn had enrolled himself covertly into history courses about Africa and English courses about American literature, sitting at the top of lecture halls patiently absorbing the information of the lecturers. In one of his units, first year psychology, he had the highest attendance rate of everyone in the class, though the humans were in agreement that the unit was bullshit and it was hard to take Steyn’s diligence there seriously. I was astonished by the news, though I restrained my joy somewhat – it was not long ago, after all, that Jurie was accusing Johannes of having the sickness. “Go find him for yourself” said Jurie, “He’ll be there. It’ll only take you a couple of minutes.” Now the phrase ‘a couple of minutes’, despite having a fixed numerical limit, is actually a more fluid concept. In ‘a couple of minutes’ I worked my way across several roofs, through dangerous gutters, past lizards whose skin is designed specifically to track me. I had to be very careful, but after about 3000 seconds had elapsed I found myself, unbelieving, staring across a wooden beam in the tavern to where my old friend now stood. It was interesting, you know, his feelers hung differently to how they did before, and he swayed, stumbling, a little off.

“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve learnt since I started studying. I know all of the planets and the gods of Rome – some are just the same as each other though only in name. When I look up at the night sky I can see everything surrounding me and I can name each star, even the very smallest one that is so far away that it flickers in and out of focus. Isn’t that amazing? I’ve read all of the classics you know: I know all about Odysseus in Troy and how he was punished for failing to praise the gods. And modern ones as well – I can remember just how I felt the first time I read about how Jake discovered Lady Ashley’s affair with Robert Cohn. And you would think tales of love would be useless to me because us redbacks our women eat us but no it is wonderful and glorious.” It was a strange thing to hear coming out of his mouth. What good were all of these things to a spider? I looked around beneath me. This tavern was like the parties used to be at Andre Smits’ house before he disappeared – dark and putrid with an entirely male clientele. The peach brandy had made me a little dizzy, but I gathered myself to look down. Johannes told me that everyone there was a “friend of his”. Those three at the table up the back were in his history class. The five in the bottom corner near the stage were in English with him. The seven outside all did Classics and Ancient History. “And we’re all having so much fun, we’re all Bachelors of Arts.” He said. “I shan’t think I’ll ever be back in your voorkamer again great storyteller.” “No.” I said. He said that he would take a nap right there on the beam, and I promptly scurried away with my head tucked under my thorax, protecting myself. Indeed it is true what they say – That one receives their education in the tavern, though not for the man already losing himself in the lecture hall. It is a strange sight to see, the joyless bacchanalia of three dozen arts students. But I had to make my way back home to my voorkamer in the Pelican office so I couldn’t remain there for long. He was happy, they would say, and that is the main thing for sure. I would rather be content to spread my web where it lies and continue telling my stories than study those of another. Or even just be aware when I’m drunk on peach brandy, ready to sleep and a female redback enters my sight.

Bacchanalia

“You can’t smell. I’m sure it is just as smelly too, a constant stream of drunk teenagers.”

“Ahh Lourens, you know I can’t believe I spent so long cooped up in that dank little smelly hole”

Bacchanalia

MOBY DISH Becoming Ahab in the hunt for the perfect Kujira meal

Call me Patrick. I set out for Japan two months ago with one thing in mind: to eat whale. Growing up in the hippie ridden streets of Fremantle, I have developed a fondness for immoral dining and obscure meats, often day dreaming of ramming a fork into the brain of an orangutan while being lectured by a dreadlocked Sea Shepherd crewmember outside Dymocks. Although one of my fondest childhood memories is leaning over a boat to touch a humpback whale in Albany, I have never been able to quell an Ahab appetite for the majestic leviathans of the sea. First, some things you should know. The Japanese – those masters of contradiction – found a loophole in the IWC (International Whaling Commission) moratorium on whales some years ago, and other the guise of “scientific research” (Whale Gundams?) they run a massive commercial whaling trade. According to WWF, Japan has killed 8,201 minke whales in the Antarctic since the moratorium in 1986. It is a horrifically

brutal trade, and Japan’s façade is all the more transparent when you stumble upon a whale ivory shop in a mall in Nagasaki. But you should also know this: WHALE IS FUCKING DELICIOUS.

Osaka that I found ‘Tokuya’, a restaurant buried in the eclectic neon madness of Dotonbori, and one that specialised in various whale dishes. It had a somewhat eccentric website that offered strange deal coupons for those who met the owner’s conditions:

My first taste came on my first night in Tokyo. It was a simple dish at a sushi-train restaurant. A slice of whale meat on rice, and a slice of whale bacon on rice. The moment had been built up in my head so much due to friends saying “you’ll pussy out” the day before I left, so I was glad to be able to prove them wrong on my first day. But I was disappointed. The meat was flavourless and the bacon was uninteresting. ‘Oh well’, I thought, ‘a proper whale restaurant will be fantastic.’

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Condition 1: If the total age of everyone in your party adds up to 99 (Alice + Patrick = 41)

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Condition 2: If you bring a whale item to the restaurant (I bought a whale spoon just for the occasion).

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Condition 3: If you have the first or last name as the owner, Musuko Ohnishi. (I could not doctor my passport in time)

Finding a proper whale restaurant became a search almost as maddening as Ahab’s for Moby Dick. We sought one out in Tokyo, but it was closed. I scoured the web for Whale eateries – hunting like a man possessed for the illusive ‘whale-burger’ that I had read of. It was once in

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Condition 4: If you are with your mother or father or both your parents (overseas)

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Condition 5: If you are with your grandparents (dead, mostly)

Bacchanalia

23 If you met any condition you got a %10 discount. Sadly you have to print the coupon in advance (I couldn’t), and Free Willy isn’t so free, my meal costing me some 8,000 yen (roughly $90).

contemplating hurling a harpoon through my neck. Lost in a pretentious world of Melville imagery, I imagined myself as Ahab at his table, with Alice as the disapproving first-mate Starbuck.

The first thing Alice – who was an unwilling participant in my indulgence – and I noticed was how the staff glared at us from beginning to end, particularly after I’d mentioned I was Australian. I presume that the last Gaijin who waltzed in there ironically ordered the set menu, shat himself, and smeared the Sea Shepherd logo in feces on the tatami mat.

I can unequivocally say that each dish (served by gobsmacked Japanese waitresses) in the meal was delicious, with the exception perhaps of the whale tongue, which was no fault of the tongue but rather the sauce it had been drenched in. The deep fried whale meat had me fantasising about The Colonel branching off from the chicken business, and the stewed whale blubber and the whale steak were as succulent as mermaid pussy. If I was to put a word to the flavour it would be ‘briny’.

Imagining myself with an ivory leg and lighting scar, I ordered the 9,500 yen deluxe menu, which included whale sashimi, Saezuri-ni (stewed whale tongue), Karaage (deep fried whale meat), Korooden (stewed whale blubber), Obake sunonomo (fluke in sweetened vinegar), Hari-Hari udon (wheat noodles with whale meat), and Dessert (green tea ice cream/no whale). I wolfed this all down while Alice looked on

The red-meat tastes like cow that has been stewed in ocean water for a decade. It creates an interesting mix of culinary associations in your gaijin brain – as your brain struggles to reconcile the cow like taste with the distinct presence of fish. It’s almost as if whales are mammals and not fish demons sent by the God of Mercy to punish

wayward sailors! The wheat noodles with whalemeat are the centrepiece of the menu, and they are maddeningly tasty, to the point where I’d be willing to fire a harpoon into the cartoonishly cute whale on the restaurants logo. As the flavours blew a blowhole in my brain, I thought of all the disapproving words of my friends and family, and felt not the slightest pang of guilt: knowing then that I was Ahab, complete in my mad quest to put one of the world’s most beautiful creatures in my mouth. I ate a lot of amazing food in my seven weeks in Japan, but nothing beat my gigantic whale dinner at Tokuya. The kid in Free Willy should not have reached out his hand as Willy sailed overhead, but his tongue. Finally I have an honest response for the irritating pamphlet shovelers who crowd Freo mall: “Have you even eaten whale before? You should, it’s fucking delicious!”

Abortions

N E O V I S T E R T O O B N A N A riffin G x Ale

R H 24

Illustrations by Kate Prendergast

that they were uniformly perfect, or good, or even consistent; it was the sheer mass of their output that made them seem compelling, before I even seriously investigated them.

Looking back, I’m not sure what I was thinking. Many people have tried to make an album in twenty-four hours before and succeeded, but this project seemed doomed to failure. Maybe I should have tried a different tack to the one I chose, which involved pulling together an astonishingly incompatible group of people (a doom saying Scotsman, a hip-hop savant, a gifted saxophonist who thankfully pulled her punches re: chops, a biblical poet, and a guitarist with a reluctance to tear loose) and essentially throwing them at the wall. What little stuck I’ve not had the cojones to listen to yet. After working for considerably less than 24 hours, we broke to watch a crying Joe Hockey on Question Time. What little momentum we had quickly tapered to a halt. Though a few more sporadic attempts at making something happen ensued, what we ended up with was about as coherent and aesthetically pleasing as whatever ends up in someone’s lap after an evening of

trawling porn sites, and about as interesting to the world at large. Ever wanted to hear someone improvise archly feminist lyrics to the theme of I Dream of Genie in a thick, yelled, Scottish brogue (“EQUAL OPPORTUNITY IS A LIE” etc)? Probably not. So we got what we deserved; a funny-once-and-only-once document of foolhardy self-indulgence, to be filed between the 1812 American invasion of Canada, and any of Lindsay Buckingham’s solo records. Do I want you to listen to it? Not really. Should you have the option to?

When someone is willing to share that much with you – living out a pervasive transparency – you’re bound to be curious about what lies within. After I started exploring, I began to feel like I could recognise the shape of their very brains from what they’d supplied. Sharing a high quantity of material with an audience isn’t much of a marketing strategy – not everyone is a rabid collector and it tends to cut a fanbase down to the hardcore. However, a pact of absolute, no-bullshit trust is forged between devotee and artist: this is what I am doing, and it’s yours to have, good or bad.

When you make something embarrassing or unfit for public consumption, it’s easy to want to sweep it under the rug, like a regrettable one-night stand with someone who was crushed by a bus on their way home. It’s your secret. The information belongs to you. Most check themselves when it comes to providing the world with an unedited stream of their artistic activities. Some don’t. Pointless noise jackshit band Bull in Heaven from Denver, Colorado, have released 290 records since 2008. Avoid all of them. There was a time that I was obsessed with these prolific producers – Robert Pollard, Prince, Sun City Girls. It wasn’t

I fell hard for artists who couldn’t keep a lid on themselves, suffering through ill-advised split albums, compilations of studio rehearsals and mp3 b-sides that weren’t worth the time it took to label them. Yet I persisted, because coming in such close contact with the personalities, warts and all, of the people honest enough to release their bad ideas in equal measure with the good seemed like a great way to learn what art was and how it happened. I traced the connections between releases and phases to see how the person behind them worked. Call it aesthetic archaeology.

I got over this very sharply when I came up hard against Lil’ B. He manifested so much of what I could not process or understand (i.e. the internet I do not understand the internet and I never will; why won’t it stop) into a constant, irredeemably sprawling river of information. Though you might be able to most conveniently call him a rapper, he’s at once a polymath, moron and his own self-appointed deity. He also turned 23 this month; happy Basedday, Based God! Heck, the internet barely contains Lil B. June saw him drop an 848 song mixtape. He is art as twitter feed; expression as live blog. There’s so much of him, so much raw information it’s impossible to consume or understand all of it. I turned off the idealisation of the open source artist, of sharing everything. Lil B was the only one living it, and he was an incomprehensible mess. I had assumed that if the quantity of work was high enough, the better the chances of there being a justifiable amount of quality in there. Now, even if that is true, I don’t know if it’s worth the time to find out.

Bacchanalia

M U B L RA After all, as anyone will tell yiz, this is a time in which information is limitless, and the means with which we can synthesise new wholes from pre-existing ideas are simultaneously the most advanced and simple to use they’ve ever been. The internet is the biggest library yet, and you contribute just by hanging around on it; it all goes somewhere. Twitter, whatever: anyone can be prolific at anything now if they have the time and the inclination. The internet changes the value of how we spend time. So much of what we do on the internet is data triage, endlessly sorting through information for something worthwhile, very little of which we take with us when we get off. There is too much of everything and never enough anything. You’ll never be able to consume everything you want to. Heck, you may never find the greatest thing that could ever happen to you in this mess, and in your search for it you will probably neglect the joys of the things you have found and the things you knew in the first place. Time is short and the internet – the product of moron jerks sitting indoors – expands infinitely. So, curious about the Pelican 24 hr album? Don’t be, you’ve got better things to do.

Sports Science

PELICAN

Sports Science

Inside the Mind of the Roast Jockey

The mare retains the dogged determination as slave master that she had in battle.

Visibly angry with the close finish in the Stakes, Black Caviar deals Nolen his punishment.

Chip Johnson

Black Caviar’s winnings bring a surplus of carrots. Luke Nolen loves carrots.

At the present time I stand a hefty 190cm and 115 kilos, with a striding gait not unlike Bill O’Reilly’s. Add several years to my face and the resemblance is uncanny, though I have significantly more puff to my chest and my rage is more constructively directed towards the weekly firing of the Pelican’s assistants than towards my interviewees.

Illustration by Kate Prendergast

Now, if I had a time machine I’d use it to force my younger self onto some advanced protein supplements. Because of my pathetic, measly frame as a ten year-old I spent a short period of time in preparation for a future career as a jockey. As a result of my parents’ connections I found myself to be an apprentice at a stable run by the great Bart Cummings, though my first job on shovel duty was often curtailed by my nervousness about dirtying my first custom tailored Hugo Boss Suit. Unfortunately, I had a growth spurt a couple of years later and found myself unqualified to race, my only involvement being the niche I found as a punishment weight for underperforming thoroughbreds. Since then I’ve grown to enjoy horse racing from a purely economical point of view: The prioritisation of the rights of the owner over the employee, the ruthlessly frugal way in which lame produce is disposed of, the reallocation of old resources to produce new ones; the external betting market that infuses a pointless activity with meaning. The beauty of it all is that the produce, the athlete, the horse – despite not being involved in any sort of decision-making process of their own accord – will normally be the thing deified at the end of the day. Very well, if the produce is good enough the chef needs only to put it on the platter.

THE ULTIMATE BETRAYAL At least Luke Nolen thought that was the case when he took the reins of dominant Australian supermare Black Caviar in the Diamond Jubilee Stakes. After a baffling brain-fade in the last stretch Mr Nolen almost ruined Black Caviar’s chance to finally meet the Queen. As far as I’m concerned a winner is not a winner unless it has crushed its opponent. While some may proclaim that the margin of victory is irrelevant, the truth of the matter is that without magnitude, a victory cannot entirely be claimed – of course the primary point of the victory is to boast. While Luke Nolen apologised profusely for his weak intestinal fortitude following the race it’s clear that other things aside from the prize entered his mind that day. After spending several days examining footage of the race from Pelican’s special superslomotional cameras I’ve been able to piece together a satisfactory rundown of the events of that fateful June day in Luke Nolen’s mind…

BEING LUKE NOLEN Inside the final furlong Luke Nolen looked to the right to find that he’d passed Soul, Black Caviar’s head downwards, stretching out the field at a fast trot. He realised her race was won and his mind vacated its temporary surroundings. He paused to consider the magnitude of it all, 22 races in a row, and all of them down just to the mare. It was just like trainer Peter Moody had said last time Black Caviar strode clear of the field: “he gave her one little smack on the bum and she did the rest.” He started to ease up, the horse had better be in top shape when she met the Queen. When he met

the Queen. After that Black Caviar could retire and be put out to stud. He could as well, people of appropriate composition to be jockeys were rare, and the finest must be bred. Yes, glory, victory, The Queen, Nolen thought, but what does the horse know of victory? What does she know of her own brilliance? She is not arrogant, she doesn’t have the capacity to be. She’s merely running from the whip, it’s all over now though, she’s won, there’s no need for the whip. At the end of the day, it is everyone but the horse who takes the winnings. Perhaps it would make more sense if it was stipulated that the prize be given to the horse: 80% of the monetary value of the prize to be spent on carrots. Black Caviar liked carrots. Luke did too. Perhaps when Black Caviar received her carrots she would donate some to him; eating the mare’s carrots assisted Luke Nolen’s prerace preparations to “become one with the horse”. That said, he thought, when all is said and done it is about the legacy. Only the horse will have that. The park in Budapest is named after the great Kincsem, not the man who raced her. Then he decided that the horse was too simple to care for such things – it only really liked carrots. It could not look upon its legacy afterwards, though come to think of it, neither could Admiral Nelson. While dazed with the summary of his thoughts, he only just managed to notice Moonlight Cloud pulling past him on the inside, he remembered his whip and his reins a split second before the camera flashed...

Interested in learning how to ace your clerkship application and any following interviews? Keep an eye out for Blackstone’s recruitment workshops and careers fair during the first three Tuesdays of Semester 2. Blackstone is also running mental health workshops on August 22nd and 23rd from 10-1pm free of charge to help students assist family and friends that suffer from mental illness. mentalhealth@ blackstone.asn.au for details.

The Perth Undergraduate Choral Society (PUCS) did an amazing rock and pop concert last semester which included Bohemian Rhapsody, Hallelujah, Fix You and Somebody I Used to Know. Now, we’re looking for more singers to sing in our next concert slated for early November! We’re a non-audition choir, and everyone from seasoned singers to bathroom crooners is more than welcome! But don’t take our word for it, join our rehearsals and see what the fuss is all about! Every Monday from July 30, G5 in Music (Tunley LT), 7pm-9pm.

INDOSS (Indonesian Students Society) Are you interested in Indonesian cultures? Want to learn our language or try our traditional foods? Don’t miss out what we are going to have for this semester! During Spring Feast, we’ll open a stall for those who want to try some popular authentic Indonesian cuisine and don’t ever miss a change to learn Bahasa language at our casual and friendly Indonesian class for FREE! And who likes movie? We’re going to have a movie night too! For more information contact us at indoss. uwa@gmail.com

RED PARTY We are very excited to announce the Red Party Fashion and Arts Launch Night. The Launch Night marks the beginning of our month-long HIV/AIDS awareness campaign. Artistic entries are going to incorporate an HIV/AIDS theme and the colour red. The Red Party team urges everybody to come down, appreciate the talent on show and join us in the fight against HIV/ AIDS!

Audition for UWAPantoSoc’s Prince Charming Vs. The World! OXFAM UWA Come along to OxfamUWA’s Global Dinner, a rollercaoster night filled with fair trade food, global events and a taste of the inequalities faced by people the world over. Each table represents a different country with a different level of income. There will also be prizes and an auction on the night. With all proceeds going to the Oxfam East Africa appeal, why not book yourself a table of ten today!

When: 6pm-10pm Thursday August 9th

Why: A great cause!

WA Medical Students Orchestra Our vision of this orchestra is to combine our passion for music with medicine, to provide music opportunities for medical students, to showcase our talents and to promote wellbeing. We have an amazing repertoire and enthusiastic conductors and would love to see as many students involved as possible. This year our final concert is on September 22, and all money raised will go towards Telethon. If anyone is interested please email us at medicalstudentsorchestra@gmail.com and we’ll email you an application form. There are no auditions, everyone is welcome.

Audition August 2nd/3rd, 7-9pm, Bradley Studio - all auditions get speaking roles.

The University Bicycle Club

Where: Perth City Farm Exhibition Space, East Perth

Entry: Gold coin donation

Prince Charming has rescued Snow White from her glass coffin, woken her with a kiss, and they’ve ridden off into the sunset. But Snow’s not the only one with an evil step-mother, and this Queen isn’t happy about the attention Charming’s new squeeze is getting. She has to find a way to separate them for good, and she knows a certain group of dwarfs who aren’t too happy that Snow has been taken away from them...

UWA Film Society – Perth Film Club Retrospective: Actor’s Directors. Screenings. Weekly. Free. Current program includes works by Cassavetes. Bergman. Fassbinder. Truffaut. Wong Kar-wai. Tarkovsky. Chaplin. Renoir. Kurosawa. Henning Carlsen, Lev Kulidzhanov, Teshigahara and Herzog. With Australian supplements by Bruce Beresford, Ted Kotcheff and Fred Schepisi. Bringing together seminal directors and actors from China, Germany, Japan, France, America, Sweden, The Soviet Union, Denmark, and Australia. Visit webpage/fb for details and screenings, announced weekly: www.facebook.com/uwafilmsociety *Centenary of the birth of Michelangelo Antonioni Project. Coming Soon

The University Bicycle Club is a social group involved in the promotion and facilitation of cycling at UWA. We will be holding weekend rides throughout semester two and cyclists of all standards are welcome. Also look out for us on campus where we will have a bicycle service station to repair and help you service your bikes. Find us on Facebook! (facebook.com/UBCuwa)

UWA PHOTOGRAPHY CLUB Disposable Camera and Film Competition – Check out our Facebook page for details and submit a small print before the 7th of August. Contact George (20774698@student.uwa.edu.au) or Isobel (20388578@student.uwa.edu.au) for a registration form or more information. Portrait Workshop Blake will be running an introduction to portraiture photography in the afternoon on the 5th of August. Contact him at blake.flinkier@ gmail.com to register your interest or for more information: http://www.facebook.com/ UWAPhotographyClub

What’s Happening

Happening

Perth Undergraduate Choral Society

What’s

Blackstone society

Music Reviews

Justin Bieber

THE HIVES

Metric

Opossom

Believe

LEX HIVES

Synthetica

Electric Hawaii

Island

Disque Hives

Metric Music

Dark Summer

Believe is the latest record from that enigma, Justin Bieber. Initially brought to my attention by the ‘Boyfriend’ music video (how I hope pace-breaking cuts become the norm), Believe is a really mixed kettle of rotting fish.

Normally what you’d expect from something (pseudo-)punk like The Hives is something edgy and full of energy – the aural experience is meant to be something similar to drinking Windex. However, what you’ve got with Lex Hives is a record that is, for the most part, ludicrously repetitive and formulaic, almost to the point of embarrassment.

After ten plus years of collaboration, Metric have achieved the musical vision that they have been working towards with Synthetica, their fifth album. Canadian indie-rock darlings Metric have produced an experience which offers so much more than the generic albums spewed out by today’s more conventional artists.

Formed out of the ashes of now defunct New Zealand schizo-punk outfit The Mint Chicks (which also spawned the hazy psych-pop of Unknown Mortal Orchestra), Opossom sees former Chicks members Kody Nielson and Michael Logie teaming up with 90s pop chanteuse Bic Runga, all in the name of creating some weirdly enticing music.

Rather than focusing on one flavour of bland, inoffensive pop, Beebz goes for the full Smorgasbord. We are (treated? subjected?) to a slew of Beebz’ different sounds, but a surprising lack of polish makes this feel more like a bunch of b-sides than a coming of age LP. Few tracks other than ‘Boyfriend’, which suffers a painful case of single-itis, have the production values of his biggest hits of yesteryear, and as such fail to make an impact. Surveying the wreckage, there’s the opening club banger that proves Ludacris should stick to telling motherfuckers to “get back”, a couple of obnoxious electrohouse songs that are somehow influenced by both The Glitch Mob and LMFAO, and a song too many with an acoustic guitar backing where Beebz sounds like he’s going to sleep. While lyrically Believe is mostly bland, tasteless love songs, his voice has certainly grown, and it’s better when deprived of his characteristic autotune. What makes this album more than a simple write-off is the fact that the deluxe edition features three songs that not only completely contradict the themes constructed by the rest of the work, but have a level of shine unseen for almost the entire trip. Bonus points though for a surprising interview sample to lead in “Maria”.

I used to be a bit of a fan of these guys, but I’m not sure what’s happened here. By the sounds of things, they’ve worn the formula out. Lex Hives is certainly more polished than their other albums, which seems like proof that these guys are winding down: the laundry-bleach abrasiveness that these guys used to produce has waned significantly, chiefly because they know how to polish the form of a rock album better than ever. But the substance is gone. The ghost has left the shell. There are points on Lex Hives when The Hives get it right. The best track here is ‘Wait a Minute’ which could sit comfortably within their canon of past successes, and from there onwards, through ‘Go Right Ahead’ and ‘These Spectacles ...’, I’d say there’s a ‘solid’ album here. You just need to ignore the rest. I used to associate The Hives with Devo, and the Canadian band Sloan. So I guess if you’re looking for what you and I might remember of The Hives that isn’t as underwhelming as Lex Hives, I’d suggest looking in those directions. Against whatever it is I’ve read other critics saying about The Hives, I’m inclined to say that the garage-rock class of 2000 is dead, and Lex Hives is a nail in the coffin.

This review can only end with one word: Swaggie.

Blair Hurley Simon Donnes

6.5

4.0

This album is life-affirming. It is a journey of self-discovery in which Metric engages with their listeners to explore and uncover the artificiality in each of our own muddled realities. From start to finish, it is an existential and reflective body of work, in which the sound of the album continually develops as its journey unfolds. Initially, the songs belong to the depths of murky soft-rock, but the songs begin to reach a reserved clarity towards the end of the album as the journey of self-discovery nears its completion. The album ends on a hopeful number, leaving the listener to gently extract themselves from Metric’s synth-manufactured world. Every song on the album is well-developed, realised and perfected. However, there are two songs that stand out because of their comparative imperfections. ‘Lost Kitten’ is abandoned in the middle of the album, stripped back and unadorned, but in its simplicity, it’s charming. ‘Wanderlust’ is the luxurious, second-to-last track, that demands attention as it is centred on the jarring contrast between Emily Haines’ and guest Lou Reed’s vocals. Synthetica is gorgeous from the beginning to the end, an album to be listened to and experienced in its entirety. After 4 albums, Metric know exactly what their sound is, and Synthetica presents it in luxury.

Though it’s a bit of a hodgepodge, Electric Hawaii is nothing if not a pleasant listen. Drawing heavily on elements of funk and 60’s psychedelia, there is some great, interesting pop music on offer here; check out the charging ‘Getaway Tonight’, the freewheeling ‘Why Why’ or the heady, vocoder laden waltz of ‘Watching Eye’. Be warned though – Electric Hawaii is laced with the cyanide remnants of Nielson’s punk days. Opener ‘Girl’, with its marimba bop and simplistic chorus, seems to fit straight into the groove of modern psych-pop. But just when you think it’s all sugar and spice, the band falls into a noisy, thudding outro, as if to counterbalance the song’s crowd pleasing allure. Similarly, around halfway through the slow, late night piano dirge of closing track ‘Inhaler Song’, we’re subjected to an utterly filthy and potentially speaker-breaking wave of bass distortion. The disruption ends as abruptly as it starts, and it can leave you wondering whether it happened at all. Although it’s almost certainly destined for oddity/obscurity status, there’s a lot to like on Electric Hawaii, especially if ‘Ffunny Ffrends’ was your favourite track of last year. Also, Bic Runga plays guitar on the record. As in the Bic Runga. Any record featuring Bic Runga playing guitar is pretty fucking cool in my book.

Lauren Croser

8.5

Keaton McSweeney

6.5

Music Reviews

bacchanalia

Hot Chip

Fiona Apple

In Our Heads

The Idler Wheel...

The Show, The Afterparty, The Hotel

Domino

Epic

Uptown, Originally Released 1995

Stepping aside from their various side projects, Hot Chip have returned with their fifth album In Our Heads. Moving away from the more experimental sounds that Hot Chip have had success with in the past, In Our Heads is a much tighter and controlled work.

The Idler Wheel… is like the shifty neighbourhood cat peering slit-eyed in the window. All in black, with white socks. This album is all fire and sparks:

Smashing Pumpkins - Oceania a good how-to guide: “ruining a legacy” by Billy Corgan

think fireworks when there was anybody left in the world who thought they were magical. In summary: something bluesy, something sparkly, and something very, very good.

Oceania is the space you should put between you and this album

The real standout track is ‘Flutes’, which is seven minutes of heavenly bliss to lose oneself in. The different sounds of backing voices, keyboards, drums, synthesizers and vocals build up onto each other one by one like a spiralling staircase. As you climb, the synthesizer is felt with each rising step, like waves rising and edging closer; yet just as you almost reach the top, its forceful power pushes you back down. However, whilst tumbling down the stairs, you experience the glory of all the sounds unifying together. ‘Ends of the Earth’ is another strong contender; it alters between different pitches of the synthesizer, creating a disorientating atmosphere. The synthesizer begins low and deep over the drums but then it merges into a higher pitch of those same notes, repeating this switching effect whilst also capturing glimpses of the rainfall of rising and falling notes of the keyboard. ‘Look at Where We Are’ is the only misstep on In Our Heads. There is no pulse to the keyboards/synthesizers; instead they are overshadowed by the soft texture of an acoustic guitar and melodramatic vocals. The drums and keyboards are still present, but don’t feel consistent with Hot Chip’s sound. Overall, In Our Heads sees Hot Chip’s dance leanings stay strong, while their eccentricities still shine through, but the tone is much more downbeat.

‘Every Single Night’ is a strong opening track, with a nursery rhyme opening that rolls in Apple’s signature style into a slightly angry, socially awkward fantastical belt-out over what could have been. With enough shells and egg yolks in her imagery to rival Joanna Newsom, Apple’s spectacularly imaginative diva-dom has flourished as much as her 1996 debut promised. ‘Anything We Want’ is the standout track, a mixture of gorgeous stormy percussion and dulcet bell tones. Other good ones include ‘Valentine’, a bluesy cacophony of pantomimes and valentines, and the almost atonal ‘Jonathan’. Commendable for its imagination is ‘Hot Knife,’ a strange but ingenious mixture of Miss Mary Mac hand clap games, vaudeville and an angelic lady chorus. Apple is also a stunning storyteller. Though Angela Carter may have been the first to compare lovers to werewolves, there is much to be said for the way Apple’s extended metaphors transform the listener’s understanding. She may speak alchemically in ‘Werewolf’, but she is not waxing lyrical when she admits that she “provided a full moon” for the sexual ravaging of the werewolf; they now must avoid each other. If this has ever happened to you, you know exactly what she means; a far cry from what your ten-year-old brain might have thought upon coming across her for the first time in the Guinness Book of Records 2000 for her world record-length album title (Ed – over four hundred characters of text, for all three of you playing at home).

2.0 Elisa Luu - Un Giormo Sospresso the sandwich aloof. winter sun heats the city. I am the sandwich.

7.5 Where Were You At Lunch – Where You At Lunch surf grit post something instrumental not great not bad not more than that Getting kinda bored but then I heard/remembered that Kishore Ryan

5.0 Mount Eerie - Clear Moon Phil Elverum’s voice, distinct, asks airy questions backed by kitchen sink Apologies Phil, I liked Wind’s Poem better probably coz drummmmmmmmm

7.0 Simone White – Simone White In the Water Where the City Ends on repeat. the rest is good too. Simone White recites quaint lyrics and applies R’s; restraint and reverb

8.5

Natasha Woodcock

7.0

HAIKU REVUE

Sarah Dunstan

8.0

Connor Weightman

Jodeci

Personality and depth are not words one would associate with Jodeci. Forget the self-involvement of modern RnB stars in the Drake mould; this album was written by a group of men staring gazing straight past their navels, lovingly at their own dicks. Besides technical differences the singers K-Ci and JoJo Hailey are largely interchangeable and women are little more than dumb pornographic representations. The hedonistic excess of the album is obvious by even the track-listing – eleven skits in 22 tracks, all of them disposable. Given such insurmountable flaws, it’s astonishing just how good The Show, The Afterparty, The Hotel really is. It’s the grooves for the most part: The way that they hold for an entire track, forgoing strong vocal melodies, shifting dynamically until the vocal harmonies and the squelching bass and the chicken scratch all fall into one and you realise that the groove was the hook all along (cf. ‘Get On Up’, ‘S’More’). That said, the high-point remains ‘Freek N’ You’, a song with a vocal melody as strong as its groove (which builds up and strips apart constantly over six and a bit minutes, a Tom Scott sample underpinning it all). Of course, even if the tracks sound good, the misogyny disguised as hedonism doesn’t always. Apparently Jodeci bandleader (and robotic vocoder guy) Devante Swing tried out for Prince’s band once as a teenager and got turned away, and it seems like he missed out on some important lessons. While Prince certainly worked Bacchanalia as a primary concept, his music also afforded his women character (cf. ‘I Could Never Take The Place Of Your Man’). With much of mainstream RnB in the 90s stolen away by soft-pop Disneyites like Boyz II Men and Babyface, the social issues become an afterthought though, and Jodeci’s sound would birth a string of bold, experimental RnB artists like Missy Elliott and Timbaland. As far as I’m concerned, Bacchanalia was the lesser of two evils.

Josh Chiat

Music

THE HOLY GRAILS: P O S T- E V E R Y T H I N G Alex Griffin

Illustration by Camden Watts

Since forming in Portland at the end of the last century, the prolific and inscrutable Grails have been one of the best-kept secrets of the American underground. Over the course of thirteen years and a pile of albums, they have pushed the boundaries of rock music off the edge of the globe, while blowing minds with their immersive live sets. Alex Griffin asked members Alex Hall and Emil Amos to shed some light on the group. Though Grails are often lazily tagged as postrock – lumped in with the unimaginative and brooding likes of Mogwai, Explosions in the Sky and anything else with loud guitars, long songs and no vocals –they severely differ from their would-be contemporaries in that they truly go beyond the strictures and rulebooks of Western rock music. Without resting on any familiar focal points or clichés, Grails take the global breadth of sound head-on and refashion it in their own image, winding across continents and decades in the space of a single song. Over the course of six albums and a slew of long-form EPs, they’ve increasingly become post-everything. On record, Grails are immensely involving, rewarding attention and patience

alternately with details and explosions in a way few others have pulled off; it’s music for people who regard listening as an active verb. Yet, despite producing work at such a fast rate, they aren’t given to repeating themselves, as each Grails record is a distinct experiment; 2008’s Take Refuge in Clean Living explored Middle Eastern and Indian textures, while follow-up Doomsdayer’s Holiday touched free-jazz and the Orient. Guitarist Alex Hall describes their approach to music as: “a sort of device for rapid digestion, as a response to our current musical obsessions. It’s the immediacy of that process that’s kept it exciting all this time, since, ultimately, we just desire to make records that we would want to hear.” What exactly it is they’d like to hear is constantly changing, as the band are renowned record collectors and (for want of a better term), nerds, constantly borrowing and seeking new ideas and approaches – a rare and honest approach to the creative process. However, you couldn’t call them elitist, as anything is fair game to be an influence on a Grails record; drummer Emil Amos recently nominated Barry White as the greatest record producer of all time.

The love, thought and care that audibly goes into their own records is extended to whatever tunes they are voraciously devouring and learning from at the moment. Asking them what they’ve been listening to feels like cheating on a test. Emil reeled off Hansadutta Swami, Danny Kirwan, Bo Hansson, “Polish Prog in the 70s”, William Ackerman, Terje Rypdal, Randy California and Polvo, while Alex mentioned Franco Battiato, Franco Falsini, Franco Bixio, Franco Micalizzi and the Wu-Tang Clan. Unsurprisingly, given the cinematic, unfurling feel of Grails’ music, film composers dominate in these lists. On last year’s Deep Politics – an epic suite of Morricone spaghetti themes and South East Asian melodies that’s one of the most striking albums released yet this decade – Grails plunged headlong into the most filmic music they’ve made yet. “It was pretty inevitable for us to eventually find our way to the freedoms of ‘film music’,” Amos remarks. “The rock band format never really fit us perfectly and looking back I think film music will have had the longest standing effect on us... starting early with our love for Popol Vuh. This is all slightly ironic to realize, though, because we’ve still never been offered to write a soundtrack.”

Though their music comes from exploring and interrogating the sounds of the past, earlier this year the band found themselves victims of the digital present. A rogue hard drive crashed, jeopardising hours of recorded material yet to be released by the band. Fortunately, they were able to recover what they’d lost after approaching the same data recovery team the CIA uses. Despite being an extremely expensive procedure, they were able to raise the funds by reaching out to their fans, as Amos explains. “It was a pretty amazing feat because people donated exactly what we needed to hire the company in exchange for an EP of rare live songs that we sent out in

Also recovered were new Holy Sons recordings, one of a heap of side projects the members of Grails keep aflame at the same time as their main gig. Fittingly, what motivates Grails to go on – despite relative obscurity and a massive workload – is an answer far removed from what you might expect from a working rock musician. Says Amos, “We were born and bred as purely devoted underground fanatics from an early age, which inadvertently trains you to operate as a kind of avant-garde artist. By this, I mean that we work constantly in isolation and then if a label commissions a piece of work, we create an overall theme and shove a group of our current ideas under it. My best answer so far for what motivates me is just pure anger, but also disgust, disappointment and shame. The big three; you can’t leave those out!”

representation we’ve had in the band’s history. The live setup has been six people on stage for the last couple of years, and this version of the band feels the most worthy of the huge effort/ expense of getting the band over there. We’ve been wanting to go to Australia for a long time, so we’re super excited!” You can witness the finesse and the fury that is Grails at the This Is Nowhere festival, which rolls around on the 14th of October at the Somerville here at UWA.

Despite the huge effort and expense of a tour so far from home, Hall says that knowing that they’ll be able to present an immersive Grails experience justifies the hassle. “This is easily the best live

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Music

return. It saved a lot of the songs we’d begun almost 3 years ago that will now be released as Black Tar Vol.5 in time for our trip to Australia.”

Grails records feel like cohesive, focused manifestations; immersive, sprawling environments of sound that never jar, despite the wide and conflicting sources of inspiration behind them. Yet, as Hall puts it, “At this point, I guess there’s really no way for it not to sound like Grails. Every step of the recording/production/ mixing process is pretty dialed-in... We could probably stick a flowery bossa nova jam next to a collaged noise piece and it would still manage to sound cohesive in some way. At this moment, I’m honestly not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.”

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Film Reviews

Snow White & The Huntsman

The Cabin in the Woods

Director Rupert Sanders

Director Sarah Polley

Director Drew Goddard

Starring Kristen Stewart, Chris Hemsworth, Charlize Theron

Starring Seth Rogen, Michelle Williams, Sarah Silverman

Starring Kristen Connelly, Fran Kranz, Chris Hemsworth, Richard Jenkins and Bradley Whitford

I’m gonna be straight with you, I’m a big fan of going into films without a pre-conceived notion of what they’ll be like. Sure, I’ll have a rudimentary knowledge of the basic premise, but I avoid reviews and spoilers like a plague (or my Honours supervisor when a chapter draft is due). Unfortunately, the kind folk over at Universal don’t share my archaic cinematic values, seeing fit to show 45 minutes of behind-the-scenes footage before the actual screening of their much hyped release. BIG MISTAKE DUDES. BIG FUCKING MISTAKE. Repeatedly watching Kristen Stewart awkwardly push back her hair whilst muttering inanely along with Chris Hemsworth’s misguided attempts at affability (cuz you know, he’s an orright Aussie bloke) makes for pretty painful material. Oh, and it also completely deconstructs essentially every key scene of the upcoming feature. But hey, they did give me an awesome gift-bag complete with a complimentary apple and a horrid self-help book filled with witty marginal notes from none other than Hamish Blake (another orright Aussie bloke!). Rant aside, Snow White & The Huntsman itself is nothing to write home about. Visually it’s impressive, director Rupert Sanders’ past-experience within the advertising world translates rather well. Certainly there’s no denying that the man knows how to construct a striking scene. However, where the cinematography soars the film’s stars are in free-fall. Hemsworth comes across as a ridiculous hybrid of Shrek/Heath Ledger and Stewart is never quite convincing as the film’s eponymous Heroine. Some great character actors in Bob Hoskins, Ian McShane and Ray Winstone provide welcome distraction as the dwarves, but minimal screen time means the reprieve is short-lived. Ultimately, it’s the poisoned apple of mediocrity that is Sanders’ undoing; Snow White & The Huntsman is an ambling and uneven film that takes its subject matter far too seriously.

Alice Mepham

Take This Waltz

4.0

Described by producer and co-writer Joss Whedon as ‘a loving hate letter’ to the genre, The Cabin in the Woods is a relentlessly entertaining deconstruction of the slasher film. On the face of it, the plot sounds like your cookie cutter slasher film. Five young people go to an isolated cabin for a weekend of youthful revelry and things get bloody. It all gets a bit more complicated and strange with cutaways to white-collar office drones played by Richard Jenkins and Bradley Whitford. I’m loath to say anymore about the plot. It’s a film you should make every effort to go see unspoiled (don’t read the Wikipedia page before you see it). Much of the fun comes from watching the various layers of the story unfold and gradually understanding the significance of the events you’re seeing. What can I say about the film? The performances are all strong, particularly Fran Kranz as stoner kid along with Marty, Jenkins and Whitford as the mysterious office workers. There are the requisite tropes of sex and violence, but they’re presented in a genre-bending manner. Those familiar with prior Whedon productions will be unsurprised that the film is also funny as hell. Its third act is gloriously over-the-top and contains my favourite ‘kill’ in cinema history. The Cabin in the Woods was almost relegated straightto-DVD by Australian distributor Roadshow Films. It was only on the back of a social media fan campaign that the film ended up getting an arthouse release. Try and catch it whilst it’s still in theatres so you can say that you saw the cult classic of 2012 during its original run.

Kevin Chiat

9.0

Take This Waltz is both frustrating and compelling at the same time. It takes an honest look at temptation, and the struggle to choose between new and exciting love and what is known and dependable. Exploring the realities of what occurs when that choice is made. It’s a promising premise, but the execution is a let down. Most of the scenes between Margot (Michelle Williams) and Lou Robin (Seth Rogen) should have been cut. Their incessant embracing is boring and becomes a real chore to sit through as the film progresses. It’s during scenes like these that you’re left checking your phone wondering when this film will be over. This attempt to portray the mundane domesticated lives they lead I suspect is meant to texture the process of torment when choosing between love and stability. Instead however, you feel like reaching for the fast forward button. Thankfully it does deliver in the last ten minutes, although it’s all a little too late. Take This Waltz is the type of movie that will have you thinking about it days after watching and to its credit it takes a special type of movie to do that. Seth Rogen’s character Lou is particularly a standout, bringing some pathos to moments that are otherwise bleak and weird. Take This Waltz is thought provoking, weird, frustrating, funny, long, boring and compelling, I’m just not sure this cinematic cocktail pays off. (Ed – It’s like being repeatedly slapped across the face with a copy of Frankie.)

Trent Howard

6.5

Film Reviews

The Amazing Spider-Man Director Marc Webb Starring Andrew Garfield, Emma Stone, Rhys Ifans

The Amazing Spider-Man is the second Spider-Man origins film to be released within a decade, but more importantly it is also the first Spider-Man film released since the atrocities committed against the franchise in Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man 3. With this release, director Marc Webb (Of (500) Days of Summer fame) is burdened with not only the task of reinventing Spidey, but also doing so while trying to differentiate his film from the original trilogy. I’m happy to report that he has succeeded; The Amazing Spider-Man offers the most entertaining and fulfilling origins story of just how Peter Parker became our friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. Notably, Andrew Garfield is successful at not being Tobey Maguire and serves as a great Peter Parker/Spidey, bringing a real humour that stops the film from getting bogged down. Gwen Stacey who is played by Emma Stone also helps move the film along, setting up some great scenes of both the comedic and dramatic variety. And hey, Emma Stone. Graphically this film has a few nice touches to really engage the audience; the first-person scenes as Spidey are genuinely pretty cool. However, I still feel as though the 3D sections are gimmicky and don’t really serve the film in any constructive way. On top of this, Webb’s attempt to introduce a darker feel to the backstory feels a little half-baked in parts and detracts from what this film otherwise could have been. While some may feel this isn’t a unique film and more an exercise in profiteering, The Amazing Spider-Man holds its own as both a standalone film and a member of the franchise. Definitely worth a look for any superhero film fans.

Matthew Bye

7.0

Ted

The King Is Dead!

Director Seth MacFarlane

Director Rolf De Heer

Starring Seth MacFarlane, Mark Wahlberg, Mila Kunis

Starring Dan Wyllie, Bojana Novakovic, Luke Ford

Prior to seeing Ted, I never would have described the humour of shows such as Family Guy and The Cleveland Show as subtle. But the crass, in-your-face, sex-and-toilet humour of Ted makes them seem positively articulate. Created and voiced by Seth MacFarlane of FG and TCS fame, Ted tells the unlikely tale of an unpopular young boy’s teddy bear coming to life as the result of a Christmas wish, and becoming his best friend. This is all well and adorable until they hit adulthood. Beer-drinking, pot-smoking, intercoursing adulthood. The movie stars Mark Wahlberg and the ever-lovable Mila Kunis as a couple who are struggling to move into an adult phase in their relationship, an awkward enough transition made more difficult by the omnipresence of Ted, and the negative influence Lori (Kunis) believes he has over John (Wahlberg).

Forget your Clive Palmers and Kylie Minogues, Australian director Rolf De Heer is a true national treasure. The Tracker, Ten Canoes and Alexandra’s Project are some of the finest and boldest Australian films of the past decade and De Heer’s commitment to unconventionality is second to none.

Ted follows a bizarre, largely nonsensical storyline that culminates in a fittingly unbelievable fairy-tale ending. I guess when dealing with a main character who is an alcoholic, oversexed teddy bear (despite the fact that he has no genitals), you can be as obnoxious as you like with a screenplay.

The end product is taut, tense and incredibly effective, but ultimately it just doesn’t feel like what we’ve come to expect from good old Rolf. Perhaps it’s unfair to say that the film suffers from the weight of expectation, but De Heer films are something truly special to be cherished with every exquisite frame. The King Is Dead! however, feels far too conventional, yet in a strange way that’s a compliment to the director’s prowess.

There are cheap gags a-too-plenty and really really rude bits that make you laughsp (laugh-gasp) more for the shock/crude value than for the humour. There may be one or two genuinely hilarious moments, but nothing can be gained from seeing it on a massive screen surrounded by a bunch of people around whom you feel uncomfortable laughsping at a bear getting it on with a check-out chick in a supply cupboard. Wait

Catch the The King Is Dead! if you want to be both entertained and engaged, but make sure you revisit De Heer’s previous filmography if you want to remind yourself just how great Australian cinema can be!

Alice Mepham

for DVD.

Katrin Long

It is perhaps surprising then, given this impressive and challenging back-catalogue, that our cinematic stalwart chooses to veer towards far tamer territory in his latest outing The Kind is Dead!. Set in suburban Adelaide, the film masterfully chronicles the strained relationships between three sets of neighbours, portrayed with equal mastery by an impressive cast of local talent including Dan Wyllie, Bojana Novakovic and Luke Ford.

6.0

7.0

Books

When Throbbing Members Aren’t Enough From Romance to Erotica: An Advocate’s Tale (and Advice) Alexandra Leonzini Recently, as a result of the “shock” meteoric rise of a certain book I shan’t mention, many of my friends, colleagues, and acquaintances have jumped on the erotic fiction bandwagon and have proudly declared their love for “smutty” literature to the world. Do I have a problem with this? You bet your cotton socks I do, but not for the reasons you’re probably thinking. While I might harbour a little resentment that it took them so long to understand what I have been saying for YEARS, what’s really grinding my goat is the fact that these friends are limiting themselves to a (in my opinion) terrible example of the genre. Today I am going to be sharing with you some erotic alternatives to the insanely popular accursed book series not mentioned above, alternatives ranging in hotness from “tingle down there” stimulating to “Dear God, my pants are on fire!” sexy. In doing so, I hope to open your eyes to the wonderful world of erotic fiction and make you realise that, unlike the majority of blue flicks, it really is for everybody.

Fight the Stigma!

Illustration by Wenny Yeo

Pornographic films aren’t everybody’s idea of a good time. While I have been known to sample the odd movie for their amazing plots and high calibre acting (I highly recommend the 1976 film Alice in Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Fantasy for the lols), it’s not really my cup of tea. Porn objectifies people to the extent that sex is nothing more then a hedonistic undertaking void of any deeper meaning, and that doesn’t get my motors running. Despite that, however, it’s somewhat more acceptable than the reading of erotica. There is a stigma attached to reading romance and erotica, as if the reader uses them to insert a little love into their otherwise sad, lonely, and pathetic lives, using them as a substitute for the real thing. Well, dear reader, this is simply not true. It is my belief that romance and erotica can be, and are, for everybody. Personally, I think my imagination is better than anything porn studios could offer, so why go elsewhere to have a good time? The best thing about reading is that, at the end of the day, the characters

Nothing has saddened me more of late then the recent news that the British division of Harlequin Mills and Boons are releasing a new range of books to compete with the sudden wave of interest sparked by the book series not mentioned above. Why, you may ask? Well, it’s because Mills and Boons originally got me interested in romance and erotica (many moons ago), and it’s with Mills and Boons novels that I recommend those new to erotica begin their own adventure into the world. This is for a couple of reasons. The first is that Mills and Boons novels are romances, focussing specifically on the relationship between the two parties involved. Any sex in these novels is generally an expression of love and, as such, highly emotional in nature, making it a lot easier for the majority of first-timers to consume. The second reason that Mills and Boons make such a good introduction to erotica is the sheer variety available to the reader. In Australia, the Mills and Boons novels released each month fall into 10 different categories. While some are easy to distinguish (e.g. ‘Medical’ covers doctors, nurses, and their crazy sexual adventures; ‘Historical’ are period pieces; ‘Intrigue’ are sexy spy stories), what differentiates Desire from Sexy, for example, is on a graded scale of sexual content. Starting with Sweet, where, if you’re lucky, the participants in the romance will exchange a kiss, the novels gradually graduate to include detailed (and very sexy) love scenes in their Blaze series. Best of all, these books are short, cheap, readily available, and easily consumable. They are written to be as accessible as possible and are a great way to improve your ability in other languages. When I was in Germany, for example, I discovered that many of the

It really must be stressed that these books are love stories written with women in mind and any sexy moments are an accessory to the plot. Also bear in mind that some are terrible, sappy, cheesy, poor excuses for writing that should never be described as literature. When reading some, it’s all too easy to imagine a 60 year old woman in a sensible cotton nighty writing Blaze sex scenes and saying to herself, “Ooh, Gladys, you ARE naughty!” The trick is finding a writer that you enjoy and tracking down their books. If they’re very popular, they might have been picked up by general publishing houses and have published longer, more substantial stories along the same lines (much like Stephanie Laurens, who I interviewed two editions ago). If this sounds like it’s for you, I suggest gong on millsandboon.com.au and sampling the free stories on their website. If you like what you read, head to second hand shops to pick up novels at insanely low prices. The second hand bookshop in Margaret River is particularly good, selling bundles of five for $2! If this is not your thing, however, or you want something a little “spicier”, let me lead you down the rabbit hole and confess my love for the Internet.

The Internet is Really, Really Great (For Erotica) While it is home to many deplorable websites, the Internet also provides a plethora of handy places for the budding erotic fiction reader to discover authors, stories and sparkly new sexual interests. Of all these sites, Literotica.com is by far my favourite. I visit this site at least once a day. While anybody can upload a story, readers are brutal in their criticism and grade every piece out of 5. The site is also heavily moderated, meaning that the standard is extremely high. Many of the better contributors are scouted by publishing companies and offered contracts though, being a cruel and unjust world, many are also sadly overlooked (or contracts are given to the writers of terrible but somehow popular stories). What I love about this site, as with Mills and Boons, is the variety. While there is a Romance section full of sickly sweet love stories featuring hot sex, there are also collections of stories featuring Erotic Couplings where you can leave all the emotional hooha at the door and read something where the sex IS the plot. BDSM stories ranging from touchingly sweet to brutal, Gay erotica featuring lesbians, twinks, and bears (oh my!) and Sci-Fi erotica written for anybody who has ever dreamed of being Captain Kirk. The selection is endless and updated daily. Best of all, unlike Mills and Boons, these stories are targeted at (and written by) both men and women,

so there really is something for everybody if you bother to look. Most of the stories submitted feature graphic sex scenes, with many authors apologising for the lack of it as a preface. Similarly, particularly when starting a series, some authors will let their readers know exactly when the sex scenes will appear, allowing the reader who is so minded to find and enjoy them without the bother of plot if they do wish (much like fast forwarding through the first five minute of a porn movie – do we care why they’re having sex by the pool?). My suggestion is to go nuts and try a little bit of everything – you never know what you might like. Also important to remember is that all of the best stories (those that have a 4.5/5 rating or higher) are marked with a little red ‘H’ in their by-line. Try those first. If they don’t get you hooked, nothing will. The great thing about the Internet, and literotica. com in particular, is that as a reader you don’t have to sign up for anything and can remain completely anonymous. This allows the freedom to sample things you normally wouldn’t without anybody to pass judgement (save yourself). It really is quite a liberating experience.

Those Crazy Victorians If nothing seems to tickle your fancy, why not kick it old school? There is a lot of very delicious erotica written in the eighteenth, nineteenth, and early twentieth centuries and available today. Track down, if you can, the Wordsworth Book of Classic Erotica – I highly recommend it! It features the staples of any good erotica collection, including, my favourites, The Romance of Lust, The Autobiography of a Flea, Venus in India, and A Weekend Visit. Be warned, however, these are not for the faint of heart and feature many taboo situations and couplings. Blooming good stuff though! If this still leaves you cold, well then I’m afraid you’re either a rock or a robot, or, more likely, erotica simply isn’t for you. Do try though, you never know, you might love it (and I’m sure your partner will too).

Books

Mills and Boons: Erotica’s Gateway

romance writers I like had been translated into German and published by the company ‘Julia’. I picked a few up, read a chapter before bed each night, and picked up some handy vocab!

are however you imagine them to be and you can pick up a few things that you can later use to spice up your love life.

Books

The Architecture of Song

Gary Crew

Absolution BEST BIT:

Patrick Flanery

The concept. Holy hell, is it awesome!

3/10 I really wanted to love this book. I mean, a dwarf-cum-circus freak named Augustus Trump with an amazing singing voice allowing him to recreate the spaces around him through song – what’s not to love? I was VERY excited. And then I started reading, and my dreams were slowly but surely crushed. At five, Augustus has a larger vocabulary and a firmer grasp on the English language than I, and possesses the ability to sing Puccini arias (apparently) better than Dame Nelly Melba. Hell no.

7/10 WORST BIT: The execution, terrible.

This is highlighted by the sheer brilliance of the concept. It’s so sad. By the end of the second chapter I had to stop reading before I did something drastic.

by Alexandra Leonzini:

I put the book down and then found that everything else in the world was preferable to finishing it, like exam prep and last year’s taxes. So sad…

a straight edge Vegan Music/Arts student who has temporarily given up sugar.

READ IT WITH: Your eyes closed as you take Crew’s idea and make it better with the power of your mind.

The Girl Who Fell From the Sky Simon Mawer

One of the biggest issues is Mawer seemingly couldn’t commit to his choice of perspective. Parts of the book become convoluted slag when the narrator’s musings are stylistically identical to the internal musings of our heroine, an issue compounded by the use of present tense.

BEST BIT: A chapter of World War II era radio coding and wireless communication.

Do not expect a novel length Meet the Spy ala ‘Team Fortress 2’ and you should be able to slug it out to the end. Would not recommend. READ IT WITH: A bottle of caffeine pills and lube. It gets awfully dry at times.

However it is far from perfect, sacrificing momentum at the half way point to plunge into the mind of the guilt stricken writer, as well as confusing point of view chapters that threw me off exactly how certain events took place. Nevertheless, Flannery’s debut novel is a fascinating work that shows an understanding and respect for the issues that haunt past and present day South Africa.

If You’re Reading This, I’m Already Dead Andrew Nicoll

3/10

WORST BIT: that about 100 pages could’ve been taken out of it, and it would still remain compelling.

by Mark Tilly: heard about how you shouldn’t ever stop at a red light in South Africa.

BEST BIT: When a blind, snooty mesmerist wails “Don’t let him Dance, Otto! Don’t let him dance!”

Holed up in a caravan during an air raid and unsure whether he’ll survive the night, elderly Otto begins chronicling his rise from circus acrobat to crown King of Albania.

WORST BIT: Detailed descriptions of hiding plot items in various orifices.

With this ludicrous premise, one can only hope for the endearingly bizarre. Unfortunately, Nicoll’s tale is instead torturously contrived, the plot clunking along like a broken unicycle into increasingly absurd territory. Otto himself is a most annoying narrator, whose rough yet sentimental parlance fails to charm, stuffed as it is with outof-place idioms and self-conscious masculinity. Whilst I almost liked stoic strongman Max, this is probably because Nicoll never even attempts to develop him.

None of this is helped by her (perhaps unintended) case of Multiple Personality Disorder and heavy reliance on Wonderland references to try and eke out a theme. Like with hermaphrodite hookers who don’t let you in on the joke until you’re well stuffed into the broom closet, TgwFftS is not what it appears to be.

Indeed it is very much about serious issues: an aging, antiapartheid writer trying to absolve herself from the guilt she feels about her past, as well as the parallel life of the man who is commissioned to write her biography.

READ IT WITH: something witty, dry and sardonic, I guess.

7/10 The Girl Who Fell From the Sky – for the sake of brevity, it will be referred to as TgwFftS (pronounced tuhguhwuhfffufftehseess). Whatever you call this calculated title cash-in on the Stieg Larsson “Girl” trilogy phenomena, it’s very average.

The slow burn relationship that develops between the writer and biographer.

While not something I’d immediately grab off the shelf, with its sombre cover and serious title, Patrick Flanery’s debut novel Absolution was a compelling and quite fascinating read.

Whilst the subject matter might come across as quite dry, Flannery’s compelling writing style and the moral issues cast by the long shadow of the apartheid regime mean it manages to transcend its dull appearance.

Add to this other blaring inconsistencies in characterisation, and Crew’s reliance on stereotypes and what you have is an extremely disappointing read.

BEST BIT:

by Simon Donnes: writes nicer reviews when listening to the Cowboy Bebop soundtrack.

With its slapdash structure, authorial ventriloquism seems likely when Otto speaks forlornly about the difficulties of whittling down an unplottable world into words. Could be I’m just a sour meanie though, since many others have gushed over its “assured structure” and “stellar wit”. Personally though, Already Dead left me unsure of whether to classify it as a liberally bawdy children’s book or a dismally facetious adult fiction. READ IT WITH: Its companion novel – If You’re Still Reading This, Why Are You Still Alive?

WORST BIT: Otto’s pained deliberations over whether the story all began in Buda or Pest.

by Kate Prendergast: is an Arts student destined to be a social burden. Eh!

BEST BIT: Randolph Stow

Stow often wrote following various traditional styles, but despite this his poetry retains an absolute uniqueness and a distinct readability. Some of it explicitly concerns the “Australian” experience (and no doubt all of it is informed by it), but Stow’s dealings with this – and the questions his poetry raises – surpasses most with its nuance. My favourite qualities here are the excellent imagery and use of vowel-repetition. In a lot of cases, reading Stow’s poetry aloud is soothing (or even cathartic) in a way that is difficult to describe. Rarely have I found the sound of my own voice so enjoyable. The book also contains a long introductory essay by John Kinsella, which is robust and thought-provoking. If – like me – you aren’t super-familiar with the Stow poetry canon already, I’d read this afterwards, as I got more out of it once I’d read through the poems.

8/10

WORST BIT: Variations on the Testament of Tourmaline’ I couldn’t build a strong appreciation for.

by Connor Weightman: irritated his girlfriend by staying up late to finish this review.

“East Coast glamour, vodka martinis, moonlight conspiracies” – Picador are pushing Liza Klaussman’s debut novel as a post-WWII Gatsby. There’s passion, betrayal, and secret violence. For God’s sake, there are even characters called Nick and Daisy. Two things are particularly striking about Tigers in Red Weather – it outperforms its press release, and it clearly owes less to Fitzgerald than to Yates’ Revolutionary Road.

BEST BIT: Offstage character Avery Lewis’s bizarre obsession and the lengths he’ll go to pursue it.

WORST BIT: It’s been done before and better.

The promised parties, infidelity, and violent crime are spread thinly. Red Weather’s true focus is the fall from untroubled youthful hedonism to careful (Klaussman’s “deliberate”) adult life. Ostensibly a murder mystery, the novel is really about the beautiful and damned Nick and Hughes Derringer’s marriage. Five key characters, all East Coast elite, reveal hidden tensions riddling the Derringer-Lewes dynasty. Klaussman’s characters aren’t extraordinary, but they are recognisably true, and sometimes even surprising. The promotional material, which suggests Klaussman’s main selling point is being a distant descendant of Herman Melville, belies her confident prose style and her deft handling of plot. As far as society domestic dramas go, though, it’s not quite reaching the heights of Fitzgerald or Forster. READ IT WITH: a whiskey sour.

Quirkiness, such as Claude Sylvanshine’s “Random Fact Intuition”. This is like ESP, but useless.

It loosely follows the lives of a group of IRS workers (the American tax office, for those playing at home, in Australia) who converge in a department branch in Peoria, Illinois. This plot emerges vaguely amidst backstories, panoramic descriptions and unattributed dialogue exchanges. Despite the gaps, and Wallace’s fascination with facts and figures, which borders on the grotesque, reading The Pale King is thrilling. It offers a glimpse into the processes of work which structure a story that is fundamentally about chaos. In its incomplete state, it is possible to read the novel as a series of vignettes orbiting around central themes of boredom, social acceptance and the role of work in late-capitalist America. But in the long prose sections of backstory and description, the style behaves in a way that is distinctly Wallace: rarely punctuated sentences spoken by quirky personalities which manage to convey the threat of a breakdown in social normality just before the full stop.

WORST BIT: When, in pursuit of hyper-realism, the story becomes bogged down in tax jargon and shorthand.

by Kira McPherson: currently doing English Honours, producing a different, 15 000-word book review.

READ IT WITH: Reduced expectations for plot development.

Tigers in Red Weather

7/10

BEST BIT:

The Pale King is David Foster Wallace’s much-anticipated, hastily-compiled, posthumously-published, incomplete novel.

READ IT WITH: An empty room (so you can whisper the poems to yourself without feeling embarrassed).

Liza Klaussman

David Foster Wallace

So much of it – I’m not going to pick.

7/10 Randolph Stow (1936-2010) did not publish a lot of poetry over his lifetime, and hardly any in the second half of it. What he did write is all here (at least, what he approved to publish) and oh my – it’s very good.

Books

The Pale King

by Zoe Kilbourn: studies second year Law/Music. She ordered fish filet.

What the F*@# Should I Make for Dinner? Zach Golden

BEST BIT: Feeling like someone with Tourette’s Syndrome is reading the recipe to you.

8.5/10 “Finally, you’ve found something easier than your little sister. Now cook up some fucking Brined Pork Chops.” This is just one of the 50 recipes showcased in What the F*@# Should I Make for Dinner? Everything about this cookbook is simple but entertaining in its originality. There is no contents page, but the cookbook has its own special way to help you find specific recipes to suit your taste. Beneath each recipe there are questions directing you to new pages: ‘Don’t fucking like that?’ and ‘Don’t fucking eat meat?’ It’s spiral bound, making it unbelievably easy for you to flip to your fussy heart’s content. The recipes will have you indecisive about what to cook, not because of the variety of meals, but the choice of the language used for individual recipes. What makes this cookbook more unique than other contenders is the use of colourful language. It is by far the most amusing cookbook I have read and I would recommend it to all levels of cooks. READ IT WITH: The sweet sounds of Gordon Ramsay’s voice on Hell’s Kitchen in the background.

WORST BIT: There is no total preparation/cooking time given prior to the cooking methods.

by Natasha Woodcock: gaining her identity back after being referred to for five years as ‘Jack Woodcock’s sister’.

The Land’s Meaning

Books

Fifty Shades

of Shit Eunice Ong

I work in a bookshop, and for the past few months Fifty Shades of Grey has been constantly sold out. Disappointed middle-aged women keep coming in and asking me where ‘book one’ is. This accursed excuse for a book has been topping bestseller lists everywhere – and because ‘everyone’ is reading it, everyone else simply has to read it too, inadvertently adding to the hype. Hence I felt duty-bound to read the first novel (oh gods, yes, it is a trilogy!). This is basically soft-core porn of the BDSM sort. Which is OK, as long as you know this is what you’re about to read. Storyline: Ana, a female uni student meets Christian, a male CEO; he’s into kinky sex and introduces her to the joys of BDSM – think whips, chains, handcuffs and spanking.

Illustration by Wenny Yeo

Fifty Shades was originally an erotic piece of Twilight fan-fiction entitled ‘Master of the Universe’. A sneaky Google-stalk reveals that the original fan-fic is almost indiscernible from the published product, with the main difference being that ‘Edward’ and ‘Bella’ have become ‘Christian Grey’ and ‘Ana Steele’. The story is set in Washington, yet the characters use British terms and slang. Not judging, some of my favourite authors began their careers writing fan-fic. I like to think I’m open-minded enough not to judge this book based on the characters’ deviant sexual preferences. However, I found it was impossible to read Fifty Shades without bursting out in hideous fits of laughter because the prose is terrible. For example, Ana constantly refers to her ‘medulla oblongata’, which I can only deduce is E. L. James’s (failed) attempt at sounding intellectual.

I can’t describe the characters as merely ‘one dimensional’ – they are less than that, because they have no personality. I suppose this could be a clever plot device that allows any reader to transplant his or herself into either of the main characters so they can live vicariously through the novel. N.B. if you find yourself inclined towards the themes in this book, you should probably speak to your partner about it, rather than following an eCard I found which suggests ‘biting your lip in the hopes that your boyfriend gets the hint and pulls a Christian Grey on you’. Can everyone say ‘setback in feminism’ with me? I could dissect this book to bits, but I would rather prove that my hatred for this book is merely objective by pointing out that a quick Google search reveals that the website Literotica has tonnes of FREE stories for those who are so inclined that are much better written, with complex characters and excellent descriptive writing – and these writers are doing it without monetary gain. The writings of a certain dr_ mabeuse are of particular quality, or Subtext, by Kate Marley, which is a funny, engaging memoir about the author’s experimentation and realisation that she is into BDSM. Despite Marley and Ana (from Fifty Shades) both being uni students, you can tell that Marley, unlike Ana, is not a stupid bitch. She’s intelligent, actually independent and strong-willed (rather than merely a description given by the author attempting to convey that the female ‘protagonist’ is strong). The only hope I can see for Fifty Shades is its potential as a drinking game – flip to a random page, if any of the following occurs, DRINK:

•

Male is referred to as ‘my fifty shades’

•

Ana’s ‘inner goddess’ is battling her ‘subconscious’, or either are mentioned

•

Ana giggles about using Grey’s toothbrush without permission

•

Someone ‘murmurs’ or ‘growls’

•

The ‘Slave Contract’ is mentioned (which ironically, is void because a human-being cannot be the property of another)

•

Christian orders Ana to eat*

*Is ‘Ana’ short for ‘anorexia’? Is this the one clever device E. L. James used, or merely a Freudian slip? Food issues are a main theme in this book; Grey is always telling Ana to eat because she ‘hasn’t eaten all day’, Ana says she’s ‘not hungry’, and he gets mad and insists she eat something from the spread of food laid out … and so on. Aside from this being unrealistic because no self-respecting uni student passes on free food, Ana’s habits are sending an unhealthy message to the female readership that devours these novels. I cry at the thought of those poor trees being butchered for the propagation of such drivel – maybe I should write kinky romance novels too since I’d get six figures – I could quit uni, pay off my HECS debt and retire. In conclusion, if BDSM is your favoured mode of expression, no judgement, unless you choose this book.

Books

Geraldine at Bookcaffe Yvonne Buresch These days every bookshop owner and his dog are attaching cafés to their existing businesses: Planet in Mt Lawley, New Edition in Fremantle and Northbridge, and other less well-known establishments. Bookcaffe in Swanbourne was among the first in Perth, starting more than fifteen years ago, and has built a solid reputation based on providing personal recommendations on what to read. Bookcaffe’s manager and buyer Geraldine Blake also features in ‘Geraldine’s Hot Picks’ on Perth news site thestarfish and contributes to Australian Bookseller and Publisher Magazine. She talks to Pelican about being the Western Suburbs’ resident books expert. How many books do you read in a week, on average? On average, I would probably read about five whole books a week. Plus the odd chapter or two of a few others, just to get an idea of their writing style. Do you read every book all the way to the end? If not, why not? If I’m really not enjoying it after two or three chapters, I’ll give up on a book. I’ve never seen the point of having to finish a book just because I’ve started it. I know some people who consider that an unbreakable rule, but there are too many other books I need to read to stick with something that I am not enjoying. What is your favourite book which was recommended to you by someone else, and which you wouldn’t normally have read? Back in the early 1990s a good friend was reading her way through the novels of Anne Rice.

She made me read The Witching Hour, the first in a trilogy about the Mayfair witches, a massive tome with over 1,000 pages. I kept protesting that although I respected Rice’s talent as a writer, her books simply had no appeal for me. “Just read this one,” she said, “I promise you will love it.” So I did, and she was right! I had never read anything like it, and became absorbed totally into this mesmerising tale of four centuries of Mayfair family witches in steamy, dark New Orleans. Definitely a memorable reading experience. What are the best and worst things about book clubs? Over the years I have met a lot of lovely people in book clubs. When they are genuinely interested in hearing about the books, trying new authors, and giving me feedback, it is so satisfying. Not much to mention on the negative side except perhaps that the odd group can take themselves too seriously. Once I had a woman come in and demand suggestions for her group, saying that they didn’t want anything “lowbrow” as they had doctors and lawyers in their book club! I’m not sure if I was meant to be intimidated or impressed, but I was tempted to suggest some Enid Blyton. What was the first bookshop you worked in? The first was a little bookstore called The Well which had just opened on Nicholson Road in Subiaco in 1995. My children were at primary school, I was ready to return to work part-time, and I had always wanted to work with books. I spoke to the owner who was running the shop with her son but not looking to hire any staff, and offered to work for her one day a week for free. Then when she was ready to put on more staff, I’d be all trained and ready to go! After 3 weeks I was hired.

Me: Yes, it is. Customer: Can you tell me something, does Geraldine Brooks also write under the name Louisa Alcott? Me: Well, no... Louisa Alcott died about 120 years ago. Customer: But she’s used the same characters so I just assumed it must be the same person. Me: (slight whimpering). I’ll give you a real chuckler from Jen Campbell who has actually written a book about her amusing customer requests. She had someone looking for a book called ‘Lionel Richie and The Wardrobe’. Isn’t that brilliant? We could all do with more requests like that to liven up our days!

Photo by Gideon Sacks, Illustration by Wenny Yeo

Apart from a few years in my sister-in-law’s lovely home wares store, it was bookshops from then on. Funniest customer anecdote? Not a laugh-out-loud story as such, more of a WTF? moment, really. Just to set the scene: Geraldine Brooks in an Australian writer in her 50s. She lives in the USA and won the 2006 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction with her novel March, set during the Civil War in which she uses as her main character Robert March, a Colonel in the Union Army and the father from the famous Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, published in the 1860s. Customer, picking up Caleb’s Crossing: Is this Geraldine Brooks’ latest novel?

137 Claremont Crescent, Swanbourne

Ph: 9385 0553 E: goodbooks@bookcaffe.com.au Bookshop opening hours (earlier for café): Monday – Friday: 8.30am-5.00pm Saturdays, Sundays, Public Holidays: 9.00am-5.00pm.

Arts

Gaming in the Post-Apocalypse:

Humble Indie Bundle V Lachlan Petersen If you have never heard of the “Humble Indie Bundle” before, here’s a quick debrief. Every so often, for a limited time, the website humblebundle.com sells a whole bunch of independently developed games at whatever price you choose. The money goes to charity, game developers or the Humble Bundle team. How much goes to each is up to you. That’s it. Pretty simple.

The bundle prior to this one had the sexiest line-up yet: eight games, many of which very successful in their own right – especially the second best game ever made by anyone ever, Cave Story+. The website sold about 600,000 bundles and made more than $5 000 000. Now I know it probably would have been better if I had written this review (for the fifth instalment) BEFORE the bundle came out, but all of these games are still available for purchase individually. I’m writing this review because the Humble Bundle is a noble project. You get to play amazing games you probably wouldn’t even get the chance to hear of otherwise, and indie game makers can afford some lentils for dinner. Everyone wins. Except for Bobby Kotick. Let’s do this.

can’t even look at it without losing sanity. All you can do is run like a little girl. This game is fucked. Play it. Alone. At night.

Bastion Adventure/RPG You are a kid who wakes up on a floating chunk of infrastructure, and a grizzled narrator explains the story as you play it out. It’s set in a postapocalyptic fantasy world that, thrown into the sky after something called “the calamity”, you’re trying to put back together. You unlock a whole bunch of weapons, and can customise them and your character as you go. Addictive, good fun, and only takes about 10 hours to finish.

Art by Arti Pillai

Horror/Horror/Puzzle/Horror/Horror/Horror You wake up in a poorly lit castle with a note that essentially says “go kill some dude”. You progress by solving puzzles and are equipped with nothing but a lantern. You can’t stay in the dark for too long, or else you start going crazy, and your oil and matches are limited. The game reaches its zenith when finally, after hours of suspense, you actually come across a monster. You have no weapon, no way to harm or impede it and you

Horror/Puzzle Guess what?! You wake up. Where? A postapocalyptic world! Don’t let this cookie-cutter premise fool you, this game is an amazingly unique experience. Your aim isn’t clear until the end of the game, you just have to make your way by solving disturbing puzzles and running from brickshittingly-scary things. It’s only 3 hours long and isn’t particularly challenging, but the overall experience is simply load-blowing. Play it. Now.

Sword and Sorcery EP Adventure

Lone Survivor Horror/Adventure

Amnesia: The Dark Descent

Limbo

You’re in a post-apocalyptic world populated exclusively by you, hallucinations and all manner of classic horror tropes. This game is very old school in the sense that it is slow paced, low-res and clunky as shit to play. In fact, I couldn’t play this game for more than an hour or so because I died as a result of said CLUNKY BULLSHIT and was facing replaying the last 15 minutes of tedious point-and-click pain. If you’re into your adventure games, I’d say this game definitely has its merits. However its definitely not for everyone.

This game is all about the stylish visuals and audio. It’s a point and clicker, and it does suffer a little bit from an occasional lack of momentum. The narrative and dialogue are witty and very tongue in cheek. Although slow paced and not particularly challenging, Sword and Sorcery’s jovial nature and charming style makes it well worth a play.

3rd Person Puzzle/Platformer/Fun (!?)

You are a chunk of bloody meat, trying to save your girlfriend from some dude named Dr. Fetus who keeps punching her in the face. The game is based on a simple premise: get from one side of the level to the other. And then it tries to make you go crazy. If you like dying over and over and over and over and over then this game is for you. To ease the pain, whenever you finish a level you are rewarded with a replay of every single one of your attempts played out simultaneously. It’s like Gallipoli except the Aussie Battlers have been replaced with an army of sloppy chunks of meat charging into buzz saws and lava. If you like challenging platformers then this game is probably already in your favourite games of all time.

Just saying that Tim Schafer has something to do with it should be enough, really. You play as Rasputin, a kid who runs away from a circus to a summer camp that doubles as a training grounds for telepathic soldiers. You endeavour to solve a conspiracy involving stolen brains by jumping into the minds of various crazies. All of the levels take place inside the minds of the game’s characters (one of which is a giant mutant lungfish), and you go about sorting out their psychological intricacies, which in turn helps you in some way. These levels are immensely creative and fun, but I sometimes found myself groaning over a couple of instances involving the mechanic of collecting pointless shit for no reason other than to allow you to progress to the next level. Minor grievance aside, this game is refreshingly different and imaginative; definitely worth a play.

Braid

Obviously, if you like puzzlers, platformers, adventure or horror games, I hope you got your hands on this. I loved this bundle, though I generally don’t play these types of games, and I would seriously recommend getting your hands on most of these. The lesson to take home from this is that indie games are awesome. If you didn’t get your filthy, mainstream paws on this bundle, you should keep an eye out for the next one. The website is humblebundle.com. Do it.

Puzzle/Platformer This game is sex for the mind. You’re a handsome fella trying to save a princess by collecting jigsaw pieces and conversing with some mongoloid dinosaur. Just like that other game. The puzzles are all about manipulating the flow of time. You can rewind and fast-forward time as much as you want, and each world has a different mechanic that you must master to solve the puzzles. The puzzles get really difficult, but are very rewarding .You can’t help but feel like a hyper-genius when you solve them. Clever puzzle design and a charming narrative make this game a joy to play. Do it.

Arts

Psychonauts

Super Meat Boy Platformer/Frustration

The Nerd Hulk

After being exposed to a Gamma-Radiated Internet Flamewar, mild-mannered fanboy Calvin Canner Finds that when his Nerd Rage rises he turns into the strangest monster of them all....

Look out True Believers! Calvin Canner is at OZ Comic-Con! Could Marvel Comics legend Smilinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Stan Lee hold the key to curing Calvin of the horror of the Nerd Hulk?

Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Sheldon Cooper really like? Mr Lee! Please validate my life choices!

MA HULK S T CONVEN

Words by Kevin Chiat, Art by Camden Watts

These questions are so banal. Not one person has mentioned Jack Kirby or seems to have read a comic book. I Can feel my

Which of the Who Wants to be a Superhero contestants really wanted to be a superhero?

Nerd

Rage rising!

ARGHHHHHH!

Excelsior!

Bacchanalia

PUNY HUMANS! HULK WANT LINE MOVE FASTER!

HULK WANT TO THANK STAN LEE BECAUSE STAN LEE’S WORK IMPORTANT TO HULK!

HULK REALISE THAT LETTING PUNY HUMANS RUIN HULK’S FUN BECAUSE THEY DON’T HAVE SAME RELATIONSHIP WITH CULTURAL OBJECTS AS HULK IS STUPID!

ISED N A G R LY O R L O A O N P O H S S A PER E R O TION! NEED M

Through the power of selfawareness, the fearsome Nerd Hulk’s savage Nerd Rage subsides and he turns back into mildmannered Calvin Connors.

Thus, Calvin Connors has learnt to not be such a judgmental fanboy and hold in the Nasty Nerd Hulk! ‘Til next time, True Believers!

HULK SPACE!

Stan Lee created Batman, right?

Howl

吠える

Words by Bill Marlo, Illustration by Alice Palmer.

YAMANOTE LINE DAYDREAMS

Mr Takaganwa was pissed today. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man sneeze boiling hot tea out of his nose in blind rage. But what does he expect from us in this economy. The old sub-editors are falling of the perch one by one and I am tired and my eyes are dimming and I just can’t work as fast as I used to. The copy is pouring in faster than ever and the paper is piling to the roof and hell what am I expected to do if three of the other old hands pack up shop and leave. It’s a young man’s industry now, it always has been, and now he gets mad because us dithering hacks have clung to our desks proofing crappy stories and sending them out to print. It’s not our fault that we can’t print a hit – the baseball stories are as boring as the game itself and we show our age when trying to piece together a publication that meets the sexual fantasies of younger men – fantasies that are growing increasingly disturbing with their cat ears, tentacles, egg laying and what with the girls being so young God it is hard for me to go home and look Mizuki in the face after spending an entire day proofing stories for feckless cumshedders who can only come to images of crudely drawn 12 year olds. You must wonder at the strange desires of this new generation – have they known the touch of a woman? Perhaps Mr Takaganawa hasn’t gotten off in a while and that is why he comes into the office shouting at the old-guard and spitting tea out of his squirming pug nose. But in this economy what does he expect? There is a lot of competition and like I said to him we are getting too old to understand what sells to these kids…ah but it is not my place to say such things, I only edit the proofs…Mizuki turns 11 tomorrow and I thought I might catch her on the Yamanote line heading back from school with that podgy brat she bounces

around with. I hope she likes her bicycle. It’s all good to have a thousand flashing screens screeching at you from out of your pocket but I do not like the idea of child turning 12 and never riding a bike! When I lived in Osaka I got everywhere by bike but ah that was a different time I suppose and the crowds were not so thick back then even in Dotonbori and I suppose on top of that I was young and mad on girls and drunk most nights and it felt like my bike was the only thing in my life that moved me anywhere. Such a strange bunch of girls my daughter has raised. Asuka is still working in that Maid Café being gawked at by the lonesome card collecting introverts who make up most of our readership. Why did I go there to see her at work? Ha! Her idea of a joke, for her grandfather to see her toddle around Tokyo’s loners and gawking gaijin while she talks in a high-pitched voice and impersonates a cat and sings screeching songs to each madman that buys a slimy sugared up watered down drink. To hear her talk like that! It was hard not to laugh knowing how she talks with her mother, her voice is deep like my own! What strange girls they are turning out to be but I suppose it is my fault for raising such a strange daughter. Mr Takaganawa has only one son and he dresses like a girl from one of our adult publications and heads down to Meiji parks and dances with all the other dolled up weirdos. Tonight Mr Takaganawa will be going over the numbers again alone in his apartment and he might decide to fire some people, myself included. But what does he expect in this economy? Ah…but I am just going to grab an Asahi and an Onagri from FamilyMart, lie on my couch and watch the Giants. That and put a bow on Mizuki’s new and first bike and then – as I am about to right now – I will fall asleep.

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