Genetics

You know what's a good time killer when you're super bored and it's late at night and you should be asleep? Looking at threads about denim care on the Hypebeast website. Actually, it's really boring and tedious. Nerds from LA list about a thousand ways to care for you jeans so that they look like you don't care about your jeans.

If you're running something pretty basic VivismMocCrumb suggests you take a shower with the jeans on as soon as you get home. Then you've got to go for a run or a skate (rollerblade) with still wet pants to make sure they crease in the right places. Then you have to wear them until they're dry. If they smell like wet labrador- you're doing it right. You've set the culture into the jeans (like yoghurt) and they become a living organism. What VivismMocCrumb neglects to mention is that you should always get a handful of instant coffee and pack it around your junk as a form of deodrant. Never wear underwear. The granules of Nescafe will give you a nice subtle brown colour near the groin. This is desirable. It lets everyone know that you're a strong dark character. You shovel handfuls of the most expensive instant coffee around your most treasured possesions as though it's cheap dirt. The brown triangle will never go out of fashion. Word of warning- make sure you don't shove a handful down the back.

The other thing that's weird is selvedge. You must never ever wash it. Not for two years anyway. I tried this with some jeans I bought in Japan. I got to about 8 weeks and cracked. It was summer. Smelling like gooch doesn't do anyone any favours. SupremeFiendHongKong suggests you bury your jeans in warm peat for six months and then they're ready to wear to selected events.

Dickensian Digestive

I'm reading Martin Chuzlewit by Charles Dickens at the moment. It takes me back to a bygone era where you could hit poor people with a stick and make a girl fall in love with you simply by traveling to America and getting sick with the fevers. It makes me feel like taking a big glass of rum punch warm as Dickens advocates and toasting the cockles of me heart in front of the coke burner. I think I could be a count or something like that quite easily. All I would need would be some pointy leather boots and some French slacks and I could go around eating bully beef with hot mustard and kicking people that aren't as fancy as me. 'Oh my countenance!' I would say and then lay the boot into small children, puddingly larder maids, and misely old scrooges with more money than me. This would be grand. I would probably procure some smoked meat of the ham variety from Spain and eat this while smoking some opium I got off the spice wharf.

Instead I'm at home and it's as ruddy cold as a sow's tit which is sleeping in the barn which is frosty as the winter has set in in rural Cumberland. This is not the style that I am accustomed too. I am the Earl of Parmesan. Once I saw the Earl of Danger Mazz (or The Public Transport Wristy Proffessor as he is commonly known). I knew it was him immediately as he had those sort of transition glasses that get stuck between inside and oustide so they look like some sort of non-committal sunglasses. My dad wears these and it makes him look like he's got some sort of iron deficiency.

These glasses coupled with socks with pictures on them put him in the realms of sex pest. What cemented his position was his pointy shoes. They looked unsavoury like a pair of boats that were headed for chair-sniff Island (Buswellton) . He kept looking at a girls legs and I could tell he was thinking about having the quickest of shuffles. He looked jumpy. He also had curly hair which is basically a tell-tale sign of being sexually deviant.

When I drink red wine my lips go purple. I catch a look of myself in the back of soup spoon and I realise I look like somebody that's tried to smoke a tampon. I walk around like this for hours until I notice. I must drink like some sort of bee sting victim. Actually you get all the taste through your lips. For real. You should try it.

On Television

On television, the news reporter swore. She was outside a building where the Prime Minster was talking to old people about talcum powder cyclones and stolen shopping trollies. The news reporter waited for a live cross. She had an electric beetle in her ear. She waited for the signal from the news reader. She waited. She waited some more. Then she said "........fuck, why isn't this working?"

It was the best thing I have seen on television all week and that includes watching George from Masterchef rock back on his heels and punctuate every word with a flap of his arm and a splutter. Actually I hate that. I'd like to tie him up and feed him canned meat and powdered custard until he vomited waves of Hawthorn banners.



It was the best thing ever. I think I am an Alicia O'flaherty fan. She's the baddest.

Swearing and doing rad stuff. All day, every day. 24 7 non stop.

Unagi Unago

I just drank some soy sauce. I'm like an eel. It gives me the powers. I can shoot salt crystals out my eyes if I concentrate hard enough. They sort of look like diamonds made of cokerdee-cola. They call me Unagi. I smoke twigs and ride my bike real fast with no shirt on. One time I licked a window.