Archive for November, 2008
Gustav
My friend Gustav has made La Fourmi Café (The Ant Café) his own enclave. He is potent and distinct like the smell of a squashed bull-ant: Sisters of Mercy balding black frizz, leopard print crotch, rainbow Indian jewellery, homemade black pointed high heels. › Continue reading
A Newly Relocated Londoner’s Guide To Oxford High Street.
Essentials:
- Mobile Phone. And a cheap as shit London sim card, which probably takes about 2 minutes to organise.
- Bottle of water.
- Visa Debit Card. And your passport incase the sales assistants don’t believe you could own your own debit card.
- London A-Z (tube map is included).
- Starbucks Venti Chai Tea Latte. Wet, on soya milk.
- An understanding that the concept of personal space is practically eradicated from your physiological predisposition.
Cherryl ‘That’s my agent!’ Bright
Real estate in Brisbane sure is booming, but it seems there is only one lady for the job - Cherryl Bright.
interview: MISS AB
At 29, Amber Bignell (aka Miss AB) is one interesting pie-dipper artist. Having worked as a photographer, illustrator, toymaker, sculpturor, acupuncturist, graphic designer and ‘zine writer, Amber is now focusing on creating site-specific installations staged around her soft-sculptures creatures. › Continue reading
Job Interview: The John Steel Singers
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“>The John Steel Singers — Rainbow Kraut
The John Steel Singers (Brisbane) make you feel like you ought to be skipping down the middle of a leafy, wide road; on a blistering Summer’s day; with a fruit popsicle jammed in your cheek and a marching band (in formation and with all the jazzy trimmings) following close behind. But that’s just a serving suggestion. We think you’ll enjoy them just as much by simply giving their new EP a run on your ipod and imagining the rest.
Here’s Pete (Vox, Keys, Trombone) copping The Ten Worst Job Interview Questions Ever, according to businesspundit.com. › Continue reading
Seventeen Crushes (Paris)
The romanticism of Paris spreads like an invasive exotic: what surprises you most is its subtlety.
Paris is a human city. Urine stains the walls. The weather leaves a lasting dampness. Women are natural, perpetually un-kept hair and minimal make-up. Paris Fashion Week to them is a fucking circus. The people are stare-bears, eyes averting as soon as you catch them. The symmetry of spatial design is as equally stiffly conservative, the corduroy straight lines and the manicured gardens. Everything is glazed over in repetition…but then the crush begins.