I tried twice to get into this series of books. Oddly, for the King, they just didn't do it for me. But having seen this excellent trailer I might go back for a third attempt. Thanks to Warren for the heads up.
From today's ASB:
I had my first school formal on Saturday night, which is to say, my daughter went to hers and I opened the sluice gates on my inappropriately-named savings account and watched my carefully hoarded fortune flood out into the hands of carnivorous dress designers, hairstylists, make-up artists and the guy who invented Uniqlo because at the last minute I learned I’d have to be in the pre-formal photos too.
(Off topic observation. Every dad is a $49.00 late Saturday afternoon panic outfit purchase away from becoming a lifelong committed Uniqlo Dad. Thank you, Mr Uniqlo. Thank you.)
Anyway, the dance was fine. No funny or tragic or tragicomic stories emerged from it. But that is not always the way of things with high school dances, is it? Especially not when you finally reach the very summit of Mt. Dramapalooza, which in Australia is known as The School Formal and in the US as Prom Night.
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Hard to believe we're still alive, really:
And so we are one hundred days into Donald Trump’s presidency of laughter and forgetting. The laughter is the deranged cackle of an escaped mental patient hiding in the darkened basement of a Stephen King story. The forgetting is inevitable, because who can keep this shit straight? The alternate facts, the Russian hookers, the amateur oompah band of cosplay Nazis winding their way through the White House kicking out the jams on a 76 trombone cover of old SS dancehall favourites, the early morning tweet storms, the gentle tonguing of Vladimir Putin, Kelly-Anne’s shopping network promo for Ivanka’s failing fashion line, Mike Flynn’s sacking, Steve Bannon’s demonic possession, selfies with the nuclear briefcase guy, and family favours and open bribes from the Chinese government and the transfer of the Situation Room to the outdoor dining lounge at Mar-a-Lago. And all of that is just off the top of my head. With a quick search on el Goog I could fill this whole column with a firehose of craziness, the same way that talking baboon’s anus constantly fills our world with a never-ending toxic gas leak of his brainfarts and crazy uncle conspiracy theories.
As John Oliver said. “Trump hasn't said one crazy thing, he's said thousands of crazy things, each of which blunts the effect of the others.”
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The Doc and I talk how wrong we have been already about the NBA, the paralells between WSC and the current debacle happening in netball and how wrong the timing is for a womens sport to be screwing up. Then we laugh at the Knicks again and how even their fans won't buy our Knicks colourway T, before discussing the FA cup, ecenomic terrorism and YOU AIN'T GONNA ROOK US!
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In which Beeso and the Doc review classic Rocket Science, new Goldfrapp and Black Joe Lewis & the Honeybears, and get into how Oils ain't oils, politics isn't worth a half eaten bag of chips, vale John Clarke, things that are about 100 metres, Daggumentaries, farnarkling, Goldeneyeing, homeopathy, Beats Mode, spaced jams, the official rapper of white thinkpiece writers on twitter, comeback acts, colour and movement and stupidity. Next week: Spoon, Damien Cowell's Disco Machine and mid-'90s Dave Graney and the Coral Snakes. This, next and last week's albums are on our Spotify playlist (note to self: it's your last week to go back and listen to last week's albums) with our faves of 2017 repping on the After Dark Mixtape.
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The Battle Of The 'The' Bands (c. 2002), having a stadium rock attitude on a pub rock budget, writing for clubs, dissecting the Splendour lineup and designing festivals for washed-up Gen X parents. This week we review new albums by Satan Takes A Holiday and Pulled Apart By Horses and a 2001 classic by Groove Armada. Next week: Goldfrapp, Black Joe Lewis & the Honeybears and Contact High by Rocket Science (2001). This, last and next week's albums are all on our Spotify playlist.
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