The Blackest of Keys.

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It’s the end of the month, the middle of the week and the start of a very short and sharp bankingcommish post. I’m getting this out of the way as quickly as possible tonight while drinking leftover gin from the party we had at our house the other night. Hopefully I don’t burst into tears later and have a deep and meaningful conversation with one of my pals about how disappointed I am with my life while aggressively smoking my way through a pack of Longbeach Mild 20’s.

No promises…

The reason for my hastiness? The Black Keys (who I’m a huge fan of) are playing at the Sidney Myer Music Bowl in a couple of hours and the last thing that I want to be thinking about while I’m watching them play is rushing home to slap out 400 drunken words of utter rubbish. I still can’t believe how insane it is that these guys are now so big that they’ve sold out one of the largest venues in Melbourne and had to put on a second show; I remember 6 or so years back, they were playing to crowds of 200 people at The Republic Bar, one of the few decent live music venues in Hobart and a very small venue at that. Their rise to the top has been stratospheric, and throughout this time they’ve managed to hold onto their own creative control instead of whoring themselves out to the record companies and moving with current trends to climb into the Top 40 charts like a lot of other artists do.

 

I must admit, it was nice for me when The Black Keys were a little more under the radar. I didn’t have to listen to Johnny-come-latelys claiming them as their favourite band despite an absolute inability to name any of their tracks pre the ‘Brothers’ album (which had their first mega-commercially successful track, ‘Tighten Up’ on it), but I’ve learnt that being that kind of douche is unhelpful. Their live line-up has also been expanded to include a bassist & a keyboardist/rhythm guitarist, making their sound more rounded and just a tiny bit less raw than their original two-man guitar and drums aural assault (which I far preferred), but they still haul ass.

To be honest, I’m just happy that they’re still making music and that they’re getting paid in fat stacks of cash and are reaping the rewards of years of building a loyal fanbase through their gruelling touring schedule.

It just goes to show, ready-made X-Factor ‘stars’ (aka talentless fuckwits) come and go, but real success comes to those who bust their arses for years and years and years and then finally write a track that sounds radio-friendly enough to be easily digested by people that like pop music, who then (hopefully) discover their back catalogue and have their minds blown.

I think we’ve all learnt something today…

/end communication

Taking stock.

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Pop the corks on the champagne people and let the low-rent strippers onto the balcony to celebrate with you… today bankingcommish achieved its 10,000th unique page view. As October draws to a close, my challenge officially enters into its third and final trimester. I use the word trimester, but I think I’m selling myself a little short really… after all, this endeavour is clearly far more excruciatingly painful and drawn out than child birth could ever hope to be, right ladies?

10000. Thanks, Czech Republic.

Right ladies???

One of the unexpected sources of a significant amount of humour for me during this ordeal has been the information I’ve managed to mine out of the wordpress site itself on the habits of Google users; you see, the blog interface actually shows me where in the world people are viewing the blog from and also the search that they’ve put into Google to end up at my page. It’s like being shown a portal into the minds of Internet users, who are clearly a bunch of total creeps. Suffice to say, there have been some pretty fucked up searches that have led to the hallowed pages of the ‘commish, some of which I’ll share with you now (as well as providing context as to why they may have linked to me in the first place). There have also been some innocent searches that may well end up scarring the user for life…

Pissing cocks – 1 view…

‘Goon price increase’ – searched 24 times.

I laughed when I saw this pop up the first time. After the 10th time, I was thinking, “Shit, this actually does mean quite a bit to quite a few people.” 24 separate times? Mental. I love how the searches were all for ‘goon price increase’ not ‘box wine price increase’. Classy.

‘the fucking project with cunt dave hughes’ – searched 2 times

One of the first pieces I wrote was on how shit ‘The Project’ on Channel 10 is. The owner of this web search clearly agreed with the sentiment, and was dutifully linked to my own vitriol about that gap-toothed cunt.

‘religions fucking each other’ – searched 2 times.

No description necessary.

‘brynne edelsten useless cunt’ – searched 1 time.

Again, no description really necessary, although I’m sure the searcher was nodding their head profusely while digesting the literary bile I spat over the ex-stripping Arizonian sugar-daddy lover.

‘hilltop hoods’ – searched 29 times

It warms the cockles of my heart to know that Hilltop Hoods fans have read what I wrote.

‘Pissing Cocks’ – searched 1 time.

Hahahahahah. What?

‘fat kid drinking from garden hose’ – searched 1 time.

I have absolutely no idea how this links to my page, but it makes me happy nonetheless.

‘what does reece mastin look for in a girl’ – searched 1 time.

When I first stumbled across this one, it made me cry with laughter. I imagine some poor 14 year-old girl (her name would be Piper, or something equally suburban-chic), sitting in front of the TV watching X-Factor with her parents when Reece Mastin comes on. She’s instantly enamoured by the boy, so, being the generation Y kid she is, she asks Google what Reece looks for in his ideal mate…

She is then linked to the blog, where I refer to Mastin as a ’teenage X-Factor fuck-puppet’ who ‘gives slobbery blowjobs to Sony executives in their ornately furnished boardroom’.

Imagine the look on poor Piper’s face! Innocence lost…

/end communication

Horsey!

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Horse-racing, I just don’t get the attraction. It seems that as soon as the football season is over, the focus of the collective media magnifying glass seems to viciously shift from the footy to coverage of the upcoming spring racing carnival, coverage so detailed that it captures the events at a molecular level. D-Grade celebrities are wheeled out from the States and paraded around as if they’re huge drawcards that Australians should consider themselves lucky to be in the presence of (Carson Kressley anyone?) & even more obscure celebrities are created from the burgeoning stocks of sometimes models & off-season footballers in our own country in order to fill the social pages of shit-rags like The Herald Sun. Yay.

I mean, sure, I understand why some people go bananas over it – Everyone gets the chance to wear hats that they couldn’t get away with anywhere else (if you see a man wearing a fedora and a single-vented suit that he could have potentially stolen from the set of Mad Men, kick him in the testicles as hard as you can while shouting, “You are not Don Draper!” repeatedly while crossing your index fingers over each other like you’re warding off a vampire, it’s the only way he’ll learn). Also, the chance to have ‘a flutter’ and bet some money on the horses is always a big drawcard.

High fashion – means sweating like a hog in 30 degree Australian heat while looking like a dandy. Intelligent.

I’ve got mates that are quite knowledgeable when it comes to horseracing & could tell you the differences between horses dependent on the respective styles of each of their trainers (apparently Gai Waterhouse horses are taught to lead out hard and this isn’t always a good thing?) & the effect that this can have on race results. Personally, I gain about as much from reading the form guide as I do from reading Kanji script via a mirror.

I say that there are too many variables to ever be backing a ‘sure thing’ in a horse race. Collusion, back-room deals, tampering (remember the scandal a few years back when Bold Personality had its hind legs painted white to act as a ring-in for Fine Cotton? Mental…) I don’t know how anyone could be 100% confident that any horse race is run on a level playing field. There’s too much money to be made and too many ways to be deceitful in order to gain a competitive and financial advantage for my liking. Give me a dishlicker any day – when there’s no human on their back, the margin for skulduggery is greatly diminished.

Also, fucks like Alex Perry tend to be there, and I fucking hate that guy.

“Should’ve gone to SpecSavers.”

FUCK OFF!

/end communication

Doppleganger.

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I went out for some froffies last night in Fitzroy with some mates and four people in completely unrelated groups of friends bailed me up at various stages of the night and said, “Hey, have you seen that TV show ‘How I Met Your Mother’? You look just like Marshall, the tall guy.” I get that everywhere I go, which is weird considering I think that I don’t look a thing like the guy. Last night, it started out as a bit of a joke with the first and second person & I had a bit of a laugh with them, but by the last I was absolutely fucking exasperated with it.

Earlier in the evening I was having dinner in town on Hardware Lane & watching from our table, which was outside & on the lane itself, as what seemed like carload upon carload of people dressed up for Halloween poured out of maxi taxis & pink Hummer stretch limos, clip-clopping their way across the cobblestones to their intended destination (presumably some club event where the partygoers pay $30 up-front and are entitled to 2 free shots of watered down apple schnapps & an evening of shoddy remixes of Top 40 hits mixed by a DJ who has their own business cards), the majority of girls swaying uneasily on impractical high heels as they tried to negotiate the subtle intricacies of the variable terrain underfoot, the boys following close behind, oblivious to the difficulties faced by their companions.

This guy – not me.

It was clear to me that quite a bit of thought, effort & money had gone into the outfits that these people had put together for the evening, lining the pockets of the legion of companies who now promote the shit out Halloween for their own financial gain. Since when is Halloween in Australia a fucking thing, anyway? I read an article in The Age the other day where some yuppie fuck tried to shoot down anyone who might stop to ask why Australia has been taken over by this ostensibly American pastime and all it did was make me hate the idea of Australian Halloween even more.

That the concept of purchasing confectionery on the off-chance that some neighbourhood children may knock on your door while trick-or-treating is now consideration for suburban households in Australia is utterly mind-blowing. It was completely unheard of when I was growing up, not even a consideration.

Now, it’d be easy to argue that the introduction of Halloween into Australia is a good thing. After all, kids enjoy it and it’s not doing anyone any harm, is it? Personally, I think that the Yanks already pervade so much of the Australian collective consciousness as it is through their influence in television, cinema, sport, music & politics that it’d be nice, just for once to not be dutifully following in their kitsch wake.

/end communication

 

Tweet Tweet! Fresh meat…

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What the fuck is Twitter actually for? I mean, sure, it’s good at helping Egyptians to mobilise their communities in order to collectively undermine & overthrow a tyrannical government (search the hashtag #Egypt if you want to get an idea of just how large the scope of the conversation was) but it’s also used by drones like Lara Bingle to drop poignant quotes from Albert Einstein like, ‘I never worry about the future, it comes soon enough…’

Yes Lara, they truly are words of wisdom, from the iPhone wielding hands of the same girl who once wrote an open question to her followers, “What’s your fav perfume? LBx.” This and other important questions only ever get asked on social media. Without the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-capturing eye of Twitter, we would simply have to get on with living our dull lives without the chance to (potentially) interact with celebrities on a daily basis.

For those of you that use Twitter, I’m sure that someone you follow spends the majority of their day ‘tweeting’ to celebrities in the vain hope that they might elicit any kind of a response from them. Leading questions, inflammatory remarks, arse-kissing, outlandish statements, exhalations of undying affection – whatever it takes to hear back from the person on the other end of the Twittersphere. It’s like prostituting your own soul for a brief interaction with someone that you’ll never know & never speak to, but it’s okay because it’s just the Internet and it doesn’t really count, does it?

It does count, you cunts. There’s nothing more pathetic than pandering to someone for the pure thrill of having them tweet you back. Woopee fucking do.

As if the fucks that do this aren’t bad enough, there’s an even more atrocious sub-genre of douchebags that beg celebrities for retweets, generally for friends (like they have friends) that are having a birthday, just broke up with their girlfriend/boyfriend or are dying of some incurable disease like liver cancer or arse cancer or whatever… By the way, I use the term ‘celebrity’ very loosely here, as half of the people currently tagged with that moniker are in no way famous despite occasionally appearing in the ‘Confidential’ section of the Herald Sun at some shitty club.

I’ve deliberately misspelt the following excerpt to give it authenticity.

“Hey (insert celebrity name here), my bruvs iz lyin in hospital wiv lung cancer, your his fav (footballer/model/actor/porn-star) and I jus kno dat if u were 2 retweet dis he wld feel so much better. Plz retweet!”

I just imagine the doctor in the hospital ward where this urchin’s brother is holed up, dying of lung cancer at 28 from supporting a 2 pack-a-day habit since he was 13 that he funded by robbing grandmothers while they were at the local bowls club playing bingo.

“Well nurses, it appears that Brynne Edelsten has re-tweeted a comment for this young man… due to this action, it would seem that the prognosis for young Dwayne (he’d have a fucked up name like that) is no longer fatal!”

And don’t even get me started about marketing managers and their fascination with Twitter as part of some ‘holistic approach to integrated digital marketing in order to re-affirm an emotional connection with the intended target audience’. What a bunch of cunts.

/end communication 

Map of the problematique.

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I knew I shouldn’t have updated my iPhone to i0S6. I had a feeling that it’d end badly. What a fucking joke! I got caught up in the hype of the cult of Apple that pervaded my senses in every form of media & followed the crowd meekly into update land. I really wish I hadn’t… For the first 48 hours after the update I couldn’t connect to the Internet at all & now I’m stuck with this fucking joke of a proprietary maps system (no more Google Maps) which I can honestly say is one of the biggest pieces of shit I’ve ever had the displeasure of having to use. I feel like digging Steve Jobs up and punching him in his bony face.

Image

Melways – idiot proof.

Everyone raved when the new ‘Apple Maps’ was first revealed, cooing at the detail provided by the 3D & satellite views at the product release press conference like feeding infants in close proximity to the swollen breastfeeding nipple of a new mother. Of course, behind the scenes Apple was effectively removing any trace of Google from their phones due to the increasing dominance of the Android-powered (an operating system designed by Google found on the majority of non-Apple devices) suite of smart phones, which everyone seems to buy but nobody seems to self-satisfy themselves over… Bizarre how that happens, isn’t it?

Anyway, my frustration with Apple Maps reached fever-pitch today when I had to drive into Docklands to meet a client who had to execute some documents which I then had to drop at their real-estate agent’s offices in South Melbourne. This pursuit is tiresome at the best of times. Now, I’m the first to admit that I have absolutely no fucking idea where I am going in Melbourne, but my trusty old pal Google Maps has been like a comforting blanket, shielding me from my burgeoning navigational ineptitude since I’ve been situated in the big smoke. Trusty, hardy, dependable, knowledgeable; I compare Google Maps to a scruffy old dog with grey whiskers that reads you poetry sitting upright in a rocking chair as you go to sleep. Maybe the dog is wearing spectacles… I just don’t know, but what I do know is that Google Maps made me feel that I was never lost, and that’s important to a guy whose idea of a long commute was previously the five minutes it took to walk from his apartment to the middle of Hobart.

Today, Apple Maps managed to lead me into bottlenecks, traffic jams, incorrect streets, streets I couldn’t turn off from (despite the program telling me I could), didn’t update my location fast enough (causing me to miss turn-offs), showed my location as being in streets that I wasn’t in & was generally just a piece of shit that was about as useful as a laughter track at a Martin Lawrence stand-up gig. If Apple Maps were a person, today I would’ve stabbed it repeatedly and rag-dolled its dead body into a bin. I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR 3D MAPS – JUST SHOW ME WHERE TO FUCKING GO.

Fuck it, just get me a fucking Melways already…

/end communication 

Kim.

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I’ve waited long enough. This is the post I’ve wanted to write since day one of this sordid endeavour, as I believe this particular person epitomises everything that’s wrong with the media, the undying, everlasting cult of pointless celebrity and, more widely, a large proportion of the population of Earth.

Kim Kardashian.

You sex-tape leaking, sham-marriage having, Kayne West-ruining, QuickTrim hocking, talentless, hopeless, hapless, soulless ‘women identify with my body’ reality-TV whore.

I hope you die. I don’t say that purely to be derogatory or inflammatory; I say it because it’s necessary for the plight of mankind as a whole. Kim, I see you as a gigantic malignant tumour clinging to the side of the world that threatens to remove any sense of class or common decency that the people of Earth currently possess. You must be cut out. Your life must end, you must expire.

“Noooooo, I’m not on the cover of OK! magazine this week..”

Kim burst onto the scene in 2007 when an explicit homemade video of her ‘making love’ with ‘Ray J’, her ex-boyfriend and supposedly a singer was released via Vivid Entertainment, a porn site. Kardashian attempted to sue Vivid Entertainment (who had bought the rights to the video for $1 million), eventually settling out of court for $5 million. There are some whispers that the release of the tape (made some 4 years earlier) was a deliberate move on behalf of Kardashian and her mother in order to get Kim’s name into the public arena.

After all, Kim had been hanging out with another female whose fame had skyrocketed after the release of a similar sex-tape (Paris Hilton). The stars were in alignment for Kardashian to announce herself to the baying braindead masses via grainy explicit footage of her copping it like a starfish. Her mom (spelt the American way on purpose) was apparently an architect in the release of the footage.

Talk about prostituting your daughter…

To be honest, the fact that I’m even writing words about this talentless whore makes me incredibly sad. She has achieved nothing in life other than having a stepfather who won a gold medal in the Decathlon at the Olympics in the 70s, a biological father who once held a bag for O.J. Simpson which may or may not have had the bloodied clothes he wore while killing his wife & a mother with an innate ability to spit out children with the same level of rapidity as a common field mouse.

Actually, she has achieved something… she’s managed to dupe millions of clearly idiotic fuckheads around the world into giving two shits about who she’s fucking, what she’s wearing, what she’s selling & what she and the rest of her K-heavy douchebag family are doing. I can’t blame her for that, I can only blame humanity for buying into the lie.

Kim Kardiashian, you are the worst person of all time.

You are the worst person of all time.

You are the worst person of all time.

You are the worst person of all time.

You are the worst person of all time.

You are the worst person of all time.

You are the worst person of all time.

Die.

/end communication

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