Have you ever gotten so royally fucked up that the only thing that seemed right the next day was to start drinking again? Perhaps at a family function, where it is clearly inappropriate to get loose, but yet you find yourself putting your iPod in the speakers and blasting “Party and Bullshit” at your Grandma’s house. Have you ever gone into a stranger’s backyard to urinate, vomit, have sex or steal a little bit of their hose? And when you walked out you realised the hose piece was actually the tail of a family pet. Have you ever thrown a party so rough that even the police are bewildered?
OCT 2010
A few months ago, we threw a party that got so fucked up and out of hand that even we couldn’t believe the monster we had created. This issue is themed ‘The Wasted Issue’. I would like to think that most of you who came along to that party got pretty wasted. So we lost most of our profits… you know what? Fuck it! Getting wasted isn’t about money, it’s about having a fucking wild time. And even though it was over by 10pm, I myself saw at least three sluts in heels fall over, two drunken hookups and seven angry drunk insults thrown. I smelt the rich smell of doobies and I heard the sound of laughter. And at the moment I saw the flashing blue and red lights of the police cars, I knew in my heart of hearts that this was a legitimately wild party. In the spirit of getting wasted, we hope that this issue will be used as a beer coaster, a place to hide your flask, a substitute for a chop bowl, to be cut up and rolled into joint papers, used as toilet paper and rolled up and snorted through. Go on, we won’t be offended. Just make sure you read it first.
Emily Donohoe
Kelsey Heinrichs
Rachael Melmeth
Charlotte Lynch
WORDS: Tom Pyle, Neese Gill & Jessie Power PHOTOS: Chih Han-Hsu, Jacob Lambert, Sophie Millis, Alex Wall, Ryan Phillips, Domenic Bartlett-Roylance & Blaine Thomas Watson
BATS is a free Brisbane-based subculture magazine that is distributed throughout Australia and online worldwide. Created by five teenage girls who meet every now and then in a cult-like manner, BATS showcases Australian art, music, photography and design, and brings you knick knack journalism that will most likely leave you disgusted. We’re weird, we party unattractively hard, we’re socially awkward and instead of wearing high heels when we go out, we always end up wearing Vans or Converse, because let’s face it, they’re more comfortable. We’re smart, creative and we’ll make you laugh.
You can now buy back issues of BATS online at www.shop.batsmagazine.com
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Bette Ward
contact @ batsmagazine.com www.batsmagazine.com www.blog.batsmagazine.com www.facebook.com/batsmagazine
by Charlotte Lynch
I’VE SAID IT BEFORE AND I’LL SAY IT AGAIN: I’M A GENUINE CHEAPSKATE. I was unemployed for a very long time, before I got my incredibly degrading minimum wage, one shift a week “I’d rather be a prostitute” job at my local (I won’t name names) bakery-turned-new-age-healthy-sandwich-chain. I know what it’s like to live life in adverse urban poverty, never knowing if you’ll have enough money to even get home, let alone buy yourself a $2 steak at The Fox. Look mate, I’ve been there, and I know it ain’t pretty, but I did learn a few things along the way.
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There are three main elements to getting loose on a budget. Number one, obviously, is drinks. Number two is transport and number three is those oh-so-necessary extras (aka cigarettes/any other drugs of your choice). I will go through these elements in an orderly fashion so as to not confuse you, my humble but loose friends.
Get over yourselves! You’re not livin’ large here, and even if you were you would still have to deal with drunken sluts. Booze is booze baby. Deal with it. You don’t have to stay there for long. Just charge your drinks and get out! (The above does NOT apply for The Fox. The Fox is a disgusting place and everyone who goes there should be gassed).
# ONE // DRINKS
# TWO // TRANSPORT
I have to make this very clear from the start: beggars cannot be choosers. Just because you want a $20 cocktail doesn’t mean you should buy one! Man the fuck up and get a fucking tallie you fucking fuck. Seriously though, get into tallies because, let’s face it, your only other option is goon. Two tallies are enough for a night (three for a big one) and at $5 each you are really getting your money’s worth. A bottle of $10 wine goes down lovely on a wild night out, but if it’s in a casket for god’s sake don’t buy it unless you’re already drunk.
If you follow the aforementioned instructions you should find yourself bouncing from club to club, getting wildly loose with merely the change in your pocket. But then comes that pivotal point in the evening when you start wondering how low you can barter your taxi driver and how many extra drinks you will be able to afford. E.g. a $5 taxi discount = 1 extra drink, while a $50 taxi discount = 10 extra drinks + 1 BJ you never wouldn’t have given that taxi driver if you hadn’t drunk those 10 drinks.
If you’re going out, it’s essential to get wasted beforehand or else you will find yourself in a bit of a sober pickle. If you’re in The Valley don’t be afraid to head up to the top level of China Town car park where you can smoke and drink (and whatever else) in peace with only the lovely night-time views to distract you. If you find yourself out and stone cold sober (it’s happened to the best of us) there are some places you can catch up to your friends at a fraction of the price:
O’MALLEY’S - $10 Jugs of beer plus $4 Coronas. THE BANK - $5 Quick-Fucks plus free jelly shots if you get up on the podium. RG’s – Friday night is ladies night 8- 9pm … plus they have relatively cheap jugs around $12 or so. LAMBDA (ALHAMBRA) - Thursday night. Cheap drinks of every variety including Vodka mixers for $5. UNION JACKS -Thur Fri Sat - $10/12/15 drink cards - $4 basics or local pints. THE VIC - Thursday nights -$3 spirits and relatively cheap beer on tap every night. CHALK HOTEL - Sunday $3 basics. TREASURY CASINO - $8 Smirnoff blacks. JADE BUDDHA – Friday nights - $5.50 cocktails (Cosmo’s/Caprioska’s), $4 champagne bellini’s. PORT OFFICE - Friday nights $7 Cocktails and $3 Pure Blondes. ZURI BAR - Friday nights - $5 Coronas. FAT LOUIE’S - every day (5-7pm) $3 basics, $3.50 stubbies and $4 RTDS. CLUB 299- Mon/Tue/Wed $4 basics & $5 local beer. I can already hear your cynical bratty voices of doubt “The Bank is filthy and I don’t want to dance like a slut on the podiums!” “Union Jack is full of drunken sluts!” and “Who even goes to O’Malley’s apart from my granddad?”
It may sound difficult but honestly, get to know your public transport. Even if you aren’t lucky enough to live on the City Glider/199 line like me, you can still use these buses and other public transport to your advantage when travelling late at night. Make sure you check if your buses run late at night… or trains. Even ferries don’t stop until after midnight. Even if you have to catch a bus and then a taxi, that $10 you saved is just another jug of beer!
# THREE // EXTRAS So just say you live at West End like me. Two tallies beforehand and two vodka mixers while out - $20. City Glider home - $1.30 off your Go Card. So far you’ve spent $21.30 and you’ve had a pretty fucken wild night. But all your friends are pissed off at you because you’ve been snaking cigarettes (and whatever else) off them all night. Those little extras can be a pain in the ass but you have to suck it up and buy them because people are starting to think you’re really fucking stingy. If you smoke tailors you need to pull your mother fucking head in you wasteful prick, rollies are so much cheaper and more economical. Teach yourself how to roll because when you’re out and you have a pouch and people say “Oiii mmmate can I have a shhiggie?” you can just sympathetically say “Rollies…?” and they’ll be like “Naaaaaaah mate way to drrunk for that ssshhhit aye!”. And those other things…. All I can say is shop around. Don’t let someone rip you off just because they’re your Dad. You’re not made of money! So my friends, in the future when your peeps ask you if you wanna come party in the valley, don’t give a pussy-ass reply of “I don’t have enough money”, think to yourself WWCD (What Would Charlotte Do) and head down to the bottle-o to grab yourself a couple-a tallies. Have a good one!
You know how in romantic comedies, people often say, after meeting someone, that they feel like they’ve known that person for years? I’ve never actually met Brisbane artist Mel Stringer (one day hopefully) nor is my life anything like a romantic comedy, but I find this girl so fucking genuine, talented and hilarious that I sometimes feel as if she is BATS’ older (and a million times more successful and popular) sister. Mel aka Girlie Pains has been one of our favourite local artists for a long time, so we thought it was high time we featured her and had a chat about her current projects, inspirations and the “zine scene” in Australia.
WHAT IS THE MOST DISTURBING THING YOU HAVE EVER DRAWN? A chubby caterpillar girl sucking on a boy’s pink penis. WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST ACHIEVEMENT TO DATE? Rising from the ashes. I burned down. WHAT GOT YOU INTO MAKING ZINES? AND WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THE CURRENT ZINE SCENE IN AUSTRALIA? I adored a girl older than me when I was in year 9. Her boyfriend was my guitar teacher at the time. Her name was Erin Chee
Quee and she had tattoos and long black hair and the most dizzying smile and intoxicating personality. She took me under her wing and encouraged me into making zines. I wanted to be just like her and have never met another girl that comes even close to how great she was (and is). It wasn’t until 2006 that I actually started making zines that I was proud of. But Erin got me started. Definitely. I don’t really know a lot about what’s going on with zines in Australia. I guess that’s because I’ve been inspired by overseas zine-makers more so than Australian ones. I’ll have to do some research.
IS “GIRLIE PAINS” YOUR ALTER EGO? OR JUST A POLITE TERM GIVEN TO MENSTRUAL CRAMPS? It’s both. But honestly I’ve only really ever had two or three bad period pain episodes in my life. I guess the “pains” relates more to the mental and emotional aspect of being a girl. WHAT IS YOUR IDEAL BLANK CANVAS? I think that depends on my mood. Sometimes I get irritated even thinking about drawing in a sketchbook. Graph paper/moleskin books are great. An open A4 page in Adobe Photoshop is good too.
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WHERE DO YOU GET THE IDEAS FOR YOUR WORKS FROM? I take a lot from my own experiences/feelings first. Then I get inspired by what people are wearing nowadays and things like that. I also love spending hours looking at my favourite artists’ work. WHAT ARE YOU CURRENTLY WORKING ON? I’m having fun making high-gloss stickers from watercolour drawings of my girls. Also I’m really getting into making tiny little needle felted animals from wool. I started an Etsy for them too : sweetlittlefelt.etsy.com WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR? I’m really concentrating on feeling comfortable and getting settled now that I’m back in Brisbane. It took a lot of courage for me to pluck myself out of Surfers Paradise because I was really comfy and secure there, but I knew that I had to be back here. So I guess my plans are to feel good first. Naturally drawing is a big part of that. HAVE YOU EVER FELT LIMITED WHEN IT COMES TO THE CONTENT OF THE WORK? I completely refuse to draw anything to do with shit etc. Everything else is up for grabs. But I won’t cross that toilet humour line. No way! IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME AND GIVE YOUR 16 YEAR OLD SELF ADVICE, WHAT WOULD IT BE? Stretch your ears slowly, buy good quality flesh tunnels, only use warm salt water to clean them. Also, stand up for yourself more & save your fuckin’ money! IF YOU REALLY COULD GO BACK IN TIME... WHERE WOULD YOU GO? Maybe just to visit, but it would be living in Alice Springs back when I was in 5th grade. The wintertime, beside the heater with my little sister and our puppy Ayla. Mum and Dad rugged up watching TV in the other room. But I’d have to take someone with me to experience it. I wouldn’t be able to go alone. WHAT DO YOU DO FOR FUN? Exploring! WHO OR WHAT IS YOUR MUSE? I have lots of different things that muse me along. Let’s say it’s the seasons. DO YOU HAVE A BLOG? Yes! melstringer.blogspot.com (did you know you don’t have to write ‘www’ anymore? Since like forever ago!) SNIFFING GLUE OR CHROMING PAINT? Wow! Maybe getting help. BIGGIE OR TUPAC? Tupac defs. That’s just the way it is, year 7. Memoriiiiiez. SKATE OR DIE? Both! SELMA OR PATTY? Ew. They stink! TUMBLR OR BLOGGER? Blogger is like tumblr’s STD-free older sister.
CRAYOLA OR CRAYFISH? Is a crayfish like a shellfish? I like both. But one is better for sushi, and the other is better for writing things. PEN & PAPER OR A TABLET? I am constantly switching. I love them both. I’m a Gemini. I’m so 50/50. I saw a heart necklace in Universal that had a line down the middle and it said ‘yes’ on one side and ‘no’ on the other. That’s me. WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN THE NEXT DECADE? Getting happier, doing what I want to do, getting more confident in music, growing my hair really long, maybe even getting a puppy. Making more books, maybe losing a bit of weight, stretching my ears to 1 inch, getting some great tattoos, meeting nice people, making people happy, connecting with more people, making money to live a really fruitful life where I can print more and make more things. Phew! WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF TOMORROW MORNING? Waking up early, walking down to the shop to buy some crazy fruit breakfast, walking back home and starting my work day. WHERE CAN OUR READERS GET YOUR WORK? girliepains.etsy.com is probably the direct line to me. DRAW US A BAT: Yes ma’am!
FOR THE MOST PART, I SPENT MY 18TH YEAR OF LIFE WRAPPED AROUND A TOILET BOWL. by Neese In retrospect, I realize that though it was a great year, it was also a year largely spent losing my shoes at the Down Under Bar and cleaning regurgitated Sambuca shots and cheeseburgers off my bathroom wall. Being a part-time/full-time alcoholic in the prime of my youth was at times a real challenge, but my great fortitude, weakness for poorly written 90’s hip-hop, and commitment to annihilating every internal organ in my body, far outweighed both my minimal wage income and rapidly declining GPA. Typical nights out involved excessive consumption of Passion Pop, poor clothing choices (I was in my “retro” / no tits phase) and grinding on males who had made equally poor clothing choices e.g. white shoes, cargo pants and beach jewellery. So I would go out and get “like totally” wasted in my super fly, Grandma Yetta-esque ensemble and make poor life choices that were more often than not related to someone with a penis and an accent.
Before I knew it I was bum puffing and 7/11 stealing like the raging Twisties eating alcoholic that I was… and it wasn’t until two drink cards, three killer pythons, four podium altercations and five publicly inappropriate make outs later that I realized that I should probably stop being such a minging sluzza and have a fucking water. In the wisdom on my twilight years I have come to realize that groping foreign dudes, leaving long and rambling messages on your mildly attractive workmate’s voice mail at 3am, and licking fire engines off my chest is possibly not the most attractive look for a woman of my maturity. Though I still have my moments, I have found getting “back on the wagon” a much more productive (yet admittedly boring) approach to life. Yes, I do sound like your fucking mother, but trust me, no guy wants to put sweet moves on his boo when she’s got a vomit covered dress. Trust me ladies, I’m like the heel wearing, arse slapping, alcoholic version of Yoda .
I go to the movies by myself ALL THE TIME. I actually frequent there so often I’ve been known to get a pensioner discount and sympathetic stares. I even started mumbling to myself to really “play the part”. So you may be thinking: “What the shit is this, the dribbles of a lonely future cat woman?!” Hold up, wait a minute, let me put my two cents innit. I do not have a fur fetish. I do not enjoy the smell of cat litter. And I am not about to shave a peace sign into my head and carry an umbrella indoors, talking about government conspiracies, pupils dilating with euphoria. Just because your friends are all wasting away in front of assignments, doesn’t mean you too must sink into the depths of an internet fiend, doomed to spend your days slowly becoming your alterego London Babycakes and cursing as your arch nemesis and part-time lover, Haywood Jablome, dumps you (again) in Second Life. No! Show them what they’re missing out on (and I don’t mean dropping 50 pounds and getting a hawt makeover, I mean sunlight and human contact). It’s time you learned that having fun by yourself can be wicked fun, even if you do catch yourself every now and then talking to yourself in public.
Now, I’m not talking about taking yourself on a nice date, getting to know yourself, taking yourself back to your house and showing yourself a good time, settling down, moving in, then three years later waking up to find you’ve left yourself for that fucking slut called Sanity down the street at the psych ward. You could start with the basics: the gym, a café, the library, the shops… that is all fine if you are respectable member of society, which (as it so happens) I am not. The real fun is doing something so naughty that you run away, giggling hysterically in the shadows, catching your reflection and saying to yourself “Jesus Christ, I need a haircut”, to which your reflection replies “Some actual friends would be nice too…”. The world (or rather, the bus line for your place of residence) is your oyster. It looks like shit, it tastes likes shit, and it smells like a sea mans armpit. But if you’ve got the balls to suck it up it’s a great aphrodisiac. That’s something at least, right? The moral of the story is: a Go Card, an iPod and a tallie will leave you set for life. Use your imagination and run with your instincts.
LOCAL FASHION
Hailing from the Gold Coast, designer & artist Ray Cook aka Metal has taken a fancy into making wonderful leather creations in the form of amazing bow ties. So amazing, stores nation-wide are now stocking his leather bond action. Not only stopping at neck attire, Ray has also dabbled in restoring old bikes. That’s a mature dame I’d like to ride. Contact Ray or look at his designs at: www.how-typical-of-metal.tumblr.com
TELL US A BIT ABOUT YOUR SELF: I think I’m tall, I hardly sleep because it’s boring, I race motocross, restore vintage 1920-1950 fixies and girls cruisers, create installation & mixed media leather art works and have a label “How Typical Of Metal”. HOW DID YOU GET INTO RESTORING OLD BIKES? I found a 1920s bike in a rubbish pile and tried to get parts for it which only existed in a museum, so I sourced a charity in which I strip down bikes to make wheelchairs out of for 3rd world countries and in return they feed me vintage bikes. I have about 5 bike projects at the moment. WHAT INSPIRES YOU? For the bikes, photos of the early 1900s, Alex Wall and mainly proving that new creative ideas can come out of a City with next to no culture aka The Gold Coast. WHAT KIND OF FASHION TREND MAKES YOU PHYSICALLY SICK? Bow ties, you’re definitely a faggot if you wear a bow tie, so they say. Maybe I should make fluro ones for the stingers?
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WHO WOULD YOU RATHER DESIGN FOR, ENDORA OFF BEWITCHED OR THE GREAT RUPAUL? Endora’s my ex girlfriend in 40 years. Definitely RuPaul, she’s the man... Or is he? IF YOU HAD TO CHOOSE ONE TOOL TO BE ATTACHED TO YOUR HAND WHAT WOULD IT BE? That toaster [from The Simpsons] that takes you back in time. A toaster’s a tool right? WHO WOULD YOU MOST LOVE TO WEAR ONE OF YOUR CREATIONS? Cosmo Kramer. Imagine him as your model, haha. A GYPSY GRANTS YOU THREE WISHES (FOR TAKING 3 OF HER 24 CHILDREN), WHAT DO YOU WISH FOR? A raptor, a nuke bomb to be dropped on Taree (NSW) and my own sushi train. WHERE CAN WE FIND YOUR GOODS? Violent Green (Brisbane), Alterior Motif (Sunshine Coast) Le Deux (Gold Coast) FAT4 (Melbourne) For Tomorrow (Sydney) Zone (Adelaide). Also, my bikes are currently available in GEAR (West End).
THE PARTY HAD ACTUALLY STARTED BEFORE YOU WALKED IN >> an article by Jessie Power
*FRUNKS – A TERM USED TO DESCRIBE A GROUP WITHIN SOCIETY WHO EMBRACE FULL-FLEDGED INTOXICATION UPON STEALING A WHIFF OF A VODKA CRUISER. YES THAT’S RIGHT, FAKE DRUNKS. Though having earned ourselves the definitive reputation as the alcoholic, drug-abusive sluts of Generation Y, indulging in the evils of adolescent debauchery, I think we can unanimously agree upon the fact that we like to party (though not in the USA, sorry Miley Cyrus). However, there is a menacing force sweeping through open houses everywhere and literally slaughtering the party mood for all – frunks. Frunks or “fake drunks” are possibly part of the lowest form of humanity in modern existence, just surpassing (though only marginally) that of Josef Fritzl, the notorious Chris “leave Britney alone” Crocker and other exceptional freaks of society. Whether you are laughing heartily with friends, punching foes in the face, or perhaps sitting in the corner drinking Bailey’s from a shoe, “Mmmm creamy, soft and creamy beige”, your night can suddenly be shat upon by a frunk. Staggering towards you like a victim of severe pins-and-needles, they will lunge in your direction, paying special attention to slur their words in order to constitute a plausible disguise for their frunkenness. After openly declaring their love to you, your cat and the boy in the corner through the generic words, “OH MY GAWD, I JUST…I JUST LOVE YEW SO MUCH,” the overwhelming combination of anger and embarrassment becomes too much for your fellow party-goers until someone lets the cat-out-the-bag (or more suitably, out of the crushing embrace of the frunk), by revealing that he or she had consumed no more than one mere can of UDL. As an awkward silence befalls the party and the frunk suddenly regains his/her sense of stability to scurry off and hide under a rock for
the rest of their remaining years. An equally sinister creature can be located in the opposite corner of the room - presumably with their undergarments around their ankles: slunks (slutty drunks). Whilst regular folk arrive at parties bearing drinks, jokes and good cheer, these bizarre species of human carry only the stench of cheap perfume, glandular fever and in some more unfortunate cases, Chlamydia. Slunks often acquire the role of a leech and cling to any moveable object of the opposite sex until self-gratification has been achieved as a result of various ‘hook-upz’. Frighteningly, the frunk/slunk epidemic is increasing to the point where it makes me want to projectile vomit on all existing offenders. Some critical measures need to be taken to ensure the eventual extinction of these socially destructive beings, such as: the global demolishment of Ke$ha’s ‘Tik Tok’ (because I swear that song attracts all the frunks to the yard like a pack of wolves to a rotting carcass), turning off the music upon noticing that a frunk is amongst your guests, signaling the party to remain still and silent until the frunk has no option but to awkwardly depart; and finally, if all else fails why not holla at yo’ boy Voldemort to make an appearance and fuck shit up? Though it may be a farfetched desire in the present, it is my dream that one day, frunks and slunks will be but a shameful shit-stain on the history of our generation. Imagine a time where we could all unite harmoniously as one, comforted by the thought that we got 99 problems but a frunk ain’t one!
by Bette Ward Woken up at the age of thirty with no money, no spouse and no hope? Did you take the lyrics to Asher Roth’s ‘I love College’ too seriously and never actually graduated? Or did you simply pass out in 1999 only to awake a good decade later still wearing baggy pants and sporting a “Millennium Mohawk”. Well never fear, BATS is here with a few tips on how to make some easy cash - quicker than you can buy an iPad.
1. SAY A CELEBRITY MOLESTED YOU
2. SELL A SHOW TO FOX
Sadly now that MJ is gone, it really is slim pickings. But be sure to not accuse Roman Polanski, Charles Manson murdered his wife and therefore he gets a free pass. Your best bet is a C grade celebrity. I’d go with Ray Romano. He has a fucking annoying yet mildly successful television show, meaning he has money for a settlement but there will be no public backlash. As let’s face it, everyone fucking hates Raymond.
Whether it be a reality TV show about fast animals chasing fat kids or one titled ‘Mumford & Sons’: the story of a mild mannered accountant trying to raise three rowdy teen boys whilst attempting to please his twenty-something blonde wife. What ever it is, FOX is likely to buy it for $25,000 or at least in exchange for a DVD box set of The Simpsons.
3. CELEBRITY CHEF
4. BLAME THE FOOTBALLER
Everyone’s doing it. Whether you go for the cheeky Jaime Oliver type of just the actual ass hole Gordon Ramsay way, you’re bound to get a book deal or your own reality TV show followed by a quickie marriage to a model and/or a nude photo spread with strategically placed lettuce leaves covering your naughty bits.
Type the word ‘tit’ into Google and hold Brendan Fervola responsible. Wait for your Woman’s Day interview and photo spread, and be prepared to walk away with a good $100,000 and the loss of your dignity in the eyes of the Australian public.
5. CHILDREN’S ENTERTAINER
6. INVENT A FAD DIET
Learn two guitar chords and make up some shitty songs with titles like: “I lost my life in the sandbox”, and “I peed my pants in-front of the toddler I love”. Kids love anything and there are some real MILFS around these days that are good for a quickie if you play at their kids’ birthday party. And if a member is shit: just kick him out. God knows that no preschoolers have noticed that Greg (The Wiggles yellow skivvy dude) died or something.
17 almonds every hour and a half diet. Eating water with a spoon diet. Eating ice with a knife and fork diet. Only eating strawberry and cola flavoured lip gloss diet. The paper bag diet – where you eat only paper bags. The Rosie diet – where every time you want to eat you picture Rosie O’Donnell wearing leather lingerie. Chewing your food exactly 97 times before swallowing diet. Working out with cats instead of weights. Throw a Doctor in-front of your name and Oprah will be giving away puppies and babies at your book launch.
7. BECOME A RAPPER
8. EXPLOIT TODAY’S YOUTH
Call yourself 75c, buy out vitamin water and watch the millions roll in. You could follow in the footsteps of Vanilla Ice and start installing truly useless shit in your home. Such as a bottomless pool, which will come in handy when people realise how truly shit your music is and you need a safe to place to discard it, so as to not pollute future generations.
Stand outside a 7/11 or your local liquor store and wait for awkward or slutty grade 9s and 10s to come up to you and ask you to buy them cigarettes and alcohol. Then charge them an extra $7 for the risk. This is guaranteed to make you money. Yes, it is unethical and cruel to take money off children, but they can’t exactly go to the police, so the joke is well and truly on them.
From capitalising the horror that is Rosie O’Donnell’s blubbery body to exploiting children of all ages - we here at BATS wish you luck on your ventures. And if you succeed, we urge you to send us $2 dollars from every dollar you make. Because we spent all our money on Christmas trees and have nothing left. But it was a fucking awesome Christmas mind you… except for me (I’m Jewish) so it was just awkward...
by Charlotte Lynch
A few weeks ago my parents went away overseas leaving me home alone for the first time in my life.
IN MY MIND I HAD PLANNED THE PERFECT 3 WEEKS – WILD PARTIES, HOOKERS AND HEROIN, NOT TO MENTION TIME TO DISPOSE OF THE DEAD BODIES I HAD BEEN HIDING FOR SO LONG IN THE HALLWAY CUPBOARD. Yes, I was planning to get paid, get laid and get a motherfucking truckload of junk food! (Fucking oath! Ordered it online… used my Dad’s credit card and everything.) On the morning of their departure, my mother, a brutally honest and unsympathetic woman, bombarded me with a list of ridiculous warnings regarding our two dogs. “If you don’t feed the dogs they’ll get sick and die!”, “If you don’t lock the gate they’ll get hit by a car and die!” and “If you don’t walk them/give them water/ play with them they’ll bark a lot, be taken away by the council and put down!”
For the record, this is a woman who once told me that “If you don’t start locking the doors before you go to bed, you’ll get raped, and there’ll certainly be no sympathy from me!” Really? No sympathy? Thanks Mum. Naturally I believed none of it, although I was a little worried about the barking issue, because they do bark a lot. They’re two King Charles cavaliers. George is 10. He is pretty cute, a skinny white boy with brown patches and a wimpy bark. His theme song is that song “Running” by Evermore. Oscar is 9, Fat, black, with defined eyebrows and a deep baritone bark. In the past few years it has become obvious to me that he is Notorious B.I.G. reincarnated in dog form, so naturally his theme song is Juicy (he’s still looking for a bitch to fill the female part). On day one of operation risky business (that’s what I call it when my parents leave me home alone) (is it becoming obvious yet why they never leave me home alone?) I get home from work to find a letter in the mail from the neighbor across the road. It goes something like this:
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“Dear Neighbour, I’m a nosy bitch with nothing to do. Your dogs bark a lot and it makes me angry. I’m going to call the council. Blah blah blah incessant blah blah blah irritating blah blah blah ima slut” At first I was like… excuse me miss you have failed to recognise that one of my dogs is Biggie reincarnated, and henceforth have failed to respect the fact that both of them are equally chill and cute, and how could you ever get angry at someone who is just as cute as they are chilled? But then I remembered what my mum said, and started to worry. So I searched online to find out how to stop dogs from barking and I found a website that said that dogs behave better in general if you teach them tricks. This was a foreign concept to me. Our dogs don’t do any tricks. They just lie around all day like an annoying housemate who continues to shit on the balcony no matter how many times you tell them it doesn’t count as “outside”. But, since I was running out of options and I quite fancied the idea of two real life Lassies living in my house, I decided to give it a go. First, obviously they had to look the part, so I headed down to my local random-shit-that-you-honestlywouldn’t-buy-unless-you-were-really-fucking-high store, and bought them a couple of smart jackets, a hoodie for Oscar and a flannel vest for George. I grabbed some treats and, following the instructions on the website, started with sit (which is obviously the easiest). George grasped the concept pretty quickly, but Oscar was having trouble deciding whether he wanted to sit down or wag his tail, which was understandable because as a dog he really never has to make any decisions, so I quickly showed him how to make a list of pros and cons. Evidently the list confused him even more so he took a bit of a breather and went off to eat some biscuits. At this point tensions were running high as it was becoming obvious that George was, in every possible way, smarter than Oscar. But after singing some group bonding songs together to lift morale, I persisted. Next was shake. I have been told in the past that I have a good strong handshake (a strange Nepalese man found it incredibly attractive) so I thought I would lead by example. First we sat together around the computer and watched some YouTube videos of politicians shaking hands. Oscar fell asleep and George spent the whole time biting himself but I respected the fact that he actually stayed awake. Oscar had made it clear he wasn’t having any of it, so George and I got down to business. Liver Treat in hand, I would loudly say “shake!” and then lift up his paw and shake it, then give him the treat. It only took me doing this about 32092088383 times for
him to connect the dots. But, after a while, George mastered shake like it was natural instinct to him. I was pretty impressed. Suddenly George was looking more like Eminem and Oscar was starting to look less like Biggie and more like… well… Fat Albert. Jokes aside, I was seriously pissed off at Oscar so I took him outside for some one on one time. He was not getting out of this without learning a trick. It was kind of like that token kid at every primary school whose parents are deeply in denial about their child’s intellectual disabilities. Their child is continually drawing vaginas and knives on everything, like a coat of arms on school tests, legal documents, walls and furniture. Yet every time anyone asks why their 12-yrold is still in grade two, they say that he’s focusing on his natural artistic abilities. I didn’t want to face the fact that Oscar is nothing but a dumb dog. So I set about focusing on his natural abilities. I noticed that every time I held a treat over his head he would jump up a little, so I started holding it and saying “jump”. He caught on really quickly! Or rather, he continued doing exactly what he had been doing for the past hour and a half. I didn’t care, I was just stoked he hadn’t shat on the balcony in like, four days. I was proud of him, and he was proud of himself. I could see in his eyes he was thinking “Stereotypes of a black male misunderstood… And it’s still all good…and if you don’t know, now you know, nigga.” Now that Oscar had shown some level of ability, I decided to pair the two together for one final trick. I thought that at this stage they had endured more than enough training, it was time for them to produce the goods. I hopped back on the computer and searched for doggy duos. I mostly got weird animal porn so I changed my wording to “dog tricks in pairs”. I found a website that said you can teach two dogs to jump over each other. What the fuck? Cool! In hindsight this was obviously a ridiculous concept even for two smart dogs, let alone my dumb pooches, but with the blind optimism that comes out of mild success, I thought it somehow possible. It wasn’t. I tried everything but they just didn’t get it. George ended up running away when tensions boiled over, I don’t really blame him, I got pretty fucken angry. I finally gave up after Oscar pissed on the living room carpet. It was time to face reality. My dogs are talentless. But you know what I realised? I don’t care. Dogs don’t need to be talented, unlike humans they can get by on looks and looks alone. And at that, I got online and ordered them a couple of those collars that zap them when they bark. Problem solved! No more complaints, and I also realised that watching them try to bark and be zapped is much more entertaining than any trick could ever be. Thank God for animal cruelty!
PHOTOS BY
www.jacoblambert.blogspot.com
LIVING IN THE SUBURBS WITHOUT A LICENSE CAN BE LESS THAN CONVENIENT, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU’RE NINETEEN. Emily Donohoe discusses the times she accepted car rides from absolute strangers. Brisbane City transport has compensated for the transport invalids that is the youth of today by creating convenient and frequent bus time tabling services that travel in a variety of directions… it’s a shame that my humble abode drew Anna Bligh’s short straw (and hopefully a short term in office). As a result my journey to and from places is more troublesome than an episode of Neighbours.
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Reasoning with myself to start my journey to work instead of watching Dr. Phil’s glistening head, which matched the tear filled eyes of a mother coming to terms that her daughter is a slut and that her promiscuous ways have lead her down the path of teen pregnancy. But the soft opening credits of the Oprah signaled it was too late, I ran as quickly as I could only to see the disappearing blue and yellow box hobbling down the road. Not looking forward to listening to a chorus of crows, out came a silver convertible. “Hey Hun. I saw you run for the bus and I said ‘Oh shit, this girls not gonna make it... Haha, would you like a lift?…I don’t want to see your face on TV”. Well, the only way that would happen is if my application finally goes through for Deal or No Deal, where I risk it all on channel Seven’s 5pm game of luck. Reaching $25000, then losing all but $500 when my carnie friend raises her aged arms and forms a cross, her missing teeth revealed as she shouts the words “No deal, I reckon, I got a good feeling darl”, all for the sheer greed of creating a Bali paradise in the convenience of my own home. I don’t know what was worse; the fact that I was about to take a ride from a stranger or that she saw me run. We have all had the stranger danger talk. I remember vividly fourteen years ago when my mother said if a man says he has kittens in the back seat of the car he will actually rape me. As a child, play time consisted of me riding my bike at a sensible pace, longing to ride barefoot while eating warm roll ups. Instead I was reaching the end of the maroon tiled driveway, then spinning round to the box filled garage and back again. As mum said “she didn’t like the look of those street kids”; thus creating my highly paranoid attitude towards walking home.
Any car going less then 40ks on my way down the road forced me into a quickened pace, glancing a peek behind my shoulder “Touch me and I’ll scream louder then any of Matt Preston’s cravats”. However the thought of the sun raping my pale skin for an hour vs a smooth ride to work was all too tempting. As I entered the silver BMW I wondered whether I was driving up the road and down a ditch? No radio inside the car to break the awkward conversation, just red leather interior. Work that afternoon was merely a hop, skip and a jump away. Sadly, this is not the first time I have danced with the devil by accepting a ride from strangers. When I was 12 years old, a bus driver fooled me into believing that the 445 route did in fact go to Kenmore Village, so I then, with a false sense of security, presented my 90c ticket, only to then end up in a tree filled labyrinth, filled with koalas and snapping Asians dispersed through out the place I now know as Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary. Disorientated and crying as the bus driver told me this was the last stop, and that I was to “get out”, I was then approached by a bus full of elderly ladies. With the promise of a ride home and possibly a digestive biscuit, I accepted. Should I be dead? Well the answer is yes. Twice. And all because I am really, really lazy. But the real culprit is and always will be Brisbane City Transport and bus drivers that need to lighten up. And if I do meet to my apparently timely demise I will haunt the western routes, creating out of order Go Card machines and if ever you are charged $1.50 when you have in fact touched off, that too will be me.
by Neese IN MY RECENT SEARCH FOR EMPLOYMENT, IT HAS BECOME APPARENT TO ME THAT THE ONLY JOBS AVAILABLE ON SEEK INVOLVE SOME FORM OF NUDITY OR AN IMPOSSIBLE AMOUNT OF EXPERTISE.
Then, I will write to Ellen DeGeneres pretending to be a single mum from Puerto Rico who lives in the mexi-ghetto with my 9 kids; all with different papis who are all in lock up. I will say “Oh Ellen, mamacita be so broke.” and she will say “Oh mamacita, I will give you a Hyundai Getz and enough money to go back to beauty college in Queens.”.
Though I am poverty stricken, I refuse to prostitute my soul in return for minimal wage income, wearing deck shoes and corduroy jeans and selling chunky heel Colorado shoes to slutty 14 year old school girls who have more STDs than brain cells.
And I will be so thankful for my new Hyundai cruiser and French nail manicure that I will cry and my fake Puerto Rican tan will melt off and Ellen will expose me as the fake mamacita I am and send Portia de Rossi after me to claw at my flesh - because Lord knows that woman needs a feed.
It upsets me greatly that my future may in fact involve walking around The Vic in a green glitter thong and top hat giving out Midori shots to handsy old men from Logan and gyrating sadly to Cold Chisel songs in the beer garden. Inevitably, I will probably become addicted to crystal meth just to get through karaoke Tuesdays, join an escort service and become a part of an overseas drug syndicate.
I will then drag my half nibbled corpse off to Centrelink where they will still refuse me any student allowance and I will say “But I am missing three limbs!” And they will say “I’m sorry you don’t possess the rat tail and Fubu tracksuit required for payment.” And will send me and my broke ass home. So employers, if you’re listening, I would really love more than a 3-hour shift once a fortnight so I don’t have to become a drug fucked slapper covered in Midori.
For the residents of a westerly Brisbane suburb, waking up to a cat woman playing the recorder off tune or the muffled ramblings of a middle aged man, is all but a common occurrence. However, if one were to listen, and perhaps take note off all the absurd things they said, writing them down and circling every 3rd letter to then spell out the time and date of doom’s day and what really happened in the end of Inception. Then we would find that this rambling man is not suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease, but is in fact a prophet? For that, I merely offer you some of the raw quotes of a certain aging man with sparkling wisdom in his eyes (or the aftermath of a box full of antihistamines) and a filthy mouth to match; he is a beacon of light in this dark modern world. [NOTE: the following quotes are 100% real and 70% disgusting] “There are many ugly people in the world. Many of them live in Brisbane.” “Currently, women on TV are enticing young men to feel their cock.” “They go at it all day, fucking themselves to death. They have lost all sense of morality. I have heard them and I am very disappointed.” “A middle aged woman is a tragedy.” “I was once convicted of killing a baby in Ipswich.” “Ah, cup of tea.” “Only if a man is terribly lazy in the kitchen will a woman kick him out.” “Nothing is more vulgar than a woman with a penis.” “I do not like Home and Away. There are too many women, and the men touch their bums. Although, there is a wedding every now and then.” “Being a prostitute, you need to see a priest to save you from the fiery depths of hell. YOU ARE A SINNER!” “You live in a boarding house, and the old men come and go. The old men come, and that’s good. The middle aged men come, and that’s good. You prevent rape, and that is good. But you are still a sinner!”
“Women on TV are still getting muscle men, and those muscle men are going to mount them and then they are going to explode!” “I did not like it when they cut off my hair when I was 35. When I looked in the mirror and saw it blowing in the wind at 52, it was much nicer.” “A man requires the company of a prostitute since his wife is so horrible.” “And now, it is time to die… and so into heaven, or hell, or nowhere at all!” “Women desire a man with a long penis so that it may reach there clitoris. This gives them jiggles. Many men have small penis’ so take the binoculars off the wall.” “Many of the things Jesus said 2000 years ago cannot be applied today!” “Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet eating her curds and whey, along came a great spider and sat down beside her, and frightened Miss Muffet away. GO AWAY MISS MUFFET!” “Kerry-Anne Kennerley is middle aged. She is approaching death, like me” “Whitney Houston is on TV and she is dancing like a black slut, she is dancing like a slut!”
clothing // SUBFUSCO - WWW.SUBFUSCO.COM photographer // CHIH-HAN HSU stylist // BETTE WARD models // AMOS, DANNY & PHOEBE hair & makeup // KATSURI SHAN assistants // RACHAEL MELMETH & SHAUNA SIEGER
EP REVIEW by Tom Pyle There is something undeniably exciting about listening to an artist’s debut release for the first time. Perhaps a small skip of the heart the moment you click play on iTunes. Perhaps a sense of nervous anticipation as the first tiny electrical currents transform into sound waves from your headphones. Unfortunately, in conjunction with this exuberance, one is also often prone to having overly high expectations when approaching new tracks straight out of the music industry’s womb; anything that isn’t progressive can sound boring, yet anything experimental can sound too unfamiliar to enjoy. Thankfully, The Honey Month’s debut EP titled Foliage stands up to (and towers over) these criticisms; all five tracks are crafted from a variety of instruments, allowing for a refreshing and experimental sound incorporated into catchy melodies and song progressions. The EP kicks off with the title track, ‘Foliage’ - a vocally orientated track backed by tribal percussion, glockenspiel melodies and overblown synth. The lyrics depict Autumn on an irrelevantly personal level, and despite being a very danceable song, manages to foreshadow the scattered, first person perspective of the lyrics throughout the EP. The following tracks, ‘The Owl’ and ‘Cold Light’, certainly mark the shift towards a more folk rock tone with the use of a variety of full sounding acoustic instruments and extensive harmonies. There is something along the lines of Antler’s song construction in their album Hospice, fused with vocals and instrumentation similar to Akron/Family.
‘Mother Mercy’ begins with sombre vocals accompanied by an acoustic guitar and that beautifully understated glockenspiel. Unfortunately, with the building of this track, the sound becomes somewhat cluttered and the initial intimacy is lost. But this is more so a criticism of song placement (and perhaps my only criticism of the EP as a whole), rather than the song itself; given the busy and climactic nature of The Owl and Cold Light, a mellow track or looser song structure would have been more enjoyable. Finally, the Foliage EP ends with the standout track: ‘Paper Lips’. Unlike the slow-tempo folk rock of the previous tracks, Paper Lips is defined by the fusion of klezmer-styled accordion and an aggressive drum tempo. After some meandering, the track finishes with a powerful harmonic breakdown and wonderful brass outro seemingly inspired by Neutral Milk Hotel. Seventeen minutes of listening to Foliage EP is certainly seventeen minutes well spent - all five tracks seem to have such wonderfully natural progressions, bridges and breakdowns. Unfortunately, it is the subtlety and intricacy of these song developments that is a sort of double edged blade - by keeping their tracks relatively short one could only imagine the possible psychedelic jams The Honey Month could produce. With that said, this is definitely one of the standout EP’s recently released by a Brisbane band. Oh, did I mention they were from Brisbane? Try and find me as I lose my shit next time they play in the valley.
>> Foliage is out now through Useless Art Records - www.uselessartrecords.com >> Download The Honey Month’s track ‘The Owl’ for FREE at www.blog.batsmagazine.com
A REVIEW BY EMILY DONOHOE The Human Centipede; the consequences of two girls, one cup… one Asian man, three dead dogs and one German actor lacking any talent but to look genuinely pissed off in every frame of footage. Let’s face it... It was no surprise we reviewed this movie after the trailer went viral and countless Facebook pages were made (i.e. “the feeling of joy when your human centipede takes it’s first steps” and “not being in the middle of the human centipede”). It was clearly the hot movie on everyone’s lips (everyone’s lips except for the chick in the middle of the centipede… the only thing on her lips was a pile of shit, which brings us back to Tom Six’s film). Locating this movie was not easy, the local Blockbuster struggled to find it, along with the classic Nightmare on Elm Street “Sorry, the last copy was rented out in 2004” and with that and a fast internet connection, 20 minutes later we had our own illegally downloaded copy. The story begins with a rainy night in Germany, with two backpacking girls off to hit up one of the local clubs (which undoubtedly would have been playing the latest Numa Numa dance hits), when trouble suddenly brews in the form of a flat tyre and poor acting ability. Logic kicks in as the pair decides it would be best to look for help by walking into the witch filled forest of central Germany in heels. Luckily, the two spot a house and approach it in a loud and obnoxious manor, banging on any window they can find. The door opens to a sinister looking lone man who looks left and right three times and asks the girls if “They are alone?” Who reply with a “Yes”. Upon then and there I had no emotional attachment
to the two and stuck by Darwin’s theory of survival: let the dumb meet their fate. The girls are then drugged and placed in a secret operation room underneath the man’s house. The man, who claims to be a Doctor, later returns with an Asian man and then the Doctor’s plan is revealed. The crazed man’s failed attempts to keep his three attached Rottweilers alive has fueled his desire to have another pet and performs the same operation on the unlucky travelers to create a human centipede. No racial boundaries here, their love of life kept them together that and their intestinal track. After the operation, the Doctor trains his creation to play fetch and other novel activities one would expect when playing with dogs, such as giving them treats and tickling them under their semi exposed chins (not really, but a girl can dream). Feeding activities went as anyone would expect when having mouth-to-anus attachments, giving cheap laughs here and there. The movie goes out with a bang when police officers drink a drugged beverage given to them by the Doctor, killing each other in a drugged gun battle (kind of like when I attempt to play Call of Duty). While in another room the Asian man commits suicide, the end girl dies of septicemia leaving the one in the middle the only surviving character with a few hours before the muscles of the man in front of her release after death, what a shit ending (I’m sorry). Disappointed that no one dressed them in six pairs of red boots and a comical antenna headband giving the character rights to Disney so they could produce several children books including titles such as The Human Centipede Goes to School and The Human Centipede Finds a Friend. The Human Centipede; You know what you’re getting into.
by Bette Ward
HAVE YOU EVER SEEN SOMETHING AND THOUGHT, “WOW, THE GUY WHO MADE THAT MUST HAVE BEEN FUCKING BAKED!”? Many timeless inventions and world-known philosophies seemed to have been created with the use of a doobie. I am quite sure that when I was conceived my parents were high. They were actually divorced at the time and had coined the expression, “We’re divorced and we’ve never been happier!” Well jokes on you Mum.
1. THE SIMS A game where you create a virtual family and make them live out their lives through a series of wacky, character building adventures and scenarios. Yeah, this is a fine idea, but when you mix in the fact that they speak a mixture of English and Spanish or “Simlish” and spend over 40 Sim dollars on a single serving of pizza, it kind of makes you wonder how exactly this game was invented. My guess is someone really high was staring at an ants’ nest and they eventually all morphed into what looked like small people. But be warned: play carefully. Before you know it you’ve slept with the maid, been demoted and will have to put all your Sims in a pool and take away the ladders, ensuring they’re all dead in 12 – 14 hours.
items left in his entire house were peanut butter and a chocolate bar. Being too hungry to eat these items separately, he combined the two as one and the rest they say is history.
3. HARRY POTTER “Hey guys I got a great idea, there’s this kid right and he’s like magical and he lives in like a normal city but he is like a wizard and he has a pet owl and he goes to this like mad school and one of his teachers is a midget and his principle is like this guy who is like a hundred and he has like robes on right and he’s gay and his other teacher can turn into a cat. And he has a pet owl! How fucking cool is that man, how fucking sick is that?” I mean really J.K., really?
4. THE KARDASHIAN’S IN GENERAL Someone would have to be crazy to put these bitches on air. Especially showing the oldest sister with the orange boyfriend giving birth. No one wants to see you pull your baby out of your vagina, Kourtney. I don’t care how beautiful your mum thinks it is, I was really very unprepared, it was like watching a cat give birth to a couch.
2. REECE’S PEANUT BUTTER CUPS
5. A HANDFUL OF WORLD RELIGIONS
An undeniably good combination of condiments that has broken the barrier of just the humble cup and is now available in a variety of bars, ice creams and slices. But in true reality what other times of life would you think of eating these two things together? Reece obviously had the munchies and the only
Firstly Catholicism: “Shit I’m pregnant, fuck. It’s God’s, yeah it’s God’s. Yeah Joseph will buy that...” The jig is up Mary, deal with it. And I mean did you really get a vision of both God and Jesus, Joseph Smith Jr., who the fuck would be guarding heaven? It’d be anarchy up there.
by Emily Donohoe Master Chef, the cooking craze that swept the nation and the homes of house wives everywhere who wanted to “try something new and add a little spice into the kitchen” (sounding like a low budget porno). The program makes the dinner’s of most people seem inadequate and tasteless. However, as the show entered it’s second season, I was fed up (ha). The judges’ general demeanors were more stuck up and obnoxious than ever, clearly a compensation for their physical counterparts. I don’t want to hear how Greek George is, I understand he grew up on olive oil but that’s no excuse for rubbing it all over his body to the delights of the other judges off set. However, the most recent addition to the Channel Ten enterprise, Master Chef Junior, really takes the cake. (I was forced to watch this, as I went to change the channel but my sister proclaimed I could not as it was “her show’”. Her show; consisting of at least fifteen different programs ranging through out the year and all equally as shit as each other). Just because a six year old picks up a spoon and stirs a pot does not mean I will acknowledge any form of talent. The fact that the dark shadow in the back ground (aka the child’s mother who mirrors her child’s every move in a trance like state, silently
mouthing the words “smile so you sparkle more!”) further portrays a less than a convincing story of a young culinary great. I can tell a packet mix junkie from the real deal, Betty Crocker has always got my back. Judges cover up kitchen fuck ups with kind words and dance around the fact the food was under cooked. Instead, seeing the children deal with real criticism would really make my day. “For every egg shell I find in this chocolate fondant, that’s one more Christmas Santa ain’t gonna fly!”. Is this the new platform for stage mothers to live through their children? Yes - all for the compensation of their mundane lives of steak and three veg, pushing their children into cooking classes so that they become the next Jamie Oliver and so mothers can discuss their children’s progress while shopping at Pumpkin Patch, in-between “Jeremy’s soccer game at 3 and Megan’s dance class at 5”. The only recipe being created by these children is an unrealistic view on their self talents and perhaps a future of a co-starring role as a parent in an Australian children’s television series on ABC 3. For the few that have a fiery passion for food without the forced efforts of your parents, “soz” and reach for the stars.
LOCAL MUSIC
We’ve known Alex and Jordan for about a year now, and much like the late actor Robin Williams, we’ve seem them under many guises. Their latest project takes form in a surf/punk/whatever band by the name of Bleeding Knees Club. They sing about having fun and getting loose. They’re new(ish) on the scene and have already got themselves signed to I OH YOU records, and have an EP on the way. We’re fucking hooked on their sound and we want you to get to know them:
DESCRIBE YOUR SOUND VIA THE NAME OF A PORN STAR: Rihanna the Red-Headed Rimmer.
WHO GETS YOUR ROCKS OFF? (BOTH MUSICALLY AND SEXUALLY)? Casey Donavan.
HOW CAN A PERSON JOIN THE BLEEDING KNEES CLUB? Kill one of us, use our skin as a giant snuggie and pretend to be one of us.
ARE THERE ANY PLANS FOR YOU GUYS TO RELEASE AN EP? We’ve just finished recording one and it will be in stores October 15th!
WHAT ARE THE RULES OF THE BLEEDING KNEES CLUB? ARE THERE ANY SECRET DOORKNOCKS? There are no secret doorknocks. But there are plenty of secret door Docks. (Look up docking on Google it’s amazing).
WHAT IS BLEEDING KNEES CLUB GETTING FOR CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR? Bean Bags.
ON A SCALE OF 1 TO 10, (1 BEING A SMALL PAPER CUT, 10 BEING AN ACTUAL HOMICIDE) HOW OFTEN DO YOUR KNEES BLEED? 5 - Not as often as my balls. WHO DID YOU VOTE FOR IN THE 2010 ELECTION? Neither of us are in enrolled. Sorry. But I would definitely vote for the sex party - they sound killer! HOW’S THE MUSIC SCENE AT THE GOLD COAST AND HOW ARE YOU CONTRIBUTING TO IT? There’s a really good electro and techno scene. I think we contribute to it greatly.
WHAT’S IN STORE FOR BLEEDING KNEES CLUB FOR 2011? We are bringing in the word “Gurk” for 2011. It goes with everything. (‘Gurk Or Die’, ‘Gurk Rich Or Gurk Dying’, ‘Would the real Gurk Shady please stand up’ etc.) WHERE WERE YOU WHEN YOU FIRST HEARD YOUR SONGS ON THE RADIO? Alex has been in America so he still hasn’t heard it. But I was in the sperm bank. WHERE CAN OUR READERS GET THEIR MARSUPIAL PAWS ON YOUR MUSIC? On our mess-space www.myspace.com/thebleedingkneesclub
FASHION FOR A CAUSE Making clothes for your friends to wear is cute. Raising money for charity is cute too. On a scale of 1 to the video of Beyonce singing ‘Halo’ to that balding little cancer patient, i make. you wear it. comes up at about a 9 - pretty darn cute.
i make. you wear it. is a fashion project created by Rachel Burke, who vows to put needle to thread every Saturday for six months in order to make a dress in a matter of hours for another lovely lady to wear out that night. As she approaches dress number 10, she once again humbly extends a freakishly small human hand with a longing look in her eye. Rachel needs money, and it’s not so that she can afford a paddle-pop at lunchtime, her project is trying to raise $25,000 for NAPCAN - the National Association for the Prevention of Child Abuse and Neglect. Come on guys, make a donation: www.imakeyouwearit.com In the words of Helen Lovejoy: “Won’t somebody please think of the children!”
by Bette Ward
Walking into Grade 10 maths you’d be forgiven for thinking that the chubby teacher at the front of the class; confessed nudist and biography channel lover Mr. Leaven wouldn’t be much of a party animal. But you’d be wrong; Mr. Leaven is one of the growing number of baby boomer’s who are regularly partying harder than the entire cast of Jersey Shore. I began to carefully observe my parents and their friends to see exactly what they get up to on an average Friday or Saturday night. The night starts off with pre-drinks and a doobie on the back deck before Mum puts on her Saturday best for her and dad’s weekly date night, which they have agreed to let me go on. Mum has pre-stashed a bottle of wine and a glass in the car glove box to ensure that she will be able to get well and truly maggoted as the night wears on. After arrival at the reasonably priced suburban restaurant, the white wine is flowing and my parents true colours begin to shine. “Eminem is probably my favourite artist at the moment”, thanks Mum, before she actually says word for word his Wikipedia biography. Dad then manages to sing the entire first verse to Lose Yourself, before they both finally agree that Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” is one of the greatest songs of modern music. After spending a good two hundred dollars on dinner (a good two thirds of that on different selections of alcoholic beverages), Mum manages to stagger down the gentle slope to the taxi. But the evening is hardly finished. The radio is pulsing and Dad is fist pumping like a speed demon, partying harder than Lohan herself. Though Mum’s turning green and is soon vomiting her guts up on Musgrave Road, careful to avoid spewing on her white shoes “they’re from Italy”. I’ll say it once and I’m sure I’ll say it again, “Mum’s greened out again”.
But this isn’t enough to stop a forty something year old, and on home arrival it becomes seriously clear that this party isn’t over and in-fact it hasn’t even started, and Mum vomiting was her answer for making room for more of the sensibly priced white wine. Now comes the time when parents become inexplicitly proud of you for everything you’ve ever done, “You amaze me.”and “You have no idea how smart you are.” Thanks Dad, it would mean more to me if you didn’t have a half chewed chip hanging in your bangs. Though the night is finally winding down, and it’s getting time for bed. Mum decides it’d be a good family activity if we watched an episode of Everybody loves Raymond and continues to laugh at all their jokes, obviously alluding to the fact that she is ridiculously baked as that is the only way in which Everybody loves Raymond could ever be considered funny. The last fifteen minutes of the show is watched in silence until Dad starts asking himself rhetorical questions, “What font are the end credits?”, “Is it Times New Roman?”, “No, definitely Arial”, “I’m going to go Google it”. Coming back down fifteen minutes later, Dad is suitably crushed from not obtaining the knowledge of what font the cast and crew is credited in. The night is finally at a stop, Mum and Dad are both passed out sitting completely upright and seem to be having a competition of who can snore the loudest (Mum’s winning). Alas my friends this is not a rare occurrence for the over 40’s market, look no further to Uncle John’s wedding, the office Christmas party or parent teacher nibblies to see parents acting badly. These middle aged pimps and hoes party harder than you ever will on a Friday and Saturday night. This is because they have two things we as today’s teenagers don’t have, and that my friends, is a steady income and an I.D. that works every time.