All posts tagged girls

Hard To Get

I'm only now just learning about a game. For a game reviewer like myself, this is seen as mostly unheard of as I should know about every game.

Me not knowing the game isn't entirely true however as I have heard of it in passing. I know others play it and it's mainly targeted at people aged 13-99. Wide age gap I know, but it's unlike any game I'll ever review.

And since I'm not currently in the midst of reviewing it, I feel the need to write a preview on it. Sure, it's been out for a while but I feel like someone should write a preview of this game based on knowledge and facts and other useful tidbits that Juliet is trying to teach me.

So here it is.

Preview: Hard To Get (Real Life)

Most games have a requirement of some sort of computer or video game system. For instance, Halo 3 currently requires an Xbox 360, Heavenly Sword needs a PlayStation 3, and Supreme Commander makes you suck the lightning out of God's nipples using you as the conduit to power your terribly slow computer.

And then there's one game you can play that doesn't need the highest spec PC or the most expensive and brilliant piece of gaming technology on the planet. All you need to play that game is a passing interest in someone you fancy. Continue Reading

Notebook Runway

Certainly one of the more interesting methods of getting the press and tech journalists interested in new products, Toshiba launched their new laptop range with specific targets of their new Portege R500 and their high-end Qosmio by… putting on a fashion show.

Sort of.


Click on the image to get a slightly bigger version!

It was a fashion show per se as there was a designers wares (clothing) being shown off… but the primary intention was models walking down a runway holding laptops… fanning themselves with laptops… doing stuff with laptops…


Click on the image to get a slightly bigger version!

The highlight came at the end when the models were walking off of the runway with the laptops and planting them on the tables that those of us press people were sitting at. One of the girls came over and planted a Qosmio, the big and powerful one on the table I was seated at. She opened it up and we were greeted with… a blue screen of death. Go Vista, go!

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My Strange Life

My life is a strange one. It's almost estranged from who I am. I did say almost.

I seem to have connections up the wazoo in the fashion industry and I have no idea why. I have a nice hat; people like my hat. I can teach people photography. I've also always had a thing for Texan girls. We're getting ahead of ourselves or rather, I'm getting ahead of all of you.

I'll just start where it happened.

Bowie was having a one year birthday party at The Strand last night. He wasn't turning one year old as that would have just been stupid; his store was turning one year old. The celebration — which wasn't as populated as I'd originally anticipated — came complete with gift-bags (filled with a scarf, cd singles, and Mentos among other things), happy & tall models, and Tempus Two wine. Sweet wine. The wine really should sell itself as "fizzy lolly water for rich people who don't actually like wine."

Anyway, Wendell was there by the time I'd gotten there. He introduced me to a friend of his named Kim who is a make-up artist. She's a nice girl. 


Wendell and Kim later on that night. You can tell it was me who took the photo because Wendell's flicking me off. 😛

Now, people who know me or read my blog will have figured out that I'm not exactly the best socialite and ordinarily I'll just stand in the corner thinking amongst myself until someone comes over to talk to me.Well, last night Kim and I both stood and chatted from the best corner of The Stand. I'll have to reserve that corner the next time someone has one of these things as it really was a nice corner. Throughout the event, we even had people come up and talk to us. Model friends of Wendell's came up and chatted and Bowie — friend and client of mine — dropped by a few times too. Kim's a good person. That much I can tell from the few hours I spent with her last night. Wendell's friends are nice too.

Mind you, I'm still not used to the height of models. It's a bit jarring knowing that you have to crane your head up to see beauty. 

Anyway, I stayed with Kim and Wendell's friends the entire two hours that the event was on.

People there seem disjointed socially. In a way, it's like a school or uni event all over again with groups arriving and staying in their only little bits. The rich with the rich, the old friends with the old friends. The photographers all weave in and out of the groups for photos like bees bouncing from flower to flower looking for pollen. The models are all as free as the birds that normally hunt the bees, only that the models aren't hunting the photographers and are all about having a good time. It's interesting.

The birthday event at The Strand was set to end at around 8.30. It pretty much died at around 8.30… that really would be the best way of putting it. By then, it was Wendell, Kim, the models, myself and the crew from Cream Magazine drinking wine and chatting it up. It was time to retreat. Drunken retreats and whatnot back down Pitt Street Mall and to the Cream building… or at least the floor with the Cream office in it.


As we walk down Pitt Street, Lauren grabbed my hat and did some posing while Wendell snapped. Photo by Wendell Teodoro.

That's where the party went for a while. Mind you it wasn't late. I kept checking my phone thinking it was because, well, I was a bit tired having come straight from work. In my head, it was later than it actually was. But I stayed on because seriously, how often do I get to go out? And further, how often do I get to go out with people who don't want to throw me out of a window?! You think I'm kidding, but I think you shouldn't.  

It's hard to describe what being at a fashion party is like. The people are beautiful, but where you'd normally expect them to be up themselves they actually don't seem that way at all. Maybe it's a Cream thing. The people there seem like really good people.  Antonino, the editor, is a really nice guy. Very warm and friendly. Michael is cool as is Rachel. Rachel's also hot. Very hot. I could fall in love with those eyes forever. I think I already have, mind you.

Anyway, the party at Cream HQ consisted of a lot of vodka, Red Bull, and anything else that contained a lick of alcohol in it that the party as an entity could pretty much get its hands on. I guess that's an unusual Tuesday, a unique Tuesday, but a gorgeous Tuesday all the same. At one point Wendell went off in one of the clear rooms and was taking pictures of Lauren (a model) and Assia (another model, I think that's how you spell her name) doing… you know… stuff. Not THAT sort of stuff, but stuff in general. It's posing. I don't know what you write it as. I'm barely a journalist as it is and I'm tired as so I'm doing my best here at the moment.


Kim looks hard into the camera so she can take a picture…


…of these two together…


…which looks like this!

Not long after that random shoot was done, we went back to the office and there was more drinking followed by the decision to head to the editor's place for the continued party.

Remember that the group wasn't that big. Really it was maybe 10-15 people, and probably 12. I can't remember entirely and I didn't count so I really am guessing, but it's not a large amount of people. They're good people though.

We piled into a few taxis and made our way to The Cross. I was in the Cream Crew Taxi… that has a nice ring to it so I'm going to use it. I was in the Cream Crew Taxi — the CCT as I'm calling it for this particular moment in time — and headed for The Cross. What can I say about a taxi ride. Nothing. Geeze. Let's move on. 

We got out and Kim, Wendell, Lauren and I waited for the rest of the group. And as we waited, Lauren did spontaneous modeling. It attracts attention, but she seems to know how to get over the random guys driving buy who seriously think they have a chance with her. Seriously, if there are any guys who think this when you drive by in you pumped up piece of shit with your mates looking sick, mate, sick… do yourself a favour and just go home and jack off to the image you got when you drove by her. That's as close as you're going to get.


Nothing to see here. Move along people. Nothing to see here but models posing for no apparent reason in Kings Cross. Move along…


Try telling this guy to move along. He had his camera out and just– oh wait… that's Wendell. Nah, he's fine.

When the rest of them got there, those of who now existed and weren't up in the party clamored into the elevator and made it a sardine can comparatively speaking. We got up to the level and rushed out into the arms of awaiting party friends. Shit seriously, I've got no way of writing about this sort of thing. Really, if I thought
it was hard to describe a fashion party before, you have no idea the hell I'm going through right now in trying to twist and mangle words to make them fit how I need to describe this.


Antonino and Assia in the bathroom. What are they doing? Fucked if I know. Looks ciggy related. Why don't you ask them? Photo by Wendell Teodoro (and very Nan Goldin Wendell… good work).

Let me try it like this: there was dancing, drinking, holding, touching, grabbing, smoking, talking, photographing, laughing and that was only what I saw. At points, the bathroom was locked with a few people in it doing who knows what (well they do, but I'm working with what I got here) and at one point I swear I saw breasts in the kitchen.

"Breasts in the kitchen! Breasts in the kitchen!" the reader of this blog says wildly. "Why the fuck didn't you invite me if there were going to be breasts in the kitchen?!" Well geeze, how was I to know. I didn't even realise there were breasts in the kitchen when there actually were breasts in the kitchen.

Cut me some slack here and meet Rachel. I think I'm spelling it right. I've got no idea so I'm winging it but Rachel isn't a model but she is gorgeous. She's a Dallas girl… which is a brilliant coincidence for where I lived in America. She's a North Dallas girl, but she's not a Plano girl. And she's gorgeous and stunning and she's got a brain which is great too. I quite liked talk to her.

And then there was this guy (he's the non-blurry one):

I never got his name, but I have his mobile number and he has mine because he wanted me to teach him photography. So I showed him some that night with Wendell's camera. He got some basic camera operation, some flash bouncing, and some composition lessons that night. And he used them when Rachel and I were kissing. She's wonderful. Like… fuck, I hadn't kissed anyone in ages. Not by choice, just because people don't generally want to kiss me… and she is a breath of fresh air. Great lips to go with the already stunning eyes. 

Anyway, I've now got a sort-of-crush…!..!…..!– THIS BLOG IS BEING INTERRUPTED BY LEIGH'S SCHIZOPHRENIC EVIL CONSCIENCE — Fuck Leigh, who the fuck are you kidding. "Sort-of-crush"… shit man, don't make me beat you with my schizophrenic evil conscience bat motherfucker, cause I'll do it. And then how the fuck are you going to explain that one, biatch. You walk into a wall, motherfucker? That's what I thought–

*Leigh flicks his schizophrenic evil conscience into the oblivion that is the dark recesses of his untouched soul… or at least to the PM's residence…* 

I didn't think I'd escape a blog without a visit from the evil… whatever it is…

Anyway, yeah. So there was that side of things. I heard there was other stuff going on as well.

There was also a sweet lady by the name of Melissa who is a fashion designer. Nice lady… wanted me to dance… but I don't dance. She persisted and persisted and eventually I had to go because… FUCK! It was late and I have a day job that requires me to do a lot of writing and is in a part of Sydney that requires an early get up time and what not. So I said goodbye to the nice people, the warm Antonino, the gorgeous Rachel, the friendly Michael, and anyone else in the main bit of the room that was there. I didn't say goodbye to Kim or Wendell. They were in one of the other rooms doing something… who knows what (well yes, they know what, duh) and once I'd started to leave, I didn't want to make a big thing out of it because really, it's just me and my hat that's leaving.

I had fun. That's the aftermath. I did enjoy myself. I didn't actually expect any of what happened to happen so it was a nice change from what normally happens on a Tuesday night for me: go home, dinner, surf the web, do whatever it is I do on a Tuesday before I try the mind boggling task of falling asleep.

I would like to do it again. I'd like to meet up with Rachel again if I could. I'd like to meet up with a lot of them. They're nice people.

Maybe we'll do it again soon and this time I won't have the responsibility of work the next day to keep me from getting slightly more tipsy. 😛 

More photos in the "continued reading" bit… 

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Johnny Suicide & The Children Of Circumstance

She has a boyfriend.

Months of hoping, wishing, and waiting for the right time to see if I could eventually ask her out and be taken a little bit more truthfully than the joker and "good friend" that I am… gone.

Not gone, but not like they were.

How life progresses for those of us whom are good to everything but ourselves is unkind itself. People don't flock our way. They don't look towards us thinking how nice it would be to talk to that person for more than the ten seconds it takes to find out what they need before buggering off. We get but a few people who take an honest interest and don't exist purely to take, take take.

I'm not thoroughly surprised, mind you. One of her friends had told me that I had no chance. She's my best friend but like the best friend in the 80's John Hughes movies, surely I can hope for more. Regardless of this, I love her. That's not going to change whether the love is of a "yearning for" nature or "loving like a best friend" nature. 

If she reads this blog (which she probably won't since all of 9 people read this blog) then she'll know that I love her. I don't know how I love her. I can't explain "love", not really being exposed to it per se. I've never really been exposed to "love" with anyone outside of family. People don't normally give me that chance. Even if she reads this blog, I hope she doesn't let it change what we have, the friendship that none of her boyfriends — past or future — can really touch. She's a great girl.

Still, the bullshit that people like myself go through makes me wonder whether anything we choose to do makes a difference. I sit here with Live's "Freak" going on through my over-sized headphones staring at the tacky off-grey paint in the train cabin wondering if I can really do anything to help myself. 

Is there anything that I can do to save myself from the bottom less lack of luck that I seem to have or am I just a child of circumstance?

It seems silly to ask — especially in knowing that 9 people are reading my blog — so just deal with me as I try to use the blog as a means of venting the frustration that builds up inside of me because really… there isn't any other way for me to release it.

I already act out of character from what most people expect from me. I have a dark sort of smile, facial hair, and I wear a hat. People probably expect me to be more shadowy and I've been accused of stalking before, but the reality is far from what people seem to think. I'm quiet unless provoked or I have something to say, and at the moment I write all day with my hands so speaking isn't exactly the first thing on my mind. I stand inside the cabin of the trains as they make their way home, headphones over my hat. I listen to the music of people with passion and love for a craft… and I listen to people who only exist to make money. It doesn't really matter in the end.

I'm zany. Insane. Eccentric. Fucked up. In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find someone who displays eccentricities like mine. That's my ego talking, and it rarely does. Talk that is. I give others room to talk.

And even with that, people don't seem to want to approach me. Sure, I have a few friends and they're good. She's a great friend. I hope it stays that way. It's been brilliant the past few months when she was single. It was like having a really close friend… something I haven't been able to really have for ages… I don't know why. Outside of my brother of course.

This isn't one of those pity stories. I don't want pity. I want friendship.

Regardless, I'll get down to the point of it.

No matter what I try to do, no matter who I seem to meet, who I seem to like, who I seem to be kind to, talk to, think about, and fall for… I can't seem to win. It's not a prize, though it is in a way. Machoism in men presents itself in nightclubs when guys go out with mates and they all try to head home with a girl. Those that don't are the losers. This is similar in this way. I'm not trying to go home with anyone, but in attempting to befriend someone, I tend to go home the loser.

And I don't feel sorry for myself. I'm so sick of random people telling me that you'll get people liking you if you stop feeling sorry for yourself. Those people need to pull their heads from their arses and come up with a slightly more interesting answer that doesn't reflect the only situation they've ever thought of. I don't feel sorry for myself. I more feel sorry for people who look at me expecting something that I'm not going to give them.

Still, in cases like the macho guys (who generally have about as much intellect as an M&M), they have people they can go out with. They're the guys who they can go to clubs with and talk to each other and try to pick up people, make friends, lovers, enemies, whatever. 

I don't have that. I don't have friends that want to go out with me. Does this make me a child of circumstance? No matter what happens in my life, the events are circumstantial because every time I try to exert any force over them, nothing seems to take shape. Am I child of circumstance?

For the past few weeks, I've had a strange thought going through my head. While I've been waiting at Town Hall station for the train back to Bondi, it's always the same thought over and over again.

As the train approaches, I wonder: what would it be like to throw myself in front of it? 

It's not so much suicidal as it is curiosity. I wonder what the freedom of free air underneath my body as I make the jump right before the tons of steel and glass smash into my body and shatter the bones like a sledgehammer to a majestic ice sculpture. The blood would spray against the windshield alarming the driver and spattering a few specks of red on the few passengers who choose to wait to sit in the emptiness of the front cabin. It's empty there in case the train crashes because people seem to fear death, but what if someone crashed into the train? The splash of red might give the dismal and miserable dark grey wall of Town Hall a nicer tinge. 

It's a lot about the freedom, to know that for a split second before my death and right after I jump… I'd be free. I wouldn't have to think about being a child of circumstance nor would I have to worry about the world and all of its problems. There's a car bomb in England. A boat leaking oil in Newcastle. A family member's car has been broken into. All of it would go and for one second — maybe not even that much — I wouldn't even have to worry.

It's probably not worth thinking about. I should probably just go and get myself a few-month membership and RedHotPie and see if that helps the whole lack of friends and lovers thing. I just hope my curiosity doesn't get the best of me while I'm still working out if I'm a child of circumstance.

Must be one of those sort of nights. Full moon and all. 

SWM Seeks FTIDALG

Single White Male Seeks Female That Isn’t Dead And Likes Geeks

Good luck to me and may I have better luck for the near future for my quest.

Don’t worry. You read that right. It doesn’t make any sense, and I’m not entirely sure whether I’m capable of making sense at 2:22 in the morning.

A Friday morning, for that matter.

How long will it be before the Saint of monetary values, St. George, sends me a message by way of the great wireless tin can telling me how little of that monetary amount I have left in my account.

That might be one reason as to why I can’t get the womens: no money.

That doesn’t matter to this chick.

She’s happy to share her room in Japan with any white guys under the age of 35 provided she can have sex with them. Well, yeah… sure… I mean, sex is a very depressing thing and surely I should leave parts of myself at the lobby in case an ethereal nun floats on by and wants to beat me with a bible… but you know, what the fuck! In fact… let’s just get rid of the “what the” altogether, Keiko! Let’s just fuck!

Her fascination with people’s kidneys and waking up in a bath-tub without one concerns me slightly.

I mean sure, if I were to sleep with a hot Asian lady and get room & board included in the price, I’d expect to have to pay for something… but a kidney is worth far more than 25 bucks (that’s 2,245 yen for you, Keiko) so in my mind… I’m getting ripped off.

I mean hell, for a kidney, I’d want to be getting my money’s worth. A blowjob and fucking for the price of a kidney should at the very least come with a video of the event and a shirt to let people know[/url] that you did the deed and all you got was this lousy fucking t-shirt (and one less kidney).

Seriously, short of this whole thing being one big joke, where are the girls in Australia that advertise like this?

You don’t see advertisements in the classified section of the Sydney Morning Herald saying “20 yr old law student seeks roommate she can fuck the brains out of” do you? I mean, I’d have no chance with them, mind you.

Oh no, it’s not that I doubt myself in that way.
With an ad like that, I doubt I’d be able to get through over the phone… the lines would be packed and I’d have to see her in person, and if I tracked her down, I’d be considered a stalker, and shit… I’m just too lazy for shit like that.

Plus, being a stalker to a law student wouldn’t be all that fun.
If she’s a lawyer who gets her rocks off putting crims like yourself away, you’d only get to hear about her orgasm ten minutes later after you’re sentenced to prison sitting in lock-up waiting for a decent meal.

Then you could try to put a similar ad out based on conjugal visits.