The Wax Conspiracy

Review: Exactta international prepaid phone card

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Ethan Switch) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 09:07:40 +1000

Terminal 3 of San Francisco domestic airport, ground floor. Not far from Two Wings for Wall and Person by Vito Acconci, an etching in 12 parts wasting away some minutes of time. Dropping $20 into a machine spits out an international prepaid phone card from Exactta Communications. Nearby, cattle of wayward luggage and suitcases idle next to the bank of phone booths and empty carousels.

Between escaping the card dispenser and making use of the face value credit, a long wait with minutes pass en masse. An hour at least. Calling into the customer service department, their help is with an accent Hispanic, and not anywhere near the sub-continent.

Not exactly a responsive crew, their estimates on activation time well off. One call, another call, another still and the need to remind them and refresh their memory as to the state of the status-in-wait card cycles. Not just minutes, but enough to eat a Subway or walk up and down the length of the terminal. Or to make use of the toilets again and again in order to keep from passing out after reading another quarter chapter of The Widow of the South.

Raffle ticket of phone credit

Numerous stabs later, no cutlery or silverware here, but at the dial pad, and finding that sleeping in a small metal compartment in the open is better left to homeless dwarves and midgets, the card rings through and true. Connecting the call...

Despite the showing of $20 on the corner of the card, the actual real use total value sinks a shallow half of that. Maybe less. Most of the credit sapped by the mysterious phone fee, the cost of calling from a public pay phone at $1.64 a pop. And lock. Then comes the cost of the call itself, pricey on the minutes.

Several times during the long layover between flights, either the card or the sticky numbers of the phone booth itself reroute the call back again to the service department. Personal code not working right. Lazy connection signals back to base. Screwy pulse dialling thanks to the Pelican pay phone. All things, anything, but who knows. Who cares really.

People do. People who are more than Soylent Green.

Does not make for confidence in a phone card to gamble hitting an operations block or making a call connect successfully. Back of the card itself, with the scratch panel holding the personal code looks instantly reused from the get go. Questionable state.

Each subsequent call mentions no update on the current balance. No hints or clues as to even how many minutes remain. Guessing is as good as knowing. Shooting deaf and wild, the card stops with no notice of even a beep or warning click a minute or even 5 out from nil. Absolutely none.

Disappointing.

Ethan Switch

Another Paradox of Sets review by The Wax Conspiracy.

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Review: Thwip! zine by Ivan A. Martin

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Ethan Switch) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 19:36:54 +1000

Spider-Man either wears boxer-briefs or a comfortably snug and supportive thong. Nothing like the loincloth of a few years back with cogs and an elaborate pulley system. If keeping his genitals from contacting the costume directly isn't an issue, it's full on commando. Possibly making such a concession when tailoring the suit. Anything less secure and his genitals would be getting in the way of his patrols.

Thwip!, a zine of over one hundred and some issues by Ivan A. Martin and various contributors, contains no writings of this nature in the sample selection. Reviews, interviews, self-reflection, that's what appears in this publication about all things Spider-Man.

Conveniently set at a mere two American pig dollars for each regular issue, the long gone recent landmark #100 scores five beans in the side pouch. After emailing Martin, aka Spidey-Ivan, a six dollar US sum settles the talk. Covering postage for the tonner and a bonus copy of #99 for good measure.

Handing over the equivalent in Australian dirt cash for the issues proves to be costly.

Sending cash through the post, that's considered a no-no. Big frown from Australia Post. And with no receipt without registered post, it's a fair and sound warning. Not that that ever stopped the OMO Clean Club from sending a single two dollar coin strapped to a bleached card to make good on a cash-back rebate.

Paypal is out. Not everyone has an account or likes playing with their fees.

Money orders are not exactly transcontinental. What cashes out here might not cash out in another country. Figuring out what the future exchange rate will be when cashing it out on the other end is also another factor and a strike against buying one.

Wire transfers, well, there's that. Not through a bank though. And the only other thing that comes to mind is Western Union. Post offices, American Express joints, newsagencies, little other shops all over the place. Western Union all over the space. And yet, holding no place of its own.

Corner of George and Hunter Streets in Sydney, there's a little place shilling for American Express. Outside, in a sign unmistakable, an agent for Western Union. Why of all places this? Who knows. Being the closest in walking distance from the building helps. Martin Place post office, another agent for Western Union, is two city blocks up the road.

Scribbling up the wide docket of records takes a bit of time. With nobody else in the small outfit, there is a wait lining up to the cashier's window. A girl by the name of Trainee stalks the window. Hovering over her shoulder, an older woman, beading down on each keystroke.

Roughly stabbing, the Australian to US dollars exchange rate for six is probably no more than ten. Add a small fee and that ends the costs. Nothing too bad or shocking to look at.

How wrong.

Quite quickly, with half of the transaction already underway and wheels squeaking pitches of death for the walk back, cash flies out of the envelope, onto the counter and the deal is done.

With sunshine in the eyes, and heat from the three hour lunch running close to over time, six dollars on Martin's end starts out as $27 on this side of the Pacific. Fees inclusive no less. Certainly no less from American Express and Western Union, uniting in collection.

Weeks later the copies of Thwip! arrive.

George Pérez providing cover art honours for #100

Enthusiasm and love for Spidey is well apparent when reading. Reprints of earlier issues litter alongside reviews of comics new and old concerning Spider-Man with a few fragments of pop culture in the mix. Talking against walls and replies to other zinesters in the Marvel Zombie Society loses some kind of mindful information.

Filler bloats out the page count way too much, sinking any tightness of the zine.

Slightly interesting enough of a distraction for a long train ride.

Ethan Switch

Another Upper Upper Mezzanine of Magazines review by The Wax Conspiracy.

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Where in Kentucky - Mammoth Cave National Park

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Ethan Switch) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 18:55:34 +1000

Monstrously, and seemingly neverending, sitting under the home ground of Colonel Sanders, the world's largest cave system. Yucatan comes nowhere close. Not even Cocklebiddy poses a threat. No comparison. Small holes looking up at a big fat long one. Sadly, with possible age and lack of food, no minotaurs to be found within the lime walls.

Smell the fresh country air from inside the car interior. Nice warm breeze of sightseeing in south central Kentucky of the US. Take a point to the compass and a pull grabs at the hips thanks to the most extensive cave system in the world. Right there in blue grass horse hoofing country. Where poultry learn first hand of the terror down from the grin of a Colonel and his eleven secret herbs and spices.

Thanks to the wife, travel time is relaxing and near non-existent. Eyes close for a little nap and open again on the sound of a smack across the visor. Two hours from the start out west of Kentucky evaporate cleanly while spotting signs and birds through the trees. Time aplenty for eyeballs to readjust to the light of the dashboard lapping up the endless trees lining the roads. Tailing and turning from the main and into the woods. Closer and closer toward Mammoth Cave National Park.

Welcome to a hole in the ground that's not the Grand Canyon

Central time picks daylight from a broken clock and a wristwatch that tells only how many times Micky Mouse needs to stop scratching himself. Watching for the grass, thar be bushels of stools and samples from the local wildlife. Soft. Nothing from the other visitors. Facilities with porcelain makings covering well into the sink holes and wash basins. Loud PA systems beckon from the outside with those clenching turtles on with enough lead time to cover five minutes of the fold or scrunch debate. Anywhere on the park, that's enough notice to wipe the dribble and get in line, tickets in hand.

Please form an orderly line

The Historic Tour takes the day and cash that folds. Least of those bearing Hamiltons and beyond. Warm clothing, the guide warns, is the thing to bear down there in the dark underground. Small hiya introductions from the group shoot out shout outs from places as far as Australia and Germany. Even San Francisco represents.

Background on the caves and their discovery, loss and rediscovery fill the greens of the entrance and exit hole before the tour undergoes the underground. Official Kentucky humour from the wide brim hats and the chuckles are there with an EMT in the crowd. Thank you for piping up. Jokes fall flatter with awkward asides. And away we go.

Park rangers double team to guide the tour. One in front with the lights on; one in rear to switch them off. Straggling group of inmates take up the fall back; all the other tourists and pedestrian spelunkers bunch up the front.

Temperature drops quick on crossing over the twilight zone. Subterranean nature walk getting chilly with each step away from the light of day. Lines of ants breathing easier as humidity takes a back seat as the sun takes a break from facing people going close to the centre of the Earth.

With at least a century under the belt, wood, artifacts, bones, whatever and ever remain as fresh in time as Captain America before the meddling Avengers crack open a certain slab of ice. Pooling around the excavation work, all the live bodies note the lack of dead bodies, of skeletons lazing about long after the job.

No workers. Must be on strike. Or dead for decades.

Slabs of wood and lumber once under the use of the excavators and miners stripping the caves of its limestones remain pristine, unbroke. Decades into at least a century right there in the hole. Capture of the state bleeds over into graffiti clinging along the caves. Previous guides, way back in the days of buckshots and open slavery, charging nickel and dimes of freedom for the privielge to the tourists. No such thing nowadays. All hands off the merchandise and stalactites thank you kindly.

Heads and knees turn purple and soft bruising down Fat Man's Misery linking into Tall Man's Misery. Other names and labels of sections and passageways sticker themselves aptly in the guidebook. Handy in daylight, near useless looking for the tour guides to follow from down in the labyrinth. Reading material for the bats they say. And edible from the corners in.

River Styx ahead, please keep souls within

Lowest point in the tour before heading back up narrow stairs on the right. Toward the River Styx, the cold and dark trail teeters closer still with proximity making a line into the core of the Earth. Being a bible state, the eerie lurkings of the devil pop up in mention. Closeness of the tunnel toward a hell down there what gives it a gleaming echo.

Taking a breather on rickety wooden benches, lungs inhale in as much as the dead and stale cave air around. Can't get any more unfiltered and undone by motor exhaust than miles below the Earth's surface.

More history on the caves unfolds as the group give their muscles a rest. Links and carvings of the rock walls, outside the graffiti, a natural by-product of the waters carving their own niche and streams. Beyond the entrance, all thanks to the slow centuries burning of gentle erosion.

Around the landing, all behold, a towering staircase. Easy as the walk down into the bottom of the pits is, now comes the return to the surface. Open with a fantastic, if at times obscured view around, the faces face butts climbing up the staircase. Steep in angle, condensation on the metal steps make for gingerly ascension. Move too much too quick and the entire group behind may domino all the way to the base of the tower.

Drop a penny, lose a penny

Crossing a chasm after the tower, holes and interior canyons shake the waters off the grates holding the many visitors pounding and stomping across the bridge. Looking down into the darkness below, drips of water pass along and disappear. Barely with a sound. To the other side and the journey upward to light continues.

Not helping matters still, remaining sections of the cave system slightly slick with wet prints. Tender rock faces jut out to meet and match, liable to fracture or gash if falls send their victims grabbing blindly and wildy along the walls. No handles or rails in most parts. Grooves in the paths enough to signal where to step the next foot.

Natural view of the interior

Pausing along the way, out go the lights. Nothing remains in front or behind. Eyes useless with whispers of sounds making the rounds. Hands on wallets, paper or leather. Teasing into the abyss standing still, the lights flicker back on. Part of the tour, feeling the essence of the cave alone. Save for the triple dozen strong throng of other visitors to the park on this, their collective peripatetic part of the day.

Entrance and exit of Mammoth Caves

Mammoth Cave. One monster connective tissue of holes and not enough time to get lost in. After two hours in the dark, the break of daylight, sunlight in natural light, scratches across the pupils.

Debriefing outside the lip, with another group ready to descend, a large branch falls from on high barely missing two blokes.

Thus ends The Historical Tour of the Mammoth Cave National Park.

Ethan Switch

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Social avoision: Lifts, elevators and riding the quiet within

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Ethan Switch) — Tue, 20 May 2008 19:45:16 +1000

Little boxes on cable wires. Little boxes on the building site. Little boxes riding up and down all day long. In hospitals and on train station platforms. Even in posh, three-storey, marble made estates — where maids sponge the crevices behind your knees with oils squeezed from virgin beans off a private isle along Kangaroo Island.

Little boxes known as lifts. Or elevators. Death traps of mirror dull metal work. Dungeon of the social interactive scene and in many office environments, the closest thing to a standing hallway jousting match.

Forces people from many levels — or not of any levels of any kind — to at once face each other (murderously even acknowledge one another), shuffle, and enjoy what little ride they may endure to their destination.

"Fifth floor: Cutlery, fishing equipment, iron maidens and HR. Please watch your back."

Nobody expects the emergency lift phone to work

Some take this opportunity of having nowhere to run to engage their co-workers and bedpan swillers in the mighty art of "catching up" or bleeding a conversation from the lobby. Akin to public jabber on mobiles, only without the mobiles.

Nobody feels comfortable with talk in elevators outside those locking mental drips. Why persist?

Even biding time while rescue workers save them from swimming any longer amongst the bone and entrails of a fear-willing passenger now half themselves, thanks to a sudden catch between floors, it's awkward.

And as riding alone is a luxury only those hiding behind the button panel can afford, and not to seem overtly rude (for fear of office politics backlash or a shank between the ribs), there may be a way to keep the voices inside.

Key to stemming this is to find a way to wedge a stop block between the talkers. Sacrifice thyself gently or manoeuvre the rest of the company into such a hold so as to spread distance between the yapping maws. Distance enlightens these creatures into acceptance and slowing down their excavations of minutiae and how long the day is. Who wears pants? They may even shut up.

Failing that, find a way to creep the onion petals off each of the lift travellers into obedient silence. Staring in the opposite direction of the opening doors and other faces does a trick. As does light coughing or clearing throat between syllables in their exchange. Invading hygiene space versus talking into strange ears; one throw unsettles the other.

What of not-so strangers trying to talk and/or chat with you? Of people who wish to ask even the smallest of questions? Be polite but mindful and masterfully push the spirit zero talk.

When answering, best retort with "Yes," "No" or "No idea, was like that when I got there." Even a simple acknowledgement and quiet "Hi" with a slight nod will do wonders to quell any uprising.

Making eye contact will render any vaccination of noise moot as this is a sign of interest, however fake, and ruptures the gushing lungs of talk and how you do more than silence knows what to do with.

Little boxes all the same, a little quiet for the sane.

Ethan Switch

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Review: Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks - Real Emotional Trash

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Belvedere Jehosophat) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 20:31:30 +1000

(The Jicks now feature Janet Weiss of the late Sleater-Kinney.)

It's somewhat disconcerting to note that Malkmus' latest effort despite being a song shorter than its predecessor is actually a good twelve minutes longer. Even more disconcerting are the opening guitars -- which wail quite readily -- and the opening lyrics, "of all my stoned digressions..." In short, Real Emotional Trash threatens to be a stoner nightmare, full of never-ending guitar jams and short on what could comfortably be described as songs.

Make no mistake, this album is a guitar album, which is perfectly fine, especially if you have the stamina for that sort of thing. Unfortunately, though Stephen Malkmus is an extremely talented guitar player, he also carries with him a tendency towards overindulgence in that department.

"Dragonfly Pie," that first song, however, soon reveals a catchy vocal melody and with it, a fuzzy, honest-to-god pop song. This, then, is Real Emotional Trash. Sure the songs are a little long and sure they sound a little "classic rock," but they are also freewheeling, catchy and lots of fun.

Part of the success of this record is that the band -- and if Malkmus is a talented guitarist, well, so the individual Jicks are just as talented in their own right -- sounds like a band, something that was missing (though, truthfully, not particularly missed) from the previous album.

Lyrically, the album seems more guarded than Face the Truth, or at least more difficult to penetrate, but as it took a little time for the snippets of "truth" of the previous album to expose themselves, it's possible that there's still something in the new album that's yet to divulge itself.

You should probably buy this CD.

third place

Belvedere Jehosophat

Another Not So Live Music review by The Wax Conspiracy.

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Review: My Disco - Paradise

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Belvedere Jehosophat) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 23:15:15 +1000

How does My Disco top Cancer, that exercise in harsh, mechanical, angular, minimalist rock music? Well, by becoming harsher, more mechanical, more angular and manifestly more minimalist than one could imagine possible.

"|," the first song, is a statement of purpose: essentially, the same note is struck again and again with a little percussion thrown in for good measure. This, then, becomes a rough template for the rest to come on Paradise -- the bass hitting one or two notes, often in odd meter, the drums crashing along with mind-boggling precision and the guitars producing all sorts of ungodly noise.
The high point, the zenith, is the excellent "An Even Sun," which drags out the formula to just over nine minutes. The bass hits one note -- perhaps two, a semitone apart -- in a jarring rhythm, which is kept by drums with clinical accuracy. A touch of vocals at the start, and then it's just a mess of feedback, distortion and noise...

Obviously, this isn't the sweet pop record that Cancer was, and the final result is actually quite harsh and alienating. Fortunately, this works extremely well for My Disco, and Paradise is a triumph, the sort of record I suspect right-minded people will be trying to track down twenty years from now.

Eight out of the ten songs on this record feature vocals, though you'd be forgiven for thinking that it is was mostly an instrumental affair. The brief, fractured poems of Cancer are gone now and have been replaced by, if you can believe it, even less.
The second song, for example, "You Came to Me Like a Cancer Lain Dormant Until it Blossomed Like a Rose," only manages to get as far as, "You came to...," before the guitars kick in; "http://thewaxconspiracy.com/," the third song, repeats only "The less I see, the closer I feel" a few times -- and these are the songs that are vocally dense! In "German for Attention," the singer sings, "settle" once or twice, and in "A Christ Pendent Comfort Her Neck," for example, he more or less just spells out the title of the song. In short, in much the same way that the music has been simplified, so have the vocals -- they no longer seem to carry a story -- and certainly none is remotely discernable. The vocals have now become the same experiment in repetition and droning as the music.

Paradise was recorded by Steve Albini, and, as always, he has managed to get a terrific sound for the band. In fact, it would be hard to imagine a more appropriate engineer for this type of record given both Albini's previous engineering efforts and his own musical output.

This thing is going for just over twenty dollars, and if you like your music a little dissonant, a little radical, then you certainly can't go wrong.

http://www.warwickbaker.com.au/

Belvedere Jehosophat

Another Not So Live Music review by The Wax Conspiracy.

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

we are survival machines

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Belvedere Jehosophat) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 19:26:55 +1000

Passerine are the ones that sit and wait, and in sitting and waiting uncover the unkindness of ravens, the conspiracy of ravens -- methodical, orderly, neat, calm, serene.

(versus.)

Pelagic are the hunters that spit anticoagulants into the sea, and in spitting betray the element that has long sustained them -- oh, patience,
you
are
next:
enduring, long-suffering, uncomplaining, diligent.

"They are in you and in me; they created us, body and mind; and their preservation is the ultimate rationale for our existence. They have come a long way, [these] replicators."

Argos, powerful rival of Sparta, Athens and Corinth, build your walls, there are waters coming.

Rivals of Argos, with your pre-wings, your ur-wings, you can fly high, high as you goddamn like.

windows started trembling, with a sonic boom. boom.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Trapped within a contract catching the black widow

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Ethan Switch) — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 05:57:29 +1000

Look for that Exit sign above the door. Broke on a fall, two legs for most and a door knob boring into the ground. Twisting and turning, catching the latch quick on the upturn. You cannot wait to leave if you only wait to leave now.

Sounds like hope. It really does. Only problem is that hope is a deaf boy sitting, signaling black into the corners of the elbow. Sounds of false reason ready to scratch and rip with an almighty wind. Takes what little breath remains. Heartless hopelessness. Sounds like every other day.

No Exit signs exist however, as people themselves are only playing in movies at the far end of town. Where the dust settles claims and rights. Playing on an endless loop with credits that never end. Starts beget ends and flow right around again into the beginning. No ends beyond. No beginnings to bake fresh breads with.

Life leaves this then with muddy soles tracking the dirt of existence from the front of house into the back rooms. Deal with it. No vacuum exists in any other such void. Breathe deep and find the visions splendour of seagulls coasting along the horizon.

Thank not, suffer you will at the hands of another day. And it's all ready for you. Are you ready for it?

Ethan Switch

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

One day it will all fade away

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Ethan Switch) — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 23:57:10 +1000

Then they will come around and ask for the hand that falls far from the tree. With no wrinkles nor blemishes. Only bones, webbing and the stark claw of dirt and a life of grime underneath the screaming dialect that exists a sliver of truth along the fingernails.

Scratching at the post, peeling back edges looking for that copper lining. Green and rust and the build up of mistrust as the walls and foundations crumble all around exposing the inner workings. Grand scales to rival the smallest and most insignificant.

Time is never on your side. Time always slides.

Time will not be forever.

Ethan Switch

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Reasons only stand to prove

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Ethan Switch) — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 23:37:32 +1000

Excuses, excuses, excuses. Be done with the lot of them. Flying about, flailing even, and hitting the left eyebrow with an intent toward deliverance. Ready for the moping and sloping jaws to payback in return of sorts. Of favours, deceit and general missives on the state of the world. Sounds like they know how to talk into the mirror without watching back on the reflection.

Directions are in the wind and it's a mighty gust for the blaze of atmosphere changing. Changing up and on the whims of sneezes and on the wings of butterflies fluttering by on continents worlds away.

Up, up and away, there is only hope which falls by the wayside. Deep below unto the valley that claws back the humanity from within, shakes it by the ankles and asks in a manic tone, "What have you done all day? What have you done with your life? What have you done that's worth saving your life for?"

Such questions, such grimy hands, a better fit to the suit is the actual call for. Questions. Never with clear answers.

And here comes another cloud. Ready to move and cover up the sky. Here comes the rain again. Here comes the end of another day. Joy to the world for the dusk undone.

Ethan Switch

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Have a seat and watch it burn

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Ethan Switch) — Wed, 16 Jan 2008 23:51:14 +1000

Middle of the morning, as the sun sits on the edge of the horizon and pulls out a long drawl. Whispering and waiting for the break into the start of a brand new day. Over the line and sitting pretty, aglow with the burning sensation after a night of many chilli seeds between the gums and through the teeth. Cold and hot at the same time, it's a veritable swag of temperate zones coursing up and down. Only beads to show for the path that breaks.

Consequences of fare. All up for the down time, an explosion in expulsion. Emergency evacuations outlining a ring of fire with legs and backsides finding the shortest path toward agony. Gurneys lie far beyond the reach and expanse of this plain plain.

Inside to the outside and never quite of the same sight.

Ethan Switch

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Homebrew Diary - Wheatbeer of misery

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Jimmy Weasel) — Sun, 05 Nov 2006 15:20:59 +1000

If what can turn a foul mood around becomes the harbinger of the foul mood, what happens next? Turn it into a learning experience. And when that learning curve makes a late break over the plate, you'd better start to swing away.

Getting confidence can lead to the purchase of the slightly "higher end" homebrew ingredients. Specifically, the Muntons range, and the wheat yeast. At a cost $15 higher than the cheapest on the shelf, the process started out as per normal - sterilisation, mixing, stirring, adding yeast. No real dramas.

But through the first night, the barrel started leaking. Maybe one drip every 15 seconds, which isn't much, but was determined to be between one litre and three litres of lost beer over a 2 week period.

This in addition to the fact that the brew hadn't stated bubbling lead to large amounts of concern and worry.

The solution? Seal the bugger good and proper with Selly's Aquaclear. Which, as it is able to adhere and perform its leak-filling functions under wet conditions, seemed like the best option. After 12 hours, the leak finally subsided, leaving only the inactivity of the yeast to deal with.

It turns out that the no-bubbling problem is easy fixed by time. One afternoon, four days after the batch was started, it sprang to life with a vengeance. Froth was discovered throughout the airlock and on top of the lid - filling the air with the sweet aroma of German beer. This aroma remained sweet for about a day, and then moved to a more "rank beer mat" bouquet and continued its descent into dank staleness.

At the bottling phase, there really didn't seem to be anything wrong with the beer. 52 bottles were filled, labelled and stored, and, as per usual, forgotten about until the 4-week ripening time had elapsed. This is when the horrifying discovery was made. It seems that fixing a leak with a hardware product that has poison warnings is a big mistake. It leeched into the beer and made it smell and taste like a combination of beer and super glue. Each bottle tested (about 6) from different ends yielded the same horrible result.

Total poison.

This much all-consuming disappointment has not been experienced since hearing Death Angel's song "Mistress of Pain," and, thinking it wasn't bad, downloaded an entire album without knowing how much goddamn hair metal was choking the hard drive.

Bitter tears were wept as the entire batch was opened into the sink and washed away with all the hopes and dreams of homemade German beer.

Let this serve as a lesson to everyone who springs a leak - just ride out the storm if the leak isn't too bad. It's far better to lose 1 litre than 20.

Jimmy Weasel

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Homebrew Diary - Blackrock IPA + Hops

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Jimmy Weasel) — Sat, 04 Nov 2006 16:06:22 +1000

It doesn't take a big man to admit that he drinks. It takes a big man to get wasted and perform impromptu sermons naked from a balcony; raving upon the ravages of the insanity of stata bylaws and noisy offspring in adjoining arpartments...

Given that the first batch wasn't a failure, but exhibited signs of having room for improvement, this brew was begun with 2 goals in mind - to make the Pale ale a little stronger in flavour, and also to work out which of the sugars upon god or bog or whoever's great green supermarket shelves would yield the best of the secondary fermentation stage.

The hops component was relatively easy - add hot water and a bag of hops to a cup. Add beer ingredients to keg. Add hops to keg. Brilliant.

The sugar testing phase would be slightly more involved. This is a direct result of the risk of small eruptions of beer and broken glass should the ratio be too high. Careful amounts of: brown sugar, icing sugar, caster sugar, fruit tingles, jelly jubes and red jelly crystals were trialled.

The beer with the brown sugar had a noticeably more bitter taste than the control or "carbonation drop" beer. the caster sugar was very similar to the icing sugar in taste, but in terms of sediment, it was noted (with large amounts of mockery) that the particular box of icing sugar from which I was drawing my 3 grams was a hybrid of sugar and corn flour for the purposes of thickening confection. There was no noticeable thickening of the beer, but there was undissolved crap at the bottom. The rest, friends, is another story altogether.

The aroma of the hopped beer is a very pronounced fruity smell - fruity without being too sweet. It tastes mostly like it smells - grand. Thankfully, the testing/dicing around bottles weren't full longnecks. Two cases of Beer Lao were dutifully emptied to make 48 snack-sized beers for ready consumption. It is definitely easier to fit two stubbies in a crowded freezer rather than one longneck. And BeerLao is a powerful good beer to be drinking. Its fruity aromas increase as the temperature of the bottle rises - perhaps to allow for the hot and steamy Laotian climes from which they hail. Nice and easy to knock back. And stinking cheap. How beer that good is that cheap is baffling.

As a direct result of the correct amount of water, and the addition of the hops, the Blackrock India Pale Ale is definitely a summer beer. It is recommended that you make this one always using the hops, given the "thin" nature of the IPA. This is a great brew to sit in the sun without a shirt and swill back with a bunch of punks.

Jimmy Weasel

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Homebrew Diary - Barrel of Blackrock Pale Ale

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Jimmy Weasel) — Thu, 07 Sep 2006 23:40:46 +1000

The journey toward enlightenment need not begin in any particular direction so much as that it needs to begin at all - and if you create your own beery reality with which to illuminate yourself, enlightenment can indeed glass you in the jaw in the comfort of your own bathtub.

Thinking about the first brew brings a nostalgic burn back up my throat. This brew is perhaps ubiquitously known throughout homebrewing circles as the "practice brew." The expectations are as mixed as they are high. And the anticipation is dangerously frustrating as the realisation of a 6 week wait is at your fingertips to find out whether you'll be a success or a drunken failure.

Take heart - the difference between a good brew and a bad one is about two and a half longnecks.

The first brew is also a great way to get a feel for how homebrew will treat a man. The style of drunkenness can only be described as "a creeper," as you don't notice the effects of the first few. Perhaps thoughts are elsewhere (perhaps about how brilliant one is for making beer in one's bathtub).

As the night (or morning in some circumstances) slips on, the steady metamorphosis into a total sot completes unbeknownst to the inebriate, who will only notice the slow effect when his words are mixed up, misused, malapropped or dangerously spoonered.

Beyond this point, there is little hope.

It has been observed (and quite probably proven) that the hangover will be less intense than spending the evening drinking a similar amount of a commercial beer. This may be due to the lack of crap added to the homebrew. Beyond sugar, water, yeast and some sticky molasses stuff, there's not much else.

So "Blackrock Pale Ale" is a great brew to start on. It's moderately cheap, and you won't feel like a dumb ass for wasting money when you screw it up. It is a little like a few of the commercial pale ales out there, but this brew #1 was a little watery, as there was an error in interpreting instructions for "fill to 21 litres" as "add 21 litres". Thus, the first brew ended up tasting like a Cooper's Mild (the orange one); Beer + water. It wasn't bad. Just thin.

Brew #1 had less clouds and floaty shit than Coopers.

*If your brew is too watery, let it sit a few more weeks. The last bottle of brew #1 was far greater than the first.

Jimmy Weasel

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Kitchen Antics - Sweet/Sticky/Spicy Pork Stirfry

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Jimmy Weasel) — Tue, 13 Jun 2006 21:42:50 +1000

80% alliterative. Deliberate? Subconsciously. All normal thought stolen by the weight and treachery of the outdoor world. A world where a boy has to battle all manner of foes armed to the teeth just to find the time to get back into the kitchen where he belongs.

A spicy treat fit for weekends or weekdays or whenever the culinary urge strikes. Use it to impress friends and win acclaim/stunned silence/awed gasps (please use responsibly).

You will need:

700 grams pork (pre cut is just fine. really.)
Peanut oil (for frying)
Rice (for eating)
1/3 cup sweet chilli sauce
1/3 cup chilli sauce
1/2 T minced garlic
1 tsp minced ginger
Mood Music: Les Claypool's "Of Whales and Woe"
1 T soy sauce
1/3 Cup Cola (yes. cola. straight from the bottle.)
200g x 4 different vegetable of your choice (cup mushrooms, capsicum, snow peas, zucchini, baby corn and broccoli all seem to work)
2 x bottles Beerlao (iced)

Crank the bass on your stereo to its physical limit and begin the music.

Set your big, sharp knife to 'slice' and set to work on the vegies - making them like you'd find on your plate in the Asian eateries. Don't bother cutting the baby corn. Just rinse. In fact, make sure all your vegetables are rinsed, or you'll get some foul lurgy from whatever poisons were sprayed on it, or from whatever deadbeat felt up the entire produce section looking for that perfect specimen. Those buggers are known for not washing their hands properly and can pass on the gastroenteritis. This will inflame the lining of your stomach. It will not make you feel very good.

Once all vegetables are cut, similarly slice your pork into strips fit for a stir fry. Or you can buy it pre-sliced - I won't be offended.

Mix the chili sauce, ginger, garlic, soy and cola and keep to one side.

Heat the bejesus out of the oil (about 1 1/2 T) in a non-stick fry pan. Start your rice cooking - it gets hectic here. Keep an eye on the rice at all times; you'll heat it on the highest setting and ever-watching, drop the hotplate to the lowest setting until all the water is gone. Seriously. Watch it like a hawk. One with perfect vision.

Crack open a beer and get limber. You'll need your wrists and dexterity for this.

Throw your pork into the fry pan and stir vigorously. Use the handle and toss it a little. Once it starts to brown, (mostly but not totally (you should still be able to see a little white/pink)) pour the sauce in and stir for another 3 minutes. It should froth and bubble like a maniac. This is good. You'll want to cook of some of that liquid - less liquid means more stickiness.

Add your vegetables and continue to stir. After 5 minutes, your stir fry is ready. Depending on your volume of rice, it too should be soon ready.

Go Eat! Enjoy! Mingle with your Guests!

Jimmy Weasel

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.

Return to Castlereagh

ethan.switch@gmail.com (Ethan Switch) — Tue, 06 Jun 2006 06:06:06 +1000

Enough to return. Enough to go back. Still, just not enough to sign up and be among the legions to call Scientology the religion of choice. And it has nothing to do with being an atheist or having something of an aversion to peanut butter in most forms.

Peanut butter, or something so very much like it, burns the air. Not the people sitting across, not the clothes, not the carpet. It's the couch with the back facing the window that faces the dreary commuters every weekday. Plush leather and a sinking feeling is what it is.

Of course, this is a few years ago, enough for an even three, and the publicity officer for the Church of Scientology, Virginia Stewart is sitting with another woman, Vicki. Three on the couch to discuss the changes made to the organisation located on Castlereagh.

All because someone isn't dead.

Ominous return

After The Hubbard is Bare, an adventure in taking a personality test toward the hills of auditing, a simmer, a boil. Through magical winds and mysterious findings, an opportunity to show the ways they have paved. Strange and odd, the request from publicity for a sit down to explain the scene and operations between the then and the now.

From the first steps through the door, a cordial, relaxing pace to the atmosphere. After all, this is just a confab. No rush to sign up or walk over any other documents or details unless needed. And none was.

Overbearing zealots hell bent on drip-lining money from fresh converts to Scientology were reason behind the first visit. A chance to partake in a simple personality test turning into a harrowing experience. From assurances of Stewart, the type of clerk back in the day are either out or have been trained in the error of their ways.

Cool rest for the non-existent wallet.

Dark secrets

From the philosophy of Scientology, a little on L. Ron Hubbard himself and Dianetics in general, two hours pass by rather quickly that it's enough for three. An open forum for any question proves the undoing. Having done little research beyond the personal experience, it's a floundering fight to keep up with supplying an interest.

Deadly hands

No visit to a place of Scientology worship is complete without testing the grippage on the e-meter. A shiny silver box with two bars hooked up to a throbbing meter. Sweaty palms defeat its readings and the squeezing holds no favours. Questions come and the need to answer lies in the nature of the e-meter. Verbalising is out and the "mood" of it all stems from the interaction of an unseen being reacting to the poll. Memories and the subconscious control this experiment.

Conversation is an observation

Betrayal, it seems, is a split second twitch. In the muscles of the eye or the shafts holding on an eyelash, anything that might linger for a moment is a sign of a thought. Even if no thought exists, the insistence that there is rides the perception that beings of the older guard exist and do in fact control the current earth bound vessel. It's a fixed gaze that rights the situation and brings the focus back onto the topic at hand.

Unfortunately, with no set topic at hand outside the world of Scientology, it's a distracting notion in itself.

Return engagement

Doors are open on another visit to the complex on Castlereagh Street. The offer of walking out with a copy of Dianetics by L. Ron Hubbard still on a standing offer. Tight and shrink wrapped like the power explosives are known to be. And how most books and guides stray so far from. One day perhaps.

Grey matter and nerves

Between the reception and the departure, time sitting and talking is enjoyable for the challenge in knowing. Far, far removed from the beat down of the young man years ago eager to dip his hands to grab a stash of cash. An enlightening meeting with no pressure at all. A different beast to the first encounter.

Who knows if that couch is still there. Not everything is as it is when you first remember it. Except for the smell of peanut butter. Or something so very much like it. Burning the air and leaving the hair in the nostrils to wonder and twitch.

Ethan Switch

Cover your armpits with The Wax Conspiracy.