World Wide Jeb — A bloke in Melbourne, Australia who loves beer, dudes, metal music and falling over. RAD!

Pugwall: Where Is He Now?

by Jeb on May 12, 2010

If you grew up in Australia in the late 80s, you’d remember the bodacious kid’s TV series Pugwall. The premise was that these kids had a badass band, the Orange Organics -- just check out the killer intro!

Growing up, I was constantly ribbed that I had a strange resemblance to the main character, Pugwall. It’s true -- I really was his spitting image.

Recently I was researching the whereabouts of the guy who played Pugwall, and wondering if we still shared a resemblance. Without even seeing a photo of me, I think it’s safe for you to assume -- perhaps not:

Photo: Bugdust.com

Now, I’m sure the poor fella is sick of his children’s TV past following him around, but he unwittingly dragged me into years of “PUGWALL!” name-calling during high school. Deep down, what I’d really love is to wreak my revenge.

See, these days he’s playing with a band named Bugdust -- who are actually really pretty damn good, now that I’ve listened to them. The kind of band I’d go to see regardless of how similar I used to look to their drummer during childhood.

So perhaps it’s time for me to attend a Bugdust gig and simply start drawling a catcall from the back of the room: “PUUUUUUG-WALLLLL. PUUUUUUG-WALLLLL.” I’m sure he’d truly appreciate requests to play Orange Organics hits like “Marmaloid”.

Who’s in for gatecrashing a gig and wreaking some revenge?

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The Beanbag Failure Advent Calendar

by Jeb on May 5, 2010

My housemate Matt and I have been putting our homosexual superpowers to good use since we moved in together: yes, we’re actually putting some effort into how the place looks.

Antique-y sitting chairs? Check. Tasteful potted plants? Check. Kimonos to wear while we secretly watch Desperate Housewives before we listen to some metal, to balance out our masculinity? Check.

The only real point we’re disagreeing on is a certain beanbag which has appeared in the living room.

If you’ve ever attempted to fill a beanbag with polystyrene beans indoors, you’ll know that it goes something like this:

Step 1: Grossly overestimate the number of beans required.

Step 2: Gallantly fill the beanbag with beans, at such a rate that it looks like the Hoover dam’s sprung a leak.

Step 3: Fearfully realise there’s far more beans than you ever needed and can’t stop the flow.

Step 4: As the overflow begins, cause the entire room to suddenly appear as if it’s in a snowdome.

Step 5: Continue finding stray polystyrene beans everywhere until the End of Days.

As a result of this accidental overflow, a certain housemate’s beanbag is now filled to the absolute brim with far too many beans. Any attempt to sit down on this thing causes you to fly straight off it and rebound, faceplanting into the wall. It’s a feeling akin to jumping off a balcony onto an exercise ball and expecting to land perfectly in a seated position.

Matt’s insistent retort is that “the beans will settle” and we’ll eventually be able to sit in it without feeling like it’s a prop from the Wipeout obstacle course. Two weeks in, and I fail to see any flattening (although I bet he’s started secretly leaking out stray beans into the garbage when I’m not looking).

To prove my point, I’m now printing out an Advent Calendar of Failure so I can document the exact number of days until I’m proven correct. I’m not sure what will be behind each calendar day’s flap – probably some more stray beans, seeing as my dodgy attempt to fill up the beanbag has resulted in them continuing to fly around the loungeroom.

Victory will strike, and my opinion will be proven: beanbags are designed to be filled as loosely as Channel 9′s interpretation of “entertainment”.

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The Blackening

by Jeb on May 3, 2010

Yes, you can now officially call me insane: after only four months of living on my own, I’ve moved house. AGAIN.

Why has this all happened? Well, life was a lot different earlier this year. I’d just broken up, was feeling somewhat sorry for myself, and was convinced living on my own was the best thing to do. INCORRECT! It was too expensive and immensely boring. Just like a Catherine Deveney gig, basically.

After wondering out loud if I should have moved in with a housemate instead, my mate Matt piped up that he’d been looking for a housemate too. Within what seemed like hours, we’d found a new pad in St Kilda, although it had been left in a somewhat interesting interpretation of “clean” by the previous owners.

From the carnage left behind, it was clear the old residents had vaguely attempted cleaning the place up, but instead degenerated into a final farewell party that involved someone kicking the bathroom door in. They also seemed to have valiantly attempted to change the locks on the front door on the cheap, as I swiftly locked myself inside the apartment by accident and had to await my housemate’s rescue. We’re still battling out the cleanup job with our new real estate agent.

What’s so great about living with Matt is that I’ve finally found someone who’s in sync with my accident-prone and clumsy being. Although we berate each other for walking into cupboards and accidentally slicing our fingers open when chopping up vegies, we usually manage to hurt ourselves simultaneously. These types of events aren’t uncommon:

Me: (accidentally spilling drink onto rug) SHIT!
Matt: You’re the most accident-prone person I’ve ever met. Atrocious.
Me: You’re far worse than I am.
Matt: Am not. (sits down and knocks entire tub of dip onto rug)

Oh, that bloody rug. It’s been loaned to us by a friend of Matt’s for the year. Dear reader, can I strongly recommend you never purchase a white rug, ever? Even after we painstakingly attempted to keep the bloody thing clean, it’s already slowly morphing into a dull, muddied grey after mere weeks. My new strategy is to turn the rug completely black by the end of the year and hope the original owner doesn’t remember the colour they originally purchased.

Now that I’m a little more settled after the move, I’m intending on posting a little more often. In the meantime, if you’ll excuse me, I have some Vegemite to “accidentally” smear on our rug.

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Listen to me Ruining a Podcast

by Jeb on April 26, 2010

I’ve been busy moving house and will post more soon, but in the meantime, I guest hosted the Favourite Five podcast this week. Go check it out and listen to me ruining an otherwise very funny podcast!

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How I Managed to be Trapped in Public Wearing Only My Underwear

by Jeb on March 30, 2010

If you’d told me last week that I’d be trapped in public wearing only a pair of Bonds jocks, I’d have laughed hysterically in your face… but that’s exactly what happened to me on Sunday. Yep, it sounds like the stuff of teen movies, but turns out it’s an actual possible event in real life too. Beware, and learn from my mistake!

On Sunday evening, I was supposed to be catching the Lostprophets gig in the city with my buddy Matt. To neatly avoid the cacophony of Grand Prix traffic near my house, I’d concluded it would be a great deal easier to cycle into the city, and park in the bike cage at work.

WHAT AN INCREDIBLE MISTAKE THAT ENDED UP BEING. You may think this is all a tall story, but I can assure you it’s the truth!

Now, I’m not the fittest bastard around, so tubby needed a shower after his cycle into the city, before he headed into the gig. My work building is part of a shopping complex, which has showers you can access with your security pass. Super handy! Off I trotted into the change rooms for my refreshing shower.

After stripping down to my underwear, I realised I’d forgotten to fetch my toiletry bag from my locker – which was located in a hallway outside the change rooms. What the hell, I thought to myself, it’s 6pm on a Sunday evening – there won’t be any other employees around. I chanced it, and quickly ducked out into the hallway in my undies with my locker key.

As the bathroom door clicked shut behind me, that’s when time shuddered to a stop and it hit me: I’d left my security pass inside the changeroom… and I needed it to get back in the changeroom.

Yes: I was trapped in a hallway wearing only my underwear. No wallet. No keys. No phone, let alone any phone numbers of my mates that I could remember. Ohhhhhh shit!

[click to continue…]

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Ken-Proofing Your Store: The Finest Security Test Money Can Buy

by Jeb on March 29, 2010

My mate Ken isn’t the best shopping companion. Wherever we visit any shops together, he seems more set on how he can destroy the store, rather than actually acquiring any purchases.

Now, though, it’s dawning on me: there’s actually money to be made here. He’d be the perfect security consultant on locking down new stores where risks for troublemakers are presented.

To wit: on a recent excursion to Costco, we’d barely walked through the door before he wondered out loud: “I wonder if their canoes are chained down?”. I’m not entirely sure what would have happened next, but I doubt it’s anything that would have greatly pleased the store’s security staff.

But he’s thought of everything: after trying to see if he could crash the shopping trolley into a large set of glass freezer doors (I DON’T KNOW WHY, I’M NOT KEN) – those crafty store designers were one step ahead of us. They’d specifically designed a concrete barrier to protect the doors. Sneaky.

The finest example of making sure you’ve taken care of every possible store security hole came when we were wandering past one of Costco’s stranger departments – their wheelchair section. Naturally, we were both rather curious to take a ride in one of them. Considering the way we both ride our bikes, one of us will end up in a wheelchair sooner or later, so why not try it out? Again, we were foiled: the wheelchairs were firmly clamped and padlocked down to prevent dickheads like us going for a roll around the store.

He seems to think of everything someone would do to cause havoc in your store, so why not hire him to consult on security measures in your own store? Assuming you don’t mind someone flailing around your store completely drunk then belching “advice” peppered with mum jokes, that is.

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JB Hi-Fi: Home of Australia’s Most Infuriating Music Store Staff?

by Jeb on March 23, 2010

Here’s an example of how staff in a music store should help you:

You: Hey there, I’m looking for the latest totally rad Bon Jovi box set.
Staff member: Why certainly! Are you after the Japanese 8-album box set, the official “100,000,000 Bon Jovi Fans Can’t Be Wrong” set, or the unofficial compilation box of interviews and rarities?
You: Does it look like I sewed this back patch into my denim jacket for nothing? ALL THREE, YOU FOOL!
Staff member: Right away, sir! Excellent choice, sir! Let me package it all up for you immediately.

Aaaand here’s usually what happens when you visit JB Hi-Fi:

You: Hey there, I’m looking for the la–
Staff member: (immediately turns their back to you and begins muttering into a telephone at a speed which causes time to grind to a complete stop)
You: Um, excuse me? I’m looking for…
Staff member: Unnnnnnnnnnnggggghhhh? What.
You: Do you have the latest totally rad Bon Jovi box set?
Staff member: Unnnnngh, grrmmbmlb, have you heard The XX or La Roux? Geez, you’re missing out. They were great last week at Roxanne Parlour.
You: Um…
Staff member: (pulls absently at ill-fitting ironic Motley Crue t-shirt) So what was it you were after? Phoenix, did you say? (performs fatality sneer)

I’ve no idea how JB Hi-Fi performs its recruitment drive, but they seem to have almost supernatural abilities to attract the most half-awake, stoned, disinterested and vacant dolts as staff in their music section. As far as I can gather, the key selection criteria for working at JB Hi-Fi’s music department are:

Maintain obnoxiously constructed birds-nest hair do containing no less than two hair dye colours
Inability to express emotions unless you’re purchasing a CD from a band which Pitchfork.com wants to anally penetrate
Processing EFTPOS transactions with enough painful tardiness to actually incite menopause while you’re waiting
Completely dissipating if they’re required to get something from “out the back of the store”

Granted, there are some good eggs at JB, but most of them seem to be jaw-breaking tossbags in the music department. How do they do it?

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Spitting Directly into your Face: That’s My New Signature

by Jeb on March 11, 2010

After moving house earlier this year, I noticed something very strange when I was updating my electoral enrolment details.

The lengthy form concludes with a request that you leave your “signature or mark”. Eh? Mark?

Now, I’m not completely certain what the government considers a “mark” – perhaps an official stamp of some sort? Imagine the delightful pretentiousness of being able to affix a wax seal to routine government forms.

But let’s be realistic: nobody can really afford to pump out wax seals every time they need to leave their mark. Won’t really work on the back of a credit card, either. That’s why I’m thinking that a gob of your own mucous would also surely suffice. You’ll be able to indignantly slag off shopkeepers in the face every time you need to reach for your MasterCard!

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Is this the Most 90′s Book Cover Ever?

by Jeb on March 10, 2010

There’s a heaving pile of unread books by my bed, and it’s constantly a surprise to see what literary atrocities I forgot that I ever purchased.

Here’s the problem. Around ten years ago, I rediscovered how awesome books were. The idiotic problem I created for myself was that I was accumulating new books at five times the rate I was reading them. I stopped buying new books in 2002 and I’m still trying to catch up – I generally haven’t bought any new books since then.

It’s going to take me another five years to get through all this rubbish. Therein lies the problem: I’m resentfully plowing my way through books I bought as many as 10 years ago. My tastes over the last 10 years have changed quite a bit. Some books I can’t fathom that I picked up in the first place.

For example, this book recently ended up at the top of the reading pile. LOOK AT THIS FUCKING COVER!

Is this, or is this not, the most 90′s book cover you have EVER SEEN?

If you made it past the dizzying drag queen-inspired colour scheme on the cover, wait until you reach the blurb:

“Stassy,” he said, “let’s go for a ride in my car. And let’s get stoned and drunk and just step off the end of the world.”

Wogs. Westies. Girlfriends. At school. Livin’ large.

Wow, it sounds like the unwritten sequel to Pugwall where the band goes completely off the rails! Note how it took THREE FREAKING AUTHORS to weave this piece of literary genius together. Then again, when you’re all busy getting stoned and drunk and stepping off the edge of the world, it probably does take three people.

I’ll be honest, I’m tempted to read it for the dialogue alone. After flipping open the book to a random chapter, I was greeted with the following introduction:

So the three of us all got fucked by our boyfriends at the same time at the party on Saturday night.

Classy! Do I dare explore the world of 1994 wogs, westies and girlfriends at school livin’ large? Hmm.

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Rammstein’s Awesomely Inappropriate Remixes

by Jeb on March 9, 2010

Rammstein’s latest album is a pretty good return to form. It’s accessible bouncy industrial, although their subject matter often veers towards the unhinged -- porn, cannibalism sex… actually, pretty much every sexual perversion you can think of. Because they’re belting it out in German, it sounds that much more evil.

The remixes on their latest single had me in fits of laughter when I first came across them. I’m still not sure if this is a mark of genius or a sign that the band are on the verges of imploding again. You’ve probably heard about the band’s infamous single “Pussy”, which featured, well, fully blown porn. This video is safe for work, although the music may not be -- they’ve arranged for Scooter to remix the song. Yes, that’s Scooter, the cheesy Eurotrance DJ. Hardcore industrial it ain’t.

So that was one of the remixes. I was also pretty excited to see that Devin Townsend was also remixing their latest single “Ich Tu Dir Weh”, as I’m a pretty avid fan of anything that metal genius does. The problem is that although Devin’s a musical prodigy, he’s also got a pretty wicked sense of humour. See what you think -- here’s the original Rammstein song for comparison:

This is Devin Townsend’s remix, which I’m banking isn’t quite what Rammstein were expecting to hear:

Fart noises as percussion and crazy banjos… it’s almost an audio slap in the face back to the band, but I love it.

If industrial bands bothered to create remixes as crazy as these two on their singles, I’d be buying more of them!

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A bloke in Melbourne, Australia who loves beer, dudes, metal music and falling over. RAD!