'28 Days Later' is a zombie horror movie from a few years back which finally turned up on TV here the other night. I didn't watch it, since I already have the DVD.

It also happens to be one of my favourite movies ever.

Seeing it advertised on TV reminded me of the day the DVD fell into my lap. I had seen the movie at the cinema and loved it, and Ms B, not being the kind to enjoy scary movies, had steered clear of it. She surprised me by ordering it from overseas and it arrived at Christmas. Ms B was chuffed by her good work.

I then sat her down and proceeded to make her watch it.

If you haven't seen it, I won't give much away. It opens with scenes of a man waking in a hospital bed and finding London deserted in the aftermath of a holocaust. Zombie mayhem ensues. Shot in digital video, the whole thing is given a documentary feel which heightens the tension. It's a visceral experience and incredibly effective, which is why I loved it so much. Ms B did not share my love.

The opening scenes she took relatively well. Guy wandering around city. All is good. Then the zombies appear. The nearest pillow was snatched from the couch and hugged to her chest in a fearsome stranglehold. The pillow was raised higher and higher as the movie progressed, until it was blocking her entire face. This caused me to pause the DVD.

Bonestorm: "What are you doing? You can't see anything."
Ms B: "Yes. That's the point."

By this time the main protagonist had met up with several other survivors. I had to bargain to have the pillow moved down. First, I had to tell Ms B which characters survived at the end of the movie. This got the pillow down for several minutes, until it once again reverted to it's face-covering position. Then I had to tell her, in detail, exactly what was going to happen in the next scene. Personally I thought this was counter productive to the whole 'scare-factor' of the movie, but Ms B was still scared shitless nonetheless, even though she knew exactly what was coming. After the tunnel scene, the pillow was back in place and it didn't move for the rest of the movie.

I think it still has an imprint of her face on it two years later. And I have not received zombie movies as gifts since.

Posted by Bonestorm at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments

The hunks of the future won't be muscle-bound gods with bronze skin. They won't be Ricky Martin-esque latin heart throbs. They'll be guys with bits of computers hanging off them.

Or at least that's what these guys hope.



Wearable computing. It's the art of deconstructing your computer and then arranging the parts on your body in the most geeky fashion imaginable. That's the only conclusion I can derive from these pictures. I first came across this phenomenon a few years back, when a client of mine had pictures of these guys all over his Windows desktop. He was a young geeky type himself, and had developed a hero worship of them.

As such, he didn't appreciate my reaction the first time I saw them, as I let out a loud guffaw and laughed "What a bunch of losers." He looked up at me with an expression not unlike a puppy dog when you tell it you're going away for three weeks: utter desolation. Maybe people had been telling him these guys were cool up until then. I decided to backpedal.

"Erm, actually... it's a pretty good idea," I said. It was a lame attempted save, but he bought it, and, rejuvenated, went on with a ten minute spiel about how we'd all look like this in a few years. I can only hope and pray that he is wrong on that count.

Let's dissect the photo a little, starting with the guy on the left. Hmm. Actually, he doesn't even need explanation, so I'll move to the right, to the guy who looks like an extra for the Star Wars ewok movie. You know those guys who rode the speeder bikes? The sex appeal of the giant hat cannot be underestimated here.

The next guy is the ultra cool hombre of the bunch. His left arm is extra muscly from having to hold that annoying eye piece up all friggin day. Note the colour coded utility belt, you may hve to look twice to notice the ingeniously concealed whitegoods jutting out from his hip.

The guy in the hat has attitude. Check the aggressive wide stance, the hands in the pocket. The stomach pouch bulging with assorted computer bits. It screams "girls, take me". In the future, wearing a computer will mean looking fat. Get used to the idea.

Second from the right we have the guy who couldn't be assed finding a place to secure his hard drive, power supply and other bits, and just left them hanging from his shoulders. He suffers severe electric shocks in light rain from those exposed electronics, but at least he looks cool. His oversized bum bag is a winner with the babes as well.

Lastly we have a guy who saw too many Matrix movies and can't even match his shoes with the rest of his outfit. Plus he has issues with depth perception with one eye covered up like that, resulting in him cannoning off female dancers in nightclubs. Apparently this adds to his charm.

Ladies, start your engines.

Now before you start sending me death threats, money and other hate mail for not revealing the contact details for these gentlemen immediatly, I must add that I don't have their contact details. Bad luck.

But never fear. Apparently in a few years all guys will look like this.

Posted by Bonestorm at 11:51 AM | Permalink | Comments

You've probably heard kids complain about pets they had as kids. The dog with the fleas. The cat with the lazy eye. The giraffe with the extra long neck.

Well I think I have one to top all of those. I was the last in a long line of kids, and my parents were totally over the whole pet idea by the time I came tugging on their pants begging for a pet cat. It wasn't going to happen.

Never underestimate the power of a desperate kid.

When my protests fell on deaf ears, I went hunting for my own pet. I went as far as the dirt patch under my house before finding one. No, there was no free cat lurking in the trash can, no stray dog hiding under the washing machine. The pet that I found was an antlion.

The first question some of you may ask is, Why are you such an idiot? followed by What is an antlion? I've included a picture of the easiest way to spot an antlion, their home, a small cone found in a dry patch of dirt. Antlions are basically insect larvae that trap other insects in their pit of death and then eat them.

Extraction of the critters is performed by blowing on the holes until enough dirt is removed that you can see the antlion. So not only did I have a crappy pet, but I had to walk around with dirt on my face to boot. Anyway, once extracted, you take the prize and place it in an appropriate container.

So now you see how my bid for Worst Pet Ever gains momentum. My childhood pet was an insect larvae that I kept in a glass jar.

While you luckier kids were playing fetch with Lassie, I was collecting ants for feeding time. While you were in the park on a sunny afternoon throwing frisbees, I was trodding around my back yard carrying a jar of dirt. While you were stroking your fluffy white kitten, I was... you get the idea.

These pets don't need flea collars. They are fleas.

And there's no happy ending for a pet like this either. He doesn't get old and lovable, he grows into a big stinky bug. Then he encounters a fly swatter or gets mashed against a car windscreen and it's all over.

Do I have any challengers?

Posted by Bonestorm at 1:25 PM | Permalink | Comments

Life in the fast lane: that's what I want. And you can help me get it.

Yes, you, casual reader. You could make a difference to the life of one special, slightly dimwitted individual. Me. And it's oh-so simple.

The freeway here in Brisbane has what's called a Transit Lane. What is it? It's a third lane on the freeway that's always clear of traffic. However, only cars with two or more occupants are permitted to use it, which rules me out. I drive alone.

See, that's where you come in.

I need what I call a 'Transit Buddy'. Your job as Transit Buddy will be to sit in the passenger side of the car on my way to and from work, thus enabling me to travel in the hallowed Transit Lane. It's an easy job. You just get yourself to my place at 8am. During the drive to work you can listen to me recite Shakespeare and yell obscenities at other motorists. Don't touch the air conditioner.

Then you occupy yourself at my work for 8 hours, and have yourself ready for our return journey on the Transit Lane. Did I mention there's no pay? Well, there's no pay. But you get to spend 30 minutes a day in my presence, and that has got to count for nothing. I mean something.

Plus, you can share in the feeling of superiority as we speed past the poor unfortunates trapped in the clogged lanes. I'll only charge you $10 a day for that privilege. Did I say per day? I meant per minute.

Apply now.

Posted by Bonestorm at 1:58 PM | Permalink | Comments

History has been made, and I'm proud to be part of it. Or not.

For the next couple of weeks I'm working on 2nd tier phone support. People with PC problems get put through to me, I connect up to their computer remotely, and then I rock their world. Sometimes there are lots of these people. Sometimes, like this afternoon, there are very few.

On this kind of occasion, tiredness can set in. I slump forward. My head rests in my hands. I enter a trance-like state where I'm neither awake nor asleep. I call this the Bone-Zone. Actually, I don't really, but it sounds catchy so I'll use it for the purposes of this blog entry.

I'm roused from this detached state by the sound of feet shuffling nearby my desk. I look up. Our coordinator is there, fidgeting with a camera. "Gotta take your photo for the website, mate," he mumbles, and that's what he does.

Several minutes later, I'm still in exactly the same pose. I blink as I come out of my stupour. Then I head over to the coordinator's desk, where he's looking at the photo on his PC.

My mouth is agape. My right eye is welded shut by some sort of gluey white substance. There are red marks on my face where my hands have been resting. In fact, it looks like someone took a couple of concrete pavers and bitch slapped me around the head a few dozen times with them. And yet, the coordinator is happy with it. The photo is going up.

And here's where the history comes in. This is, quite easily the worst photo of me - no wait, the worst photo of anyone that has ever been taken in the history of the universe. And it's going on our corporate website.

And before you ask: No. You are not getting the URL.

Posted by Bonestorm at 3:14 PM | Permalink | Comments

Last night I got smashed for the first time in a while. It was all for a good cause, specifically seeing Brissie lads The Butterfly Effect at The Arena. It was Ms B's first 'rock' concert and even she had a good time.

But back to the getting smashed thing. My friend Masta put on a great feed earlier in the night by dishing up a humungous steak. Let me leave you in no doubt about the size of this piece of meat. It had it's own postcode. And it was very nice. Usually eating a big meal offsets drinking and helps you stay sober. It didn't help much in this case though.

Isn't it amazing how chairs and walls just seem to jump out at you when you're drunk? My trip to the toilet (every 5 minutes or so) was generally a case of me pinballing from one piece of furniture to the next until I eventually found myself in the right place. The mosh pit at the concert wasn't nearly as brutal.

And then I did what any overly confident fool in my inebriated state would do. I decided to perform maintenance on Masta's PC.

I vaguely remember doing something to his router configuration and attempting to install a game from dvd. Anything else that was done to the machine is a blur and I take no responsibility for it.

*****

I checked my site referrals this morning and noticed that someone found my blog by using the search string "I am gay", which is from this post. Firstly to that person, thank you for visiting Blogstorm. Secondly, I must point out that I used that phrase in jest, so I'm sorry to disappoint you. I am in fact a steak eating, mosh-pitting, raging heterosexual.

Although Ms B once asked me with a very straight face (while we were 'just friends') if I was in fact gay, so I must be putting those vibes out there.

Posted by Bonestorm at 11:22 AM | Permalink | Comments

I just got back from an impromptu grocery shop at Coles. Actually, it was more like a mercy dash for a few essentials while I'm on holidays: roast chicken, carrots, lollies, chocolate. Sad but true, I need these things to survive. Especially the last two.

As I made my way up the lolly/chocolate aisle I came across a sweet old lady in a white lab coat. You know the ones - the Sample Ladies. Usually they're behind a little desk dispensing yoghurt or a new flavour of ground up chicken liver. Today she was giving out samples of something more to my taste, lolly snakes.

"They've got real fruit juice in them," she said, reaching into the bag delicately with a pair of tongs and handing me one. I stuffed the thing in my mouth and nodded thanks, then kept on walking.

She wasn't finished yet.

"Look," she said, showing surprising alacrity by skipping past me to position herself next to the rack where bags of the snakes were selling. She waved her hand with an ambiguous flourish at them as if she was one of the girls on Wheel of Fortune. "They have dinosaurs, and koalas," she went on, pointing to each in turn. "And little letter shapes." She cackled at this as if it were highly amusing.

I picked the last of the snake out of my teeth and stared at her, unimpressed.

She clasped her hands in front of her and looked at me expectantly. The message here was clear. I gave you a snake, now buy a packet, buddy.

I moved forward reluctantly. She smiled. I reached up, over her head, grabbed a packet of home brand Teeth, nodded my thanks, and kept going.

See there's one thing that free sample woman didn't count on, and that is, I'm a religious buyer of brand name Teeth, pictured. I love the things. They're cheap, they look nasty, but I love them. Ms B absolutely detests them and thinks they taste like toothpaste. I don't think they do, but maybe this is a win-win situation where eating the Teeth actually cleans my own teeth. I doubt it, but it's the only argument I have for why I keep buying them.

Note: I have included in the photo a homo-erotic pencil featuring naked men wrestling each other for the purposes of showing the scale of the teeth, not to prove once and for all that I am gay.

Posted by Bonestorm at 11:49 AM | Permalink | Comments

I have just spent 100 minutes of my life watching a movie called Immortel. It was like beating whacked on the head repeatedly with a wooden mallet, only more painful and not as fun.

Let's have a quick synopsis. It's the year 2095. There's a post-human thing happening and people are replacing body parts and generally looking futuristic. There is a pyramid floating over New York, out of which pops an ancient Egyptian god with a bird's head. He's looking to possess some poor unfortunate in the city below.

There are a couple of other gods who remain inside the pyramid and play Monopoly. You heard right, Monopoly.

The resident powerbroker is a CG senator who wears clown makeup. In fact, most of the characters are CG. Really, really bad CG, the kind you'd see in an episode of Charmed, but worse. This may have been an attempt to make the film seem more 'comic book-ish', but the lasting impression for me was that it made if feel amateurish.

Back to the story, and the god chooses a recently escaped-from-cryogenic-prison terrorist as his host and gets down to work. Namely, tracking down a blue haired girl with weird eating habits, and then taking her home and making sweet sweet Egyptian love to her. Or, more correctly, raping her. This happens on a nightly basis, and eventually the two fall in love. Apparently this is the way to pick up women in 2095.

All the while, these two are being tracked by a walking hammerhead shark. A bright red walking hammerhead shark. With razor sharp fingernails. Unfortunately, although this walking red hammerhead shark is a beautifully realised character, the puppeteers forget to move his prosthetic mouth while he talks, which shatters his credibility.

The god kills the shark by zapping him with blue lasers out of his eyeballs. It is a poignant and incredibly sad scene. However all is well again when the shark is replaced in the next scene by another red hammerhead shark.

Eventually the plot, if I could call it that, shudders to a halt, the pyramid disappears the protagonists live happily ever after. Nicely done. Now that it's finished I'm in the process of stapling my eyelids shut so I never have to watch something like this again.

Anyone up for a game of Monopoly?

Posted by Bonestorm at 1:56 PM | Permalink | Comments

Have you ever had noisy neighbours? I'm not talking the mow-the-lawn-at-6am-on-Sunday kinda noisy. Or the drag-the-wheelie-bin-over-gravel-at-2am noisy. I've had both of those kind. I'm talking the kind of neighbours who have very, very loud sex. The kind of sex that rattles the window panes and makes your cats hide under the bed in terror.

Back in my single days, when I was living in a flat, I had neighbours like that. Weirdly enough, I wasn't conscious of it for a while. Maybe my brain filtered it out, or I thought it was someone's TV. It only came to my attention after being pointed out by my 75 year old landlord, who lived above me. I was innocently washing my car one afternoon when he sidled up to me with something obviously on his mind.

Landlord: "Afternoon."
Bonestorm: "Hiya."
Landlord: "Have you heard some noises coming from number 6?" Number 6 is at the opposite end of the complex to me.
Bonestorm: "No, not really."
Landlord: "It sounds like a woman orgasming."
Bonestorm: "I'm not really sure what that sounds like." It had been a long time between encounters for me at this point.
Landlord: "Hmm. Well, keep an ear out for it."

Strangely enough, after that, I heard it all the time, even in my living room at the opposite end of the complex. And the old guy was right, it did sound suspiciously like a woman orgasming. For 40 minutes at a time.

A friend of mine has a similar story from when he was living in a complex in Victoria. The couple in question were an interesting combination - the guy, according to ex girlfriends, had a notoriously small penis (he once asked my friend "Hey, do you find that condoms are always falling off?"). The girl was a screamer who could be heard half a block away during sex, which begged the question of whether she was easily satisfied or merely a faker.

I wonder, do these people realise how loud they are? Either they don't realise, or they don't care, or they're doing it on purpose as a form of exhibitionism. Maybe they know it's loud but they just can't hold back. I never did get around to asking my neighbours which category they fell into.

Posted by Bonestorm at 10:04 PM | Permalink | Comments

Here I was thinking that the most interesting thing they put in hotel drawers was Bibles. My thoughts on this have been changed since visiting Adelaide last week.

Ms B. and I checked into the hotel after our flight and were greeted by a room that smelled like an ashtray. Ms B. disappeared into the bathroom and I decided to look around. That was when I found the erm... object in question.

I was so impressed I decided to take a video of it.



Very thoughtful of them I must say. If you've found something weirder, I'd like to hear it.

Posted by Bonestorm at 5:23 PM | Permalink | Comments

Ahh. Sweet relief. That's what I'm feeling this week after around six weeks of shoulder and neck pain. I've never really had this type of problem before, and I don't know what kicked it off. Maybe it was that day that I bench pressed 400 kg at the local gym and slightly strained myself.

Ok that may be an exaggeration. Or a complete lie. But this is my blog, and I'll lie if I want to.

Whatever the case, it started out with an ache in the left side of my jaw, which immediately made me think 'root canal time'. A trip to the dentist came up with nothing, which left me looking like a hypochondriac, and also left my wallet $50 lighter. The pain persisted for another week until I eventually tried rubbing my shoulder, which I found relieved the pain. Evidentally my body follows about as much logic as my brain - rub one part, and another feels better.

All was good for a couple of weeks as I could relieve the pain when I wanted to. Things went bad when my 'rubbing the shoulder' technique stopped relieving the pain in my jaw. That was when I found my neck to be sore. As you would guess, rubbing my neck helped with the pain, but an annoying side effect was that it made my left thumb go numb.

By this stage I'd had enough. I mean, the use of my thumb is vital to me in many ways. Such as when I use it to give the 'thumbs up' at work to worried employees after all our servers have gone down. The trusty left thumb tells them everything is ok, when I know damn well we're screwed.

After that came deep tissue massage, liberal application of very smelly Tiger Balm (contains 95% real tiger) and then four or five trips to chiro. A combination of all of the above seems to have done the trick and I've been feeling good for the last week or so.

The logical person would ask why I didn't go to chiro sooner. Please remember that I am not logical and that I bench 400 kg, so I don't have to answer those kinds of questions. I will say that I've been to chiro only once before and the guy was an absolute jerk, which is why I decided I'd try everything else first. The good news is, my new chiro is excellent. Fingers crossed I won't be needing her again soon anyway. Unless I move up to bench pressing 500 kg.

Posted by Bonestorm at 12:43 PM | Permalink | Comments