oh yeahhhh.
Friday, 15 August 2008
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
assassin - by haz
At two o’clock she was stood on a bridge, a photographer, she was capturing the moment as she walked. She captured the image along the river, click, she had captured him. He had been standing there, down the river, knowing she would come, watching, waiting. He registered everything about her, the way she walked, the speed at which she moved, the colour of her hair, at his distance; he could not make out her features. Click, he captured he, he walked away.
An hour later in a dark room she discarded the pictures she had taken that day. She hadn’t seen that man on the bridge, he had ruined the effect. She had captured a lazy Sunday afternoon, he made her image sinister.
At the same time he developed his pictures in a dark room on the other side of town. He studied them, studied her clothes, her face, her eyes. He took down a photograph from the line, dry, he pinned it to a brown file.
He left the dark room with the file and slumped down on the sofa. As he sat, eating a sandwich, he was engrossed by the file. He looked over every detail of the events which were to unravel. It had been carefully planned; he prided himself on his planning. After months of research, where she went, what she did, when she would be alone, all the arrangements had been made. Tonight was the night, his pulse began to race as he felt the adrenaline surge through his veins, he couldn’t help his excitement.
At ten o’clock she put on her coat and took out her camera, just as she always did on Sunday night. She planned to photograph the river at night. She was fascinated by the silence and the crisp air over the city at night. She was hoping to capture that. Her adrenaline rush came from walking through and empty city in the dark, alone.
He had watched her from his place on several occasions; he knew she would come this time. He knew she would be alone, and he knew, as she did, that the city would be empty. He had arrived early, to finalise his preparations and ensure that everything would run smoothly. Crouched in the shadows, he saw her arrive.
Her back was turned towards him and he crept out from where he was hidden, silently, he put a gun up to her spine. She gasped; she could feel the cold barrel of the gun on her back, and his breath penetrating her neck.
“There’s no need to scream” he whispered, “I can silence you with this gun and the gun itself is silent”. He drew his finger to the trigger and squeezed. All the arrangements had been made, no sign was left.
The next morning he awoke with a smile etched into his face. He was pleased with the running of the night’s events, everything had gone to plan, and not one glitch had been encountered. He knew he couldn’t dwell on one success for long. Smiling with anticipation, he took down a new file from the shelf.
An hour later in a dark room she discarded the pictures she had taken that day. She hadn’t seen that man on the bridge, he had ruined the effect. She had captured a lazy Sunday afternoon, he made her image sinister.
At the same time he developed his pictures in a dark room on the other side of town. He studied them, studied her clothes, her face, her eyes. He took down a photograph from the line, dry, he pinned it to a brown file.
He left the dark room with the file and slumped down on the sofa. As he sat, eating a sandwich, he was engrossed by the file. He looked over every detail of the events which were to unravel. It had been carefully planned; he prided himself on his planning. After months of research, where she went, what she did, when she would be alone, all the arrangements had been made. Tonight was the night, his pulse began to race as he felt the adrenaline surge through his veins, he couldn’t help his excitement.
At ten o’clock she put on her coat and took out her camera, just as she always did on Sunday night. She planned to photograph the river at night. She was fascinated by the silence and the crisp air over the city at night. She was hoping to capture that. Her adrenaline rush came from walking through and empty city in the dark, alone.
He had watched her from his place on several occasions; he knew she would come this time. He knew she would be alone, and he knew, as she did, that the city would be empty. He had arrived early, to finalise his preparations and ensure that everything would run smoothly. Crouched in the shadows, he saw her arrive.
Her back was turned towards him and he crept out from where he was hidden, silently, he put a gun up to her spine. She gasped; she could feel the cold barrel of the gun on her back, and his breath penetrating her neck.
“There’s no need to scream” he whispered, “I can silence you with this gun and the gun itself is silent”. He drew his finger to the trigger and squeezed. All the arrangements had been made, no sign was left.
The next morning he awoke with a smile etched into his face. He was pleased with the running of the night’s events, everything had gone to plan, and not one glitch had been encountered. He knew he couldn’t dwell on one success for long. Smiling with anticipation, he took down a new file from the shelf.
Paramore
Paramore are crap.
With an album entitled “RIOT!”, nothing short of revolutionary is to be expected from Paramore. With many people falling head over heels and rushing into any music shop in viewing distance to get a look at their CD, you start to think that this may actually have been achieved. That is until you listen to their music.
With sing songy guitar riffs played with pseudo-metal distortion overload, a singer who’s voice is perfectly suited to Japanese bubble gum pop, loud-quiet contrast mimicking, somewhat unsuccessfully, Nirvana, Paramore fall far short of the unique, hardcore rock they claim to be.
My disappointment comes to a climax when I see that the third song of theirs I have endured to write this is called “For a pessimist, I’m pretty optimistic”. This feeble excuse for irony is not echoed in their song. The lyrics seem to lack any understandable meaning and are almost reminiscent of a string of useless thoughts cast aside by a 15 year olds emo band who are trying to write a song which accurately sums up the depression and anger they feel from having lost their hat or, as Paramore has a female vocalist, that they have laddered their tights.
Paramore is not at all worthy of the buzz of excitement it has somehow generated and all “RIOT!” CD’s should be left on shelves to gather dust immediately, (or better still burnt) before listeners ears have to endure any more torture.
With an album entitled “RIOT!”, nothing short of revolutionary is to be expected from Paramore. With many people falling head over heels and rushing into any music shop in viewing distance to get a look at their CD, you start to think that this may actually have been achieved. That is until you listen to their music.
With sing songy guitar riffs played with pseudo-metal distortion overload, a singer who’s voice is perfectly suited to Japanese bubble gum pop, loud-quiet contrast mimicking, somewhat unsuccessfully, Nirvana, Paramore fall far short of the unique, hardcore rock they claim to be.
My disappointment comes to a climax when I see that the third song of theirs I have endured to write this is called “For a pessimist, I’m pretty optimistic”. This feeble excuse for irony is not echoed in their song. The lyrics seem to lack any understandable meaning and are almost reminiscent of a string of useless thoughts cast aside by a 15 year olds emo band who are trying to write a song which accurately sums up the depression and anger they feel from having lost their hat or, as Paramore has a female vocalist, that they have laddered their tights.
Paramore is not at all worthy of the buzz of excitement it has somehow generated and all “RIOT!” CD’s should be left on shelves to gather dust immediately, (or better still burnt) before listeners ears have to endure any more torture.
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