Hi, my name is Clem Bastow. I'm a 27 year-old woman. I write and broadcast. I blog here and here. Writing/criticism. Twitter. last.fm.
This is a picture of the inside of my head.
Contact me: clembastow [at] gmail.com
Small Print: the views expressed within this blog are my own and do not represent those of my employers, editors, clients or mother.
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(New weapon in bushfire battle | Herald Sun)
I think the DC-10 firebomber is my new favourite badass plane (after the Reaper and the Predator, that is).
The dudes in the flat downstairs just before.
I will be writing into the wee-small-hours (attempting to finish all deadlines before the weekend, so I can have a long one). The prospect actually doesn’t bother me as much as you might think. Back in the olden times, when I was a promising young upstart, I used to regularly write until 2am. Perhaps this way I can reconnect with my youth. Alternatively, I might just get a stiff back and sore eyes.
(via reallifecast)
Just wrote this before. It’s strange - I’ve been full-time freelance for about seven years now, and the aspiring Lester Bangs reincarnate who used to eat Sudafed and write all night while Mum and Dad slept, pestering everyone about music criticism, seems hopelessly distant from my current reality.
To say there’s not a lot of work to go around in Australia would be an understatement. Add to this a distinct lack of pitching skills and I’m probably the worst freelancer you could hope to meet.
The whole thing is complicated by the fact that I never set out to be a writer, like so many people I know are so desperate to. Consquently I find myself second-guessing my career: Do even like writing? Am I meant to do this? Who the hell am I?
And yet, I’m still working. I still get to write “writer” wherever I encounter a box marked ‘job’. Is it naive to think that somewhere out there exists a career that will make me feel like I’m burning inside, like I have to do it or I’ll die? Writing feels like something that happened to me by accident. As Beck once said, sometimes it’s a successful car accident, but after seven years, I think it’s time for some serious stocktaking.
I got tired of the falseness of lifecasting (“Look at my amazing, fast-paced life! My job is awesome! I eat great, stylish food! This outfit is chic and edgy!!”), so I started a real life equivalent. Want to see what I ate for lunch??
(via nedhepburn)
If I could press ‘like’ ninety-eight-thousand times, I would.
Steamboat Willie (1928)
Oh, Mickey - where did it all go wrong?
BANGS - Take U To Da Movies (via Bangs8)
My friend John described Take U To Da Movies today:
Bangs is a 19yo Melbourne guy born in Sudan. At first I thought this was the worst song I’d heard in years. I now think he is INCREDIBLE. Dizzee Rascal meets outsider art meets DIY Aussie hip-hop. Listen to this three times and then try to get it out of your head.
I’m inclined to agree. Wild. If there’s any justice in the world this will become a huge hit (and not of the Chaccaron variety).
Ron Barassi cracks the shits at North Melbourne, quarter time (1977)
Amazing!
Heartbreak High (opening titles)
Man, it is a crime against humanity that Heartbreak High isn’t available on DVD. I would watch that shit nonstop.
(Punters off their race | Punters off their races | Herald Sun)
I hope they’re rush-releasing a new Walkley Award for this spectacular photo essay.
GPOYWE (Gratuitous Picture Of Yourself Wednesday Eve)
I wish I’d bought ten pairs of these glasses in different colours.
US President Barack Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama greet trick or treaters at the North Portico of the White House as they celebrate Halloween in Washington, DC, on October 31, 2009. (Days of the Dead - The Big Picture - Boston.com)
I heard they took ‘awesome’ out of the dictionary and replaced it with this photo.
(Why dolphins are deep thinkers | Science | The Guardian)
For some reason this sentence made me bark with laughter (possibly because it made me think of this).
Benny Goodman & His Orchestra (featuring Gene Krupa on drums; Harry James on trumpet) - Sing, Sing, Sing (1937)
You see, for my money, Benny Goodman’s Sing, Sing, Sing wipes the floor with Helter Skelter, and yet it’s still The Beatles who are credited with unleashing/unhinging popular music.
I used to drop this (the original, seven-plus-minutes version) while DJing; at first everyone would tolerate it - “Hey, grandpa’s on the decks!” - but by the time that final breakdown explodes out of the speakers, they lose their minds.
Floyd Cramer & Chet Atkins - On The Rebound and others (1965)
One of the things that has always bothered me about music journalism and pop cultural commentary is how everyone always goes on about “before The Beatles” as being some sort of pop music wasteland, which effectively denies the awesome power of so much amazing popular (and unpopular) music that was released pre-Lennon/McCartney. Like this!
