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Sinister: I walked into a door
by Ben Apps 04 Mar '02

04 Mar '02

I walked into a door, and I left 'The Bends' behind me TO go reading in the NME, but it wasn't very good 'Til I heard a band, off another boy at school with me Like a dork he hung around with me and my mullet hanging down And I reminded myself of the words he sang when I was feeling down And he let me tape his Belle's at home for my stereo, to wear Round my neck, it wont be heard by passers-by or when I'm waiting for The night bus to arrive and I've been waiting quite a while I bought a chain saw........... Sheesh, I really should be working, or getting home. But Quickly Rob, nice photos. Lucy, bon voyage. Fitballers, good game! Archel, congratis. Rachel, C U soon yipee! SGS, where's the cookies? Will, you got your ticket yet? All, come to trackandfield on the 15th (pretty please!) Q Where do Belle and Sebastian kick off their tour? A Aarhus Q Where's Aarhus? A In the middle of Aar Street! ahahahahahaha! erm..... I'll cet me goat bapps _________________________________________________________________ MSN Photos is the easiest way to share and print your photos: http://photos.msn.com/support/worldwide.aspx +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: my alchemical processes need more context than refinement: you can have everythi
by figure2＠fsmail.net 04 Mar '02

04 Mar '02

I WOULD LIKE ALL OF THESE THINGS IN MY SOUP Waiting on the bus I eyed the steelwork. The space is a rip-off of some other architect's achievement at Stansted and the Round Hollow Sections here are Too Thick. Hold it up on wires and jets of calibrated silent air, not this over-girthy metal tubework coated in whitewash! And did you even *attempt* to avoid the standard second-best formula? Oh so oh too cynical. On the way here one got the impression that the pilot up front was young but confident. "It's a beautiful night for flying and with us here are three of ** Airline's finest: Monica, Brandie and Hot Toddie." The moon was out and the craft swooped over and down, making contact with the tarmac with a slight thump but the aerolons were quickly manouvered to the vertical, 'G'ing up the deceleration to give one almost as much of a buzz as the reverse process up north: hell when this thing is going like a Ferrari I don't even *care* if it doesn't take off. Feel the *speed*. Feel the *speed rising*. The plane followed suit and therefore I write this now, and not as a memorandum from hell. I'm writing this in bed and bah! Have to get up to get a train in a minute. With none other than a confessional intention I shall add that it's 07:27 and I'm slowly working my way through the glasses of brandy and iced water I brought up from the hotel lounge some six hours ago. I had a maroon shirt on in velvet with a grey polyester DKNY tie on with five rectangular cut-outs exposing a vermillion interior like the last lights left on in a skyscraper and finally, and rather *de trop*, a grey and gold striped waistcoat with a linen frontside. I had sought out the last table with it's own lamp because I wanted to read more of EXHIBITIONISM by Toby Litt: a book I'd picked up earlier in the evening on account of it's rather fetching cover featuring a flowery cotton shrink-wrapped posterior of a woman pretending to be a dog and a clutch of favourable reviews of his other efforts called 'corpsing' and 'deadkidsongs' and 'adventures in capitalism'. So I was between the chapters 'Map-Making among the Middle-Classes' and ' "Legends of Porn" (Polly Morphous) Final Shooting Script' when it's drawn to my intention that I'm sitting next to about seven Cider Barons, one of whom has a Somerset accent, another with an American one (let's say East Coast) and the others with generic lower middle class English. All wearing tuxedos, and three discussing vintage port after a sort of dull macho fashion: "She put the decanter in the dish-washer and it went all white." "Stuart Crystal doesn't work in the machines. I picked one up in the factory shop for £160" "That's not much cheaper than retail really. I think they make them in Japan too now. Maybe Korea". "The only thing'll do it is a dose of vinegar." "Ha! A pint of cider will get the white off." "Is three million OTT for an acre in town?" "Wouldn't have thought so. Just past the traffic lights. In fact, in the late seventies..." "I drank the last one this christmas and it was byooootifool" "You want to filter it through a cold mesh." " Get down on the floor of a competitor... Injection-moulded taps should be in our league" I couldn't concentrate and the middle class dinner party in the book went by in something of a blur. Back to the bed. Room. It has rather alot of carpet. Overall, it's not exactly stylish but it is...: in a recess next to the section boxed-out to house an en-suite facility is a rather uncomforteable- looking blue sofa under a shitty print in a pompous gilt frame befriended by a pair of brassy sconces either side and, well, the whole thing was so far away I never reached it: it was just a view on the horizon. AS THE ANXIETY BUILDS SO DOES THE RANDOMNESS In my formative years girls wore jeans on which was written on a patch on the back: their butt, I suppose, accurately as it turns out, "What shall I wear?" Such a cutely framed conundrum to which the only answer was (exploiting an intrinsic female indecisiveness) "Why not try *these* on, instead?" One will become aware at this point that the process is more rewarding than the result. Hell it's comfy here. I love beds. I have to get to a railway station, which involves re-tracing last night's extortionate taxi ride. The taxi was a geography rather than an energy problem, and it cost £2.50 before we even left the station forecourt and a further 20p waiting for the lights to turn at the bottom. Talking of money, breakfast here is £14. I *should* eat like *right now* but £14? Go hike, Mr. Manager Sir. The privations of being esconsed in a luxury establishment. I resolve without fizz and put the notepad down; TV on. It's Open University geometry and, as usual, yellow shirts, brown ties and sideburns are quietly explaining something shown on a graph. I want some POP MUSIC. Where's Cat Deely when you need her? I go to a conference which I will summarise as follows: 20th century architecture absorbed the techniques of mass production in order to align the ideology of democracy with its processes, which resulted in orthogonal geometry: horizontals, verticals, flat planes. Now computers allow the profession to indulge in what it really likes, which are sexy curvy forms like it was in the days of stonemasons and the baroque. So, gee-whizz, we can do curvy quite cheap now. Of course, the first thing that gets lost in a tecchie talk is what does it actually all mean? What letter comes after the letters wow? In any case, one cool fact is that one can use a soap bubble to calculate the perfect tension minimal surface form for given forces, and if you get a bunch of loose chains, hang them upside down then turn a photo of the aforesaid upside down you get a series of parabolas which calculate a pretty efficient compressive structure. It looks pretty too. Someone flashed up a slide of a sectional diagram of a snail. I had a bit of a giggle realising that one of the panellists had slept with the same girl I'd slept with. CAD CAM academia incest! wheee! We take a break for "coffee" which involves pinging open the second can of Stella I bought on the train and being as far away from the other delegates as possible, which happens to be a wooden bench in glorious sunlight overlooking a duck-pond. There is a bloke mallard getting horny with a female one and chasing it around with much wing flapping and splashing on the water and quacking. The girl duck is having none of the nonsense, but does insist on staying in front. I wanna see some hardcore pond action, but to no avail. Do ducks have dicks? There is a black-headed loner seagull in the vicinity. I'm not sure, neither is it, but if I stay still enough I might convince the bird I'm a tree or part of the bench. In any case, after much deliberation it starts to wander over then hangs a sharp left towards the lakelet. An altercation with the assembled avians on the shore ensues, leading to a tantrum by the loner, who stretches it's head as far-forwards as possible and opens it's beak and gullet to emit a squawk or craak of such vehemence it almost sounds like a seagull version of "fuck-off". I think we're beginning to get along. Topological transformation: implicit form via the filter of specific material properties, blah blah. I take a bus into Bath and write three postcards. Then I write more in the notebook getting rather too serious about pedants and pendants and spring mechanisms, as in clocks and rites. So I'll edit that out. I know I'm getting real pompous when I start writing VULGAR in capital letters. Get back to your mythical pile in the country, Gordon. Ah. It's nice to be in a large double bed again, eyeing-up the vacant square meterage of carpet around it. A good clear three square meters to the right before the expanse is brought to a halt by a tacky ash-veneer effort with a television on top, made by Phillips of Phillips Compact Cassette fame. A pity there isn't a woman to match the bed-spread but, then again, I do insist upon referring to you lot as generically strange and exotic concepts. Frank Lloyd Freud Swallowed His Mother goes the tabloid bold print. I ended up talking to an MBA student who had a 'University of ****' business card. In return I smoked most of his Malboro's (not lights either) and gave him a card with my mobile number on it which comes free with a pay-as-you-go- Vodaphone contract and the phone's never switched on anyway and my land-line is ex-directory. Yeah, I'm a bit of a recluse. If it comes to it, our people will talk to your people. I was too late for the last night train to the home of the slave trade so I got a cab. £30. My visa account becomes a sort of distant glow of infinite proportions. Just write the checks kid and carry on: money is a *verb* said the usurer to the idiot. Just another oscillation of texture said the painter/couturier. INSERT YOUR OWN HEADLINE: I HAVE SOME BUT THEY'RE LATER ON Francoize Breut rocks out but only a chic wee bit, after a sample of world music that sounds like a funeral march through the streets of Naples. Napoli. She seems to get along with these wee snippets 'My head is bursting, dear' and it's traditional in French pop to refer to their old African colonies; especially Algeria. Why hello Mr. Camus and Monsieur Derrida. But cheeky chic chick Francoiz goes ALL THE WAY TO JAPAN. WHAT a.. why, what a woman. I've said it before. In response to such a compliment I speculate that she'd respond with a gallic version of 'whatever'. *Tendresse-moi* ye daft bint.:) FIRST HEADLINE: I DEMAND ORCHIDS There are no fresh flowers in this room and about ten hours later I also find out that the local florist has sold my well-intentioned dad as a gift to my mum some near-dead daffodils! Isn't that SO APALLING? Flowers as gestures are such subtle mechanisms and nearly dead flowers well, work it out: it makes me almost physically sick. My mum loves daffs. Anyway, back to the room and out of the window there is only a bit of flat roof felt and some concrete framing all gauzed-off via a net curtain. The curtain doesn't do hotmail, nor does it flicker with bits of advertising like the A.O.L. girl. "Watch out kids: there is bad stuff on the net." Bad stuff beyond it too: that concrete detailling is horrendeous. I'll be out of here soon. 11:03 Su says the window on my radio-synched alarm clock. Maybe alarm clocks should have built in smoke detectors and function as all-over problem-alert devices. Maybe it could even be cajolled into beaming over to the outside of the door over there to the left; the one that the cornicing stops either side of and from whose handle hangs in place of a 'do not disturb' sign an 'I'm hard of hearing: if there's a fire going on please yell really loudly' sorta sign. KOI CARPS. IF THERE'S GOING TO BE A FLOOD I WANT KOI CARPS IN IT The whiskers on them look a bit stupid but they're touchy-feely kinda fish and some of them live almost as long as tortoises. MY JOB IS SECURE FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER MONTH SO I'M CHASING A MORTGAGE One has to get the best deal. Right like: right this moment I really don't give a flying **** at a rolling donut. Yesterday I did and tomorrow I might.carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero A GRAND WHITE PIANO Someone's either tuning it or doing a rhapsody in a-rhythmical octaves. Play a tune goddamnit! What about Scott Joplin's 'The Entertainer'? That would go down quite nicely on a Sunday morning. Andrea Dworkin can punch my face now cause it might be a woman at the instrument. A tune! Tuner-person has burst into a 30's style medlee. God is in heaven and evaporated milk and would any lassies care to foxtrot? At this point a Steps-sized pop ensemble sit down all morning glowy and I swear that this is fucking scary because they're all rather beautiful. I look the other way, through a softwood timber ballustrade and through the waxy leaves of a tree growing from below the mezzanine. Beyond that is water. The water is a thick sludgy green colour and light craft are, on occasion, plying up and down. Narrowboats; fibre-glass cruisers and some proper steel-hulled steamboats moored upstream of a lifting bridge. It's delightfully 'nothing else better to do' my sweet. The pianist chromatically trickles into a song popular during the Second World War. This provokes an emotional state someone born in 1970 has no right to. Very confusing. An open-backed narrow boat cruises by with people sitting under a festooned yellow vinyl canopy. There is a wake of seagull cries and parabolic ripplets: efficient distribution of force as has been learned. There's more navel-gazing in the notebook involving Frank Bob and Frankenfrutter and platform cross-overs, ending in 'the more stranger the path, Alice, the more I follow: *Ennui* is a word and here are some words, before which I should add that, although I didn't actually enjoy being chased around the souk by an over-excited tour guide I did see many pots, ceramic figurines and carpets in the process.' So here it goes: In the noon-day sun, I was chased by one and Crowded though it was, He caused me pause as Our eyes met at a corner: I was chasing a dream I didn't wish to catch And he was after my time and money. MUSTANG SALLY! You smell of musk. A degree of cynicism, I do not posess though A lack of consistency I do confess. Were it up to me, I would suggest, firstly that Yodelling is best and after that Optimism is a beautiful holy mess. Let's play. The pianist fingers his notes towards ' Nights in Calibria' and we're back in the jet-set of Frank's 'Around the World'. If you've ever been in the company of children you will recognize when I suggest that you become part of their world to a larger degree than you ever expected of yourself. They ask such obvious questions like 'why is the moon over there?' and 'what is a reflection for?'. They pretty much see right through you and can tell you're covering over large gaps in basic know-how so ask for a piggy-back instead. AIRPORT DEPARTURE LOUNGE "Is Manchester United Playing?" enquires a customer "Actually, it's Formula One" answers the barman "Footballers don't throttle" I suggest "Unless you're Beckham in his Ferrari" smiles the barman "That doesn't tend to get broadcast" I smile back. I shalln't bore you with more airport theory. Except for this poor nugget: An airport is basically a wall called customs/check-in/baggage re-claim either side of which are shops then metal containers in motion with people and clothes inside. Nowadays you're asked to stare for a moment at a camera on the wall so they have one disgruntled-looking citizen on permanent record.It must make for a rather depressing movie at the end of the day: the expressions of thousands of people whyo've just emptied their change into plastic trays and switched their mobiles off and are still trying to work out if a 'sharp object' must be made of metal when kicking even the hardest bastard on the planet up the groin is pretty effective if you have shoes on. FLYING The aeroplane is ascending. Over the roads and fields is a layer of cloud, like an antarctic surface all in white but micro-modulated into billions of puffs though macro-controlled into a smooth arc by the air whirling around earth. That is a sky landscape then there is a higher layer of cloud that can get got into, and does, but not beyond. It's diaphanous and vague and beautiful and virginally white and soft. Inhabited by molecules condensing into watery droplets splashing then streaking over the carapace of this metallic tube I'm in; the man sleeping in the seat in front is in; the lonely woman sitting five or four empty seats to the right of me is in; the stewardess is in. The cloud gets broken into the sunshine and this is really happening. Gordon. _______________________________________________________________________ Never pay another Internet phone bill! Freeserve AnyTime, for all the Internet access you want, day and night, only £12.99 per month. Sign-up at http://www.freeserve.com/time/anytime +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: If you're feeling nostalgia
by Kenneth P Y Chu 04 Mar '02

04 Mar '02

Visiting your old University town is kinda weird. You drive past the University park, it is stagnant, inert to time. You have moved on, aged, yet everything else are still - the staggering trees still stagger, the buildings are still built, the passing girls who used to make you swoon still pass, and never aged one bit - yet you have, you don't even swoon any longer, you just sigh in deep nostalgia, when "Yesterday once more" by the Carpenters is being played on your stereo. You still feel attached to it all but you have expired your time of stay, at least it says so on your plastic card. You can still remember every muscle every bone of your abode for 3 years, but now you're merely dead skin cells that have fallen away, new ones have regenerated and all you can do is cling onto its shoulder before you get brushed away. You still know your way around town, but every corner there is something or somewhere new that you haven't seen or been, that you think you must visit next weekend when you finish your lectures, only there aren't any lectures anymore. Your friends are one thing that still seem familar, and you feel comfortable around them, yet on the back of your mind you feel strange that you're no longer part of their lives, and that to them you're more a guest than a company. And then you feel strange that you should think so much. Ken _________________________________________________________________ MSN Photos is the easiest way to share and print your photos: http://photos.msn.com/support/worldwide.aspx +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: Review of 2001
by David White 03 Mar '02

03 Mar '02

This probably constitutes list abuse but there is content so I'll take my chances... The results have been counted in the http://www.belleandsebastian.freeserve.co.uk fan's survey for 2001. To view the results and see what Belle & Sebastian fans thought of the music of 2001, visit the site and go to the Votes page. David White david(a)belleandsebastian.freeserve.co.uk +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: My name is Lucy and I...
by Lucy Alder 03 Mar '02

03 Mar '02

...live in Glasgow. Be warned Apps, Carter and all you other long distance lovers, in the end one of you has to move and it is a right royal pain in the arse. You have to try to get everything you own packed up small enough to fit into a Nissan Sunny, but you procrastinate lots and then you run out of carrier bags and then you realise the car may be the same colour as a tardis, but that's where the similarity ends and you just ain't going to get it all in. So then you chug through the night in all kinds of weather apart from the clement sort and your sister whacks the heating right up and makes you feel right dozy but you have to try your hardest to stay awake because she's doing you a massive favour by driving you up. And then, when you finally get there, you remember that you live on the third floor and there's no lift and you have to get yourself and several hundred bags of stuff up there by hook or by crook (or by driving to Milngavie to collect the boyfriend, who is ). Blimey! But then you sit down and nurse your cup of tea and go all grinny because (a) you're finally there and (b) all your mates came to the pub to give you a jolly good send off. It was kind of like Eastenders, but nobody's car exploded killing an eighties pop star who has BLATANTLY been messing about with Grecian 2000 lately. Ken came all the way from Milton Keynes, though, and Carsmile Steve and Meg came from Oxford and loads and loads of people came from London and I got a dart board and cake and CD as going away pressies and it was luvverly, thank you all very much! So here I am, in a new flat with wooden floorboards, seagrass carpet and lots of Ikea furniture (ooh, get me!) living a mere hour from the boyfriend's doorstep. Blimey! And I am going to see Lloyd Cole at the Grand Ole Opry tomorry nighty. Blimey again. The Pinefox would be proud, I hope. The ticket says NO SUPPORT in big letters, which I presume means that he favours classic boxers over briefs, Calvins or Y-Fronts. Or maybe he is getting older and fatter, but his manbreasts do not yet merit a bra. A long time ago, I travelled to Brighton and went to a picnic, which was one of the bestest ever and I do feel qualified to say this, seeing as I have been going to picnics for nearly three years. Archel, you are a darling and I will make every effort to come to the one in the summer, especially if I get to be voyeuristic and watch Neptune take Mark Casarotto roughly from behind again. May I also apologise to the three skinny indie boys whose bed I hogged that night? Sorry lovelies. Your skinny indie hipbones must have dug painfully into the floor. I feel contrite and will repay you in lollies. Right, the orange notice has just popped up to say my credit is low, so I will be off. Mandee and Eric, I am putting together packages full of stuff and things for you, but what with the move it's been a bit difficult. I am not forgetting you. Juicy Lucy x ===== We're going out! http://www.groups.yahoo.com/group/london-indie __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Everything you'll ever need on one web page from News and Sport to Email and Music Charts http://uk.my.yahoo.com +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: Let's pretend its a work of art. Let's pretend its not my heart.
by Max421＠aol.com 03 Mar '02

03 Mar '02

I think I'm in love with Stephen Merrit. I know I'm supposed to be talking about the big belle and sebastian concert coming up in New York, and how excited I am, but last night and the night before that I went to see the magnetic fields play all 69 love songs. The first night, rachel and I sat all the way at the back of alice tully hall, squinting to make out their faces. It was still cool though, hearing them play through the first album and a half. The songs seemed to make more sense live. The second night, our seats were better. The vibes were a lot better, and ww could actually see the faces of the bandmemmbers. They're so awesome. Like, I feel like just sitting there, I got to to know them some how. For those of you who know the albums, the songs are so much more moving in concert. I was almost in tears at the end of "pappa was rodeo". At intermission, was coincidentally walked past the stage entrance and rachel dragged me over to talk to the band. I actually had a conversation with dudley klute, the guy who sin! gs "the luckiest guy on the lower east-sid". THAT was exciting. I also got a nod from Stephen Merrit. At the end of the concert, we got stephem merrit to come back from an encore, even though he's an ornery little baby that hates performing. He played one of his new songs "My little ukelele", which i think falls somewhere in between "seeing other people" and "winter wooskie" If you have any interest, go see eban and charley! Well thats all for now. I have to go do my philosophy homework. Does anyone know how hume's empiricism effected kant's philosophy? HELP!!!! Love and more love, Max -------------------------------------------------------- Oh, I need you more than air. Is it true you just don't care? Are you having an affair? Yeah, oh yeah. --69 love songs, part three +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: Camera Obscura play London
by paul healy 03 Mar '02

03 Mar '02

I regret not to see them last year hope I make this time. Paul Healy Sunday 31st March Pow! To The People 3 all-dayer featuring Butterflies of Love Camera Obscura Black Nielson Saloon Cane 141 Woodchuck plus more to be added The Monarch, Chalk Farm Road, London NW1 Nearest tube: Chalk Farm / Camden Town Entrance: £10 (£8 in advance from Track & Field - cheques to T&F - the Track & Field organisation, Top Flat, 7 Lakefield Road, London N22 6RR) P.S. footy today(Sunday) top Primrose Hill @3pm __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Everything you'll ever need on one web page from News and Sport to Email and Music Charts http://uk.my.yahoo.com +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: My own personal Tigermilk
by The Cat's Pajamas 02 Mar '02

02 Mar '02

Hi all, I took the first steps on a journey today. I auditioned for a local theatre troupe. I'm being realistic about my chances of being accepted. I'm an ecologist by trade, so the theater thing is kind of new. With the exception of a year working with an improv troupe, I don't have much experience. The important thing is that I tried though...As I was riding home on the train I was listening to Tigermilk and thinking "Wow! I'm just like Belle and Sebastian". Here's how that works: I figured when they made the original Tigermilk it was kind of on a lark. Only a few hundred copies were made, but it turned out they had what it took and they managed to make it big and live out their dreams of becoming rock stars, even if they don't act like rock stars most of the time. So, there I was trying out for this theater company when I really had no business to be doing it. The difference of course is that B+S actually have talent, whereas I'm somewhat of a hack. Oh well...I'm not really like an actor, and I'm not really like a rock star, but I'm trying, durn it. And Thom Yorke says "if you try the best you can, if you try the best you can, the best you can is good enough" So I'll take Thom's words to heart and be happy :) ...And so ended the most unnecessary post ever. The townsfolk rejoiced, the princess was saved from the dragon, and everyone pushed delete and happily moved on to the next message. Jason _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: we lay on the bed there, kissing just for
by lindsey baker 02 Mar '02

02 Mar '02

hello sinister. again with the smoking. in the last few days, i have discovered an odd comfort in standing in a soft snowstorm, a cigarette smoking away in my hand, not knowing for certain which clouds coming from my mouth are smoke and which are breath, and thinking that the difference is poetic. maybe i started smoking just so i have something to write about consistently, and with pleasure. my poems are leaden with ashes. the man at the chinese shop gave me two fortune cookies today, and one fortune says 'your luck has been completely changed today.' the other: 'a person is never too old to learn.' and i believe the prediction and the cliche. he called thursday night, drunk and wanting to see me. so i roused, washed my face, got ready, left. let him hold my hand, and let him lead me away from the party and back to my apartment, let him kiss me, let him again under the tangle of blue and white checked sheets. i listened again to our shallow breathing, and watched his closed eyes hover above my opened own. he said when you kiss someone with open eyes, you do not trust him. i did, and i didn't. trust fell away with each time i said no, with each time he ventured further down and down under the blanket, under the comforter my mother bought me two years ago, for the dorm, for my bed. no went from a whisper to a stronger voice, and my rasping was no longer from lust but from fear. he finally fell away into sleep, and i realized the bed reeked of alcohol. he reeked of alcohol. and i wondered again why he had not called before he was staggering, and why i had been staggering toward him for so long without answer. he has said he blacked out; he just remembers telling me he loved me, just remembers the question he asked and the answer i refused. he is going to stop drinking, he said. he could never hurt me, and never live with himself if he did. he does not want me to be scared of him, he said, and will spend the rest of his days proving to me who he is, and why fear is unnecessary. and i will spend the rest of my days without him, but with the lesson i heave learned, with the pending moment wherein i say no for the final, triumphant time. i will watch him leave, and remember that distance and time are not made up in a bottle and a bed, or in the apologies that follow. fear is tangible, and always, always beneath the quivering surface of my hands, my mouth. i think they like it, misunderstanding the reasons for it. taking my hands, frigid from february winds, and warming them, relishing in the return of blood to my veins, their heroic response to need, action relinquishing wait. i wonder who it will be on that day, that day when he will see that the fear is not for them, for him, but for me. for what i do. yesterday was one of calm detachment, a separation from the way things are and a reporter's objectivity taking the reins again, steering. today the sun is shining. everything is melting, and so am i. los desaparecidos means 'the disappeared ones.' vocal dissidents who speak, and are silenced quickly and finally. here is to los desaparecidos, and here is to those who silence them. xxx lou _________________________________________________________________ MSN Photos is the easiest way to share and print your photos: http://photos.msn.com/support/worldwide.aspx +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: this galloping rhythm... leave me, a dead horse at your door
by Youn Noh 02 Mar '02

02 Mar '02

I don't know if this will be of any interest to you, but Stuart's first introduction of himself on the previous band web site has been added to the writing archive on their current site. David Moore's name carried all the weight in my request. Frankly, it's slighter than I remembered it, with Stuart's contribution just a border to provide context. (But you're probably the type who looks at frames and judges their appropriateness first, for all that it will tell you about your host.) Maybe he was deflecting attention from himself, but without the shyness that I once thought his individuality represented. In the days when he stood apart from his fans and offered a private smile to the camera. And I see where scrupulously putting on a lab coat in the dark room and feeling guilty for not running every day fit into a pattern. But he's lighter now. I thought of the subject line while listening to "The Way Of The Vaselines" at the gym. I think it was during 'Oliver Twisted' or 'The Day I Was A Horse'. But in the car, I noticed there is a line about galloping through the dew in 'Rory Rides Me Raw'. That (the line or all the jostling up and down imaginary stairs) and watching "Un Chien Andalou" have put weird images in my head. In a heartless moment, I threw away a tape of their songs that an old friend had made for me. All the songs on the tape are on the compilation and it was recorded over another singer's songs, i.e., over another release. He let the tape run so that it recorded noises in the room. People who go to clubs and dance all night to their favorite songs feel good like I do by the 7th song. But they're so high, they're such expert dancers, they don't need to care about the song too much. When was work free? When did people feel this good working? Today I heard "The old golden savages killed their philosophers." That friend sent me a funny note about repression, its positive aspects. I think I really understand him now. It is impossible to get to the bottom of things. And to try to do so would run counter to another principle, which is supposed to be expressed in "Hamlet". I can't find the passage, but it's about how in our actions, we reveal ourselves, so we should take care. That's a very poor paraphrase, but it's from something a professor said that has been rattling around in my head for three years. I should have looked it up then. Have you ever watched a silent film? I watched my first one yesterday. It was Fritz Lang's "Metropolis". I didn't know this before, but there are stills with just text; of course, not enough to match up with what everyone has been saying, but enough to settle any doubts left by exaggerated gestures. It's probably not that way with Chaplin's films or with Buster Keaton's. So fine and neat are their movements. I wonder to what extent changes in the text would affect our interpretation of the film. There must be clear limits (for which I am grateful). But then again, you're probably the type to see a world of difference in the addition of a comma. There was a scene where the foreman was whistling for the workers' attention. The music became nearly silent while they were ignoring him, then suddenly keyed up when they started to follow him. And in the scenes where the inventor Rotwang is chasing Maria, the music seems joyous instead of foreboding, maybe for a comedic touch. It's funny that ultimately Rotwang suffers, and nobody else. __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Yahoo! Sports - sign up for Fantasy Baseball http://sports.yahoo.com +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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