Hey look it's Spencer! Sometimes more than one of him at once...
It's The Holy Soul, in case you didn't know. They're playing at the Pan Launch Party + Fundraiser, should be a wild night, I'd get out my diary and pencil it in if I were you...
Recommended viewing snacks for the above music video include licorice allsorts and a nice cup of tea.
Allsorts
Yesterday I was lounging attractively in my club. I was working out a new scheme to ensure my success as sheriff of Area 5 while the clientele ogled me appreciatively, but not without fear, when suddenly. Wait that wasn't me, that was Vampire Eric. Yesterday I was sitting on a bus eating licorice allsorts, the big ones you can pull apart with your teeth when suddenly, well nothing actually. Suddenly nothing. I was sitting on the bus in the pouring rain eating licorice allsorts on my way to the bookshop when nothing happened.
This has been yet another interesting update from Slammatown.
This has been yet another interesting update from Slammatown.
PAN magazine wants YOU. Actually, that’s not quite true. What we’re after is your submissions.
Space is, as always, at a premium. We’ll consider stories up to two thousand words and poetry to fifty lines, although nothing curls our toes like some snappy mini and microfiction. Themes are open. Contemporary short story writers we love include Paddy O’Reilly, Nam Le, Cate Kennedy, Wells Tower, Anthony Doerr and Tom Cho. We admire inventiveness, uncertainty and tension; conversely, we’re wary of didacticism, deus ex machinas and melodrama.
I'm not really sure what an albumarathon is
Sometimes the best way to find out about something is to just close your eyes and do it so here it is, my very first ever albumarathon.
65 Days of Static – We Were Exploding AnywayListening to the nine tracks on this album is like having nine glass splinters and being locked in a tweazerless house.
1/5
Audio Bullys – Higher than the Eiffel
I love this album ten years ago, I want to go back in time. Perfect pop schlock with beats, it is possible I might bring this one back to the future with me.
3/5
Black Gold – Rush
Haven’t heard anything this boring since my neighbour’s grandmother lectured me on the correct method of pegging out socks on the clothesline. This one is for the mainstream people who wash their cars once a week in their driveways.
1/5
Continue reading...
65 Days of Static – We Were Exploding AnywayListening to the nine tracks on this album is like having nine glass splinters and being locked in a tweazerless house.
1/5
Audio Bullys – Higher than the Eiffel
I love this album ten years ago, I want to go back in time. Perfect pop schlock with beats, it is possible I might bring this one back to the future with me.
3/5
Black Gold – Rush
Haven’t heard anything this boring since my neighbour’s grandmother lectured me on the correct method of pegging out socks on the clothesline. This one is for the mainstream people who wash their cars once a week in their driveways.
1/5
Continue reading...
This includes no Venn diagrams
I couldn't pin it down. I tried analysing the air, the temperature, the slant of the sun, my rate of footsteps per minute, none of this data helped. The problem was I was too happy, too happy by far. I was walking down a long hill in the afternoon sunlight crammed-full of contentedness. Everything seemed in order and I was almost enjoying myself when I noticed one big thing - the absence of all problems.
The air was full of bushfire smoke but this reminded me of my youth when a bushfire suspended all ordinary business, the adults all stayed inside (once they had finished plugging up the roof gutters and filling them with water) glued to the television and radio, at the same time. I would wander about the streets marvelling at the dense and luminous orange air.
I was slightly too warm but I was cheered by wearing an electric blue cardigan and knowing if I became any warmer I could take it off and be perfectly comfortable even at a brisk walking pace. I was carrying a bag but it was light and swung contentedly in a perfect arc. I was sure that a random wave of sorrow, anxiety or misfortune would hit at any moment and return the world to order, but it didn't.
Five minutes after arriving at The Peach I was installed on The Peach Deck with tea and toast on a tray, a cat on my lap and a book in my hand but I was still far too happy. I found my book kept lowering itself to allow me to stare dreamily at the sky in a contented way. This is when I became seriously alarmed.
It didn't seem possible for such a heady mix of cheer, goodwill and contentedness to descend on me without some serious repercussions. The extreme sense of wellbeing faded gently into ordinary after sunset but I'm still waiting to hear who died, or blew up or accidentally killed their lover whilst sleepwalking with machete. Come to think of it I had better telephone my mother and make sure she is still alive. Who knows who I could have harmed by holding a whole afternoon of happiness in my hands.
The air was full of bushfire smoke but this reminded me of my youth when a bushfire suspended all ordinary business, the adults all stayed inside (once they had finished plugging up the roof gutters and filling them with water) glued to the television and radio, at the same time. I would wander about the streets marvelling at the dense and luminous orange air.
I was slightly too warm but I was cheered by wearing an electric blue cardigan and knowing if I became any warmer I could take it off and be perfectly comfortable even at a brisk walking pace. I was carrying a bag but it was light and swung contentedly in a perfect arc. I was sure that a random wave of sorrow, anxiety or misfortune would hit at any moment and return the world to order, but it didn't.
Five minutes after arriving at The Peach I was installed on The Peach Deck with tea and toast on a tray, a cat on my lap and a book in my hand but I was still far too happy. I found my book kept lowering itself to allow me to stare dreamily at the sky in a contented way. This is when I became seriously alarmed.
It didn't seem possible for such a heady mix of cheer, goodwill and contentedness to descend on me without some serious repercussions. The extreme sense of wellbeing faded gently into ordinary after sunset but I'm still waiting to hear who died, or blew up or accidentally killed their lover whilst sleepwalking with machete. Come to think of it I had better telephone my mother and make sure she is still alive. Who knows who I could have harmed by holding a whole afternoon of happiness in my hands.
Confession of a horrified cupboard thief and the unexpected cost of barcodes or Empire of The Peach
I was stealing Grizelda's sample packet of Weet-Bix, terrible but true, with a crazed and starved look on my face and a jar of honey in my left hand when the horror first revealed itself. The Weet-Bix was alive! Hiding in the heart of each bick was a wriggling mass of tiny worms*. I've seen the tiny worms before but this is the first time I considered eating them.
You see I've reached a depraved place called 'shall I buy groceries or get a barcode for PAN magazine?'. There are some excellent arguments for both options. If PAN magazine has a barcode then it can be sold properly in shops, just like a real magazine. If I buy groceries then I don't steal worm-ridden Weet-Bix sample packs and consider eating the worms**.
I've seen people eat worms before, in Empire of The Sun, a nifty movie about my paternal grandparents.*** In this movie people are taken from a party to a POW camp and served worm food. They eat the worms because the doctor says there is protein in cupboard worms. If my ancestors could eat cupboard worms then so can I.
And that is the story about how the unexpected cost of barcodes increased the usual amount of protein found in stolen Weet-Bix sample packets in the Empire of The Peach. Now all I have to do is confess my crime to Grizelda.
* The pupal stage of the Evil Cupboard Moth.
** Yes, I know 'worms' is not the correct word but I don't really care. You can blame science if you like.
*** Is actually true.
You see I've reached a depraved place called 'shall I buy groceries or get a barcode for PAN magazine?'. There are some excellent arguments for both options. If PAN magazine has a barcode then it can be sold properly in shops, just like a real magazine. If I buy groceries then I don't steal worm-ridden Weet-Bix sample packs and consider eating the worms**.
I've seen people eat worms before, in Empire of The Sun, a nifty movie about my paternal grandparents.*** In this movie people are taken from a party to a POW camp and served worm food. They eat the worms because the doctor says there is protein in cupboard worms. If my ancestors could eat cupboard worms then so can I.
And that is the story about how the unexpected cost of barcodes increased the usual amount of protein found in stolen Weet-Bix sample packets in the Empire of The Peach. Now all I have to do is confess my crime to Grizelda.
* The pupal stage of the Evil Cupboard Moth.
** Yes, I know 'worms' is not the correct word but I don't really care. You can blame science if you like.
*** Is actually true.
The bastards were all wearing trousers
And now from the interesting world of marching bands comes a Dale Slamma exclusive.
Don’t bother sending me flowers, I am always going to love marching bands more than I love you and I don’t care who knows about it. If there’s one day of the year it is good to be a fan of marching bands it is ANZAC Day. The city goes mad with them, traffic is stopped, old men rock up in suits and nannas drink beer in the gutter. I declare it to be the best day of the year.
Syncopated drumbeats echo off the skyscrapers and everybody is drunk from sunrise. All ordinary business is suspended and the city points itself at the parade like furniture around a television. If there’s something better than rock it’s got to be marching bands. If you ever wondered why music was harnessed as a weapon of war then you’ve never seen a band on parade.
Continue reading....
Don’t bother sending me flowers, I am always going to love marching bands more than I love you and I don’t care who knows about it. If there’s one day of the year it is good to be a fan of marching bands it is ANZAC Day. The city goes mad with them, traffic is stopped, old men rock up in suits and nannas drink beer in the gutter. I declare it to be the best day of the year.
Syncopated drumbeats echo off the skyscrapers and everybody is drunk from sunrise. All ordinary business is suspended and the city points itself at the parade like furniture around a television. If there’s something better than rock it’s got to be marching bands. If you ever wondered why music was harnessed as a weapon of war then you’ve never seen a band on parade.
Continue reading....
Um, please
I'd definitely be doing this if I was any kind of artist, even the bad kind.
Donate an artwork to PAN magazine!
continue reading...
Donate an artwork to PAN magazine!
To donate an Artwork to PAN magazine make us a mind-blowing painting, drawing or sculpture. We’ll
love you for it, I promise... All donated works will be exhibited at PAN magazine’s fundraiser on the 26th of June at The Red Rattler and sold to raise funds to help with printing costs of issue #1.
continue reading...
Kate is my cool thing of the day
Not only has she mastered the art of Science she has also discovered a secondary use for cows.
My own Siamese twin
What if you only get five lit points of grief or regret? One home, one child, one partner, one horse, one friend. What if the two day contents of your head get dramatised in hospital form on a Tuesday night?
I've been scaring myself with imaginary knives. Two days ago we were sitting in the cafe when he said, 'maybe you don't want to write those kind of things'. I suppose it was a candid moment, one friend asking another to be a little careful with published thoughts but I jumped straight to what wasn't happening, straight to the part where I had to choose between a friend and words.
One good Peachette taped a hospital drama for me to watch on my late return. I sat down with one of those bowls of muesli and pressed play. Unfolding in blue scrubs was the two day contents of my head. Surgeons asking each other if they had to choose between surgery and love.
I have lost track of my point because it is contradictory. My imaginary knives would cut out any part that would say do not write. I do not care if the writing is good, if it is a stupid blog post, a contractual obligation album review, a dismally worded review or one story that stacks higher than the rest of my existence. I do not believe in the death of the author, those words are all mine and I will have them. But my knives are imaginary and my feet would walk you in no other direction than towards a friend.
I've been scaring myself with imaginary knives. Two days ago we were sitting in the cafe when he said, 'maybe you don't want to write those kind of things'. I suppose it was a candid moment, one friend asking another to be a little careful with published thoughts but I jumped straight to what wasn't happening, straight to the part where I had to choose between a friend and words.
One good Peachette taped a hospital drama for me to watch on my late return. I sat down with one of those bowls of muesli and pressed play. Unfolding in blue scrubs was the two day contents of my head. Surgeons asking each other if they had to choose between surgery and love.
I have lost track of my point because it is contradictory. My imaginary knives would cut out any part that would say do not write. I do not care if the writing is good, if it is a stupid blog post, a contractual obligation album review, a dismally worded review or one story that stacks higher than the rest of my existence. I do not believe in the death of the author, those words are all mine and I will have them. But my knives are imaginary and my feet would walk you in no other direction than towards a friend.
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