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Nick James, Photographer

This is the first in a proposed series about people other than me who happen to have been blessed with the name Nick James. A name which, by the way, I think is particularly fine with many interesting people attached to it.
So, the first in the series is Nick James (Surprise, surprise), the photographer. He lives in Queens, New York, and is totally available for your next photo related project. But not for free! Nick's gotta pay his bills!

I hear you brother.

Find out more, here: Nick James, the photographer

By way of contrast, here is a photo of mine:

Stupid plants always move when you don't expect it. Especially when you're drunk.

The Onion

Redesign at the Onion. I'm not so happy with it, but what I am happy with is the fact that they've made their archives accessible to non-premium viewers again.

Urusei Yatsura

I was reading an article today about Franz Ferdinand, and learned that the lead singer once guested with a little know Glaswegian indie band called Urusei Yatsura.
Now I know precisely nothing about Urusei Yatsura except that they had a song called "Slain by Elf" and a song called "Flaming Skull". Also a song about a girl in a bikini made from tiger fur, which I think was called "Hello Tiger". Oh, and they're named after some kind of, probably appalling, Japanese cartoon.
Flaming Skull was great, and it had an awesome bit in it where all the instruments dropped out but the drums, and the guy went: Inside the beat now, we're ripe to feed off the system. Or something like that, I don't have the song so it's hard to be sure.
Slain by Elf is a song that I do own. It's a kind of sub-Pavement thrash redeemed by the lyric:

"Hey Satan the mall's in chaos,
So help us to kill our parents"

They were joking, I hope.
All of this was pre-Columbine, and predicted the factors which would be blamed for the perpetrators' delicate mental health. Could Dungeons and Dragons drive a man to murder? Having watched the awful Jeremy Irons starring film debacle, I'm happy to believe it could.

Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Pony

Lizzie Spendour's childhood dream of owning a pony had been dashed repeatedly. W H Auden offered her one, as did Barry Humphries. But their promises came to nothing. Then she fell in love with a wild mare she saw in the outback. It was hers- if she could catch it.


This is what passes for journalism in England, specifically in The Sunday Telegraph. I swear this is so awful that even if I was given 10 years to write the title and lead paragraph of an article I would hate more than anything else, I could not even come close to the grim perfection of it.

Introduction

I just read something that I think everyone should see, it doesn't, however, fit with the tone of my other, better site. Therefore I created this site for random ventings.