Emerging from their highly-protested hibernation, Dr Colossus sauntered onstage last Saturday:

Grown in a stinking vat during the darkest days of the Cold War, the creature known as “Dr Colossus” was the abominable end product of an ill-fated Soviet attempt to weaponize American pop culture. For untold years the amorphous blob was force-fed a steady diet of plutonium, melted Beach Boys records and powdered US film reels until finally, enraged and bloated, it destroyed the research facility that housed it, killing 14 scientists and a baboon. Last seen in 1979 schlepping off into the Siberian wilderness whistling the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, in late 2007 the monster reemerged, fully recovered from the shame of Yeltsin and ready to rip your face off.

 

 

Amazing as always, they left behind them a trail of swooning cougars and enraptured swains:

The Benka Boradovsky Bordello Band also played:

Wilhelm Staehle makes lots of neat things, from his quirky short stories to his amazing Silhouette Masterpiece Theatre (the discovery of which I owe to my friend Hugh):

Toad played at Racket bar last night, a cute little brick building in the centre of Britomart. The clientele consists of architects who sidle up to you when you're ordering a drink and who ask the bartender if they think they can buy you a smile, bartenders who look at you and say "probably not", accountants who leave their g-strings in the corner of the ladies bathroom, and people who try to photograph said g-string but are  interrupted by a horde of women wanting to touch up their lipstick.

The alleyway is beautiful and is adorned with fairylights, fireplaces and floral couches.

 

 

 

 

With its ever-revolving cast, this gig featured Ben on drums and Hayden on bass.

 

 

 

 

 

This is not a kingfisher

but we did see one and it was beautiful.

We drank pear cider in Myers Park.

He declared everything a cliché.

We sat in the shade while

fat middle-aged tourists

solemnly clambered up sixty-two steps.

She talked and so did he - sometimes
simultaneously - dual waves of enthusiasm
competing into the evening.

trawling through the racks of soiled trackpants and hawaiian shirts (size XXXL), we discovered this little gem:

hey baby, he

murmured as he cast

his gaze my way.

it's time to

dance, disco style,

in some eighties disarray

The best photography isn't just visually astounding; it elicits the creation of a narrative in the audience's mind. Juan Felipe Rubio's polaroid composites are gorgeous little short stories exploring those quiet moments where a smile flickers across his face, and hers. The afternoon sun mingles lazily in the breeze and for the briefest of moments, there is nothing else.

The White Cosmonaut

Oil on Board

2009

Greer Honeywill's Embroidered House quietly enchants:

From The Only Time We Know Is Now:

and these
are the beautiful who boast
only the faintest traces of innocence

For the 'Outlaw' issue of Drome magazine:

For Waterproof:

For Galeria Inno's man collection:

For Galeria Inno's lingerie collection:

From Jason Brownrigg's May '68 shoot:

well. she's my lady anyway.