Schizoid Man

Okay guys, your help would be appreciated. Cheapo Acer Aspire 5100 laptop for £400, not bad at all. until I start downloading the new IE, MSN, Itunes, Winamp, a whole load of comedy, half life 2, deus ex, more games, and a lot of music, mostly illegally. Then suddenly bam, the whole thing grinds to a halt. I can't play music at the same time as any other application anymore without it stuttering, programs frequently crash or have extended periods where the little top left icon becomes a frustrating white box, start up is at least 10 minutes, and I CANT EVEN SEE WHAT IM TYPING HALF THE TIME COS THERES A TIME LAG! Pissing me off basically. I got norton, and as far as it knows my pc is virus free. So I got Windows XP Medic for $30, it 'cleaned up' my system tray, registry etc as much as it could...no effect. So it looks like a complete reformatting/reboot thing right. Note that I tried system restore and the three or so dates it stored wouldn't go. Basically, whats the easiest way of wiping my system while retaining all the shit i need, on a load of DVDS if need be...? I just gotta iPod which took all day to get 700 songs running so keeping that is paramount of course, as well as a load of work and bits of importan stuff. A program that lets me check and uncheck stuff to keep or not would be great, so I could keep throwing in DVDs and keeping all the essentials to reload when the PCs wiped basically. Help? Me? THank you lovely people, and happy Wiing! :yay:

The album is superb! Especially the last three or four tracks, KoC is gonna rock my socks off at Reading!

It's on page 2 fools.

Fantastic album, best of the year so far, and Frusciante's playing is absolutely flawless throughout.

You don't wanna know how much I wanna mug you... But I got tickets for Roger Waters for the Hyde Park Calling in July. Which is as good as it gets for Pink Floyd fans.

I loved Snickers Crunchers till they disappeared, even if they were weedy compared to real snickers. And those Kit Kat editions are sweet, particularly tiramisu, even if they're annoyingly small again.

That baby was so lovable.

Hmm...the family guy movie was fantastic. So they need to center it around maggie :P

Man Wes that is unlucky, how old was the guy who did it? I once got dapped in the face three times by some kid in a Lonsdale top who looked literally 11 years old. I couldn't do jack-shit back cos he had a bunch of other 16-18 year old retarded shits with him. That is humiliating. Never mind, spend the money you get in compensation on Radiohead at London tickets, sell one to me, everyone's happy. :P Any chance of photos Wesley. Without trying to sound too fucked in the head? Hope you get well eventually buddy.

what is this, weekend magazine?

Jesus Christ that photo made my stomach heave. That pretty much epitomises how the world is so fucked...suicide... Pink Floyd reunite after over 2 decades of running dispute to try and help with the sorting out of what's so fucked with the world. Hmmm...I'm not sure everyone will agree. Someone get this man away from Wayne Rooney! (That's as he tears that guy's ear off). Hmmm...all rather negative so far.

Erm..there were some pretty embarassingly daft song titles and snippets of lyrics (never mind matt bellamy's never been the best lyricist), exciting talk of a song being the Stroke's 12:51(?)'s warped cousing and another song having Ennio Morricone style choir work, less exciting talk of a romantic ballady typa song. Matt said something about the Franz alternative guitar + disco sound beeing cool. Some weird stuff about the 'pressures' of partying in France. I'd love a more jazz inspired direction frankly but meh. Also, exclusive announcement from Radiohead next week apparently.

Don't I know it Also, I can't be fucked for another thread but Muse have a new album ready for May 19th or so I heard. NME's preview of it was shit, but NME are shit.

The Standard of Simpsons today is embarassing, frankly. Whereas 'classic' Simpsons (quite a sizable chunk you'll find!), Family Guy and Futurama are the holy trinity of hilarious animation. I mean will Zoidberg's 'woop woop's' ever get stale? Don't answer that one.

Indeed Fierce Link. The book is set 6 years in the future, (although the future Dick imagined was a little more likely 20 or so years ago when he wrote it) and concerns an illegal drug, Substance D, that separates the two brain hemispheres and causes irreversible brain damage. Etc....Aintitcool.com has got a better synopsis. I dunno if Radiohead'll do compose the whole soundtrack or chuck in some newies off of LP7 but it'll sure make for an awesome film/music marriage.

...surely the greatest match up ever...One of my favourite, most genuinely disturbing books of all time (read it I beg you) that I'd frequently curl up with with Radiohead's Amnesiac and Kid A going in the background, now turned into a movie with the most incredible cel-shaded yet somehow photoreal look going on ever, the only Phillip K. Dick adaptation to be approved by his family... And after swiftly denied rumours going round that Radiohead had been approached to do the score after test audiences said the initial, music was a letdown, W.B. have confirmed it, and Radiohead are doing it as well as their 7th album. Now people who have been reading their Dead Air Space blog will make sense of Thom's recent message. What could possible go wrong..? Oh right, Keanu Reeves , pah, nothings perfect. July 7th people, I expect awesomeness. Discuss.

This is Sheep by Pink Floyd, Roger Water's genius. Harmlessly passing your time in the grassland away Only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air You better watch out There may be dogs about I've looked over Jordan and I have seen Things are not what they seem. What do you get for pretending the danger's not real Meek and obedient you follow the leader Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel What a surprise! A look of terminal shock in your eyes Now things are really what they seem No, this is no bad dream. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want He makes me down to lie Through pastures green he leadeth me the silent waters by With bright knives he releaseth my soul He maketh me to hang on hooks in high places He converteth me to lamb cutlets For lo,m he hath great power and great hunger When cometh the day we lowly ones Through quiet reflection and great dedication Master the art of karate Lo, we shall rise up And then we'll make the bugger's eyes water. Bleeding and babbling we fell on his neck with a scream Wave upon wave of demented avengers March cheerfully out of obscurity into the dream. Have you heard the news? The dogs are dead! You better stay home And do as you're told Get out of the road if you want to grow old.

Well I've met Colin Farrell in a hotel in an island, had to stop myself from saying 'you berk.', instead there was 'hey you were awesome in um, phonebooth'. I've also met Linford Christie, Jonathan Ross at Heathrow Airport, and Ian Gillian of er, Deep Purple.

Sorry, but what the freak is Veronica Mars apart from 'lady who looks a bit like Abi Titmuss with nice legs and Ashley's passion?' Some kind of TV show? And aren't Morningwood like the new worst band ever? Weezer offshoot? Am I wrong? Don't forget the new Muse album peeps, I've heard rumblings of May 16th. With the Chilli Peppers (who had BETTER not let me down) too it'll be sweeet. And Cooper Temple Clause.

You've already posted Guts here?! *hangs head in shame* lol i don't know what you mean about the Fight Club analogy but for those of you well versed in his complex material it would be cool if we could dissect some of the weirder stories in Guts. Below are another two favourite shorts of mine, not in the same league as guts for gruesomeness (thats a word bitches!) but they're very compelling and weird. Written by Stanley Donwood, the guy who does all the brilliant artwork for Radiohead. Talented, twisted man people! You'll find the rest at slowlydownward.com : - Fingers It is only after I have been at my new flat for some months that I begin to receive mail other than bills and offers to enter prize draws. One of my first personal envelopes contains a scrawled message from an old acquaintance with whom I was friendly many years ago. I am distressed to read that my friend is deeply unhappy, and I am disturbed further to read that if he receives no reply to the letter I hold in my hands he will feel compelled to chop off one of his fingers with a kitchen knife. Days pass, full of inconsequential incidents, until a small parcel arrives. The postmark indicates that it is from my friend. With trepidation I open it. Underneath the brown wrapping paper is a little box which bears the return address of my friend. There is also a stamp on the box, but other than this the package proves to be empty. I open up the box, but the space within is likewise vacant. A sense of relief floods briefly through me, and my days once more assume a comfortable aspect. One week later, another identical parcel arrives. It too is empty, and I insist to myself that I will write to my friend. Time drifts past, and eventually I have ten empty parcels. It is on a friday that I realise what I have to do. With what I feel is admirable forethought I use my left hand to chop three fingers from my right. With the remaining two, I hack off all the fingers of my left hand. In considerable pain I place the fingers in eight of the parcels. There is a lot of blood, and this makes the use of cellotape difficult. With eight parcels wrapped, I hold the knife in my right thumb and forefinger. I look at the last two boxes. As always, it is my inability to complete any task that drives me to tears. [/b]Condiments So one day I began collecting: I urinated into a large jar. I masturbated and scooped my ejaculate into a second jar. I took a knife from the drawer and made an incision on the end of my finger and squeezed the blood in thin trickles and fat drops into a third jar. I sat down with a fourth jar on my lap, and thought of sad things. Then I wept into the jar. I repeated these actions every evening, each fluid into its appointed jar. After a month, I emptied the contents of the jars into small saucepans, which I heated carefully until I had evaporated the liquid. When the pans had cooled, I scraped the residue, with the aid of a funnel, into separate salt cellars. I then tasted each of my personal salts, judging which would go best with what food. My experiment was a resounding success. The salts seemed to impart a subtle intensity to spicy dishes, and a freshness and zest to even the most homely soup. And so my restaurant began to attract many more patrons as increasing numbers of adulatory reviews appeared in some of the Sunday supplements. Obviously, I had to continue to produce the salts that had made my culinary creations such overnight successes. My establishment was now being patronised by celebrities as well as politicians and the merely rich. My difficulty lay chiefly with eliciting sadness on demand. On some nights I would sit in my chair, the fourth jar on my lap, and start laughing with joy at the success of my restaurant. I would have to force myself to envisage a starving child or departing lover. I knew that there was boundless, ceaseless suffering on this Earth, but I found it more and more difficult to identify with it myself, while the prestige of my restaurant grew higher, and with it my bank balance. I found that the most efficacious manner of forcing tears from my eyes was to think of love; loves lost, love's tragedies, and love's hopelessness. And so it was that I began to have trouble with the second jar. Latterly, my attempts at masturbation were rather more difficult, as my erotic thoughts staggered and tumbled into the despair I needed for the fourth jar. Not infrequently, I found it impossible to distinguish between sorrow and love. After five months, I caught myself ejaculating into my lap, upon which rested the jar meant for tears. I began to find sorrow arousing, and could not cry without getting an erection. Conversely, I could not find a woman attractive without starting to weep. I worried about my salts, for my supplies were running low. Moreover, the quality of the salt from the first jar was beginning to decline, as I attempted to find solace in alcoholic abandon. I would drink deeply; and laugh, and cry. But my urine suffered. It became thin and pale, copius but worthless. The salt I extracted was tasteless. The reputation of my restaurant would keep its fortunes bouyant for a while, but I knew that sooner, rather than later, the decline in the quality of the seasonings would be noted. I sank lower into despair. I could not run the terrible risk of sharing my secret with anyone else. I had only one reliable source of salt - that which filled the third jar. The third jar never ran out. The menu had to reflect this, and there was a preponderance of rich, red, meaty dishes, lavishly enhanced with the salt of my blood, trickled - or sometimes drunkenly spurted, gushed - from my fingers, thumbs, wrists or arms every evening. But I was weakening. My drinking was becoming uncontrollable, I would involuntarily orgasm during the news, and burst into tears at the most inopportune moments. The constant bloodletting was making me anaemic. I resolved to return to the formula that had won my eaterie so many plaudits. Determinedly, I researched the most emotionally draining novels, the most haunting poems. I ejaculated again and again into the second jar. I drank pure fruit juice and mineral water and produced once again the golden, viscous urine that filled the first jar. I wept uncontrollably, for three-quarters of a hour, with a pornographic magazine propped in front of me. And I took the sharpest knife and drew one widening red line across my wrist. The banquet was a success. Nice.

My whole life would be bitches brew by miles davis when i wake and treefingers by radiohead while i sleep. when i die, meh, how about prelude in C#minor by rachmaninoff? so many of these addictive shitty threads! :P

Ok, so most of you will recognise Chuck as the writer of the book that became one of the coolest :awesome: muthafuckers of a movie of all time. That'd be Fight Club. Anyway, I'm a big fan of his work because of his controversial, eye-opening, hilariously harsh style, and I'm almost done on his latest book, a collection of 23 interlinked, mostly horrifying short stories. Gruesome, some of them. Anyway, what I'm getting at is the first story, Guts. It's the closest words on paper have ever came to making me puke up, if I'd had any volatile food or a few drinks/spliffs I probably would have. As it was I spent the rest of the night hand clenched on ass trying to sleep. I'll say no more, apart from the fact that it may put you off masturbation for a while . Chuck has given readings of this story on a tour of the book in the US and EVERYTIME, someone has fainted from the sheer fucked up horror of it. I didn't come close, but I can see it's effect. Anyway I recommend Haunted to anyone, particular those who like to be shocked...anyone here read it? Had the 'Guts effect' in their own unique way? PLEASE mark spoilers anyway cos I haven't quite finished.

Respect! I love that book, it's incredibly timeless and true to life. I also recommend any of the following Kane And Abel by Jeffrey Archer (yes, THAT jeffrey archer, damn good read) Empire of the Ants by Bernard Werber (will change you forever) The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks (fucked up) A Scanner Darkly by Phillip K. Dick (dark dark futuristic drugs tale) Mortal Engines, Predator's Gold and Infernal Devices by Philip Reeve (absolutely incredible) any of Roald Dahl's short stories, some real shockers Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk (please don't read this if you don't wanna ever think twice about masturbation ) Junk by Melvin Burgess And the usual fashionable fantasy fodder is worth a look.

I third the Mars Volta love. They are, IMO, the best band to have emerged this decade. I would cut off my toes for Cedric Bixler's voice. :wink:

Ah yes but it was only £6.99 on 101cd this year though. :p Old music is cheap! Plus I thought they were naff on Jools Holland last year, it's taken a bit more in-depth to like them. I also recently got In A Silent Way by Miles Davis, which is brilliant, it really is.