Looking through CDs, live music, books, theatre and all kinds of things that fit in your mouth. Injecting the mindstream via the tearduct with reviews that connect you to the experience, whatever the form.
For anyone looking to have their merch, music and/or mayhem reviewed at The Wax Conspiracy, get in touch with us.
The classic tale of frustration leading into suicide and rethinking life choices to bring another year to a close. Once more another look over the bridge and wither come the thoughts of absence.
Bruising through immigration hassles is not the best way to spends years of your life. Humour, then, is what’s needed to keep your head in the game when trying to make it off a Nauru-like plane of existence.
The cycle of violence against Uncle Bens stops here. They don’t even drop the father-figure in a flashback. The world moves on with the fact that enough people know what that backstory is. Peter Parker has enough angst and failing to not always loom over a dead body.
Survival after graduation depends a lot on how much of a safe space the books and lecture halls have weakened the muscles from being in open air. There among the filth of society we walk and wonder what kind of things are going on in other people’s heads.
Getting on the ground of miserable is life. That struggle of the normal, everyday drudge coughing up gristle with a crick in the neck from slumming it in the car overnight. An exercise in exhaustion. The expense of which cashes out when Wolverine brings it back and away from the world of one-upping a world levelling event down to a personal note.
Corrals are everywhere. The lines to the lines are lined with rope after rope. The registration and ticket pickup area, from at least the Thursday, has no trouble making snakes of the situation. The entire building is decked in black and yellow. Up from just a quarter.
Travel is so much about being mishandled and watching your keeps roll off the conveyor belt, ready to throw your left shoe at someone trying to run off with your belongings. For those without an itinerary that means keeping at least one non-glass eye on the gate.
This could be in the back pocket of the farm-to-table industry. The further you are from the feed source, or the more opaque its origins, the higher the chances for adulteration or wholesale swapping out for inferior quality ingredients. Like sawdust and chalk. The modern day diet’s roughage.
Kamar-Taj offers no direct flights. It’s by way of a trek and then again that feeling of thirst and wondering where the toilets are. You’ll always find something to read no matter where you are on Earth. (Glyphs are glyphs.) Even if it means not being able to talk with the locals.
Freddy Krueger lines up with one of the more haunting sounds of the pop-sided 90s in the Ballad of the Backstreet Boys, laying waste with suggested blood and theatrical smoke. Bodies are dropping not to the beat of a drum but the sound of snoozing just another few minutes.
Bodies fall and questions keep rising from the splatter of blood, and gone is the sense of being, replaced by a narrative cobbled together from missing reports, incomplete accounts or total fabrications. Another day, another darkness.
Supermarket consumerism—living life from the belly of a shopping trolley—is the theme of the 90s. Right there on the bumper reel looping in the lead as the crowd gathers about, clip-clopping into their eventual seats. Over in the distance a shimmer of gold as a man in parachute pants and fishnet shirt gets mobbed for his MC Hammer costume.
The X-Men are an allegory for their times. In the sixties it was all about the heat of civil rights. AIDS in the eighties. Today, their story tackles a new, important issue. In these adventures with Apocalypse they shed light on the bristling experiences of a new share-economy.