City of Stars + a scenic drive in Melbourne

I just put all my songs on Spotify to play on shuffle.

How apt that the track to come on right now would be Logic's City of Stars.

The first time I heard that song, I felt like Spike Spiegel, leaning handsomely against the large window of their interplanetary fishing trawler (The Bebop), slow-burning a cigarette, and staring out into a swirling mass of glimmering stars, an insouciant expression hiding deeply felt pangs of existential awe. Spaceships hover in the distance, infinitesimal dots of colour interspersed among the hugeness of the universe. Words cannot possibly describe the feeling, but it tugs profoundly at the heart, and at the parts of the brain which process pleasure.

Anyway.

When I first heard it, I asked my boyfriend to take me on a drive. It was late at night, and with City of Stars pounding through the car's speakers, I felt a strong hedonistic need to see the city lights. We ended up doing a slow drive down Yarra Boulevard, in Kew.

You know. I've never done any drugs (unfortunately). But there are times where I certainly feel like I am on some. This usually occurs when I come across some exquisite concept art, or watch a really visually striking film. Blade Runner. 2001: A Space Odyssey. Tron Legacy. Dark City. 

A conglomeration of colours, evening textures, restrained pacing, and haunting music will make for an overall atmosphere of psychedelic paradise. And I wasn't kidding when I said it tugs at the heart. A physical weight comes over me. The experience, for me, is both extremely cerebral and wonderfully somatic. In other words, it feels fucking amazing on every possible level. 

So we're driving down this winding boulevard next to the Yarra river, and I had turned City of Stars up to dangerous volumes. I had obviously never been down the boulevard before (apparently it's a popular meeting place for drug dealers), and didn't even know such a scenic drive existed.

For a while, we were just driving in darkness. There weren't any lights because the boulevard was technically, located within the Yarra Park reserve. All I could see on either side of the car was bush and shrubbery. Well, black lumps and shadows that swayed against the crepuscular, purplish shade of the night sky.

Then. All of a sudden. Boom.

There it was. The Melbourne skyline, rising majestically above the jagged outlines of the foliage that festooned the entire length of the boulevard. It was like watching an 8-bit cyberpunk city come to fucking life.

The skyscrapers appeared to shoot out of the ground right in front of us. From our elevated perspective, the city indeed looked deceptively close. As the car continued forward, I would crane my neck back, admiring the blue, red, silver lights. And the crane! A brightly lit construction crane, with the construction company's name emblazoned brightly across its shaft, positively glowed against the city backdrop.

Yep. It was like drugs. Or how I imagined MDMA might feel.

Even reminiscing this night is making me feel all sorts of awesome right now.

Oh, and it turns out that Logic's album - The Incredible True Story - the one with City of Stars on it? I could not fucking believe it when I found out.

The entire album is a fictional story set in space, on a spaceship, with a rat-pack crew of friends. One of the characters that speaks before a few of the songs? Is the actual fucking guy who voices Spike Spiegel in Cowboy Bebop (Steve Blum). AND it turns out that Logic is a huge Cowboy Bebop fan.

This is why that album will always be one of my favourites. Or even my favourite album of all time.

I just laughed really loudly for 20 seconds straight because I saw this on GoodReads:

Oh god. You have no idea how hilarious this is.

3. Red Light District - Basement Level 12

Fuck.

Like literally.

People out in the complete open were engaging in such rabid, explicit frottage that there was barely any significant difference between it and actual intercourse. One guy whose vintage Game of Thrones t-shirt clung so tightly to his chest that it looked like it would spontaneously rip into confetti at any second, was expertly grinding his ass against a pimped up Robogirl, unleashing insane body-rolls that synchronised perfectly to the doof doof doof of the track that was blasting out of invisible speakers. The song was Desire, the latest No1 dance anthem sung by oversexualised Polish-Chinese pop star Katarzyna Zheng. I only knew this because Zheng's new music videos were a pandemic point of discussion and analysis within the Flux community. Unlike most of the world's current pop stars, Zheng was actually human, not just a holographic doll whose every curve and breathy whisper had been electronically designed and produced by big South Korean record label companies. These companies have, by the way, come under increasing scrutiny for its employment of 3D programmers in slave-wage conditions. Thus, in her electronically unadulterated position, Zheng's tactile good looks and genuine vocal talent cemented her a place as the darling of the world's hologram-dominated music industry. Though the production quality of her music wasn't particularly above and beyond those of other holographic pop idols, she still was, in the words of adoring fans on the Flux and most of the international commentariat, 'the human salvation music needs', 'the long-awaited revival of classic pop', 'the iconoclastic sex icon'.

I turned to look at Milo152. He still couldn't wipe the amusement off his face.
"Surely, you will have gotten used to these scenes on the Flux," he shouted at me over the music, his words barely registering. I didn't bother answering, but mindfully earmarked this occasion as the first time in my life I had seen mass musically synchronised dry-humping.

As we walked, the crowd around us seemed to evolve from Rn'B clubbers to Gay Pride Parade. Soon, we were bumping shoulders with men wearing nothing but pink feather boas tied strategically around their -

"Johnson!" yelled Milo152. I jumped, startled. "Oi, Johnson!" He started flailing his hands wildly over his head, signalling to someone that seemed to be coming from the direction of a neon-lit peep show lane. This was indeed the case, and the man named Johnson was surprisingly, a terribly overweight slavic man with a disfigured face. No, that wasn't right. He face had been disfigured at some point, but now it was 'fixed' - by a somewhat gratuitous installation of flashy bionic replacements. The right side of his face had been subject to some special metallic skin graft that blended right into his epidermis, which impressively, also displayed some sort of moving tattoo design. The right eye was red and mechanical - an illegally built-in infrared scanner. He could definitely see everyone 100 percent naked right now, which was probably two percent more than the nakedness already on display. I immediately realised,  however, that 'everyone' now included me.

Milo152 and I walked over to the slightly quieter corner where Johnson was looming. The man looked me up and down without a twitch. Well, I wasn't sure if that was something his face could still do.

"Iz this her?" Johnson spat, with an indecipherable continental accent.
"Yeah," said Milo152, who shot me a friendly reassuring look to signal 'no-I'm-not-human-trafficking-you-to-some-fat-disgusting-looking-Bulgarian-pimp'. "She'll be able to help you."

"Uh, 'help him'?" I paused, analysing their faces. "What... do you mean?"

Johnson grimaced. "Well," Milo152 began calmly, " I mentioned on the Flux that I needed you to do something a bit... unconventional. Something I think you've probably never attempted before. That's why I risked it all by asking you to meet me in person."

I looked at Milo152. I looked at Johnson. I looked at Milo152. 

"Uh no. I... not that," said Milo152 a bit embarrassedly. Then he took a deep breath, switching his gaze to his mysterious counterpart.

"I need you. To hack him."

2. Underground City

We arrived at Basement Level 1, which was the most benign, family-friendly strata in the huge complex that was Underground City. During the day, school-kids would come to frequent the bustling food stalls and shop for whatever was the latest in trid mods and remote controllable gadgets - mostly racing drones and BattleMechs, both of which constitute hugely overrated competitive industries. It's a popular place for some classic father-son bonding sessions. There were multiple indoor racing and mech battling stadiums for hire, as well as a litany of arcade game stops and anime/manga stores.

I always thought that B1 would be the same at night. You know, a cool place full of fun gizmos where people could hold racing events, trip out their Mechs, and throttle the shit out of each other's expensive toys. Apparently, that's not all that happens in B1.

Around the corner of a deliciously fragrant takoyaki stall stood a bunch of glaringly bright teens whose hairstyles looked like they were in the midst of projectile vomiting rainbows into the air. I probably would have done just that if I had listened to one more second of the conversation between one smoochy couple.

"But babe," said the barely 16 year old girl in a whiny baby voice. "I thought tonight was just gonna be us. You and me. For some special private times." She started torturing him with the soft caress of her fingertip over his budding pea-sized pectorals.
"Aww sweetie," the guy giggled, "I promised the boys I'd take them to Sam's drone party behind Joe's Pizzas. But how about later...I'll show you my private drone...." he slowed, a lascivious smile rippling through his equally creepy, bee-stung lips.

Milo152 led me past the wildly hormonal group, but not without turning back, catching my disgusted countenance and giving me a thoroughly amused look.
"You don't go out much, do you?" he asked, but it came off as more a statement.
This time, I sarcastically returned his smile. "No, I'm a misanthropic troglodyte-cum-cybercriminal. I don't leave my computer if I don't have to. This..." I looked around at what would otherwise be a quotidian setting for everyone else, "is an adventure for me".
"This is an adventure?" he laughed, as we continued walking past rows and rows of Asian snack stalls. There were potato and cheese salads. Spicy Taiwanese chicken pop corn. Kebabs. Fried soft-shell crab. I couldn't remember the last time my olfactory senses had been besieged so pleasantly. I had gotten too used to the wet, dank, smoky smell of my rotting apartment back in Nunnek, which is not the nicest neighbourhood to live in.

We continued trodding forward through the masses that have come out for the Saturday night markets, weaving in and out of the boisterous crowds like two lone fish that have deviated from the school. For the first time, I noticed that though Milo152 looked Asian, he didn't have any epicanthic folds around his eyes. And he had a smattering of freckles on his left cheek. Perhaps he was half-Asian. Well, most people are half-something these days. Half-Chinese. Half-Spanish or Russian. Half-bionic. I started to wonder whether he would have gotten his face cosmetically altered, not so much for the aesthetic benefits but to help him become more efficient at his drug-dealing business. Who knows. Maybe he's the sort of guy who gets his face tweaked once every couple of weeks as a pre-emptive security measure.

"Hm, so I hope you're okay with where we're going then."
"Where are we going then?" I said, my tone slightly on-edge.
"Uhhh. Well. You'll see soon enough."
We rounded a corner, and there was another set of stairs.
"Let's catch the elevator instead," he said, turning left and into a darkish laneway. We were at one of the edges of B1, where the shops had dwindled to just a few. I hadn't realised we had walked that far already. In fact, the non-existence of foot traffic here made me feel weird.
"You okay?" he said. I began to realise that I was probably being a bit too obvious with my facial expressions, and it was revealing everything he shouldn't know about how I was feeling right now. Which was basically 'why-did-I-agree-to-this' and 'I-don't-want-to-get-stabbed-or-raped-tonight', although I was pretty sure Milo152 was not the stabby type or the rapey type.

There was a 'ding' sound and two metal doors slid open from an unassuming soot-covered wall. "Yeah, I'm fine," I lied.
He looked at me earnestly for a few brief seconds, as if not knowing what to say. Then he laughed out loud as we stepped in. His hand hovered over the elevator pad, then he pressed for the very bottom level - Basement Level 12.

It took me a moment to remember. All I could muster in the incredibly short five seconds we had in the elevator was "wait..."
Then the doors slid open once again. Deafening oriental pop beats hit my face like a sledgehammer. Half-naked girls and guys strutted around in 9 inch stilettos, shaking their flashing LED bras, panties and party hats into my line of sight. Dancing robo-girls with plastic moulded F-cup breasts spun around like mirror balls on elevated platforms. A holographic video of a young Scarlett Johansson warapped in a tight red mini-dress blew me a kiss.

My eyes bulged slightly.
Milo152 laughed.
"Welcome to B12 - the Red Light District."

1. Central Station

Standing outside the staircase leading down to central station, I glanced at my watch for the second time. 11.46pm. A slew of rain drops quickly smothered the dim blue screen. I shoved my hands back into my pockets, squeezing the heat packs that I had judiciously prepared before I left my apartment. He's late. 

Staring at the people walking by central station, it was interesting to see that some were clearly heading home, and for others, the night was just getting started. The latter demographic was young, noisy and probably comprising more than a few underage kids. They were all dressed in fashionable electroluminescent jackets and shoes that glowed iridescently like the lights that festooned Underground City - a neon maze of the hippest bars and karaoke outlets. Most were also chatting into their head-mounted trid-devices, which I assumed would be them hitting up a friend about which dodgy underground pub they should rendezvous. Yeah, this was Saturday night out on the town.

The more I waited among the party crowd and let myself become drenched in the city's pollutant rain, the more I became desperate for a cigarette. My brain had been itching for a hit all morning, but now it was clawing desperately at the fringes of my self-control, exacerbated by the anxiety of having to meet him in person for the first time. And well, by being outdoors, which itself is a lifetime feat.

Milo152 was his username on the Flux. A username like that was simple, non-revealing and devoid of character. Usually, you get cliched names like Omniscent_Shadow, Llama-hunter or even worse, an alliteration like Huge Hurricane Hancock, which tends to reflect much of the pubescent personality that dominates the threads. Milo152, was by that comparison, a perfectly mature adult. Boring, even. Throughout our encounters on the Flux, he never interrogated me about my age or gender, or prodded me about becoming his ally on High Fortress. He didn't even ask to fuck after I intentionally let slip I was, in fact, a female. Yeah, our relationship was pure business. He provided the drugs I needed to fuel my night-habits, and in exchange, I mined him whatever data he wanted. A simple and reliable quid pro quo.

Of course, these transactions weren't exactly lawful, which is why we've always kept our communications limited to the Flux, where it would be near impossible for any cops or narcs to trace our trails. This was because no trails existed on the Flux. All posts, photos, trideos and chats are wiped every 4 hours. Users don't need to make accounts either. It's all a completely liberal space, for some astoundingly illicit activities. And no-one can shut the Flux down. No one probably knows how to, except for the person who made it.

"Kano64?"

I whirled around. "Milo152?"

He nodded. The guy was tall, skinny, Asian, and grinning broadly from ear to ear. I didn't return the smile. In fact, I was quite taken aback by his amicable disposition. After all, we were both still strangers to each other, with no other ties than those that were strictly criminal.

"Sorry for making you wait. I'll tell you the good news later. For now, let's head over to somewhere where we can talk," he said, ignoring my momentary expression of 'what in the world am I dealing with here'. "I know a place in Underground City. It's a rare pocket of tranquility, if you don't mind the sort of people that come and go," he winked.

He started walking off in the direction of central station, down the winding staircase. I followed without another word, wondering why I agreed to a 'date' with my drug dealer in the first place.

Reading all the next big sci-fi blockbusters before they happen

This year, as a semi-serious and quasi-redundant law student, I have been devouring a respectable number of novels to appease my growing science-fiction appetite. If you have read some of my previous posts, you may have realised that I am a pretty serious cyberpunk fan. And that I watch a shit tonne of movies.

Anyhow, so I've realised that most of the novels I've read this past year will all be turned into movies very soon. So since it's Saturday and my deadline for my freelance articles are due tomorrow, I thought - NO BETTER WAY TO PROCRASTINATE THEN TO SPEND 3 HOURS WRITING SHIT THAT ISN'T ACTUALLY DUE.

Truly orgasmic cyberpunk scenery

NEUROMANCER by William Gibson (1984)

For the last few years, I've been trying to get more into the world of cyberpunk and sci-fi literature. I've attempted to read William Gibson's 1984 novel Neuromancer, which is the biblical work of the cyberpunk genre, but because I only have soft copies of it on my laptop and iPhone, I've been finding it really hard to actually... you know, physically read it. Moreover, jesus christ, I know Gibson is like the forefather of cyberpunk but, and it pains me to say this, his writing style is spasmodic as fuck. I just. Can't. Follow it. 

A sojourn into online forums of the genre reveal that I'm actually far from the only one who has this opinion about Gibson's writing. A lot of other cyberpunk fans also have trouble with the way Gibson paints a whole new world at the speed of light. Every second sentence features a new technology or object that is never ever explained - it's a part of this new exciting universe that's simply thrown at you. But yeah, it gets confusing and by the third chapter, you've got a migraine. 

Nonetheless, Neuromancer is universally considered as one of the origins of cyberpunk and a massive inspiration for a lot of subsequent movies and novels (e.g. The Wind-up Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi; anime series Cowboy Bebop). I vow to finish reading it no matter what. 

Plus, Hollywood is apparently in talks to develop a movie for Neuromancer, which is exciting, especially visually. 

But then Hollywood also wants to develop live action movies for Ghost in the Shell and AKIRA...

lel which means I'm holding my breath until they cast someone who is actually fucking Asian, and not a joke like this one:

Jackson Rathbone as an Asian robot in The Last Airbender.

READY PLAYER ONE by Ernest Cline (2011)

Ha.

Hahahaha.

Hahahahahahahahhaahahaha.

Do not even talk to me about this bound-volume of what is essentially toilet paper.

If you want my final thoughts on it, you can find my full page review in E-Magazine, which I will not link here as I am paranoid about employers tracing into my blog. But you CAN pick up a copy at a local restaurant, cafe or library. Especially in Box Hill.  Or, ask me in person because I will not be able to refrain from verbally ranting about its endless tropes and cliches, and...

The worst fucking cliche any YA sci-fi/dystopian novel can ever ever ever ever ever spew onto your screen or page is the sassy, 'alternative girl' with the cool multi-coloured/streaked hair, possibly with freckles, but definitely also sporting black nail polish and chewing bubble gum or some shit like that. She'll be witty, quirky, and just as good at video-games/boy stuff as YOU are (the male first person narrator) . Most importantly, she is the perfect balance between cute and hot. That last bit could seriously be a line from the novel. 

NO. 

Anyway, Ready Player One is definitely going to become a movie. I mean of course it is, the whole book is based in virtual reality - perfect movie material. they got Steven Spielberg to direct and it is scheduled to come out in December 2017. They're currently casting. 

WOOL by Hugh Howey (2011)

Mediocre.

Wool is the first in its series about people who live in silos and think that their silo is the only part of human civilisation still alive in a world where the air outside is fatally toxic. However, curious minds begin to wonder, and soon, a woman discovers that the people who live in these silos have been blinded from the truth by a weave of lies from upper management... Then you play John Butler's Revolution on speaker and start tap-dancing with a bloodied pitchfork. 

Yes, it's one of those novels. The dystopian-sedition thing is extremely trendy these days, following the success of The Hunger Games, Insurgent, The Maze Runner, and to a lesser extent, The Giver. 

Wool at its most basic principles is just like The Hunger Games, and also includes a little romance in its plot devices. But it has flowery language (maybe more enjoyable for people who don't particularly like straight-cut YA-style writing), and most importantly, no stupid love triangles/sexual tension ostensibly designed for marketing/consumer/tween-girl purposes. Because trust me, I have read the entire Twilight series and when I read The Hunger Games, there wasn't any difference in the way that romance is used as more or less a 'squee' factor. A squee factor that eventually led to the portmanteau 'Peeniss'. 

So yeah, I enjoyed Wool, but didn't love it and it wasn't that addictive a read. 

There are rumours that Ridley Scott is producing the movie adaptation, which would be good because I think Wool deserves a lot of blood and guts and accurate portrayals of strong women. 

RED RISING by Pierce Brown (2014)

This book is fucking amazing.

I felt so compelled to praise this book after I finished it, that I actually updated my Facebook status for once, with a long-ish paragraph about how awesome this was and how there will no doubt be a bidding war for the rights to make the movie for this. 

And yes, this February, Universal Pictures outbid Sony with a seven-figure sum for Red Rising's screen rights. The guy who directed World War Z, Marc Foster, is apparently steering the helm. 

So Red Rising is actually what it is advertised by its marketers: Ender's Game meets The Hunger Games.

That is LITERALLY what Red Rising is. But just because the novel is unoriginal doesn't make it any less fun. Because it is helluva fun. And anyway, books and films are inspired by iconic works all the time. 

As an obsessive Ender's Game fan, I actually felt like Red Rising was an homage. Clearly, the very young 27 year old Pierce Brown also grew up reading Ender's Game and revering its genius protagonist Ender Wiggin (one of the most iconic characters in all of science fiction). In Red Rising, he combines everything that made Ender's Game good, and everything that made The Hunger Games good, and chucked it in space. 

And I love. Space operas.

So yeah, the book is as they say on Good Reads - "unputtadownable".

THE MARTIAN by Andy Weir (2011)   -  movie coming out in November 2015

Only fedora-wearing science nerds will really like. Although I'm still excited to see the movie. 

This book  revolves around an astronaut named Mark Watney, who is accidentally left behind in a shuttle on Mars during an expedition gone wrong. He has to rely on his extensive knowledge of space, physics, chemistry, engineering and botany to survive until someone on Earth figures out he's still alive.

Even though 104467 people have given it a 5/5 rating on Good Reads, and it has garnered critical reception generally, I would only give it a 1/5. 

First, and to be fair, I never 'studied' science. Sure, I did it all the way up to year 10, as is compulsory, then dropped the science subjects and picked up a few math ones and the rest were humanities based. Think politics and history. So ironically, as a science-fiction lover, I am NOT savvy with the hard science. Thus, this entire book, which is 90% explanation, goes way over my head. No doubt, those with an actual science background will probably love it, and feel some sort of resonance when reading about all the great and ingenious ways Matt devises to make food and communicate with the outer world.

The second point though, is actually its shitty protagonist, which is a fair literary condemnation. See, I don't REALLY mind the whole exposition thing as I keep telling myself - "this is probably the exact reason why people like it" - but then I still couldn't get past Mark Watney.

Watney is one of the biggest douchebags ever, and if I had to work with anyone with a similar personality, I would kill myself. This is the most terrifying thing because according to the book, Mark Watney was chosen specifically for his 'terrific' personality - easygoing, funny, a real bro. HAHAHAHAHA OR THAT'S WHAT ANDY WEIR LIKES TO THINK.

Someone on Good Reads who gave 2 stars actually did a quick background check on author Andy Weir and basically found that he has spent his entire life in academia, studying hard sciences. And while that is very admirable, the impact on his social life/skills - WELL, it's pretty goddamn obvious in the book. There are a crapload of 'hilarious' puns, 'smooth' pick-up artist lines (similar things), 'cool-guy' swearing when actually unnecessary, misogynistic jokes about women, and a heavy sense of obnoxious arrogance that is played off as 'smart funny genius'. The only people who don't agree with me are probably people that buy into that sort of crap.

I HATED MARK WATNEY AND WANTED HIM TO DIE IN THE SHUTTLE SO WE CAN BE FREE OF HIS PENIS JOKES. The end.

ANCILLARY JUSTICE  by Ann Leckie (winner of the 2014 Hugo, Nebula AND Arthur C Clarke awards!! The three biggest prizes in SF)

A totally unexpected thriller. Of mind-blowing creativity. 

I'm only half-way into this but my god. Ancillary Justice is good. It's addictive. It's almost Red Rising addictive. But the thing that makes it better than Red Rising? 

Originality.

The main character/first person narrator, Breq, isn't human. She's AI. And she's not just an AI controlling one body, like how we usually imagine AI - as an android. She is an AI that controls a humongous warship, and twenty other human bodies (soldiers) at the same time. She IS all of them at the same time. 

*note that she is only referred to by the pronoun 'she' because her human shells/bodies are female. 

And the greatest thing ever? You get to dive inside her mind, and read descriptions of her seeing and feeling the world simultaneously from her different sets of human bodies. And no, not as separate chapters, but as real-time back-and-forth switching which is described within sentences - within paragraphs! And the writing isn't spasmodic at all; instead, it maintains a high quality of consistency throughout the chapters I've read. Overall, the effect is eerie, but incredibly cool, if I have to use the word. 

I haven't finished the book yet, but so far, it remains a mystery why there is only ONE (shell) of her left. 

Ancillary Justice is apparently being picked up by Fox Studios as a TV series.