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Benito Di Fonzo walks ahead smoking a stick with disregard. Such is the state that he casually tosses the butt at the foot of the steps to the State Library of New South Wales, a bin only a few metres away. None of that though, smokers find they own their own rules to the environment and those in their vicinity. Die and we all die together, the ethos of those who sign up to the addiction.
Security guard stations signal The Members' Room of the Mitchell Wing as the locale of the NSW Poetry Slam Final. Nobody walks up the stairs to the Galleries, a misdirection in closed doors.
Rest of the review of NSW Poetry Slam 06 Final - Members' Room, Mitchell Wing, State Library NSW - 07/12/06
Worlds collide at the State Library of NSW. In one spectrum, a largely over 35 crowd from the State Library's Under 35 club Christmas Party, void of all symbolism and dead fat men swinging from the ceilings. In the other, spectators on the hunt for the finals of the inaugural Sydney Poetry Slam; the bardic and cathartic rhythmic event of the year.
Seats allocate themselves to the faster set and those eager and hopeful to see festivities adhere to a sense of punctuality. Swinging back affords no comfort, the doubt of metal jutting through the shoulder blades keeping many honest and stable. Minutes pool into an hour as the photographer blinds everyone with a flash bulb that burns brighter than a sun on the back of a pasty Goth caught without sunscreen.
Rest of the review of Sydney Poetry Slam 05 Finals - State Library of NSW Galleries - 08/12/05
And so as the great and indefatigable once pondered, "Why do places such as this often have the best acoustics?"
Not one to read names off a list, a man standing guard for tickets to the talk in the Mitchell Wing of the State Library asks questions upon self-referential questions. Hilarious, if not for the fact that with the name down clearly on the bottom of the list, an easy miss is done for sure. Glasses do not help everyone improve their reading sight.
Atrophe's party or the Poetry Slam? With pigeon shit covering every spot of open faced cement in the wings of the Knot Gallery, there was no contest. The Inaugural State Poetry Slam by the Word Wrestling Federation. There was also no place to stand without inhaling a rich strike of urine.
A battle of prime rhyme from the New South Wales line. Two teams against each other in an ages old classic battle of poetic licence. To the victor, the glory to represent against the sorry cases in Victoria later in August. Flowers more for the team short on score.
The pre-match gibberish fits right into this era of over-communication and over-the-top media analysis of sport. Is it really necessary to think about every aspect? Why do so many people need to talk about one game before and after. This game is "important", though, should NSW wish to square the series, and if promoters wish to sell tickets to the final game.
The teams lined up during the anthem and gave away nothing about pre-match jitters, nerves or caffeine related shakes. There's a theory that teams wearing red have a psychological advantage over those they meet. This sort of thing, despite a terribly wobbly start by NSW, does not seem to be causing any trouble. A possible early try to QLD would bounce into an area that would be of no use to either team.
Rest of the review of State of Origin 2: When bad haircuts unite
The buildup to this game was moderate; nothing hung in the balance. This is probably the main factor in the disappointing performance, I’m sure others will agree, of the NSW team.
The regular media did their best to bring attention to the game with less necessary stories about the referee and the state of the pitch, but it was to no avail. Footage of men inspecting the ground in suits didn’t fool anyone; you can’t inspect the integrity of a playing surface in a suit and dress shoes.
Rest of the review of State of Origin #3: The Cry of the Fearless
With the fallout from the first game in the series and the build up to the second becoming a shadow for all other stories in the media, it may come as a surprise that kick-off time was forgotten. Driving to the place of viewing at a bastardly pace listening to that magnificent second movement of the 9th symphony of the old Ludwig Van is the best way to bring to a peak all the senses.
One minute and 49 seconds is easy time to catch up on. The pre-game analyses had the advantage in different hands, as rain would make the game a different story. Grip would be lost and passes would be shorter with a heavier reliance upon the kicking game. That is what all sources agreed upon. But the first try of the game came as a complete shock to all who witnessed.
Rest of the review of State of Origin Game 2: Gravy Train in the Mire
The game started out as any other; the anthem, a whistle and then a kick. But what followed for about 10 minutes was some boring football. Nerves and wariness were written all over the face and neck of "origin newcomer" Minichiello, as every kick was aimed deliberately down his throat. Queensland managed to put NSW asleep to achieve their first try. And I guess it was a justifiable tactic; the most boring side shall emerge the victor.
A new stadium with new grass would, for some reason, see a lot of sand go into a lot of shorts. Annoyance multiplied by a factor of sweatiness, and constant rolling upon the ground.
Rest of the review of State of Origin Game 1: the Sand also Rises
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