I need to talk about this video I found on youtube. Have you ever heard Bai ling? Yes? No? Maybe? Just quietly, she’s a bit of a hero of mine, and a favourite at the gofugyourself.com:
Earlier this year she almost had her nipple torn off by her pet cat. This is said cat. Its name is chee-pussy Quiji.
She defended her pet saying it must have thought her nipple was a chew toy. Firstly, that’s not a cat, that’s a beast sent straight from the depths of Satan’s sex pad. And secondly, just so we’re clear, her nipples resemble chew toys? I don’t know whether to be aroused or repulsed- though I suspect I’d go with the latter. In all honesty, this sums up the handful of things I actually know about Bai Ling, other then that I’m pretty much in the dark. My friends at wikipedia inform me she vehemently claims to hail from the moon, where her grandmother continues to lives. Fair enough Bai Ling, fair enough. Also, she is allegedly an actress! Unfortunately, the only roles that I could say I'm vaguely familiar with that she’s played recently were her part as “Senator Bana Breemu” in Star Wars III: The Revenge of the Sith and her stirring role as the “punky photographer” in Lords of Dog Town.
Anywho, Back to the video! I love this: I close my eyes and I’m in a Japanese karaoke bar playing witness to a fabulous midlife breakdown, I open them again and Bai Ling is throwing Barbie’s feathery night gown into the crowd, masturbating on her knees and being mauled by a painfully gay presenter! It’s so unnatural and forced and dare I say, drunk, that I just couldn’t pass this one up. The highlight for me is 33 seconds in when she attempts a sexy commando roll and leg stretch but kind of doesn’t quite have the momentum and almost gets tangled in her ostrich costume. Bai ling enthusiasts enjoy!
So a while ago, a “friend”, had this dream she had her vagina pierced. It wasn’t me, it was a friend. One who can’t be named either, not even with a pseudonym. Anywho, my friend (not me) had this dream her snatch was pierced- just like the lip or whatever. She told me about it the next day on facebook and I was all “Well, did you like it?” and she was all, “I’ll tell you about it in private...”. You know, because we were talking on facebook, and like, not everyone’s down with that kind of thing. I don’t understand why. I mean, not that I was the one who had the dream or anything but still.
Now with genital piercings on the brain of late, I’ve spent the past few weeks researching, google imaging and discussing the topic with anyone who will listen. It’s not an easy topic to breach with people though. “So I was talking to my friend about vag piercings..." The colour kind of drains from their face , horror seeps into their eyes and then suddenly they’re shrieking “OH MY GOD!! YOU PIERCED YOUR VAGINA?!?!”. The next thing you know, everyone else in the room has heard and now assumes you lead a secret double life as a dominatrix extraordinaire with the bejewelled genitalia to match.
To avoid judgement, I’ve resorted to feeding my obsession with drunken ramblings aimed at people I’ve just met or don’t know very well. The ones who I corner unexpectedly at parties and then shamelessly deny their existence come the morning. Kind of like the one night stand equivalent of conversation. My same friend, the one who had the dream- she got her nipple pierced a few months ago- not me, my friend. She recons she got the idea when her girlfriend was going on about how much she hated nipple piercings,it seemed like the most obvious move to make. As it turns out, the nipple piercing is like the kinky little tid bit you never knew you wanted but once you found, you couldn’t live without. You know the type. But the va jay jay. That’s a whole other jurisdiction of kinky. Fraught with danger, dripping with edge, bursting with possibility.
The idea lead me to an interesting conversation with another friend in which we discussed finer details like the implications a piercing may have to waxing and the actual location of said piercing. This friend told me she used to have her clit pierced but found it was overstimulating-to the point where she actually orgasmed on a bus when she was sitting over the back tyre. Fascinating. My endless prowl through the depths of google lead me to other insights on the topic: when done well it actually seems like a relatively safe piercing! And did you know it heals faster than your ears? And apparently it hurts less?!
“I pierce many professional women, housewives, mothers, and even grandmothers”, stated one seasoned piercer on what seemed like the web’s most definitve guide to piercing the never regions. Seriously?? Are all these women parading around on public transport having secret orgasms too? This gives a whole new meaning to people who sit next to you on an empty bus. With all this research and talk and the like my friend (not me) is totally considering it now. I mean aside from the possibility of it all going horribly wrong and she being a sexual cripple with a severely impaired ability to orgasm, what’s the worst that could happen??
In other news I have a new favourite band- they refer to themselves as “gospel punk garage jammers”. Well, hello!
So it's been a while. I can explain though! Firstly, I was in exams so I had to BAN myself from blogging just to be able to absorb everything I possibly could on fascinating subjects like corporate structure and debt securitization. Let me tell you what a party that was! Then fate dealt me a total sucker punch to the jaw and my computer died the night before my last exam, taking all my notes, music, photos and blog drafts down with it. Fuck you apple. Did you know that if you make your first ever apple purchase from the apple store at Chermside you can elect to be clapped and cheered out of the store by staff? I imagine other shoppers would join in too. Excuse me while I throw up in my mouth a little.
So due to my douche bag of a computer now doing nothing but taking up space on my desk I've been forced downstairs to the "family computer". This is usually accompanied by my 19 year old brother watching children’s cartoons on Cartoon Network in the background. He's not even stoned. Having the family computer inflicted on me is depressing for other reasons too- I can't google feral things like anal warts or the naked mole rat to then post on my friend’s facebook pages, effectively killing their sex life for a good week or so. Nor can I browse online sex stores, red tube is completely out of the question, and my stalking has to be made somewhat discreet so that my family doesn’t pick up on what a creep I really am. Sigh. Life sure is tough for me right now. Lots has happened in my absence though, most of which I can't be arsed to write about. However, I figured I do owe some form of explanation for what Ive been doing with my time (nothing) which can be summarised by a list of 3 things I've grown to love and 3 I’ve grown to hate while I’ve been gone.
Let's start with things I hate:
1. People who say "Oh you don't really hate them!"
Let me explain with an example:
Me: Oh my god I hate that slag guts whore, who does she think she is??
Other person: Oh Jane, hate is such a strong word- you don’t really hate her, you don’t really hate anyone!
Woaah, excuse me?? "I don't really hate anyone"? Does this happen to anyone else or just me? Am I the only one who is blessed with all these self righteous do gooders who take it upon themselves to correct my emotions for me? Seriously, every time I hear those words fall out of some ones arse kissing mouth I feel like somewhere there is a stall going unmanned at a church bake sale. Get back to your post fuck face and stop imposing your freakishly good mood on the rest of the world.
2. Wonderwall by Oasis.
Jesus Christ all mighty. This song to me is some sort of right of passage for every douche bag who ever sat behind a microphone holding an acoustic guitar at an all ages family friendly venue. Furthermore, the amount of love themed mix cd’s this ends up on is sickening- "oh it’s our song"- yes, you and the rest of the pathetic prepubescent population. Ugh.
3. Sex scenes in The L Word.
So I’ve been watching the L Word a tad lately, mainly because I'm on holidays and it’s on TV. It’s a relationship of convenience really. Sadly, it’s only reminded me why I hate the L Word to begin with. Don't get me wrong, the show served its purpose once upon a time in my life. You know, back when I was like 17 and didn’t have any lesbian friends, wasn't getting laid and it was pretty much my only outlet into the lesbian world besides stalking people on myspace (I started out early). But then I got into the real world and had no need for The L Word any longer. My real distaste for the show actually stems from the sex scenes though- of all things! Let me map one out for you: girls make out in bed with much huffing and puffing, hand creeps under sheets towards one girl’s vag, there’s a brief moment of what looks like PURE ecstasy and then bam! Orgasmo! For fucksake, no gets anyone off with handjob that fast, or even that well really. Honestly, I think I learned more about lesbian sex in that Sex and The City episode where Samantha becomes a lesbian then I do from The L Word.
Now for things I love:
1. www.peopleofwalmart.com
For those of you who don’t know, this is a site for the pathetic, overweight, badly tattooed and shockingly dressed hicks tramping through wall mart at any given moment across America. The sad saps make it from their daily lives to our computer screens via the cold hearted bearers of camera phones waiting at every turn. Gold. The hate mail is just to die for too by the way! It worries me thought that four separate people recommended me this site with an “Oh my god Jane! You'd love this, it made me think of you!” Should I be worried that I’ve created an image for myself as being some sort of heartless bitch who finds pleasure at another’s expense? My spider senses say no.
2. Lady gaga's facebook status updates
Do you ever hunt someone down on the internet, find their various social networking sites, add them and then to your dismay realise they hardly use the internet? It’s a real downer for any seasoned internet stalker. But Lady Gaga, well! That woman is like a dream with her constant updates and what not. Some of which even seem to be personally posted by her! She's taken to referring to her fans as her “little monsters” since the release of Fame Monster. This makes me feel closer to her given she's bestowed upon me some sort of collective nickname. Also, I feel like I’ve really been there for her through a lot lately you know? From the day I gave my support when her father had heart surgery to the sigh of relief I breathed when she found her lavender wig (which apparently had been lost for sometime). Yes, my status liking really knows no bounds when it comes to the Ga! I think I'm getting a little obsessive though, when she made an appearance on Ellen recently I found I already knew most of what she had to say just from following her status updates. Whatever, we're practically on first name basis.
As you know I have a penchant for all things low brow. It’s really quite a delicious and ironic paradox when taken into account I also write a fashion blog. In my own defence though, fashion is art and to quote Marilyn Manson in (s)AINT, “I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art”. I’m not sure how referencing a 90’s antichrist of non-descript gender supports the point I’m trying to make- actually I’m failing to grasp what point it is I’m making but as they say, “if you can’t convince- confuse.” Moving on, I begin my tale of bad taste with a proposition: Have you ever asked yourself the very profound question of, “If I were ever asked to do an impromptu performance at Eurovision, WHAT would I wear?” No? Oh. Well if I were to ask myself that question, then this particular article would be my most obvious answer.
The Stooges started playing on my iPod. Search and Destroy. The shrieking guitars and Iggy Pop’s angst-ridden wails answered my question in a heartbeat: “What the fuck wouldn’t I wear it with??” I turned on the spot and marched myself back to Side Street. Done. Bought. Sold. Fuck yeah.
That afternoon I rode off into the sunset dripping with rock n roll, a strut in my step, ready to get all Joan Jett up in this bitch. You know how it is. I arrived home brandishing my holy grail in the quest for bad taste. In my head it was one of those rare garments that straddles the fine line between totally awesome and totally eurotrash. You know- one of THOSE. Sure, in my head at least. In reality it was more like the vest downed 9 shots of tequila, tripped face first over that “fine line” and then tried to have sex with eurotrash’s cat. This is the kind of vest I’d hope to find myself wearing teamed with leopard print tights after emerging from a week long punk rock festival in Tokyo. I can’t imagine when else it would be acceptable, but of course in the name of vulgarity, there lies the source of my passion!
Recently, I underwent a monumental personal revolution. The beginning of my seismological change can be pinpointed to my best friend’s recent 20th birthday party. I was telling her how ravishing she looked that night, when she began grinning at me like a cheeky 5 year old.
“Guess what ..” she started . “What?” I replied, eager to be in on the mischief. “I’m not wearing any underwear!” “Really?!” I gasped, looking quizzically and openly at her crotch.
Wow. It was almost shocking but then I figured it didn’t really surprise me. My friend, who I can’t name for obvious reasons, but has requested we simply refer to her as “Kiki La Rue”, has long since been one to go braless so it was only a matter of time before she went all the way. If anything Kiki’s new branch into the underworld of undergarments is simply a sign of the times. Forget burning bras, the 21st century is still about women’s sexual liberation but our generation has wisened up a little- we’re sparing our breasts from gravity’s onslaught and the revolution has flown south! A little bit of frontal crack has become about as shocking as leaked sex videos. Yawn. There is nary a media outlet you can look at without getting a good solid crotch shot. The internet is a veritable catalogue of celebrity bits and flashes of various socialites’ va-jay-jays are part and parcel to most monthly media publications. With the popularity of female freeballing undeniable and now in my own backyard, I decided I wanted in. I hatched a plan to try it myself during a brief trip to my local shopping centre. At first I’d have to say I loved it. That was up until I got out of the car. My confidence quickly shrivelled up and assumed the form of a gnarled prune. With my failure weighing heavily on my mind it was time to go back to the drawing board and talk to the inspiration behind my brief moment of liberation. I decided to interview Kiki La Rue:
How long have you been freeballing Kiki?
I’ve been actively free balling for 9 months or so. I first got a taste for it NYE 07-08 when I was wearing a sheer dress and a white g-string underneath. My boyfriend was quick to tell me he could see the g-string through the dress. Seeing as I was freshly waxed down there, I decided to take the risk and not wear underwear. Although I got drunk, fell over and accidently flashed a few people, it didn’t deter me.
What inspires you to freeball?
Regular free ball inspiration was the introduction of tights into mainstream fashion – I could never live with the horror of a VPL (visible panty line); and g strings get uncomfortable and cause you to squirm. Sometimes it can get all up in your shit and it hurts to walk. Obviously, free balling was the next logical step.
How often would you say you freeball?
Probably 3 times a week – whenever I wear tights or just feel lazy and want some air.
Why do you freeball?
No VPL, it feels good, and it just adds that little but of excitement to the day when there’s a risk of being caught!
What is your advice to anyone wishing to try freeballing for themselves?
Start slow. Maybe try short periods like a quick trip to the shops - don’t just jump in there all at once because you’ll most likely get self conscious and imagine that everyone, from the little old lady with her wheelie walker to the kid in the frozen food aisle, KNOWS you have no underwear on. And are judging you for it.
Have you had any near misses? The aforementioned time at NYE. They denied seeing anything, but I know they did, I think they tried to spare my feelings. Other than that I’ve been very lucky.
Any other thoughts you’d like to share on freeballing?
Some people freak out when I tell them I’m freeballing, they sometimes move away from me like they’re scared they’re going to catch something that only my underwear can protect them from. I used to get defensive about it, now I’m comfortable and don’t care. You have to build confidence to pull it off and not become insecure about it, but when you get over yourself consciousness, it opens up a whole new world of pantless experiences.
I have started a third blog! This is very exciting news- I think so anyway. My new blog is completely different from the rants and raves of this blog and will be a less cynical look at the ever emerging Brisbane fashion scene. If this sounds like it could be your thing, check it out!
My sister bought a snuggie. Actually it’s not even a snuggie, its one of those no name brand snuggie lookalikes- I didn’t even know you could buy no name brand Snuggie lookalikes yet, but apparently you can. It’s the most obnoxious shade of pink ever to be made into a fabric and has firmly established itself as the eyesore of the house. My sister is fully aware of the nauseating splendour the discount snuggie has adorned her with and takes great pleasure in fluttering into my room like some queen of the retarded factory off cut bin. Fun fact: if you turn a dressing gown back to front, you not only look like a major douche but you will also have your very own snuggie! WOW! Isn’t that something? It just goes to show how dumb Snuggies truly are.
Also, Snuggies really creep me out. The infomercial where everyone is wearing them at a football game irks me in a way I just can’t quite put my finger on. Could you imagine turning up at your local football club only to find everyone dressed in matching robes? That’s some serious twilight zone shit right there. I feel the only time Snuggies are appropriate is at mass gatherings of radical religious cults in Deep South America. Seriously, the only people who should wear them are those who would marry off their underage daughters to 50 year old Christian leaders who already have more wives then they can count on two hands. Or maybe Jedi’s, I don’t think I’d have anything against Obi Won Kenobi having a cognac and cigarette whilst dressed in a snuggie.
It gets worse though, there is actually a website called “the snuggie sutra” which as the name suggests, is a site that describes various sex positions incorporating a Snuggie:
The prospect of getting off while wearing a Snuggie makes me feel a little bit perverted. Sure, I appreciate making everyday households items into sex props just as much as the next person, but fucking someone who is wearing what is essentially a blanket? They may as well just wear a pillow as a hat and be done with it for all I’m concerned.
Exhibit a) a family of douche bags amongst normal people.
My girlfriend is in a band. I like telling people this because in my mind it makes me seem really cool that someone who is in a band would ACTUALLY want to date me. It’s kind of a shameless ego trip that has little to do with her achievements. Anyway, her band is called the goodbye horses, and they just recorded a new single and filmed a video for it!
This in theory is very exciting news, unfortunately in practice it has caused considerable apprehension for me of late. See, I don’t often share similar music tastes with my girlfriend- many fights to the death have been fought on the battle fields of the car radio between us. So for this reason, there was a very real chance I wouldn’t appreciate her band’s hard work. Any normal person would just blatantly lie if they didn’t like the single. I however, am horrible at hiding my feelings towards music I don’t enjoy. Usually my distaste ranges between impulsive foul mouthed outbursts to declarations of jihad on the band and their music. it’s pretty bad but I deliver judgement openly and with zeal as if I think I’m a supreme mystical being and the world is in need of my opinion – or as if I’m Kanye West. Anyway, the long and the short of it is this situation was not one for my uncontrollable opinions to unleash themselves. Hence my rising panic: What if I didn’t like it? Even if I said I liked it, how would I hide the pain on my face as I listened? How would I keep up the charade through the whole song with my only chance of escape being out a 6 story window?!?
The last thing I wanted was to be the unsupportive naysayer to my rock-star-to-be, so I was silently dreading the day the band finished recording and the single was ready to go. Eventually though, my time came. There I sat on my girlfriend’s bed, headphones on, hands clammy, a light sweat on my upper lip where my dermatologist tells me I would have a female moustache if I were middle eastern- apparently my skin problems are due to my cells being over receptive to testosterone. Any who I digress, back to the single! Basically, I was nervous as all hell and ready to face my doom. Our differing music tastes and my big mouth were about to wreak havoc on my love life.
Turns out I REALLY liked it. I was a little shocked and I think this may have been obvious. It probably doesn’t help that I suspected I may not have liked my girlfriend’s sweat, blood and tears but I’m all about honesty. Anyway, the song is just so good! Now with my worries out that 6 story high window, I feel it is my RIGHT, given my girlfriend is like, totally in the band, to plug the shit out of it!
The single “Some Storms Have Names”, is a rambunctious 3 minutes and 14 seconds of charged indie rock written by lead singer Kate Bradley. It relates the fear and anxiety we struggle with as situations arise only to corrode any sense of control we thought we had over our lives. The video was filmed by Brisbane based film clip company, The Picture Club. The Goodbye Horses are playing the sounds of spring festival on the 26th of September, so if you’re going along, make sure to check out those sexy beasts! Also, you can hear more tracks and get news on upcoming gigs and releases at http://www.myspace.com/goodbyehorsesband. Groovy.
So without further ado: (My girlfriend is the drummer by the way, she’s a total babe but she has it in her head that she’s all rock n’ roll and shit, so just for the record, that shirt she’s wearing is from Country Road. Enjoy!)
Recently I came across a friend's status update on Facebook declaring he was giving up Farmville and he would no longer let his life be ruled by soybeans & chickens. That’s pretty intense as far as I’m concerned. I can rumble with the best of them if you want to talk strange internet addictions but this whole Farmville thing has simultaneously bamboozled and disgusted me for some time now. I like my Facebook stream to contain incriminating photos, juicy comments and relationship scandals. So you can imagine how puzzled I was to be bombarded with the recent wave of Farmville updates. I fail to see how it is topical, interesting or relevant to my stalking needs that such and such just found some pathetic lost sheep roaming its virtual farm and has now taken it in. Boo hoo, cry me a river. Furthermore, I do not care for that inbred ugly duckling that has somehow escaped being hit by a car and wandered into your farm, I do not care for your “photo albums” of a virtual paddock (which incidentally all look the fucking same) and MOST of all I do not care that you have been given a good citizens award in any way, shape or form.
There is only one word I can use to describe this fad and that is ‘gay’. For the record, I myself am gay so I can use that word as freely as I like in the most demeaning contexts I desire. Though of course, I will be the first to jump up and exercise my right to be deeply offended when others use it- kind of like the new n-word. It's probably the single perk that comes with being part of a minority. Political correctness aside, Farmville is gay, it’s just so GAY ...GAY!
However, my seemingly normal friend’s adamant declaration sparked my interest. If HE was so addicted then maybe this whole Farmville thing isn’t as gay as I thought? Maybe there’s a reason so many people are hooked? Maybe, strictly for research purposes, I should investigate?! (STRICTLY for research purposes).
Nervously, I ventured to the Farmville application and was greeted by the main Farmville Facebook page. I began by perusing the latest status update which read as follows:
Hey there, folks. I was raking some leaves from my neighbour’s yard an' I saw a couple of Swans runnin' around! Cute lil critters... I wonder where they came from?
*Guffaw* Man, that’s GAY!
But then I nearly choked on my self righteous guffaw as I realised 12 120 people had ‘liked’ this update and a further 5270 had felt compelled to comment it- this was in the space of about 24 hours may I add. Of course I decided to read what exactly it was 5270 people could say about this flea ridden virtual poultry. As it turns out, most of the comments were from people urging others to add them:
Exhibit A
“Looking to add new neighbour who loves to play and chat over the fence... Those who don’t want to talk need not add me...”
(Is this some sort of Farmville invitation for casual sex or can you literally “chat over the fence”??)
Exhibit B
“Austrian farmer seeks new neighbours”
(Is this how personals are done nowadays?)
Exhibit C
"hey there! Add me girls only ;)”
(You dirty fucking red neck)
One man had just repeatedly written, “add me pls ^_^”, over and over again. That's where things got weird. Where had I come? Who were these people? Was this a farm or a dating site? Was this some sort of meet and greet for horny agricultural enthusiasts? Is this a red neck backwater CULT?!?
I knew I had to get out soon, but I couldn’t tear away from the horrors before me- I had to continue the investigation, so I scrolled downwards and onwards through the ominous webpage. At that moment, I was faced with something I could never have prepared myself for, it was just so confronting, and well, GAY!
BEHOLD!
I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.
Man. That. Is. Gay.
I tried. I tried for the sake of research to join the 43,187,650 monthly active users Farmville claims to have, but I just could not do it.
I have a new favourite movie, it’s scattered my previous top five like bowling pins and somewhere in my crazed head there's a little voice shrieking “STRIKE!!” at the top of its lungs. Admittedly, I’m yet to actually see said movie, but I already know I love it. It’s already made its mark as a key disciple in my pop cultural bible. I just know, you know? Like a girl I’ve just seen at a party that I want to go up to and say “Excuse me, you don’t know me but we’re in love.” So romantic right now. The new object of my desire is a movie about t.a.t.u. Yes t.a.t.u., the faux lesbian duet that released an almighty two songs. Apparently they’re way cool in Europe. Anyway, someone decided to make a movie called “You and I/Finding t.a.t.u.” (Surely they could have pulled a name out of a hat and just picked one??). It’s about these two best friends whose goal it is to meet their idols t.a.t.u. and become Russian pop stars themselves. May I just add that t.a.t.u. actually star in the movie and have produced “new hits” for it as well!
The crux of my love for this movie? It stars Mischa Barton. Who speaks with a Russian accent. A BAD Russian accent. It’s just delicious. I imagine that in Mischa’s cocaine-addled-headband-straddled mind this is THE European indie flick of her career. Yeah. Take that Hollywood! The trailer opens with a deep male voice over: “Lana (mischa) was a beautiful girl trapped in a small town.. Janie (random) was a troubled teen”. At this point my spine was already curled up in a ball of cringe. But then out of nowhere comes a real bombshell: Micha’s very profound line, delivered in that flimsy Russian drawl, “You know Janie, in Moscow all dreams come true”. Oh god, it’s pretty much relentless from there– and that’s just the trailer!!
There are two main points I’m having trouble getting my head around with this movie. Firstly, the fact that there is a movie made about/starring t.a.t.u. is mind blowing for me. What about the other classic music acts that have been spawned by euroland in the past decade and only pumped out one or two hits? What about aqua? Or b* witched? Or that band that sang that blue song? Why have none of these bands qualified for movies starring actresses desperately trying to grab at notions of a “career”.
Secondly, let me just take a moment to comprehend Mischa’s accent. It reminds me of when I was 16 and I went on an overseas school trip to America with my two best friends. There are countless videos of us narrating our trip in Russian accents (tragically, these have been long since lost to the sands of time). From Disney paraphernalia to removing a wash cloth from a toilet bowl to screaming out hotel room windows at pedestrians below, we documented our movements in the best Russian accents we could muster. Of course we spoke very little ACTUAL Russian given the only phrases we knew were “I love you“and “my vagina is on fire”. Despite this, I still feel our declarations of burning genitalia held a Russian authenticity that trumps Mischa Barton’s own attempts at least 10 fold.
So lets review:
A movie about t.a.t.u. starring Mischa Barton who speaks in a bad Russian Accent. What is not to love?
I think Kate O’toole from hack on triple j has a really hot voice. I don’t know why- it’s not really conventionally hot. Maybe it’s just so soothing and nice to hear when she’s interviewing crack addicts or war veterans or whatever croaky human interest subject she has going. Anyway, it’s the kind of voice I’d like to hear calling me at 1am to talk about how shit her life is and can I please come round and drink cask wine with her. To which I’d politely decline, mumbling something pathetic about work the next day. Still, I like her voice.
King Lear is one of my all time favourite stories. It is known as one of the more difficult Shakespearean tragedies to study, so of course my year 12 English teacher decided that that would be our Everest. Gripped with anxiety and fears that an OP less than perfect would lead to a life of drug addiction and homelessness I decided to read the play over my holidays. My paranoia was a blessing in disguise because I developed my own appreciation of the story as a whole, instead of being dragged through a horrible drawn out over dissected rendition in class. Upon doing so, I had trouble understanding what was so terrifying to most about studying the play. Yes it’s long and a lot happens, but Jesus Christ, take some Ritalin and focus for two seconds please darlings. For those of you who don’t know, here is a brief rundown of the story in terms that absolutely everyone can understand. Here we go:
Rich daddy (King Lear) decides to divide up his empire between three darling daughters. When decision time comes the bitchy two faced daughters (Regan and Gonerill) are all smoochy and flatter daddy, therefore getting a sweet cut of his ‘hood. The nice genuine daughter (Cordelia) is all honest n’ shit and doesn’t go over the top in declaring her undying love for her father, thus offending daddy’s over inflated ego, so she gets exiled. Surprise, surprise! Bitchy daughters turn on daddy and he ends up with no empire, no house and no love. Daddy’s empire breaks out into war and for some reason daddy gets caught out in a storm and goes absolutely crazy and then realises the error of his ways but it’s all too late. Then everyone dies. The end.
Now if you don’t understand that you probably don‘t understand why I haven’ been snapped up by Cliffe’s notes already.
Anyway, this play really resonated with me when I was 17, and the same concepts that I took from it then I still find myself drawing upon now. The scene when king Lear loses his mind in the storm is an extremely powerful metaphor as the storm works only to heighten the reader’s sense of chaos, both physically and in Lear’s head. It is at this point in the play, when Lear has totally cracked and he tears off his clothes to frolic in the violent raging storm, that he comes to a vast number of epiphanies, finally seeing the error of his way. The message is clear: sometimes it is at the depths of our darkest hour and the height of our madness that we truly come to know ourselves. It is at this point, the lowest point, that we find the wisdom and the friendship we’re so desperately seeking is often our own. Some of us can then take this and know that despite whatever fear we may hold for the horrible things that life throws us, we do not run from them, though we may plunge head long into despair and hopelessness, we can always be there for ourselves. It’s very powerful to know that whatever unfortunate occurrences may befall us, there is always something to be taken from them, even if it is simply a greater sense of self. It is also a very powerful thing to know that you can trust yourself - as a friend - to be there. (Though asking for another hand is not a weakness- just your humanity showing.)
Seriously though, read Shakespeare - he invented the word “bubble”, what more do you want?
As it turns out, I am somewhat of a yoda when it comes to dating. My recent holidays and the hours of boredom which found me in a mild delirium resulted in endless amorous revelations. Retrospect and discussion with friends lead me to a somewhat bizarre dating theory. Yet the more I researched my hypothesis, the more it seemed fact truly is stranger than fiction. “Could it be??” I pondered, “Have I stumbled across the most counter-intuitive but successful dating technique OF ALL TIME??"
The hypothesis
Throwing up on a girl OR on the property of a girl (possbibly boys too?) is a great way to get things going. It seems too crazy to be true, but it’s worked for me and I’ve heard all kinds of anecdotes claiming the same. It appears there truly is an upside to that inevitable moment we all fear (don’t we... ?). Here are some case studies to mull over if you don’t believe me.
Case Study #1
This girl I had only been on a couple of dates with invited me to her friends 20th. Of course when I got to the party my date was absolutely shit faced and I had only had a mere two drinks. She forced half a bottle of vodka into my hand and bustled me into a taxi destined for the valley. So I drank- to catch up of course. I don’t really remember much after that, except for a strange struggle I had with the zip on my handbag. I know I danced, or as I was told later, I swayed precariously on the dance floor with my head tilted unnaturally and my eyes half closed. Anyway, my memory of that night is blank until the taxi ride home: When I threw up in the cab and ON this girl. The girl then paid the cab fare, the fine for me throwing up in the cab and took me home. She asked me out soon after that.
Case study #2
My little brother had recently asked out his first post-high school girlfriend. They hadn’t been together long when he had his 18th, after a night of an open bar tab and frivolities he and his friends ventured out for their virgin valley jaunt. Romance REALLY seems to run in our family, we kind of go with the same dating techniques. Only my darling brother chose to throw up all over said girlfriend in a bus which they were subsequently kicked out of- in the middle of nowhere. It’s now almost a year later and they’re still canoodling at family dinners. Charming.
Case Study #3
I was enjoying a classic “night in” type date which involved Thai and white wine. And white wine. And more white wine. And then champagne. Unexpectedly, my romantic night ended up all over my date’s bathroom sink (the toilet was too small of a target to be reckoned with). “I’ll clean it up”, I slurred as I collapsed on her bed. Several hours later I awoke to a gentle prod, “heeey.... just wondering... are you... are u going to clean that up?”. I stumbled into the bathroom and spent the next five minutes scooping handfuls of my cold partly digested pad thai from the sink. Result? Success.
Case study #4
My friend Nathan told me how this one time he threw up in a car park in front of an audience of girls. Being the Casanova he is, he managed to throw up on himself as well. Admittedly, this is a slight variation to my theory but I think it shows how versatile this dating trick really is. Not only did he hook up with one of the observers soon after, but he took another of them home. The one he took home happened to be his tutor. You can’t possibly tell me you’ve never had some kind of tutor/teacher fantasy and you’re not oozing jealousy as you read this. Seriously though, how else do you explain THAT kind of move?
Conclusion
I don’t know why none of the above lovers were permanently repulsed by the displays before them. If you were to ask any one of them how they would react given the situations hypothetically, I’m sure they’d all say they wouldn’t have a bar of it. But maybe it’s some kind of protective instinct that kicks in when we see someone we like so helpless, so dependant, in total need of our help and support? Or is it something to do with being there for someone in their hour of need that brings people closer together? My best guess is it’s something far less admirable. I think it’s something in that moment when a person’s face scrunches and contorts as they’re about to empty their guts that establishes them as the more pathetic of the two in the relationship and the other permanently resides in a position of top dog. The only thing as good as knowing you’re the cooler lover in a couple is when your lover knows it too. Go figure I guess?
I am officially middle-aged. Physically I’m still young and spritely but I know emotionally and mentally I am well into my 40’s. Which means only one thing: I am quickly nearing menopause. A friend of mine once told me about early onset of menopause, and how some women as young as their mid 20’s find their eggs drying up and their womb’s shrivelling prematurely. The idea of being rendered an infertile cranky bitch by the age of 30 didn’t scare me so much as when my friend described the other physical ramifications:
“...your skin gets all wrinkly and your tits.. Get REALLY saggy”
“No!” I gasped in horror.
“And” she continued, a sickening smile on her lips,” that’s it, you’re like that... forever!!”
Shocking. One of those things you could never imagine happening to you. But I am seeing undeniable signs that I have reached middle age and menopause is imminent. It’s horrible I know, but the evidence is overwhelming:
1. I read self help books. I love self help books, I actually have a favourite self help book author. Most women don’t read self help books until they hit middle age (which is generally the target audience of these books) and they’re rundown by their icky children and uncaring husbands. These books are designed for people who need validation otherwise they’ll develop a severe complex because they spent too long wondering whatever happened to the days when they felt “groovy” and paraded around in pastel knee high pumps.
2. I’m taking up yoga. This is one of those activities women take up when they’re too flubby and saggy to brave more conventional gym behaviour, or when they want something new age to impress the other mothers with when they’re waiting to pick up their kids from school.
3. I read Oprah magazine. Shut up, she has some really cool inspirational stuff, plus I get great advice on what to do when I don’t understand what my daughter sees in her new boyfriend.
4. I eat organic whole grain free range fat free food. This is for hippies or new age mothers with nothing better to do with their time. You know- the same ones I’ll probably be hanging out with at my yoga class.
5. I listen to ABBA and sometimes have trouble understanding the youth of today and their music choices. This is pretty self-explanatory.
Well the evidence is all there, I am most definitely middle age, which means menopause is only a heartbeat away. Farewell my friends, I will see you on the other side.
Sorry I just hate all that shit. I’m not scared of dying alone. I’m much more terrified of not living my life. I don’t want my eyes to be closed to the good things that are happening because they’re busy looking for something else. I mean, finding love is fate, you can’t force fate. It just happens- it’s not like you can put in extra hours for it and expect some kind of return.
Oh. She replied, clearly deflated. Well I guess that makes sense.
And anyway, why do I want someone to die with? Will that make the rest of my life mean more? It’s not like I’m going to reminisce about my death with them later, you know?
She toyed absently with a blade of grass. Don’t you want someone to grow old with though?
If that’s what makes me happy then I’ll do it, but I won’t pretend it’s going to be the only true happiness I’ll ever find just because other people say that it will.
What do u want then?
I don’t know. It’ll be what I want at the time though. I’m more worried about other things I guess.
There was a long silence.
Are you happy? I ventured.
Yeah, I guess, why wouldn’t I be?
Good. Because, that tree might fall on you.
What? What does that have to do with anything?
Well, then you’ll die happy and with someone you love. I peeled my gaze from the cloud formation above and looked at her. That’s what you just said you wanted, wasn’t it?
Oh ok, that’s a bit morbid Jane. And pretty unlikely anyway.
When I was at Woodford, we were sitting on the grass like this watching a band and this massive tree branch fell off a gum tree and fell on the people below. A few of them were concussed- they had to bring in an ambulance. I think it was in the paper.
She looked apprehensively at the ancient plant beside us. Still, the chances are pretty low.
Yeah, but what if it did though? What if you were alone when it happened? What if it was one of your friends here instead? Or a stranger even? Would it make a difference?
Of course it would. She paused momentarily, Wait, do I die straight away or do I get to say goodbye or something?
Um, probably not. No, you die Straight away.
Oh. I don’t know, I guess, I guess it’d happen so quickly, I don’t know if I’d want you to have to watch that. I don’t know if I’d want anyone to have to watch it actually.
I’m kind of known for having a genuine appreciation of things which leave the average person in a cringe induced coma. Personally, I think most people need to lighten up a little and get some tacky in their lives, but we’ll save that discussion for later. There are three things which top my list of cheap and nasty:
1. Musicals:
I love musicals, 2 of my top five favourite movies of all time are musicals and I’m sure they would probably dominate my top 10. Something about a world where problems are solved by hoards of perfect strangers who spontaneously drop what they’re doing to break into perfectly choreographed song and dance just makes me GO.
2. Country music:
Well really the Dixie Chicks: I own all their albums, the live DVD, the live CD, their documentary and I saw them live in concert. I’m quite partial to any woman with a Texan accent though: Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 actually gets my enthused. Carrie Underwood makes me giddy. And I once sought revenge on someone who stole a book of mine by swiping there Shania twain album which I don’t think they even knew they had. Yer. I sure showed them.
So you can imagine my delight when I was forwarded a country musical number lead by Miley Cyrus. Good things come in threes, right? It starts by her declaring she was about to “add a little hiphop to this hoedown”. Well, I don’t see how that could possibly go wrong!! Also, it could just be me but I SWEAR Tyra makes a brief appearance in this clip (I believe she was “putting her hawk in the sky” at the time of said appearance). Plus the lyrics are WRITTEN on screen karaoke style! That’s something that really tickles me as well. I love when bands feel a need to have the words to their songs scrawled across their video clips. It’s like they need to make sure there is NO way you will miss their creative genius! Yes, I’m so glad I didn’t miss such lyrics as “pop it lock it polka dot it, countrify then hip hop it”.
Turn the volume down, not because there’s any foul language or anything, just if anyone catches you with this song emanating from your speakers then you’ll probably melt into a puddle of shame on the floor- kind of like a mortified Alex Mac. Also, I cringed so hard I actually had goosebumps. (Unfortunately I couldn't "embed" this video so you'll have to make do with the link!)
I found this zine at rocking horse amongst the pig sty that is their street press collection. It’s probably one of the vilest, most grotesque and abominable scraps of human thought I’ve ever come across. So basically I LOVED it. It came to me at just the right time, one of those “meant to be” moments. There I was, traipsing around the city on Friday morning after a rather hectic Thursday night. My hangover didn’t kick in till 3:30 that arvo so I was still riding high on goon and no doze. The scum which had cropped up on my mind over night was the perfect breeding ground for any muck and debauchery that came my way. The timing was impeccable really.
Filthy Zine is a collection of miscellaneous comics thrown together which would probably appeal to people who like Cyanide and Happiness and also have a stomach made of iron. In their own words Filthy Zine is “about printing shit and making people shit their pants in disgust.” In my words it’s about genitalia, human excrement, bestiality, sodomy, violence, masturbation, and voyeur.
Anyway I’d love to post excerpts but that would ruin the surprise and I mostly can’t be bothered. Hence, you should CHECK OUT THEIR WEBSITE. (And please find the post titled “Retard Boy”. Hilarious.)
They have this photo from the government’s anti-binge drinking campaign and in the caption they’ve written “she was probably being a dick anyway”.
ZING! SO true! No one’s fooling anyone in that campaign. The girl who fell through the table probably woke up last Sunday with photos of her va-jay-jay tagged all over face book. And she’ll probably end up skinny dipping in the punch bowl at her mum’s 50th next Saturday. So this week’s little table incident is kind of just one of many and doesn’t really surprise anyone. All in all, she’s just not that innocent socially retarded bystander who drank too many cruisers because she wanted to fit in. So fuck you government!!
Oh, and pick up a copy of Filthy Zine if you manage to find it!
I don’t often laugh out loud at things I see on TV. Occasionally I break into an audible chuckle but I’m sure like most people, TV doesn’t find me crumpled in fits of belly aching laughter with tears streaming down my face. Yesterday, I saw something that very nearly did do this to me though. It was so good I had to write about it. It came from the most unlikely place too: The Tyra Banks Show.
Tyra was doing a special on eating disorders. Yes I know, she’s SUCH a trail blazer when it comes to topic choice. Anyway, there on screen was a pretty girl sitting nervously in the hot seat, she was probably a size 14 at most. Essentially, she was normal and healthy looking- totally do-able even. I was a little intrigued as to how she could possibly claim to have any sort of eating disorder. I don’t remember her name, but for sake of ease (and kicks in general) I say we call her Cindy:
Tyra:(on stage and sporting her “serious woman’s business” expression) Now Cindy, you have a very different eating disorder...
Cindy:(nods earnestly) Yes Tyra, I do.
Tyra: Yes, Cindy, you (pauses for effect) ...are a sleep eater.
Oh Cindy! Your trials and tribulations are finally out in the open! How have you been living with yourself? Those nights of rising in the wee hours and cramming your face with chocolates and ice-cream, those dark hours, those demons you’ve faced, it’s all out there now!
We were then showed footage of an allegedly sleeping Cindy wandering around the kitchen and gorging herself exclusively on any rubbish she could find. Concerned friends gave anecdotes of how they would wake in the night to hear Cindy banging cupboards and slamming fridge doors whenever they stayed over. Cindy even went so far as to have her grandpa (???) hide all the treats in the house, but her sleeping alter ego went crazy and made a ruckus in the kitchen when she was unable to find those treats she so desired.
The conversation continued:
Tyra: ...and how much weight have you gained?
Cindy: Probably about ten pounds over the years.
(For those of you who don’t know, that’s not even 5 kilos.)
Tyra: But Cindy, how did you know you were sleep eating?
Cindy: Well, I found wrappers and things in the morning, but mostly it was the chocolate smeared on my pillow.
Couples fascinate me. There’s this one couple I see ALL the time at uni, they look like they were made for each other. Probably because they both dress like they just escaped from a photo shoot for yen magazine. They also kind of look like brother and sister though, so whatever. Anyway, I’m sure they’ll cling to each other like their ships are sinking when the break up rolls around, because they’ll never find anyone else they go so well with. EVER. For the record, I’d LOVE to post a picture of them here but a) I don’t have one and b) that’s creepy even by my creep-o-metre.
Truth be told though, I have major beef with this kind of couple. Sure they look good; sure they’re a regular Sid and Nancy, a Kurt and Courtney, a John and Yoko. That’s all well and good, but for the rest of us, the manhunt for the perfect match invariably leads to countless coffee dates where the life and times of potential partners are picked apart with surgical precision. Credentials are scrutinized, perfectly good people are dismissed. And for what? Nights of burning anxiety coupled with premonitions of growing old and lonely with too many cats?! Oh please. This line of thinking really brushes me the wrong way. If Dr Phil were a 20 year old lesbian with nothing better to do then stalk couples and blog about it, this is what he’d say:
Couples are like outfits. (I can compare most things to outfits by the way). We’re all just pairs of jeans, running around looking for the right jacket to go with, whatever your cut, style and colour may be. It’s a cold world out there and everyone wants to rug up occasionally. So most people take a look at the jeans they’re sporting and they figure, "oh I know: I’ll find something that MATCHES these perfectly! Right?"
Wrong.
That, my darlings, is the relationship equivalent of denim on denim. My sister recently spent a month in Russia and she told me that in Moscow, denim on denim is all the rage. They also wear things like mesh and vinyl- it sounds like my bad taste wet dream. However, we are not living in the defunct Soviet Union and, hopefully, neither is your love life. If you really want your outfit to work, what you’re looking for is not that perfect match but that perfect COMPLIMENT. Find yourself a leather jacket or a pea coat for fucksake.
Not only will you look great together but it just WORKS. Plus, there’s no flurry of bad denim to burn our retinas when you make out like hungry apes at parties and things. Besides, have you ever bought jeans and then tried to find a matching jacket? I have no idea what that’s actually like.. but.. I’ve HEARD that it’s near impossible! And when you do, it’s usually slightly mismatched. Do you know what denim on denim which is slightly mismatched is called? A CLASH. Furthermore, what happens when your best friend steals your jacket? How will you ever find such a perfect match again? Oh woe is me, your life is over, jump in a well already! Alternatively, go find yourself a (metaphorical) fur coat, a (actual) bottle of tequila and kick that 80’s hangover!
In this day and age it is imperative that one has a “hobby”. Anyone who’s anyone knows that if you truly want to be unique you must be able to cooly discuss your participation in one of the following types of hobbies:
- Music (this includes being in a band, playing an instrument or djing) - Art and / or photography - Running a monthly club night - Writing Blog or possibly a zine - Fashion, in particular making your own clothes
If you can’t claim one of these hobbies you’re no one. And don’t even talk to me about sports. I myself, feel I’m really falling short in my recently selected genre of blog. I’m pretty sure I SHOULD be saving for a laptop by now so that I can trawl boutique coffee shops in west end, ordering soy chai lattes and regularly calling my friends so that I can loudly announce that, “oh me? No, I’m not doing much- just at three monkeys- writing my blog... my blog... MY BLOG!”.
With that in mind I think hobbies are great, they’re life’s little band-aids that you pursuit with vigour for a couple of months after a break up, a break down or when you simply realise how boring and sad you truly are. Today I wanted to discuss one of the more pretentious and fearful of the hobbies listed above: Photography. Usually this is one I steer clear of. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck how that angle you shot of a flower growing from dog shit on the footpath represents your pitiful tortured soul. Snore.
A rosy introduction indeed, I’d now like to introduce one of my best friends in the whole world, Katie!
...Who is into photography!
Hang in there now as I do my best to reconcile the awkward foot-in-mouth situation I’ve just created:
Katie takes amazing photos, there is no denying she possesses a real talent for what she does. It’s not just this talent that thrills me though, it’s the attitude Katie has towards her hobby of choice. She produces these brilliant photos but her passion is for the sake of passion. A concept many people seem to be unfamiliar with. Katie doesn’t forcibly inflict her tortured photographic soul on the world, she doesn’t even go on flickr. Nor does she talk about the camera she just ordered off ebay like it was the missing link in curing Africa of AIDs. And when you ask Katie if you can be in a photo? She doesn’t give you a look like you just asked if you could spit in her mouth, she smiles and says sure. Like a descent person would. However, you do have about 0.3 seconds to pose. That’s the point though, these photos are taken more in the hope of capturing a moment- there’s a real honesty to it. The essence of the night is captured in a net of hazey figures, ghostly layers and blurry lights. It’s all an experiment, 3 parts creative and 1 part scientific. There’s a fascination in what will come of each new trick. And if it turns out looking like crap? That’s just all part of the experiment. The art she creates seems almost by mistake, a superfluous by-product that comes with sincerity. Therein lies the charm.
Anyway, here are some of my favourites:
(Katie uses a whole lot of different cameras with hot chick names like “Holga” and “Diana”. She also had some really old school camera at one stage and occasionally dabbles with the trusty digital. You can tell I know little to nothing about all this, but the point is I want to show her knack for capturing moments like some crazed safari hunter, no matter what the medium. Also, these aren't photoshopped or anything, all the colours and layers etc is how they were taken.)
So back in the day, some 4.5 billion odd years ago the universe was a volatile place. The earth was just a little bubba making its way in that crazy shit storm that was our milky way, seriously, there were rocks and planets and meteors flying everywhere! Anyway, this big motherfucker of a rock slammed right into the earth, spitting out all kinds of debris. Some of this debris aggregated together and decided to hang around, orbiting the earth and henceforth being known as “the moon”. Over the years our lunar companion took its own fair share of beatings from space and was clumsily fashioned into the lovely little lump of cheese it is today.
Now here’s a fun fact:
The sun is approximately 400 times larger than the moon. The moon is approximately 400 times closer to the earth then the sun.
This delicate balance in size-distance ratio between the sun and the moon is the only reason that an eclipse is possible and actually occurs as it does.
Yet the life and times of our moon, from its creation to its size and distance from the earth were essentially all by pure chance.
