My Menopause

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.

Imaginary conversations between imaginary lovers

Are you afraid of dying alone? She whispered.

No. I replied bluntly, not looking at her.

She breathed in sharply, as if I’d offended her.

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.

Yeah exactly. That’d be selfish of you.

NO DOG'S BODY

An explanation of anarchy, not for your enjoyment.

Anarchy is a line of political thought:

Destroy politics and liberate thought.

Anarchy is a revolution dead on arrival:

The romance of a revolution will not upheave nations

Revolutions must breed organization.

But this is a term contrary to the essence of anarchy.

Though we will gladly scatter the organized masses with it.

This often translates incorrectly,

Anarchy does not pertain to chaos or violence.

Simply:

Violence organises the masses.

And,

A life grown stagnant and faceless in the swirl of chaos,your life,this is the only ‘organisation’ you will ever know.

Anarchy is not chaos and violence and disarray.

Anarchy is a whisper of utopia,

“Tear down authority!” It cries,

“Let humanity rule!”

Doom the animal drive.

Exile the animal greed.

No dog’s body!

Anarchy is never said, anarchy is spat:

Spat in the face of your 9 to 5’s

Spat in the face of your 2.4 children

Spat in the face of your trust funds.

Spat. Spat. Spat.

Anarchy is the act of coming down hard on the powers that be.

Anarchy is three syllables.

Anarchy is three chords.

Second hand boots move out of time,

Stomping the ground,

Shaking lose the sand your heads are buried in.

Anarchy is mystery and misunderstanding,

but disbelief is in the mind of the beholder.

AT LEAST I BELIEVE IN SOMETHING.

Anarchy is held hostage by the status quo:

a vain fall back when intellect and logic fails them

and condemnation and demonization prevail.

It is their scapegoat,

A derogatory dirty word.

Wear it like a badge of honour!

Anarchy is the best spoon to stir shit with.

People are likely to actually take you seriously.

Anarchy means only what you need it to.

People are still likely to actually take you seriously.

Cringe

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.

3. Miley Cyrus:

Oh my god, swoon! The girl is only a couple of years younger than me, plus she seems REALY mature –so it’s totally feasible. Also, I think she’s some kind of master of illusion, how else do you explain her ability to stuff an entire head of hair under that blonde wig when she plays Hannah Montana? Amazing! Deep down though, I’m just hanging out for her stint in rehab, I’m kind of done with lilo- I want a new wholesome Walt Disney protégé to fall from grace into a life of drugs and lesbianism. Plus she was spawned by a man who has more highlights in his hair then her whole fan base put together.





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!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RlnbmZK7GxU

Cruelty

A Lover left behind
Our stories acquainted
Our tales entwined
Move and sway
In the night unwind
And left you to wake,
To wake alone.

A lover Left for dead
Guilty heart turned
And Guilty heart fled
A whisper on the night train
“Je ne regrette”
And left you to die,
To die alone.

Flithy Zine - A Review

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.)

www.filthyzine.com

I will give you one tid bit though:

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 Dream of Tyra

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.

The chocolate smeared on her pillow.

Denim On Denim

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!

Case in point:

Art By Mistake

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.)

Lunacy

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.

Isn’t chance a provocative word?