Poetry & Voyeurism

kissed the bride eternally

2011-05-23T06:18:00.000-07:00

Pointless and Lame: Now Showing in 3D!

2011-04-03T04:22:00.001-07:00

So every bus stop in town seems to be adorned with posters for Never Say Never , the upcoming movie starring Justin Bieber which is losely based on his rise to fame.

For realsies?

According to Wikipedia, this is infact true:

“The film follows the pop star Justin Bieber with footage of performances from his 2010 My World Tour, all counting down to his performance in Madison Square Garden..It also includes scenes of Bieber's childhood, taken from home videos.”

It neglects to mention that there's actually more.. it’s in 3D! Is it a sin in this day and age to venture the idea that maybe, just maybe, not every movie needs to be in 3D??

Let's not get caught up in minute details here though. 3D swooping fringes aside, the real issue at hand is the need for this movie's existence. In my days of pre teenhood, I was satisfied with a straight to dvd (video) release. How is there suddenly a need for a full length motion picture film? A full length motion picture film IN 3D?? From an economists point of view it kinda makes sense I guess: Justin Bieber is after all, a non-renuable natural resource. There is only so much Bieber available for consumption before all Mtv Kids Choice Awards, appearances on Ellen and hilarious (a subjective interpretation) stunts on late night TV have been exhausted. Given the nature of internet and radio media alike the amount of Bieber society consumes is simply just not sustainable. Lukily the world will have completely drained all known sources of Bieber in the next couple of years and we can start to look towards rebuilding pop culture for the future.

Wow. I think society needs this movie as much as it needs a tell all book written by Snooki.

Park Street: Not Bi-Winning

2011-03-06T02:47:00.000-08:00

Last week, due to a sudden bout of unemployment, I found myself lucky enough to catch the first episode of Foxtel's latest homegrown TV series, Park Street. A reality tv show that follows the day to day lives of the editors who work for 5 of Australia's biggest womens' magazines. Owned by ACP the featured magazines included Cosmo, Cleo, Dolly, Madison and Shop Till You Drop. It's kind of like the ultimte Dr's waiting room stash.

Implicitly, these women are meant to be some sort of "Australian Anna Wintours". In reality, it's a d-grade slap in the face to The September Issue. Naturally, I was not impressed. Vogue is arguably the worlds most iconic fashion magazine. The magazines featured on Park Street, however? Not so much. The show has already made a name for itself as the most unsuccesful debut for an Australian pay tv series ever. Not a single viewer tuned in last Wednesday in Melbourne or Adelaide.

One could possibly put it down to the magazine line up. From a company that had other big names such as Harpers Bazaar and Grazia to offer up, Park Street really is slim pickings. Sure, admittedly, when I was 12 nothing gave me more joy then opening a crisp new issue of Dolly and flicking to the 'How Embarrassing' section. ("Dear Dolly, I got my period infront of my whole class. Everyone laughed and now my crush won't speak to me" - Tough break, darl). And of course, who could forget the two issues of cosmo I bought before realising that the world's most comprehensive study on how to give a blow job would bare little relevance to my life? Otherwise though, Cleo? Shop?? For realsies? Not quite the high flying glamazon workplace the producers must have hoped for.

All this passing of judgement kind of got me depressed though. There I was sitting at home unemployed for the second time this year heckling a tv show about woman who actually are employed. Luckily, I have Charlie Sheen's inetrview to cheer me up. I wish I was bi-winning.

The Champion of Bad Taste (Part 4)

2011-01-29T18:44:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while I guess. Pretty much the universe (and Apple) has conspired against me and my access to free time and computers- that’s about all I have to offer in the way of explanations. All that matters is I’m back, and the reason I’ve been forced back to my post behind the keyboard is of course, in the name of my raison d’etre: Bad taste.

Behold!

I have discovered what it is to wield the awesome power that comes with wearing lycra and leopard print: Leopard print tights. I’d describe it as an awesome albeit all consuming power. I guess you could say that the tights are to me as Gollum is to the ring. Here’s and artist’s impression if you will:

I’ve certainly enjoyed skulking around the shadows of my house and hissing “my precious” at family members over the past few weeks. Mama didn’t raise no fool though and I’m perfectly aware that any day my joy ride will come crashing down when Cruella Deville demands I return the tights she had made from Marsupalami.

Best Saturday Disney cartoon evs.

Oh and b-t-dubs, Before you start asking where I got my crown diamante of trash I’ll put it out there now: the tights don’t technically belong to me. Technically. I generally work on a lose version of the finders keepers principle. Therefore, the fact that I “found” these beauties in their original owner’s wardrobe is irrelevant. Apparently my tights came from an op shop before that, but who knows. One thing’s for sure though, somewhere in New Jersey a cast member of Jerseylicious (/Jersey Shore) lights a candle nightly in memory of the tights she was tragically forced to sell for her new boobs.

(Just a side note: I found this picture on a blog called "posh <3 honey", the tag line of which read "Gossip's never looked so Classy.....". Thus implying that I am to assume that this picture was the blogs representation of the "classy gossip" other readers must come for. But who am I to judge)

MI PRIMER TATUAJE

2010-09-05T16:57:00.000-07:00

On the weekend my girlfriend and I got tattoos. Apparently dating for three weeks isn’t long enough to warrant matching tattoos so I had to settle for this:

In what was clearly an attempt to one up me and assert her position, my girlfriend got this:

Pffft, whatever. I guess it kinda matches her collection though:

I know right? She has The. Best. Tattoos. Ever.

God Bless America

2010-08-30T16:32:00.000-07:00

If the internet and Hollywood have taught me anything, it’s that America is a magical place where everyone’s dreams come true. Reality aside, I have a dream. A dream that one day I will have a taught toned body and be able to wear a sexy American football outfit in public. I’d long kept this dream to myself, only sharing it with a few trusted friends until one day from the wonders of late night cable TV, there came to me an inspirational vision. A vision that could only come from one place: the US of A.

Behold!

The Lingerie Football League.

Some may call it “exploitation of women”, to which I say, “Play ball bitches!”

Some may call it “endorsement of raunch culture”, to which I say, “TOUCH DOWN!!”

These women are not strippers who are desperately trying to pay their way through college. These women are professional athletes and these professional athletes are fucking hot. The entire league is revolutionizing the way I see sport. Of course I’ve become a fan on Facebook and given the time difference the page is updated first thing in the morning our time. There is nothing better than waking up to this:

Originally lingerie football started out as Super Bowl halftime entertainment (and to think, all we get is ten year olds running around in auskick jerseys) but due to its overwhelming popularity the annual event has now become a league unto itself now.

Did I mention the game is full contact and the girls can actually play?

“Don’t treat us like ladies, treat us like football players”

Yes ma’am!

Hung Parliament Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Vote

2010-08-26T01:14:00.000-07:00

This year’s federal election was pretty average for me. I was devo that I got there too late for the barbeque but at least I was afforded the simple pleasure of holding hands with my girlfriend as we passed the liberal supporters (did I mention one of my all time favourite oxymorons is “gay liberal”?). Three out of the four didn’t even bother to flap their how to vote cards all up in my grill but there’s always one: “Voting liberals?" He accused, “NO!” I replied, sticking my hand in his face in a very Stop in The Name of Love inspired gesture.

What fun.

Then I made my vote, a simple line in a box, a simple line which actually counted towards something. Unlike the 618,435 (as at Sunday afternoon) dickheads who got together in all there stupidity to cast a record number of donkey votes. Liberal or labour, we can all agree on one thing: donkey voters are the ones to be blamed for our political predicament. Yes, I understand it’s likely our country could have been just as gridlocked had the donkeys voted but these are trying times and the finger of blame is at its most seductive right now.

I can put those responsible for bringing the curse of a hung parliament upon is into 3 main categories. I’d like to introduce an example of each, explain the reasons why they’re a fuckwit and the action you can take in dealing with them lest you should meet one in day to day life (two words: dick punch).

“Hi I’m fuckwit #1, I placed a donkey vote because I was making a stand. Examples of my work include writing political messages or symbols on my ballot paper. I take great pleasure in later telling my friends about the witty and creative means I used to stick it to the man!”

Let me tell you something, dear fuckwit, so as to shed some light on what becomes of your heroic political stand. I worked at the state election last year so this is straight from the horse’s mouth. I want you to cast your mind back to the poll booth you visited on Saturday the 21st of August. Now think of the people who ticked your name off the electoral roll and gave you your ballot paper: a handful of retirees, a couple of bored looking uni students and the one overzealous team leader with bad cologne. Got that image? These are the people who count the votes at the end of the day.

Working the election is really good money but it’s a set lump sum so you don’t get paid more if you have to stay late. As you can imagine, after sitting there for almost 12 hours in the stuffy basement of a church or school, no one is in the mood to drag out the vote count. It’s all done as quickly and thoroughly as possible: The votes are sorted into piles (liberal, labour, greens, donkeys etc) and then counted several times before a whole lot of official type hoo-ha to finish off.

Your grand political statement spends about half a second under the eye of someone who doesn’t care and just wants to get the votes counted so they can go home. But not to worry, I’m sure that Martha, the little old retiree was deeply moved by the stand you took against our government before she put your ballot into the “bin” pile.

(This is a long blog, if you need to get up to take whizz, now is a good time)

“Hi, I’m fuckwit #2 and I just don’t care about my vote or politics in general, examples of my type include those who hand in a blank ballot or who deliberately fill out my ballot incorrectly so as to void its validity.”

Sure you don’t care, that’s fair enough, each to their own I suppose. But really, you’ve just driven to the polling booth on a Saturday, wrestled your way into a car park, lined up in the hot sun, waded through a sea of how to vote cards and now you’re going to strip any point from this whole excruciating outing? It’s. A. Line. In. A. Box. Any stoner monkey can draw a line in a box. If you really don’t care about the people that will decide everything from the internet sites you can visit to the price it will cost you to eat, shit and sleep for the next three years, at least flip a fucking coin. That way you can rest assured the petrol you wasted driving to the polling booth wasn’t totally in vain. If that’s too hard for you then ask someone who does care and copy them: monkey see, monkey do, you fuckwit.

“Hi, I’m fuckwit #3 and I hate politicians. I’m often confused with fuckwit #2 but the difference is I have some slither of an education and am frustrated by the crappy choice of party policy. So, like the big baby I am, I threw a tantrum on Election Day and cast a dud vote. I sure showed them.”

Here’s a thought you fucking child: NO ONE likes any politicians. But to quote Looking For Alibrandi, “In Australia we don’t vote to get the best party in, we vote to keep the worst party out.” (Or something along those lines). So grow the fuck up, use your brain, and choose the party you hate the least. Simply draw A LINE IN THE BOX of that party and you can go home knowing that as much as you hate whoever you voted for, it could be worse. And if you’re still not convinced, refer to fuckwit #2, because you’ve probably overestimated yourself and belong back there.

Phew. Glad that’s off my chest. To think we live in a world where there is so much bloodshed in the name of basic democratic rights yet we the minority that have a say in who governs us would throw that away. There are people starving in the world but you don’t make a 3 course dinner every night and throw it straight in the bin so why do the same with your vote?

Dickheads.

"Go back, I like that song!"

2010-08-05T00:20:00.000-07:00

I hate indie music. There, I said it.

I love indie clothes, I don’t mind indie kids and I like indie clubs but I can’t for the life of me bring myself to enjoy the music. I guess I like the packaging and it’s the product I can do without. If anything, that’s a real testament to the age we live in. Indie music to me is like the kind of let down one feels when they purchase Celebrity Perfumes. The bottle, the packaging, the image all cry out to the very depths of my soul as if they are that thing I always felt was missing but one spritz of the perfume itself and I’m covered in searing prostitute piss. However, to every rule there is an acceptation and occasionally an indie band comes along which doesn’t totally suck. Maybe I’m getting soft, or maybe the world is just spinning backwards (I suspect the later) but lately I’ve found not one, but THREE entire albums that vaguely fit the description.

The Drums - The Drums

Recently I acquired this album, after “Let’s Go Surfing” forced itself upon me despite all protests. I guess they’re like any other indie band really, but they’re actually cool in that nonchalant way that’s usually total bullshit. They also have this unashamedly blatant surf rock streak which I can never get past in any band - it’s just nice to listen to something that doesn’t ask too much of you. They kind of make me feel like its summer and I’m dousing myself in deodorant in the hopes my mum doesn’t notice the smell of cigarettes on me.

Dum Dum Girls - I Will Be

A lot of friends have recommended me music over the years: “Jane, You’d love this band!”,they say, at which point I zone out. Sure it’s sweet they thought of me, but they only end up crushed when my feedback on their selection involves a 20 minute power point presentation explaining why their music taste is so crappy. Recently a friend recommended me Dum Dum Girls and in a never before seen leap of faith I actually downloaded AND listened to said album. What can I say? 4 babes, fuzzy garage guitars, cheeky harmonies and lyrics like “middle school was such a drag”.

Conclusion: Stop being a such a twat and give my friends’ taste a chance.

Robyn - Body Talk Pt. 1

Normally I’m a little sceptical of the whole indie-electro thing, especially if it involves female singers. It's fun, it's new, it's shiny (actually, that would be the gold lamé that everyone in this genre insists upon) but to actually listen to an album in its entirity is like listening to a Gameboy someone accidently left on. That is, it could be an album or it could be one REALLY long song. Either way, my ears are bleeding, so we’ll sort that out when we get back from emergency. I like Robyn though, I really don’t know why. Maybe coz I’ve already choreographed the entire album in front of my bedroom mirror. Or maybe coz after listening to the album, I think she’s the kind of girl that would shamelessly use and abuse me whilst she continued to openly lust over the boy she’s singing about in “Dancing On My Own”. I like that in a girl, you know?

The Champion of Bad Taste (Part 3)

2010-07-28T22:12:00.000-07:00

There is a great tragedy about to befall us all. A great, terrible, unavoidable tragedy. We as a society, are about to lose what few of us ever came to truly appreciate. The realisation of the tragedy for most will only occur this New Year’s Eve, though essentially it has already occurred. If you’re confused as to what the fuck it is I mean, I want you to think tacky, I want you to think plastic and sparkles, I want you to think novelty New Years Eve glasses:

Come this New Years Eve, we will never again be able to wear those ridiculous glasses denoting the numerals of the year in to which we are heading.

Why? Because “2011” is simply not practical when it comes to novelty eyewear. I think that’s pretty self explanatory. Even 2010 was able to get its foot in the door in a half arsed final salute to the previous 10 years of fuglyness.

For the past decade, when the clock struck 12 the best of us rose to the challenge and carried on the torch of bad taste from one year through to the next. Creatures of all colours and creed were brought together by the hideous mess of "lame" plastered to their drunken faces.

In a way, I feel those Novelty Oversized glasses came to represent a unity among us all that seems so lacking in this day and age.

I say we take a moment to reflect, for never again, will a decade befall our lifetimes with such retardedly joyous eyewear.

I’m so depressed.

Alaska

2010-07-25T05:28:00.000-07:00

It was the kind of party that makes you feel like someone just for being invited. Then you arrive to find it’s just the big fish from a stagnant backwater pond crammed into one house like sardines. B-grade celebrities in a town that no one's ever heard of. It wasn’t shit but it wasn’t that good either. I spent the better part of the night watching those big fish floundering around in their swamp of rotting social graces. I tried it on of course, but even the smell of that swamp was unbearable and my gag reflexes betrayed me every time. So I gave up and explored the house with a girl who said she had some good speed she wanted to share with someone, but she didn’t want to have to share to it with like, everyone.

We found a bedroom and slipped inside. She took a set of keys from her bag and begun scooping the soft crystals between her lips.

I think this is my ex boyfriend’s room, she said, handing me the key laden with my own small mound.

She opened a bedside draw, removed the modest stash of condoms and proceeded to fetch a safety pin from her bag.

It’s ok, no one will even remember if they catch us, she assured me.

I felt uneasy that as us I’d already been implicated.

Sounds from the party forced their way in through the crack under the door, making the silence between us all the more blatant. Not knowing what to say or do, I studied the luke warm mug of wine in my hands as if it may contain suggestions.

I love this song, she started not looking up from the condoms she had begun methodically stabbing with a single pin prick each.

I don’t know it, I admitted.

I like the way it makes me feel.

It’s kind of depressing, though?

Yeah, but I think sometimes we don’t really give a fuck about what it is we actually feel. We just want to know that it’s ok to feel that way.

This song does that for me. She offered, stabbing the last of the condoms.

Her massacre complete she looked up, startled by my presence.

Do you want some more speed then? She asked as she returned the condoms to the draw.

Al Capone's Guide to Tax Returns

2010-07-18T22:49:00.000-07:00

I’ve been on holidays for over 3 weeks now. It’s been great. And by great I mean drunk. The only time my system hasn’t been rife with all number of glorious intoxicants is when I’ve been at work. Even then, the dregs of last night’s hideously cheap wine have been doing their last rounds through my veins. The other day I had a dream (And Yes, I mean day not night) that I was a whale and I was stoned. I had a buddy who was also a stoned whale and we had a tin shed that made us invisible when we swam underneath it. Not dissimilar to the invisibility cloak in Harry Potter. When I woke up from this dream I laughed, tried to call a friend to tell her about it and went back to sleep when she didn’t answer. When I woke up again I decided it was time to calm down a little.

I’ve decided to focus my mind on more constructive things. It’s high time I do something intellectual so I’ve chosen to write a practical guide to tax returns. After all, it is that time of year again and I am an accountant in training! Keep in mind, it’s totally illegal that I dispense any sort of legal, accounting or taxation advice to anyone, given I’m far from qualified. So I’ll make it very clear right here and now that this is in no way advice of any sort but instead a few mere points of interest that may not have been considered previously by my fellow tax payers. If you find them applicable, it’s up to you to seek professional advice. Disclaimer done.

Anywho.

Did you know that you’re required to declare all income regardless of whether you made it legally or illegally? That’s right. So if you’ve sold any drugs, prostituted any hoes or bootlegged any crap during the past income year, then I suggest you get declaring lest you be reported for tax evasion. If you weren’t required to pay tax on income made from such activities then the tax office would essentially be rewarding you for your chosen line of work.

At the same time, if you do choose to declare such income the jig will essentially be up and you may as well pack your bags because you're on your way to mexico or jail. Better that then the vengeful wrath of the ATO though, the tax department truly is a force to be reckoned with. I’m not kidding, how do you think they got Al Capone in the end? Unable to officially link and charge Al Capone with any of his bootlegging, murder and general bad-assness, authorities finally charged him with income tax evasion in 1931 and he was convicted to 11 years in jail. Eek!

I hope you now spend many-a restless night over the next few weeks wracked with fear that tax ninjas will come crashing through your windows in the wee hours. Coz, like, they actually will. Trust me, I’ve spent a semester studying this shit- I think I’d know. HOWEVER. There could be one saving grace if you’re lucky. If it’s found that you’re drugs, prostitutes or hideous knock off designer sunglass stall is in fact a hobby and not a business then you won’t owe any tax. That’s because hobbies are not taxable activities. Phewf! Let’s go through some everyday examples of illegal income that are unlikely to constitute a business: Say, for example, you sold your last pill one Saturday night for taxi money to get home? That’s a one off event and therefore not a business. And say, you only gave the odd blozzy here and there for an extra buck or two this income year? I’m sure we could easily class that a hobby and not a business.

If it turns out you are a business tycoon and not just a neighbourhood embarrassment, the only other saving grace out there is if you’ve actually been running at a loss. If you're carry on a business and you've been running at a loss you won't owe any tax. However, under our current legal system you will be classed as a “major-dumb-fuck” , which is what we call people who can’t even manage to make a small profit from peddling drugs or sex. That being said, bad deals do happen. Crack whores and the po-po get all up in yo’ biznaz and the next thing you know half your “stock” has to be written off as lost or stolen. So, if you’re running at a loss you won’t owe any tax. What a relief, right?

Well, that’s all for now. With my mind clearly scraped from the gutter and having been given a brief intellectual work out I think I’m ready to return to the blur to alcoholism and debauchery for the last reaming week of my holiday.

Ta.

Personas from Production Lines

2010-06-29T18:47:00.000-07:00

I love free shit and I love reading- so I have a habit of picking up any magazine/zine/pamphlet I find that looks vaguely free. Whether it is or not is a minor technicality. A while back, I came across (and swiped) a queer themed zine at uni. Let me tell you what a find that was- total blast! The only beef I had with it was the handful of articles that had to do with all the different “types” of lesbian one could become. That kind of overwhelmed me a little so I let the zine be consumed by the black hole that is my bed room and totally forgot about it till recently. As is the way of my memory- it’s more a hypothetical possibility then it is an actual part of my brain.

Back to this array of lesbianna I came across. Talk about 21st century consumerism! I know these articles were meant to be heartfelt and crap but I felt like I was trying to pick out which mass produced style of individuality to take home and call my own. Kind of like choosing which style of Converse Chucks best suits me. And then there I was, back to my usual gripe that has created an unjustified distaste within me for Tegan and Sara and The L-word (surprisingly Ellen and pink have managed to escape my icy disdain). I’ve said it before (Actually I haven’t) and I’ll say it again: I did not break one mould just to be forced into another.

It took me over 5 years to come out properly. During that time, well meaning family members, friends and strangers were kind enough to raise various questions which I’d never considered before. Usual suspects included: “but don’t you want kids?”, “don’t you want to get married”, “don’t you want to grow old with someone?”. Thanks for the insight. Really, none of that EVER occurred to me! Tell me again about the terrible sense of loss I’ll feel if my vagina is never torn to shreds in child birth given homosexuality clearly will cause my womb to shrivell up and die.

Honestly, such ill informed questions don’t phase me now but when you’re young and vulnerable it can feel devastating that you might be throwing away a life time of dirty nappies and SUV's. It wasn't just about accepting the fact I was gay, I was also accepting the fact I wasn't straight. After finally shedding all this confusion and anguish to at last emerge a beautiful butterfly of gaydom, I don’t understand this need to then scuttle into the arms of the nearest stereotype on offer and settle into the cosy confines of someone else’s idea of what should be. Especially when you know what it’s like first-hand to break out of that.

Queer adolescences have an amazing opportunity where we are forced to question and define who we really are at such a young age. Yes, it’s a lot to ask of a 13 year old but most straight people don’t have that kind of personal crisis till there 40, have 3 kids, a mortgage and the sinking realisation that maybe they are too old for Sas and Bide jeans. So I say, take the opportunity and run it to the ground! Even for people who aren’t queer, you can still come out in some way- I guess it’s a bit of a metaphor for declaring to the world who you really are. Just ask Diana Ross if you’re not sure. (See Video at the end of this blog.. seriously.).

There is of course, always that need to fit in *somewhere*- that’s human nature I guess. Of that same vein, I’m always fascinated and in jealous awe of my friends who seem to fit in everywhere. No matter what social situation or group I invite them along to they can slip and slide between them with the ease of a slimy wet fish. I think all my friends are pretty incredible (even the slimy wet fish) and when I’m with them, being the creep I am, I like to observe them with an almost scientific precision. Carefully, through extensive internal note taking, I manage to extract their best qualities, which I then take home to see what I can learn.

I’ve tried to find some sort of common denominator that binds my friends who can fit in anywhere. Maybe they’re just that freakin’ cool or maybe it’s a certain dress sense or they have some particular quirk that everyone finds appealing. The only real common denominator I can find is they’re all confident in who they are and are very much their own person. I think people are drawn to that no matter what form it comes in; more so then they are to someone who has beaten their identity to a bloody pulp in the hopes of immaculately conforming to something which only exists in their heads.

Anywho, back to 98 Shades of Lesbian: I like to think I’m a girl who likes girl, and I can do without the bells and frills on it. None of this butch/lipstick/bull dyke/soft butch/femme/rarara crap. I’m a complex human being like everyone else, and as proud as I am to be gay it’s not all of who I am and I would hate to be judged as a person for any one aspect of myself. No one wants to be seen and judged as a mere 2 dimensional stereotype. The problem is, despite saying this, a lot of people are more than happy to dive head long into this social arms race to see who can best embody an imaginary ideal. Which in turn just facilitates outsiders to then judge them and everyone else in the contexts of their chosen stereotype.

The whole thing doesn’t need such a long bitchy rant but there you go, I did it anyway. Long and the short: It’s no fun and it’s really draining denying who you are. I really believe life is the journey not the destination, so why spend the whole time trudging upstream when you could just throw up your hands, go with the flow and see where that takes you?

Aliens Abducted All My Friends

2010-06-28T05:18:00.000-07:00

I love conspiracy theories. I also love ruining them for other people. If there is a rational explanation to put to someone’s harmless mumbo jumbo I’ll be the first to find it and ruin Christmas for everyone. Some may go so far as to call me a “bitch” but whatever, the sick glee I get from raining on someone else's parade is always worth it. So of course when a couple of friends recently got into alien abduction theories I took it upon myself to do everything I could to ruin their fun and promised to dedicate a blog to my endeavour.

Enter: This blog.

I don’t deny that there could be something or someone out there- not in the slightest. I just don’t know if I can go so far as to believe that aliens have been sneaking around making late night cameos all across the world without anyone noticing except for a staggering number of crackpots in Texas. There’s just so much conflicting evidence out there: between Men In Black, Widget and Star Wars, I just don’t know what to think.

My favourite explanation is a sleep phenomenon called Sleep Paralysis. It also explains a whole host of similar run-ins people have with spirits, ghosts, and apparitions- whatever late night visitors you might choose to roll with.

So this is how it works:

To begin with, while we’re asleep, our bodies usually go into a state of paralysis called REM Atonia. It’s important that we’re able to do this as part of a regular night’s sleep, mainly so we can’t act out what we're dreaming. Sleep Paralysis is when someone wakes up from a deep state of sleep, but the brain has kind of missed the memo and keeps going with the whole body paralysis thing, even though you’re now conscious.

There’s more to it though, Sleep Paralysis usually comes with different sensory hallucinations which can range from quite benign to fucking scary. The most basic are usually physical sensations, for example, one may wake up and experience a brief period of paralysis along with a sensation of being suffocated or crushed. This is quite a common occurrence; it does no damage whatsoever and only lasts a minute or two. I get this quite a bit if I nap in the day time (Sleep Paralysis is related to bad or irregular sleep habits). Let me just say, it’s fucking horrendous.

That’s kind of like the low cal version though- it gets better. People who experience hallucinations with their Sleep Paralysis get to endure it for up to 7 or 8 minutes. Along with the joy of being paralysed, many people report an intense feeling of a presence in the room usually coupled with strong feelings of fear or anxiety towards said presence. Comparable to the feeling you get when you walk home alone on a dark street and you are absolutely convinced someone is there. Quite commonly auditory hallucinations are involved as well. Anything from a simple buzzing or tapping, to laughter and screaming, to actual speech. Finally, it’s much rarer, but visual hallucinations can also get involved.

These are often percieved as a manifestation of the “presence” in the room and can take many different, often human like, forms. They usually are only seen in the peripheral vision and aren’t that vivid. Though in cases, they can take on extremely vivid forms and “physical interaction” between the person and the hallucination has even been documented. Most sleep paralysis episodes are akin to nightmares and are almost never enjoyable. Kind of a bummer really, it could be potentially awesome if you think about it.

To explain it in basic terms, it’s kind of like suddenly become conscious whilst dreaming. Of course, we automatically accept things we see to be true when we know we're conscious (seeing is believing and all). When you know for a fact you’re awake, when you know you’re not on drugs and when you can see a stranger standing over your bed in the middle of the night, you’re likely to believe that there is in fact, a stranger standing over your bed in the middle of the night. If the person or thing you’re seeing is totally weird, the brain is likely to rationalise what it sees and come up with an explanation (a ghost, spirit or alien) for something you see in a state of consciousness before its going to resort to all out denial of what you can see with your own eyes.

So, this is a great explanation for SOME alien abduction cases (I can accept that some cases can’t be explained away by crazy sleep disorders). Why is it though, that people all across the world are having the same “dream” about aliens? Surely that throws this theory right out the window, right? I honestly can’t tell you why so many people have such a similar “dream”. Though I can tell you that there are hardly any recorded alien abductions before the late 1940’s, which is also the same time sci-fi started to really make its mark on pop culture. Think about that. Before then? Most episodes of sleep paralysis were the backbone of countless myths and legends about demons, ghosts and monsters.

182 Days In The Life Of...

2010-06-10T03:59:00.000-07:00

I ask you right here to please agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means “I survived”.

-Little Bee, in The Other Hand by Chris Cleave

http://poetryandvoyeurism.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-beyonce.html

There was a weekend in February, I have scarcely any recollection of it now, nor the three or four weeks that followed. I really don’t remember them that much at all. There are facts of course, things I know to be true: an accident, my girlfriend moving to Sydney the next day, visits to the hospital, the messy aftermath of an ambiguous break up, fights with the people I needed most. I see snap shots of all this, but they’re disjointed and out of order. It’s like trying to recollect a dream that leaves behind few clues, just an unnameable feeling and a sense of great significance.

There are other, different sorts of facts I’ve come to know since that weekend. Above all (unfortunately), I’ve learned that when the brain sustains an injury the healing is agonisingly slow for those waiting by the bedside. It’s like watching someone wake up in the morning in slow motion, only what should happen in a matter of minutes takes months. If a part of the brain cannot be salvaged the body sometimes has the ability to transfer certain functions to other parts of the brain and essentially “rewire itself”, connecting and creating neurons in different ways so that the body can carry on. In a way the heart does the same. Sometimes it breaks so badly, it will never work the same way again; there are parts of it that will never heal. Yet no matter how disfigured and scarred the heart may be, it continues to beat. Somehow, it finds a way to rewire itself and to carry on.

Inspired by Jamie Livingston who took a polaroid everyday for 18 years until his death in 1997, I’ve decided to do the same for 182 days (half a year) on a disposable camera. It helps in saving me from the hum drum blur of study and work and study and work and study and work that manages to swallow entire weeks before I even notice. There’s something very grounding in forcing myself to search for a moment each day that I feel worth photographing despite its perceived significance in the eyes of another. There is also something very powerful in recognising the little things that I would usually take for granted as part of my day.

I like the idea that the value of our lives does not lie in our achievements but is instead found in the day to day moments. Celebrating small moments by consigning the memory to a photo has quietly brought this idea away from some namby pamby mantra and into a firm mindset I carry. I guess, there’s probably something in that.

Anyway, these are some of my favourites so far that Idon’t particularly mind sharing:

Take that MTV!!

2010-06-01T04:56:00.000-07:00

Don’t you love when you’re sitting at home on a Sunday night, a little worse for wear after the weekend and something totally ridiculous and obscure meanders onto SBS or ABC? It’s moments like these when all you can do is thank whatever cosmic forces aligned to bring you such luck with such impeccable timing. With this in mind, I say thank god for SBS airing Eurovision live from Oslo, Norway on Sunday night and thank god for whatever it was that compelled my family to have SBS on at that very moment when it started.

Not only was it tacky, over the top and magical but I found it quite educational too! In fact, I now consider myself somewhat of an expert on European countries and cultures, most of which I’d never heard of until Sunday. I’ll be honest, I know little about the finer details of these places, like where they actually are or how to pronounce them. Yet I can tell you that an overwhelming majority appear to be populated by some sort of androgynous-electro-forest-nymphs. All those beauties with fabulous jaw lines and flawless skin yabbering away in there cooky “languages” just make me want to jet half way across the world to find the niche that is surely waiting for me amongst them.

For those of you unfamiliar with Eurovision, it’s a European song contest that shits all over anything like American Idol. Representatives from 39 countries across Europe compete in 3 rounds with the top 25 battling it out for numero uno in a final round which is aired internationally. Europeans being Europeans it quikly turns into this bizarre and trashy free-for-all with an incredible array of vocals and talent. This year’s winner was Lena who represented Germany with a song called “Satellites”. Truth be told, I wasn’t really behind Germany on this one. I felt that their performance didn’t sum up what I’d grown to know and love about Eurovision in the 3 and a half hours I spent watching it. I’d probably describe it as a low key indie/pop song devoid of flashy lights, vile techno, hideous dance moves and any wings emerging from ball gowns mid-song (a la Belarus). Jesus, get with the programme Germany!

However, Lena’s performance was in English. Much to my delight her grasp on the English language was very loose and her accent was downright weird. Kind of like she’d spent many-a late night combing through every known accent in the native English speaking world and had at last compiled a staggering portfolio of the worst possible pronunciation of each vowel. Bless. I liked that when she won she tried to give a thankyou speech in English but only managed to say “this is absolutely awesome” before covering her head and face with the German flag- always a pleasing touch. She was then presented with a hideous bouquet that looked like it had come straight from the set of Star Trek where it had just finished filming its role as a Cling-On’s vagina.

My favourites throughout the night included Azerbaijan (which I instantly translated to Azkaban), represented by Safura who sang “Drip Drops”. Allegedly (and I say allegedly, because I just couldn’t see it), the choreography was done by the same person who did Beyonce’s single ladies video. Also, Safura’s dress lit up mid song, MID-SONG! Another favourite for me was Iceland. I liked them for the simple fact they were represented by what appeared to be Beth Ditto’s fairy god mother. I also enjoyed the man who leapt up on stage during Spain’s performance wearing a pink fez and copying the backup dancer’s (who were dressed as clowns) in an attempt to “blend in”. And of course, there was France with their super fun "Allez Ole Ola", and its god awful (i.e. fabulous) choreography!

Low points of the evening included the UK who seem too removed and conventional to be part of Eurovision. In an attempt to get in on the crazy camp antics of their mainland counterparts they overdid the cringe factor of their song and underdid the pizzazz factor of their performance- the results were luke warm to say the least. Other disappointments included Russia, who sound as though they should be the kings of cringe but instead brought out this horrible indie folk band that performed in scarves and sweaters. Excuse me? We have dresses that light up, others that grow wings and robot back up dancers who shoot fire out of their arms (Turkey), and the best Russia can do is an old knitted sweater? Puh-lease!!

The evening ended with a dance that was taught to and performed by the entire audience, as well as the “back at home street parties” being aired as part of the show. Said dance was then taught to the 120 million viewers at home around the world. What fun! My sister and I did our best to keep up, clicking and shimmying in our living room at home whilst being led by men in purple and green leather suits on screen. Quite frankly, I cannot wait till the next party I throw which will undoubtedly have a strict dress code of “Eurovision back up dancer”. Luckily, the majority of the night has already hit YouTube and the 2010 Eurovision best of CD should be out soon so I’ll have something to tide me over as I count down the 365 days until next eurovision!

A Single Review: Your Love Is My Drug by Ke$ha

2010-04-13T08:08:00.000-07:00

First things first, let's please talk about this title. Now why would you do that Ke$ha? Why would you, of all people, release a song with any reference to drugs in the title? Don’t you know you’ve just gift wrapped class-a material that will go towards jokes at your expense about the plethora of drugs you are actually on, none of which go by the name of “love” in any circle? But no, you’re right, the only thing worse then being talked about is not being talked about. So I’ll just let that one slide with nothing but a raised eyebrow.

Back to the single itself. I like to imagine ke$ha cooking this one up under the instruction of some cheap “pop music recipe book” that you might find obnoxiously placed at supermarket checkouts in Hollywood. If I know ke$ha, which I don’t, I can assure you she would have just downed her morning bottle of Jack before embarking on any kitchen adventures. Hence, she would have added an entire bottle of Katy Perry’s “Waking Up In Vegas” as opposed to the half tablespoon the recipe originally called for. In an attempt to balance her mistake she would have then added an extremely potent and well warn hooker heal before spending the day searching for a used tampon in every truck stop bathroom with in a 5 mile radius. After leaving the whole mess in the sun for about 3 days, Voila! Your Love Is My Drug by Ke$ha.

The Greatest Rock N' Roll Swindle

2010-04-11T22:30:00.000-07:00

RIP Malcolm McLaren

22/01/1946 - 8/4/2010

“I am an antichrist, I am an anarchist
Don’t know what I want but I know how to get it
I wanna destroy the passer by”

- Anarchy in The UK, The Sex Pistols

My impressions of Malcolm McLaren are mostly based on The Great Rock n Roll Swindle- a badly executed mockumentary released in 1980 that chronicles the rise to fame of a little band he managed. You may have heard of them, I think they were called The Sex Pistols or something? I discovered The Great Rock N Roll Swindle on VHS crammed into a bookshelf at home when I was going through my punk phase. If you never went through a punk phase growing up, you probably don’t have a soul. I don’t remember much of the film given it made little to no sense but I do remember Malcolm sitting naked in a bath tub with his penis bobbing in the water while he discussed the success of The Sex Pistols and his skills as a marketing aficionado. It was the birth of a hero in my 15 year old mind. I loved how his take on the band’s success and the mockery he made of an increasingly over the top music industry were simply a by-product of his goal to "make a million pounds". It was like learning about one of those horrifically rare, albiet electrifying, moments in history when the secrets of the bourgeois fell into the hands of the proletariats and a whole lot of “shit hit the fan” ensued.

The Sex Pistols' early shows and their raw chaotic style are referenced in interviews as an irrefutable turning point by pretty much every punk band to come out of London in that era. Malcolm McLaren helped orchestrate this style which every rock genre to followed has struggled to escape the influence of in some way or another. I’ll agree it’s debatable how much credit he can be afforded for it, but it’s undeniable that a large portion has his name tattooed all over it.

The godfather of punk, Malcolm stole Vivienne Westwood from a ho hum marriage and life as a school teacher, throwing her into the swells of fashion in their boutique store, Sex. He managed The New York Dolls amongst others, he created (depending on who’s side you believe) and managed The Sex Pistols, he had his own brief solo career in the early 80’s and continued to be an influential figure in London’s music scene till his death. Though Malcolm is not as well known as many of the artists he was involved with, his influence has been further reaching then the lot of them combined. A rebel, a businessman, an artist and a punk rocker till the very end, his last words are reported to have been “Free Leonard Peltier” (an unfairly incarcerated member of the American Indian Movement).

Malcolm McLaren’s untimely death last Thursday at the age of 64 after his battle with cancer signifies a tragic loss to pop culture. He will be sorely missed and immortalised as a hero in the minds of so many.

Anonymity Breeds Individuality

2010-03-29T05:47:00.001-07:00

The blackened charm of the city: an unnameable presence that lures the damned with the fervour of a moth to the flicker of neon lights, upon which there waits nothing but its own inglorious death. A metaphor for the epitome of insignificance.

The stench of exhaust fumes and decay leads us blind, stumbling, to our Mecca. Be it by our own conscious manifestations or through a more subconscious yet profound sense of belonging. We indulge ourselves there: clogging the arteries of the metro subway, pumping through its veins, urged on by the city’s heart beat- a reluctant thump that echoes through the empty lifeless crowds. The corporates, the homeless, the slime. They writhe in the filth and scum which permeates the air and fills their lungs as they dance to the slow rhythm of car horns, sirens and cursing. The faceless crowd: Moving as one with indifference to the human lives that serve as the very molecules of its cold stark features. No one actually lives here- they only survive.

Blessed are the meek for they shall never know what it is to be swallowed whole by the rat race. At the thought itself, the cold hands of an overwhelming insufficiency clutch tightly to their necks and wring from them any starry eyed dreams they may have had of the big city. Without articulating it, the meek are innately aware that the city and its populace by no means equates to a likelihood of opportunity and success. Instead the city steals from its streets a regular sacrifice for the jaws of disappointment to sink its festering teeth into, spreading its bacteria and disease into the body long after it has moved on to its next pathetic victim. The slow creep of one’s demise and the knowledge of its imminence become more unbearable then the pain of the bite itself.

You would much rather be a big fish in a small pond then pour into the sea where the losers outnumber the winners 10,000 to 1. 10,000 constant reminders that at the end of the day fish are still fish and there are few that will never find themselves falling between cracks in the streets to rancid sewers below. Where they belong: Down in the sewers, with the other fish. But down below in the cess pool of despair and perversion await other fish whose lives are as dismal and meaningless as your own. Fish whose interests and intensions are as sick and twisted as your own. Others who have come to realise, as you have, that when you’re nobody you can be anyone you fucking like. Anonymity breeds individuality.

*Photo by Katie D

I KILLED GAGA

2010-03-27T05:03:00.000-07:00

“The freaks are outside and I’ve locked all the doors.”

Pop Culture’s messiah has come. She has descended among us to deliver those who have received the mark, the number of the beat, to a disco apocalypse:

the age of The Monster Ball has come.

From the time of the old testament as we know it: The Fame; to the arrival of the new testament as we know it: The Fame Monster; we've been waiting. The devoted and the faithful, moving in time to deranged gospels, we've been fucking waiting. And now, from the pyrotechnic fires, the lightning flashlights and the bass line that lays waste to our very foundations, Her little monsters disperse amongst the choreographed chaos. Dressed in layers of Haute Ga-ture they come en masse, exhaling clouds of decadence and fame from their cheap cigarettes.

We sweat glitter and we bleed hairspray, we are the avante-ga, we are Her little monsters.

"I’m like tinkerbell... clap for me, do you want me to die?”

The Stages of a Break-up: A Musical

2010-03-24T20:25:00.000-07:00

As you may have surmised from previous blog entries, I have been dumped. Well kind of more just “ditched”. Long story short, my now ex-girlfriend moved to Sydney for various reasons and we both agreed it would be for the better if we didn’t pursue a long distance relationship. However, given she was the one who left I have chosen to play the part of “dumpee” in tonight’s musical rendition of “stages of a break up”. Gather your popcorn and frozen cokes, whilst I dim the lights and lift the curtains, so begins stage one...

Stage #1: Kelly Clarkson –“My life would suck without you”

Oh Kelly, really?? This is only acceptable in the 24-72 hour period post break up. I find it best to simply make the most of this time by curling up in the foetal position, clutching a picture of my ex and howling into the night.

Stage #2: Alanis Morrisette- “You Oughta Know”

If break ups really could be done in the style of a musical this would be act 1 scene 2 and it would begin with the following dialogue:

Me: “You don’t understand, Alanis Morrisette came on and I didn’t change the channel.”

Close friend: “So?”

Me: “I listened to the whole thing!”

Close friend: “oh...”

Me: “and I enjoyed it!”

*cue music*

It’s at this point I start running my friendships like a communist dictatorship- any friend who does not swear their undying hatred toward my ex and dares to put forward “reasonable”, “objective” or even “sane” viewpoints is instantly found guilty of treason and excommunicated. Friends who have known me long enough know it’s better to ride this stage out and should they come across the rumbling Mt Versuvias that is my temper they’re best to get creative with their swear words toot sweet. Words such as “cunt”, “bitch” and “whore” should be used sans restraint. The ability to use them in unexpected combinations is also looked upon favourably.

Stage #3: Cher- “Believe”

This stage comes off as being reflective and feels almost zen like. Do not, in any way confuse this for the beginning of the healing process. I know from experience that it simply means I’m so exhausted from the intensity of my anger in the Alanis Morrisette stage, that I’ve entered a state of euphoric delirium. At this point I generally begin reminiscing over the “good times”, I may even go so far as to wish my ex lover “well”. Eesh! Furthermore, I am likely to find myself explaining to anyone that will listen that yes, I did spend the night crying into a bag of fat free marshmallows, pausing only to dip them in melted chocolate that I burnt because I was crying so hard, but it was a cleansing cry. It may feel as though the light at end of the tunnel is in sight at this stage. I fear not, that is simply the reflection from Cher’s tinsel-esque wig and disco balls my friend. I am very much still in the dark.

Stage #4: Destiny's Child- “Independent woman” & “Survivor”

This stage is deceptive too. The new found motivation that comes with it is by no means some sort of end point to the misery. Survivor, ay? Really? If I was really happy and content again would I feel the need to slave over textbooks and lose myself in such topics as “Income Tax Law”? Would I!? And if I was really that happy would I feel the need to torture myself on treadmills with the enthusiasm of a Hollywood house wife? I think not. Besides, “Now that you’re out of my life, I’m so much better” is a little bitter for someone who has allegedly moved on. On that same note, if I’m so over my ex, why is it I know every comment word for word on her facebook?

Stage #5: Pink – “So What”, “Please Don’t Leave me” & “I Don’t Believe You”

Ah, welcome to the relapse- also known as the first night out. Things seem to start off fine, just like the album Funhouse. There I am screaming the lyrics to So What? with my nearest and dearest, “Tonight! I’m alright! I’m just fine!”. Things are travelling along famously until all of a sudden Please Don’t Leave Me ambushes the speakers. “Don’t change it!” I say, grossly misguided by the previous Destiny’s Child stage of my break up which has lead me to believe I’m now strong enough to deal with this kind of mishap. Alas, by the end of the first chorus the ball is rolling and I guarantee that before the song is over I’ll be as drunk as a 13 year old who has downed their parent’s entire alcohol cabinet. My ex can then look forward to waking up the next morning and finding 16 messages on her voicemail all of which consist of I Don’t Believe You by Pink and my smooth sultry sobbing in the background. Tell me again why I ended up single?

Stage #6: Beyonce- “Irreplaceable”, “Single Ladies”, “Me, Myself and I”

Now this is the stage where at last I will emerge from that crazy cacoon as a beautiful flamboyant butterfly. Finally able to establish myself as a strong independent black woman, ready to face the world again and put myself back on the market! “How is this any different from the Destiny’s Child Stage?” You may ask. A very valid question, indeed. The difference here is that this stage is similar to Beyonce’s solo career itself. Here, I can at last step out on my own, knowing Kelly and Michelle will always love and support me, but it’s time to stand on my own two feet again. A strong willed woman with my head held higher then my patent leather heals. The last scene of this musical would see me sashay away in to the sunset, ready to take on the dating world with poise and grace, while Cher's (of Clueless this time!) wise words ring in my head “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet!”. That is of course until a round of vodka’s finds me sucking the face off the nearest human with a vagina.

Yes there is a long musical road ahead of me, wish me luck!

Tony 'Twat Face' Abbott

2010-03-16T00:56:00.000-07:00

Recently Tony 'Twat Face' Abbott, ruffled some feather (boa)’s when he said that he, like "most Australians” feel “threatened” by homosexuals. He has since been made to apologise, backtrack and explain himself. Look, I don’t think Tony Abbott is all that bad - unlike the rest of the gay community which is aghast with his statements. Obviously everyone’s all up in arms about this but I’m here to tell you that Tony Abbott is right. He and every other straight person have every right to feel threatened by gays! After all, gays are planning the end of the world as you know it. Obviously, this isn’t a very well known fact, but I’ve decided on behalf of the gay community it’s time to cut the crap and lay truth to centuries of suspicion and prejudice. Occasionally our plans have been leaked to the world, for example, all that preaching about the end of the family unit if gay people get married. You know the type. Perhaps at times, you’ve supposed it sounds a little farfetched that two girls or boys could make out in a club one Saturday and thus tear apart families they’ve never met and corrupt children they’ve never heard of. Farfetched? Yes. Impossible? No. We’re fucking powerful as shit and can do whatever the hell we want. Besides, your crappy little family units is just child’s play as far as we’re concerned.

We’ve got something far bigger in mind then family units. We’ve been hoarding nuclear weapons in San Francisco for years now. We have blueprints to all the underground subways in all the major cities of the world. We have food stores in underground bunkers across Asia, America and Europe to last us 30 years. 9/11 was a gay conspiracy. The financial crisis was set in motion by gay economic masterminds. The internet was invented by the American Army, yes, but did you know the man in charge of it was a closet gay? It's been the greatest tool we’ve had to date in converting children into our “gay army”. Up until then we were reliant on scout leaders and school teachers. Global warming is an experiment we’ve been running since the late 1960’s. Contrary to popular belief the cause has nothing to do with carbon emissions and is instead brought about by emissions which are produced by gay people killing bunnies and kittens. Oh and An Inconvenient Truth? Yeah, Al Gore is gay. Soon when the resources of the straight world are so depleted we will launch a nuclear offensive of which there will be no survivors, except us. We'll be safely tucked underground with the last of the world's glitter and Doc Martens. When it is safe to come out we will take over the world, replace all the street lights with disco balls, the police with strippers and the army with lesbians.

And all our straight friends? Well, first we’re going to terrorise them for 10 years or so. Just for shits and giggles, yeah? It will be acceptable for common (gay) citizens to harass, spit on and beat anyone they suspect to be straight. With this in mind, there will be nowhere for our straight people to go, no police to report it to and no court they can press charges in. Because, well, we’ll probably make it a crime to have straight sex. Hopefully this will scare our straight survivors so much that they will be too afraid to even admit that they’re straight and instead live horrifically miserable half lives pretending that they’re gay. After we’re bored of being cruel and oppressive, a select handful of countries around the world will deem it safe for straight people to “come out”. In said countries, straight people will be allocated 1 week each year in which they can hold parades and celebrate their sexuality and for the rest of the year we will tolerate them. However, we will refuse to recognise their relationships, encourage them to keep to themselves in particular suburbs and offer them one or two seedy clubs (per city) in which to socialise. Oh and we will also refer to anything bad, unpleasant or upsetting as “straight”.

For example:

A: Ewwwwwww that shirt is so STRAIGHT!
B: HA-HA-HA-HA-HA i know right?? So hetero!!

So I say good on tony abbot for spreading his fear and hatred, he knows SO much about what it is to feel threatened! Poor dear!

Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) is the first part of the International Bill of Human Rights, it sets out the fundamental human rights of every human beings.

Article 1

All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

Article 7

All are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to equal protection of the law. All are entitled to equal protection against any discrimination in violation of this Declaration and against any incitement to such discrimination

A Gaythering Storm
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Revenge of The Nerds

2010-03-12T06:20:00.000-08:00

(Me in said glasses courtesy of Katie D)

I harbour an ongoing love/hate relationship with hipsters in fake glasses. Especially the ones who you tend to find prowling the valley on weekends sporting a pair of fake Woody Allen-esque spectacles. Being visually impaired myself, I feel like my parade is being rained on just a tad, though at the same time it means I can finally embrace my inner dork in style. After much consideration, I recently hitched a ride on the band wagon and picked up my own pair of (prescription) retro glasses. I may as well, after all, when was the last time your disability was in vogue? Up until now, I’ve taken to hiding in shame behind contact lenses but at last the time has come for me to ditch my disguise as superman in favour of my true identity, Clark Kent.

You can’t blame me for the difficulties I’ve faced in coming to accept myself. Simply cast your mind to pop culture in general and you will see the blatant bias against people who need glasses. Take for example, the ground breaking 1999 chick flick, She’s All That, Starring Freddie Prinze Junior and Rachel Leigh Cook. It had a real meaty story line which went as follows: popular boy turns artistic dorky girl into total mega babe with simple make over. Deep, right? Realistically though, if you gave that chick a year or two out of high school she would have been a bohemian golden god when she ditched Hicksville for New York but whatever.

Anyway, think back to the scene where Freddie takes off her glasses before the prom and “Oh my god! Now she’s a bombshell!”. As if we hadn’t noticed that earlier? Puh-lease. If someone delicately removed my glasses and proceeded to lovingly tuck them away I’d be rendered totally blind and it’s likely I’d attempt a swift upper cut to their jaw- though it’s just as likely I would miss.

Long story short: This is why the recent trend of people who wear glasses with fake lenses kind of irks me. Oh sure, it’s fun to do the whole geek chic thing for a night, sure it’s fun to cash in on my years of self conscious worry- not to mention the medical bills. But please spare a thought for the moments when it’s assumed my ridiculously expensive prescription lenses are just a $20 excuse for me to play dress ups in public. Then of course, there are the dangers this trend creates for me on any given night out. One minute I may be oozing silent cool from my well adorned eye balls when the next, some fucker is saying “Can I try your glasses?”, as they proceed to snatch them from my face, leaving me to fumble around the bar squinting like a stoned mole rat. I imagine my voice would then hit outrageously nasal tones when I cry out “My glasses!!” after the assailant who has already disappeared into the night.

So on one hand, I hope all you indie hipsters with your Sportsgirl spectacles spend an eternity in hell, blind as a bat and stubbing your toes on Satan’s foot stools, thus leaving me to flaunt my nerd in peace. While on the other hand, I’m secretly thrilled that all these wannabes have allowed me to reach a “real deal” level of cool that previously I had never foresaw myself attaining. I guess I’ll just have to reach a happy medium by saying “Thank you” to all you quirky hipsters for making the dieing years of my youth that much easier and then give you the finger when you’re not looking.

Babes On Blades

2010-03-07T21:35:00.000-08:00

I’ve been none too thrilled about the torrential rain that has inflicted itself upon Queensland of late. My hair is frizzy, I’ve ruined one pair of shoes, and my decrepit umbrella is less an instrument in weather protection then it is a dead bat on a stick. Realistically though, these misfortunes are trivial and frivolous in the grand scheme of things. There’s real problems out there, real issues, real lives- all of which are powerless to the whims of freak monsoon seasons. Case in point, my rollerblade gang has been kept off the streets for over a week now. Yes, you heard right- I AM in a gang. So far it consists of three people and we’re yet to have our first skate. Unofficially and much to the distress of our lone male member, we call ourselves Babes On Blades. Unbeknownst to my comrades I’ve also taken it upon myself to come up with a design for matching tattoos, coz then we’ll be like, totally legit’ n’ shit.

Babes On Blades came into being a couple of weeks ago, when my girlfriend was preparing to ditch me forever and move to Sydney. Unable to take her $300 hardly-ever-worn roller blades with her, I did what any supportive soon to be ex-girlfriend would do: I swooped in and took them for my own selfish needs, thus saving her from having to go through the lengthy process of selling them on Ebay and possibly making some much need cash out of it! Besides, you know what they say, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going... and form a rollerblading gang”.

After the obligatory week or two spent wallowing in Kelly Clarkson levels of pathetic heartache (MY LIFE! WOULD SUCK! WITH OUT YOUUUUU!) I assumed I’d have to do what any self respecting dumpee does and go to the gym to get a hot ex-girlfriend body. “Ugh” I sighed, already depressed at the idea of heaving myself up and down the Coro Drive bike way every afternoon for the next month. But wait! Hold that descent into bitter (albeit toned) ex girlfreindhood for just a moment! As it turns out my rollerblade gang not only gives me awesome street cred, but it also doubles as a great work out. Or so I read on the internet, which means it must be undeniably 100% true.

The facts speak for themselves: Rollerblading burns on average about 285 calories per half hour session. Not bad considering you burn about 350 when running or cycling in the same amount of time. Also, rollerblading gets your heart pumping just as hard as either of the aforementioned (less fun) activities, with heart rates averaging 148 bpm in all three. It’s also beneficial for those worried about their joints who are looking to shy away from high impact sports such as running. AND rollerblading works those hard to reach muscles such throughout the entire upper leg, the derrière and the hips.

Whatta ya know? Rollerblading is totally bad ass and good for your health!

My Beyonce

2010-03-06T05:27:00.000-08:00

"So baby raise a glass to mend all the broken hearts of all my wrecked up friends"

My best friend called me at 10:36am, Sunday the 28th of February. My life came to a standstill in that moment and for the first time I noticed how fast the world seems to spin. I watched it roar past like traffic either side of me while I stood suspended in a half second that promised never to end. Until atlast I gave in and admitted that I wasn’t the one looking on this time, this was happening to me. Horrible words lurched from a phone, my phone. Words that shrieked like metal on cement, inescapably mine. Preordained and unavoidable, they filled my ears, my eyes, my throat, my lungs, my stomach. They tore at the fabric of my soul, jeered at my naivety, ridiculed my careless love. One by one, each of us heard the news, one by one each of our hearts were ripped from our chests, leaving us to watch them beat feebly in the hands of fate.

That cruel fucking bitch, fate, that held our helpless hearts in one hand, while the other hand toyed with a heart on a roadside. I've tried my best to reason with that impossible whore. I beg for someone, anyone, whoever is listening, whatever is out there: please, not him. I beg outloud, willing to trade anything, strike any deal, believe any mantra: please, not him. The empty void of these dark hours surrender no consolation, just the dull glow of a Hope, however vain or valid. So we pull each other to our worn out feet, ration out even portions of the crushing weight of this grief to carry on our shoulders and accept the only alternative left to us: we carry on. Urged forward by each other’s strength, inspired by each other’s humility, humbled by each other’s courage, empowered by each other’s faith. The realisation of the fragility of human life brings with it the realisation of the strength of the human spirit.

I was given a bottle of Moet & Chandon for my 21st, I’m saving it to drink with you when you’re better, because you will be.

Hell

2010-02-16T03:26:00.001-08:00

I have a deep seated fear of garden gnomes. To me, they’re these horrible little things that somehow deliver bone chilling terror at discount-crap-store prices. Ugh. When I was in high school my maths teacher found it necessary to adorn the classroom with what can only be described as "random shit". So of course, she had to have a couple of gnomes. Totally NOT conducive to a positive learning environment if you ask me but anywho, my phobia was common knowledge in the class and apparently it was funny to put a garden gnome on my chair one afternoon when I was late for class. Hilarious. So yer, I generally assume hell is the Garden of Eden but with a garden gnome at every turn. Knowing my luck, I’ll probably end up there because of my homosexual deviant lifestyle. I figured only such a horrific place could exist in hell- that was until my girlfriend was sent an email about the Australian Gnome Convention.

http://australiangnomeconvention.com.au/

Firstly, what the actual fuck- the gnome trade is alive and kicking? I thought that the rest of the sane world had relegated these things to the likes of b-grade horror movies but apparently not. Secondly, what kind of sick creeps live in this world who would attend such an event? I decided to investigate and came across a chilling story. It read as follows:

On Saturday 25th July 2009 the Lower Blue Gnome Rescue squad set off in the cold cold dawn on an 800 k rescue mission to save 1500 gnomes from a fate worse than death - the dreaded tip!! In Cootamundra an old lady gnome carer had passed on, leaving her many gnomes without a home to go to!

"Please", said a Cootamundra Rotarian - "can you come and save these little fellers"

SICK! PERVERTED! ISN’T THIS WHAT K-RUDD’S INTERNET FILTER IS FOR? Furthermore, I am 110% convinced that “lower blue gnome rescue squad” is actually an alias for a sinister terrorist organisation.

The story continued:

Of course we could - and we did! Here are the photos to prove it. All the gnomes will be homed in the Blue Mountains and will be at the Australian Gnome Convention on January 26 2010 at the Australia Day Festivities in Glenbrook Park. What a great day!

Homed in the Blue Mountains! These people inflicted 1500 demons of hell on nationally protected bushland? What about the wildlife? Surely this violates a law some where- Littering? Defacing public land?

I scrolled down to look at the pictures of said “rescue” whilst fantasizing about how this story may have read had I made it there first with a baseball bat in hand:

What a vile old woman! Imagine looking out that window at night to see that baron hideous garden (dirt patch) riddled with all those garden gnomes. Better yet, imagine that place on a full moon. I’m sure the children of the neighbourhood had a great myth about how all those gnomes were actually kids that had ventured into the old lady’s (witch’s) garden after a stray ball and met a twisted fate at her hands.

But, the clincher:

...PLEASE DON'T EAT ME SATAN!

Where the Wild things...

2010-02-10T18:43:00.000-08:00

Recently I was introduced to the crème da le crap of the internet. This wondrous cavern of perversion and glory was called lolporn( http://lolpornonline.com/). Basically it’s a website for porn that’s so bad it’s funny. From bizarre photos, to porno covers, to clips found in the depths of the internet- it really was a fucked up bundle of hilarity. My pick for favourite was difficult, but after much scrutiny and extensive perusal I decided that the most stupid porno I’ve ever seen would have to be Where the Wild Things Fuck. Coming in at a close second was a 70’s clip I found where a woman gives head to a cereal box whilst a man dressed in a toast costume plays the saxophone behind her. That makes sense, right?

Where the Wild Things Fuck is one of those rare gems that’s just so bad it’s kind of absolutely amazing. Kind of. Unlike the movie itself: Where the wild things Are just plain sucked. In my opinion it was the worst indie hipster wankfest since Juno. Not to mention it had the captivating thrill of a walnut. On a scale of one to Juno I gave Where the Wild Things Are an “8-point-shit”. Though admittedly I cried at the end, it still stands as definitive proof that classic picture books just don’t have the substance to be turned into full length films. Frankly, it lacked a plot line much less a point. I think my issue stemmed from my hate for the main character, Max. He was such a fucking little shit. I am aware that the movie itself is meant to be some namby pamby coming of age greater meaning type shebang and I get that, but really, the kid is 8! Anyway, the whole thing made me want to get my tubes tied immediately, or go shove my womb up against a nuclear reactor so as to assure myself I will never spawn such a shit of a child. Ugh. The end.

Back to the porno version! Where the Wild Things Fuck was atrocious ...and it was narrated! This is a picture of “max” sailing in blow up dingy to the wild things.

It worries me that when she arrived in said wilderness it was clearly the pornographer’s local park. Eep. This is the face one of the monsters made when she arrived.

Luckily the mask that the creators chose for the monsters to wear was versatile enough to cover all scenes inclusive of the part where she gives him head. This porno spoke volumes to me. I wish to track down the full length version!

This is the link here:

LOLPorn

Christ, J.

2010-01-02T00:18:00.000-08:00

*I didn't write this, I found it on a website recently. A friend of mine had shown me this a while ago and I just had to post it when I found it again! so good.*

This is an anonymous letter to Dr. Laura, the radio talk show host. Dr. Laura said she opposes homosexuality because it is "prohibited in the Bible". Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's law. I have learned a great deal from you, and I try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind him that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to best follow them:

* When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord (Lev. 1:9). The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. How should I deal with this?

* I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as it suggests in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

* I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness (Lev. 15:19-24). The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

* Lev. 25:44 states that I may buy slaves from the nations that are around us. A friend of mind claims that this applies to Mexicans but not Canadians. Can you clarify?

* I have a neighbor who insists on working the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

* A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination (Lev. 10:10), it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?

*In Matthew 15:4 Jesus reiterates the commandment to kill children for cursing their parents: "For God commanded, saying, Honor thy father and mother: and, He that curseth father or mother, let him die the death." And

Exodus- 21:17" And he that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death."

Should people kill their children for cursing them because God says so, even if they themselves would go to prison for life or get the death penalty as set forth by MAN'S law?

* John 15:6 says: "If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned." (This passage, a quote from Jesus, was used for centuries to justify burning our predecessors at the stake for refusing to believe.) I know many atheists who do not believe in God, so he does "Not abide" in him. Should they be cast into fire and burned?

Leviticus -- 20:10 says Adulterers shall be put to death. Put to death by the spouse? WHO shall put them to death?

Deuteronomy-- 22:5 says Men's clothing is not to be worn by women, and vice versa. I work in a clothing store, and if I refuse to sell mens clothes to women or vice versa, can my boss fire me? If I , as a woman, wear pants, will I be breaking God's Law?

This is just a few examples of things "prohibited in the Bible". HOW does one pick and choose which ones of those many to follow, and to what length and what measures must we take to insure ALL people obey those laws of God?

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Chee-Pussy Quiji

2009-12-27T17:48:00.000-08:00

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:

http://gofugyourself.celebuzz.com/go_fug_yourself/bai_ling/

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!

Shut up, you love it.

2009-12-10T20:44:00.000-08:00

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!

The great hiatus

2009-11-30T21:14:00.000-08:00

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.

3. This song:

The Champion of Bad Taste (Part 2)

2009-10-30T01:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Behold:

(The vest I mean)

It came to me on a sunny autumn afternoon, just after I had finished work. I’d been good with my spending that week and therefore had a budget to blow! I figured I’d scour through the shops in Paddington near the cafe I work at. [Wow, I just read over that and saw what a horrible cliché I’m shaping up to be- working at a cafe in Paddington, writing fashion blogs, wearing kitsch for the sake of kitsch... someone please stage me an intervention?] Anywho, there it was in Side Street. I tried on my vile delight, bustling into the small change room, hardly a care for the curtain that didn’t quite close properly. My departure from the change room was not quite so festive- much less to do with the rancid fart the former occupant had left me and more to do with the impracticalities of the vest. I looked helplessly at the shop assistant and sighed, “But what would I wear it with?” He struggled with feeble suggestions, though he knew as well as I that the situation was dire. As I left the store, what happened that afternoon my friends, was a little thing called “divine intervention”.

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!

Kiki La Rue's Guide to female freeballing

2009-10-20T05:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Off with your head!

2009-10-13T21:23:00.000-07:00

We must lose our minds
We must go raving mad
We must be completely insanity
If we are to find ourselves

We must lose our minds
If we are to live to learn to love
We must lose our minds so,
...Off with your head!!

ANNOUNCEMENT

2009-09-29T18:56:00.001-07:00

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!

http://nodogsbody.vitaeblog.com/

I'll still continue to rant and rave on poetry and voyeurism of course.

ta!

Snuggies- the rant that had to be

2009-09-27T23:35:00.000-07:00

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:

http://thesnuggiesutra.com/

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.

I'm with the band

2009-09-21T17:02:00.000-07:00

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!)

What the fuck is Farmville?

2009-09-17T17:37:00.000-07:00

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.

It's just so... GAY!!!

THIS SUMMER..

2009-08-21T06:19:00.000-07:00

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?

BEHOLD!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21_nsc-3uDw

yum

2009-08-20T19:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-07T06:16:00.001-07:00

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?

Dating Tip # 27

2009-08-03T05:49:00.000-07:00

NOT FOR THE FAINT HEARTED

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?

My Menopause

2009-07-28T02:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-28T01:24:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-21T23:18:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-20T16:33:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-15T19:20:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-14T22:26:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-13T19:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-13T04:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-07T06:42:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-05T04:43:00.000-07:00

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?

Horror Scopes

2009-06-29T15:05:00.000-07:00

Most people who know me know I study commerce- accounting is kind of my “thing”. What most people don’t know is that in my spare time I moonlight as ‘Esmerelda Hart’- a renowned online psychic hailing from Tennessee.

Once a month I spend a lazy Sunday afternoon pouring over zodiac charts with a hookah pipe, smoking my favourite Persian blend. I’m a regular Cheshire cat, really. Anyway, the moral of the story is now that June is drawing to a close and July will be upon us as of tomorrow, I figured I would dole out some of my cosmic wisdom and let everyone know what the stars have in store for them this month!

Sagittarius This month you will realise what an uptight prick you’ve been lately. With mercury in your romance sector, now is a good time to do the rest of the zodiac a favour and go out and get laid.

Capricorn communication will come easily to you this month, this means you should think about addressing any issues or problems you may have had with your nearest and dearest lately. Your new knack for relating to others will find you thinking outside the box, using everything from interpretive dance and pantomimes to artistic cakes to get the message across!

Aquarius You will find yourself to be a ball of charm this month, use this to your advantage- now may be a good time to tell your partner or lover about that pesky STD you’ve been toting.

Pisces You will find interesting connections this month by taking a new approach to meeting others. Joining an internet star treck forum, or attending a luncheon celebrating 90’s cult bollywood movies will lead to endless intimate dinners and kinky bedroom romps with a new mate!

Aries July is a month of discovery in your romance sector. Have fun when you discover that collection of photos your lover took of you sleeping nude. Turns out that quirky special someone you had your heart set on really is just a voyeuristic creep.

Taurus Money won’t be a problem this month at all! You will happen upon an unexpected cash flow sometime around the 8th.This could be in the form of an exciting second job opportunity, lucky lottery ticket or cake drive – whatever the cause it will somehow involve the Japanese mafia.

Gemini July will see your obsessive compulsive tendencies come to the fore as Jupiter makes its presence known in your 6th house. Your attention to detail will be prime- enjoy the benefits this has on your tax return. Oh, and you will be mugged regularly by a pack of feral yowies.

Cancer This month you will find yourself possessing about as much appeal as a wet dish clothe, no one will care and it’s likely your upcoming birthday will be forgotten by most. (There was more to it but I spilled Kava on your part of my zodiac chart at The Annual Mystic’s Jamboree last April. Pretty sure it’s bad though- so just stay inside. Don’t leave the house.)

Leo Situations involving Jacuzzis, midgets and Sambuca will be the norm this month. Make the most of your good fortune and the rest of us will look forward to seeing the results spattered across the internet sometime around the 26th.

Virgo The sun in your 8th house will see an influx of culture in your life this month! This could mean new travel plans, an exotic lover or interesting cuisine. Either that or you will be attacked by a gang of taco wielding Swedish ninjas.

Libra With Venus passing through your 10th house you can expect your romantic life to be on fire this month. Saucy singles can look forward to tantalising dates and love bunnies may find themselves taking things to the next level with their partners. However, Neptune’s cheeky influence means you can expect random spontaneous outbreaks of oral herpes. Best of luck juggling the two!

Scorpio Your work life is set to become painfully slow at the beginning of the month until about the 16th. I recommend that until things pick up, you pass the time by spiking the water cooler with LSD.

I hope everyone makes the most of my advice and has a fantastic July! I won’t be writing for a few days as I’m off to Byron bay with a fellow cosmic interpreter to dance naked on the beach in honour of the harvest moon. I’ll be stocking up on mugwort and hopefully get a chance to replace my soiled zodiac chart as well!

Ta darlings!

Crack Open Your Cranium

2009-06-29T04:11:00.000-07:00

I should probably add that this is something I designed after watching too many documentaires about religion last christmas. Later, I read a quote by Karl Marx which, to me, raises another valid point:

"Religion is the general theory of this world... its universal basis of consolation and justification. It is the fantastic realization of the human essence since the human essence has not acquired any true reality."

The Youth Today: a full body rant

2009-06-28T21:00:00.000-07:00

Recently as I was flicking through old magazines, I came across an interview with John Waters, the producer best known for Hairspray (the original). The interview was set out as an a to z of Waters, in which he assigned a word or phrase to each letter of the alphabet and explained what it meant to him. For example, ‘b’ is for bad journalism technique, you fuckwit. Anyway, he is an extremely fascinating man and before I knew it I’d reached ‘y’ which for him stood for the youth today. This is what he said:

“I don’t get why young people today are such pussies. Turn over a car- why don’t you?”

(That's a picture of John Waters- you get the idea)

Not to be a traitor to my generation (which anyone who knows me, knows I blatantly am), but I couldn’t agree more. What happened to the days of the youth running riot? Standing up for something? Protesting? Defacing private property? Being anarchic opinionated brats?

Our government wants to increase military spending at a time when there is no real threat yet we are set to face the worst economic crisis most of us will see in our lifetimes (paradoxically the whole military spending fad only raises tension in the Asia-pacific area). Australia may soon be run by one of the few governments in the western world which unconditionally censors and monitors the public’s internet usage. I’m pretty sure that that’s a concept which usually washes in countries such as, oh I don’t know, communist china maybe? The European Union is pledging to cut emissions by 20%, whereas our government is revoking election promises of making major emissions cuts and has instead decided to cough up a mere 5%. We are looking at a very real global environmental melt down in the near future; unfortunately, the politicians of today who still won’t take it seriously will be long dead by the time we’re all decked out in our designer oxygen masks.

We’ve hardly even scraped the surface of scum directly affecting us, though: What about 3am Lock outs? What about alco-pop taxes? What about extra university fees? What about that little kerfuffle in Iraq? Does anyone else see a problem with the shit and fuckery we’re lapping up without question here? Am I some kind of crazy person?

Somehow the onus to stand up to all these things continues to fall on people like the ones who were out there protesting ‘nam and dropping acid the first time around. What’s the best our generation has come up with? Make a facebook group about it? Wow- Achievement! There’s an island of garbage floating in the Pacific Ocean twice the size of Texas, when I found out about this I rushed to face book, joined an “awareness” group and sent invitations urging all my friends to do the same ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Pacific_Garbage_Patch ). There I waited smugly as the notifications multiplied, congratulating me on signing up x number of people. But guess what? That island of trash and plastic and nappies is still out there and it’s only getting bigger. See, the point of spreading awareness is so that more people know of a problem and are subsequently driven to action. Yet this is where we fall short. We’re all fabulously “aware” of many things, yet no one is DOING much about them.

I raised the issue whilst out to coffee with a friend of mine at sassafras in Paddington. We lamented the inactivity of our generation as we were swooped by the resident bird population that anyone familiar with the cafe dines in fear of. University students have recently been forced to pay an extra $200 a year in fees, “If it were my parent's generation, they’d be chaining themselves naked to the gates of the university!”, my friend declared. There we sat- a mixture of gloat and sympathy towards the other young punters who were clearly ignorant of the infinite wisdom being dispensed at our table. Really though, no one was getting naked yet and no one was getting chained to any gates in the near future either. Who could blame us though? When was the last time you saw someone of our generation take a stand who DIDN’T have dread locks and an aversion to bathing?

So, all this ranting brings me to one question: since when did not giving a fuck get so cool?

OH MY GA!

2009-06-26T02:33:00.000-07:00

Its Friday and I’m spending my night at home on the computer with conjunctivitis in one eye, wishing i was out making the most of my holiday. Safe to say I am none to impressed with my life at the moment. That is until, the knight in shining armour that is my best friend Rosie, posted the following picture on my facebook wall:

Nothing brings me more delight then the antics of my pant-less hoe bag hero. For a long time I was honestly just taking the piss out of her until, as a joke, I decided to download her album oneday. Long story short, the joke was on me and I'm now mildly obsessed. Enough about me though, lets talk about this. THIS! Its like someone threw one of Madonna’s old bras, Cher’s turn back time leotard and a few fire crackers in a washing machine and all the colours ran. I can only imagine the type of night out one would have with boobs that bear a striking resemblance to river fire. However, I’m lost for words as to how I’d explain to the folks down in emergency just how i came to have third degree burns on my tits.

The champion of bad taste (Part 1)

2009-06-24T20:17:00.000-07:00

I have a confession. It’s a little left field but whatever, I stick by it. So, here it is: I. LOVE. BAD. TASTE. I just adore it! If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t go back and witness something momentous like the fall of the Berlin wall or Woodstock or the birth of Jesus or something like that. No, if I could go back in time I’d venture back to a ski resort in the 80’s populated by affluent yuppies. Then I would sit and wallow in the glory of all the neon patterned onesies whizzing by. That's how strongly i feel about it all.

Please don’t simplify my obsession by putting it down to cheap laughs at another’s expense. My love of bad taste comes from something far deeper. It comes from a place of respect and admiration- awe, even! Nothing brings me more joy then feathers, fur, vinyl, animal print and nylon. The 50 something year old beauty with regrowth for days, a plastic poncho, army boots and metallic stockings? Nothing but respect, honey. It’s about dedication, it’s about believing in something, it’s about having more balls then the ping pong world championships. These people are the proverbial middle finger waving in the face of the conventional straights on a daily basis. And good fucking on them, I say! Though I myself haven’t reached this stage in my life of all out fashion debauchery I occasionally pay homage to my heroes . (As I pause to take a break from writing this, one hand goes for my cold coffee, the other is turning up my music because ‘SOS’ by Abba just came on itunes. Maybe I’m closer to my dreams then I thought?). So, in this blog I plan to regularly document my battles in this war on all which is decent.

To begin with I thought I’d post a real doozy. Something I did of late that I felt was a very momentous act of pulling the rug out from under all things tasteful. I became a ranga. And I don’t mean in the sense of a “funky burgundy”, or a “crazy paramore orange”. I mean ACTUAL ranga. I’m horribly pale as it is, so I look like the REAL DEAL here! My best excuse is that I’ve spent the past few weeks obsessively listening to David Bowie. We’ll see how that one goes. Anywho, without further ado:

That's me last saturday night.

This is me and a friend of mine who is a real redhead. Just shows the authenticity of our fabulousness.

Study, Self-discovery and Facebook Quizes

2009-06-24T02:50:00.000-07:00

So, as exam period draws to a close I think it best for us to reflect on what we’ve learned this semester. Like most uni students I will rephrase that to what we learned this swotvac period, as no one realistically carries out the act which we calling “learning” during the semester.

I for one was endowed with countless facts and crucial points of knowledge for which I have only my tertiary studies to thank. No, I’m not actually referring to the budget variance systems which may have helped me in my accounting exam, nor am I referring to portfolio analyses, cash flow statements, or director’s duties. No, what I’m referring to here are those useless facts I never knew I wanted, but once I found them I couldn’t live without.

I’m referring to facebook quizzes. And before all the people who don’t go to uni and were plagued with the damn things over the past month start to bitch and whine, I say this: YOU try writing out endless financial statements with the heavy question of “what miscellaneous house hold item am I?” weighing on your mind. Yeah. Good luck with that one buddy.

Anywho, during the past month I have answered questions I would have never DREAMED of asking myself, and for that I feel I’ve truly come to a zen like understanding of my inner being. This would include (but is not limited to) the answers to such questions as:

Which supre shirt slogan sums up my personality?

What suburb in down town Kabul do I belong in?

Which 80’s rockstar’s genitalia do I most resemble?

Which pussy cat doll do I share an STD in common with?

Which lord of the rings character would I have as my pool boy?

Which NWA song best sums up my love life?

Which Pokémon will my grandmother be raped by?

What is my flee-ridden-crack-whore name?

Wow. What a journey it’s been! So I say thank you University, thank you for sending me into a land of teeth grinding boredom, without which I would never have embarked upon this endless voyage of self discovery. Maybe next semester, I may feel compelled to WRITE one of these quizzes!