Monday, May 23, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Pointless and Lame: Now Showing in 3D!
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.
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.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Park Street: Not Bi-Winning
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.
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.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Champion of Bad Taste (Part 4)
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)
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)
Sunday, September 5, 2010
MI PRIMER TATUAJE
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.
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.
Monday, August 30, 2010
God Bless America
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!
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!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Hung Parliament Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Vote
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.
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.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
"Go back, I like that song!"
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The Champion of Bad Taste (Part 3)
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.
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.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Alaska
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.
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.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Al Capone's Guide to Tax Returns
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Personas from Production Lines
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?
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?
Monday, June 28, 2010
Aliens Abducted All My Friends
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.
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.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
182 Days In The Life Of...
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:
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-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:
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Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Take that MTV!!
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
A Single Review: Your Love Is My Drug by Ke$ha
First things first, let's please talk about this title. Now why would you do that Ke$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$ha.
Back to the single itself. I like to imagine ke$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.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Greatest Rock N' Roll Swindle
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”
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.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Anonymity Breeds Individuality
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
Saturday, March 27, 2010
I KILLED GAGA
“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?”
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The Stages of a Break-up: A Musical
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!
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!
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