"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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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: