Vera Bermuda

2011-08-30T09:27:00.003+10:00

Looking through an old notebook I just found a poem I wrote when I was about 20. I'm not exactly sure who it's about, certainly not about the person I was having a relationship with at the time. I think it was more of a general attack on a certain brand of people I was friends with. It made me laugh.

Poem.

You know we had a blast

but our love would never last

if you continued to quote Donnie Darko

to prove you were so deep

and worth listening to.

You're really not.

I hate that dye in your hair

baby, it's just too much to bare

and I tried to ignore stories about your childhood

I mean really,

you had it pretty good.

Oh yeah, and your myspace page is fucking ridiculous.

Vera Bermuda, amusing herself since '86.

2010-11-15T12:20:00.004+11:00

I think one of my biggest fears is that one day I will accidentally steal a strangers chips.

If a friend of mine was eating some chips and the chips looked good I would more than likely reach into the bag without asking them and take a chip. I'm sure it's an incredibly irritating habit but I like to believe that sharing, even sharing without consent, brings people closer together. Leaning near, reaching out; it establishes intimacy and trust. And it gets me chips. If I think the person isn't quite close enough I will usually eyeball the chips until they feel uncomfortable enough to offer me some, but this is rare, I usually just go for it.

The problem is, I feel so comfortable taking people's chips that I'm afraid one day I might lapse into this relaxed state of mind and help myself to the chips of a stranger. On the bus, in the movies; people eat chips in all sorts of places and I must remain constantly vigilant in my efforts not to thrust my grimy mitt into their bags. It's tiresome but it is my cross to bare alone.

The French have a phrase, 'L’appel du vide', which means the 'call of the void'. Essentially, this phrase means the instinctive urge to jump from high places. For many it's that feeling in the pit of your stomach that scares you when you stand on top of a cliff - the very specific feeling that it would be incredibly easy and achievable to simply launch yourself off the edge and fall to the ground. For me it's the terror I feel when I realise just how easy it would be to steal a stranger's salty chips.

2010-11-02T14:58:00.003+11:00

It's Movember! This entire month men across Australia will unite to fight for the better health of blokes everywhere, showing their solidarity by growing their mustaches. An attractive indulgence for a worthy cause, but this charitable event can be somewhat exclusive.

There are some men who, try as they might, cannot muster the growth to join the fight, but one man is doing his part through innovative means.

My friend Seal, who's name is actually Alex Washer, although no one calls him that, not even his mum, has the kind of good looks that might be described as 'boyish', that is, he hasn't got a decent whisker to his name. Despite Seal's deficiency; his distinct inability to grow facial hair, he is digging deep to help his brethren, with the aid of a texta.

One man, one pen, 30 mos. That's right, throughout the month of November, Seal (Alex) will be drawing a different mo under his nose every day.

Inside sources (ie me, bombarding Seal with constant jpegs) attest we can look forward to a variety of comic, suave, sexy, and even a few celebrity mustaches on Seal's face.

To watch the progress and donate to Seal's sterling effort, visit:

http://au.movember.com/mospace/841712/

Seal is a pretty good bloke. You may remember his name from a post I wrote a few months ago, detailing his method of making microwave brownies. MICROWAVE BROWNIES! If you can believe that one man can contribute YET ANOTHER amazing thing to our society, please, dig deep and donate to see Seal, every day of November, look like he's woken up from an out-of-control buck's night.

Things I did when I was little that made me a bit of a dickhead

2010-10-19T17:02:00.004+11:00

A few forgotten bits and pieces came to me this morning; floated to the top of my murky, trashy mind-river. Once refuse of memory that may very well have been lost forever, these elements of my childhood identity came to the fore of my mind without warning. Please allow me to share them with you.

1. Some people's mums and dads, mums and dads that wore suits and worked further afield than Penrith, were "business men" and "business women". This occurred to me watching the suits get onto my bus this morning. As a child, some of my friend's parents had tangible jobs. They were teachers, or builders, or gardeners, or nurses, but if they were something slightly obscure to the 5 year-old mind like an accountant or marketing liaison, or human resources manager, they were a business man or woman which, it should be noted, was a lot less impressive than my friend Christie's dad who painted houses for a living. Being a business man didn't hold much sway with me.

2. I was fucking mad for tangrams. Tangrams are a set of Chinese puzzle pieces that you could make a fish or a rabbit or a tree out of, an we were occasionally allowed to play with them in maths if we had done all our other work. After the dreary division was over and done with we couldn't WAIT to get the fucking tangrams out and shuffle them into something barely recognisable as an elephant or a bird. Fights would occasionally brake out over the tangrams. Tangrams were the most exciting thing to us in school.

2010-10-11T18:04:00.001+11:00

I have started a new job and left my old one. I won't tell you of the details of either. How and where I earn my coin are by the by. The tasks I engage in, the people I work with, the orgainisation I am associated with - these things are inconsequential.

I am writing this today to talk about the totally sweet sensor taps my new work place has.

Using a bathroom of the future has opened my world. I am an improved and streamlined hands-free being now. I no longer mash my dirty digits haphazardly against surfaces in order to procure change in my surroundings. Merely an ethereal wave and I command the elements. It's neat.

It does make me, however, a little misty-eyed when I reminisce about my old work bathroom. It had doors that shook the entire cubicle structure when I closed them, a leaking single tap, and the paper dispensers were a little dysfunctional but one of my colleagues had taken in upon herself to lend a "woman's touch" to the room. Fake flowers, scented candles, fluffy pink towels, and bath bombs (for Christ's sake) were scattered about the utilitarian tiles for the enjoyment of others. God bless her, she was an idiot.

There was also a delightfully passive aggressive note on the back of every door entitled "Bathroom Etiquette". Apparently some ladies couldn't keep it in the bowl so protocol was outlined in the notice and colleagues were implored to follow suit. The "etiquette" was less of a June Dally-Watkins affair and more of a "keep it in the loo" affair but I was always tempted to add a few underneath like "Always say please and thank you to the toilet" and "A lady never poos with her mouth open".

Pitch to the Television Stations #5

2010-09-29T15:00:00.002+10:00

"Santa of Gravity"

The young Isaac "Zak" Newton drives his father crazy! He's young, smart, and good looking but is lazy and refuses to take on responsibilities. Zak would rather relax under the apple tree all day than study physics like his stuffy old father insists.

Young Santa is quiet and keeps to himself. All he wants to do is make toys but he never gets a moments peace from Zak and the other high school bullies who torment him for being a 'nerd'.

Fed up Santa decides to take action and confront his tormenter. Hiding in the apple tree he attacks the cocksure Zak from above, which leads to the most famous physics discovery of all, gravity! Suddenly Zak is famous, rich and has the world at his feet but Santa insists the discovery wouldn't have been made without him, and does everything he can to make sure it's his name in the papers! A hilarious sit-com.

Love

2010-09-28T08:50:00.003+10:00

The other day I bought a Filmink magazine from a concession stand at central station. On the cover was Danny Trejo, star of Machete, in all his bare chested, weaponed-up glory, flanked by the pouting Jessica Alba and Michel Rodriguez.

I pushed the magazine across the counter to the clerk who gazed down at it and softly said "ahhhh, she's cute isn't she" as he delicately stroked Danny Trejo's face with his index finger.

"Wh- ... pardon?" I said. His finger gently caressed Danny Trejo's pock marked face. stroke, stroke, stroke.

"she's cute." He placidly muttered. He was almost in a trance.

I looked down at the magazine cover. He was clearly gazing upon Danny Trejo. Alba and Rodriguez may as well have been two pet dogs on leashes- they didn't even register with him. It was all about Trejo.

"ummm, gorgeous." I offered uncertainly.

At once, he looked up at me, as if he'd forgotten I was there. He looked back down at the cover again. "Oooooohhhh. She looks like a man, I see".

At this point I was lost for words. I had no idea what his game was. Trejo was clearly twice as big as the other women on the cover. Bulky, tanned, scarred- a walking definition of masculinity. Plus he has a most enormous mustache on his face.

"Isn't it amazing what they can do with makeup these days?" he marveled.

I still don't know who he thought he was talking about.

My meme made it to the Daily What

2010-07-18T13:37:00.002+10:00

Mind you, this is much better than the original.

It's Evolving

2010-07-16T15:49:00.001+10:00

My little baby meme, out in the world.

What Does it Mean??

2010-07-16T09:16:00.001+10:00

I made this. Please consider it as my contribution to society, in lieu of paying tax. I'm done with that.

Consumer Product Reviews 2

2010-07-14T13:35:00.002+10:00

Vera Bermuda is not on the cutting edge. For Vera Bermuda, style is timeless, and therefore timing is negligible. Some of these products are not even products, nor am I technically consuming them, but let's humour me. It's better for everyone that way.

Sharpies

My mum and dad are always going on about the subcultures of their generation, bodgies, widgies and hippies. For the most part I was convinced that they had made these words up until I discovered that one of the groups, Sharpies, actually existed, and did so with upmost radicality.

The predecessors of lads and bogans with a leaning toward punk- Sharpies are poetry in fashion.

4 ½ stars

Sparkling Cachous

That’s right, the little silver balls on top of cakes, probably the only silver food you will eat today. Sure, they may break your teeth but when you drop them on the floor (which you will, sneaky little dudes they are) they bounce 70 cm in the air and make a really satisfying noise. I think the reason I like sparkling cachous so much is that I actually know what they are called, that’s novelty in itself. Also, it’s impossible to say the words “sparkling cachous” without panache. Saying the words is the vocal equivalent of jazz hands. CAchousssssssssss! It rings. Sparkling Cachous will be my DJ name, if I ever decide to go down that particular path.

4 stars

Thomas the Tank Engine vs Biggie Smalls

This is by far my favourite thing at the moment. Seal showed me this during one our wonderful winter nights in. Winter is bullshit, and going out places on a cold Saturday night is equally bullshit so Seal, Baz and I have adopted a new system for Saturdays. It involves cask wine, a heater, and the internet, and it’s entirely flawless. The first night we did it Seal showed us how to make microwave brownies in a mug. See? Flawless. After that he showed us this song and we all nodded our heaps in unison like we was ballin in a Cadillac. Interior crocodile alligator and so forth.

Incidentally, in a more recent winter night in, we developed a new system of measurement, as the metric system is old and played. Seal told us a story about “spilling a turkey’s worth of water” on himself at the butcher’s he and Baz worked at. Henceforth, liquid will be measured in turkeys, warmth in alpacas, happiness in puppies and fun in seals (the person, not the animal).

5 stars

Frozen Peas

This probably isn't a photo of me

Frozen peas man! Get the fuck out of town! These little guys are amazing. I don’t know why but I forgot about frozen peas entirely and then when I remembered them and started buying them again I was totally blown away. They add a little colour and flavour to every meal, they double as a cold compress for injuries, they even taste good frozen (don’t ask me why). I think the moral of this particular story is that it is incredibly easy to blow my mind but nevertheless, I give frozen peas 5 stars.

5 stars

Rubber Washing Up Gloves

I be getting Greek on that shit

It’s not all fun and games in my road testing this week. Rubber washing up gloves are good in theory, but when you live with males who have bigger hands than you the gloves tend to split, and then where are you? Pushing your hand into a cold, slimy, wet glove with a whole pile of washing up ahead of you. Not ideal. Not ideal at all.

1 star

Blue Mountains Represent!

2010-06-10T10:57:00.007+10:00

I was listening to FBI last night and I was pleased to hear a few familiar voices.

Belles Will Ring

Liam and Lauren from Belles Will Ring were guest programming Dusty Fingers. Liam I've only met once, but Lauren was in the year above me at school and she's a lovely person, and a talented individual. It was a nice surprise to hear them and really great to hear the Belles Will Ring are still recording because they are (and I genuinely mean this, without bias) a really great band.

During the course of the program Liam mentioned various things about the Blue Mountains, which is also my home locale. I shouted periodically at the clock radio "I know where that is! Yeah!", and it got my pride well and truly burning for Blue Mountains music.

There is a creative circle that Belles Will Ring are connected with through friendships and collaboration that includes The Maple Trail, Cloud Control, and The Paper Scissors, along with I'm sure, many other bands I don't know about.

Cloud Control

I grew up in the Mountains and throughout my teenage years I wanted nothing more than to leave school and move to the city. Living in the city, to me, meant not only pubs, cafes, galleries, music venues, fashion, and culture at my fingertips, but I assumed I would immediately be surrounded by intriguing and creative people. I would go to uni (UNI!) and I would live in Newtown (NEWTOWN!) and ideas and inspiration would flow directly to me like I was the drain in a tiled bathroom floor. To me, the Mountains only represented mediocrity, small minds and ugg boots.

In later years I realised a few important things. While the city does indeed present culture and activity within spitting distance from my front door, Sydney contains just as many boring plebs as any other place in the world, and the Mountains seem to contain more creative and successful musicians than I ever once imagined.

The Mountains provides the perfect environment for creativity. There is just the right balance of middle-class and professional-class educated people, who breed children into a place with a slightly more creative leaning than many other places. The kids are bored, because there really is nothing to do in the Mountains. Many just get stoned but quite a few sate their boredom by being creative. There are also very strong community ties, everybody knows everybody and everything is everyone's business, plus a lot of people are involved in the Christian church and every kid goes to one of about 4 major high schools that service the entire area. All this means that people interact and build strong circles, and collaborations are borne out of that. Of the above mentioned bands a few members went to my high school and I'm aware of the musical community that surrounds them and it's got nothing to do with networking or social climbing, but a group of people who hang out, collaborate and inspire each other. It's impressive.

Urthboy

Of course no conversation about Blue Mountains music would be complete without mention of the amazing Aussie hip hop that is coming out of the upper Mountains (Katoomba and surrounding towns). Hermitude and the prolific Urthboy (The Herd) are from the area, as well as Dialetrix and Thundamentals, who I love. I used to play with DJ Tommy Fiasco as a kid, he was the son of one of my Dad's colleges. Those days he was just Tom and could play a mean hide n' seek.

This isn't by any means a definitive article on Blue Mountians music, and I'm sure there are bands I have overlooked so please, let me know who I've missed! I also think that Jordan and the Original Six merit a mention. Rockabilly isn't the kind of genre I feel like I can appreciate without being in the 'scene'. I saw Jordan at the Gearins the other night, surrounded by an entourage of rockabilly people, driving their fancy old cars, looking amazing. I looked at them like a cockney orphan girl outside an expensive restaurant, realising I would never be a part of their world, but still, I've seen him play and they are great. Also CJ Shaw, another friend of a friend, who plays good folk. I met someone recently and we were talking about music. I mentioned folk and his eyes lit up. "Folk! I like folk! Like CJ Shaw, right?" Another pleasent small-world surprise.

Pitch to Television Stations #3

2010-06-09T14:52:00.002+10:00

"Red Herrings"

In the sturdy capitalist economy of the Atlantic Ocean everything seems like business as usual until the democratically elected Mr Octopus is assassinated.

An organisation of herrings with known communist leanings are suspected with plotting the assassination, but was it really the herrings who killed the president?

A thrilling whodunnit.

'Half a Sixpence' is the Stupidest Movie I Have Ever Seen

2010-06-08T08:55:00.008+10:00

Half a Sixpence, or (if you watch the entire 143 minutes of it and the wretched cockney of it all becomes mired in your frazzled brain) 'Alf a Sixpence, is a British musical of the most heinous kind, and quite possibly the stupidest movie I have ever seen.

Starring Tommy Steele, a song and dance man who's face is made up entirely of bug-eyes and a massive set of chompers, it's the story of Arthur Kipps; a poor cockney orphan boy who inherits a fortune from a mystery relative. Kipps gets carried away with his new found wealth and forgets the meaning of true friendship and simple pleasure, but his true love, Ann, a simple girl with simple ways, eventually steers him in the right direction and they live happily ever after.

Now, I like musicals a lot and I've never shied away from a big cheesy production number, but Half a Sixpence is pretty hard to take.

For one thing, the lead, Tommy Steele, looks entirely deranged. Apparently he was "Britain's answer to Elvis", which blows my fucking mind, particularly seeing as Sixpence was released in 1967, and the first appearance of the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show was in 1964. One would assume that Britain already had an answer to Elvis, that they could probably just relax a little, but no. Tommy Steele is a massive, massive dork in anyone's book, I can't see how anyone thought that launching this face into stardom was going to be their cash cow.

Isn't he dreamy?

His leading lady isn't much better. She has the vague look of a drug-affected, inbred baby who's just been smacked over the back of the skull with a frying pan.

There's also a baffling display of really crap special effects, which I'm sure would have been really crap even by 1960's standards. Whenever any kind of love interest comes into shot (and there are multiple, oooohh! Tommy Steele, you cad!) there is a horrific display of soft focus. I suppose this is to reflect the soft focus of mind one feels when one is in love, but it is abruptly introduced into each scene at the weirdest of moments and you can barely see what's going on. I thought my eyes had just stopped working in protest of the confounding shit I was subjecting them to, but then I realised it was a daring, cutting edge cinema technique. Speaking of daring cinema techniques, check this out.

"I say, it's very modern isn't it?"

WTF? Why is it all in red? Why is this creative zoom out necessary? I mean, this was a pretty avant guard time in cinema, Blow Up was released only a year before, and I'm sure a lot of film makers around this time were keen to experiment, but the effects in Half a Sixpence are fucking absurd.

Here is another part of that same sequence which made me snort water out of my nose. Kipps has just inherited his money and all these sexy dames start hassling him, but all the poor lad wants is a banjo, obviously. Must of this song is just Steele barking out the word "banjo!"

Other highlights include the number "That's when I'm meeting my girl", which is kind of a dorky-man's "Singin' in the Rain" and a wedding number which culminates in a very awkward freeze frame of the newly wedded couple, except the screen doesn't freeze at all, the couple just pretend to freeze for a total of about 6 seconds, ever so slightly leaning and moving with mad looks on their faces.

I can't recommend this movie to anyone. Watching Tommy Steele's face for 143 minutes was utterly painful, the acting was unanimously over done, the script was plain bad, and the songs were pretty sub-par. I realise trying to pick holes in a movie like this is like shooting a nerf gun through a spider web, but as I said before, I usually gobble cheesy musicals right up. Half a Sixpence really is that bad.

I LOVE PUNS!

2010-06-03T20:48:00.004+10:00

Old and Busted: LOVE and HATE knuckle tattoos

New Hotness: GLOVE and HAT - I'm mad OG when it comes to winter accessories

This is what happens to me after one glass of wine.

2010-06-02T09:47:00.003+10:00

Trawling through the arts and media related ads on Seek, I just came across this little gem:

Musician

Music is an important part of military life, with bands traditionally performing at ceremonies, parades and public events.

As a musician in the Navy, you’ll not only have the satisfaction of developing your musical skills, you’ll also experience the challenge and adventure of acquiring military skills to enable you to play a combat role if required.

Pay and Benefits

Upon completion of your Recruit Training, if you don’t hold a degree you’ll earn an approximate salary package of $62,900 p.a., whist degree qualified musicians will earn an approximate salary package of $66,300 p.a. You’ll also receive a $10,637 p.a. seagoing allowance when applicable, free healthcare and subsidised accommodation. Your salary will continue to grow based on years of service, competency and rank.

Employment Location

You may be posted to any base within Australia or possibly overseas, although overseas postings are limited.

Entry Requirements

You must be at least 17 years of age, and an Australian citizen or hold Permanent Residency status. Additional age, medical and fitness guidelines may also apply.

Education Requirements

You must have successfully completed Year 10 English and Maths.

You know something? I could do that! I could definitely do that.

To be honest, most of my knowledge of the Navy comes from things like this anyway:

So becoming a musician in the Navy makes perfect sense to me. These are men at sea for long stretches of time and someone has to provide jaunty jigs for them to tap dance to.

Plus, there don't seem to be any prerequisite skills. It doesn't even say you need to know port from starboard. It doesn't even say you need to me a particularly good musician. You probably only have to play the piano accordion anyway. I assume there will be some kind of dancing with a mop test but I could slam that shit.

And the salary! I'm a trained media professional and I don't mind admitting, it's more than I'm getting now. $63 k. That's, like, going-to-the-movies-on-a-day-that-isn't-a-Tuesday kind of money. Plus they subsidise your accommodation.

And now that women are allowed on submarines there's no stopping me! I'm going to go off and get anchor tattoos on my forearms RIGHT NOW!

Plus it'll give me a licence to swear and get heaps of ladies pregnant at port. I know I'm biologically incapable of doing that but the Navy is so progressive these days I'm sure they'll have some sort of knocking up assistance program. It's my right as a sailor.

I can't see a single flaw in this plan.

Pitch to Television Stations #2

2010-05-18T14:15:00.003+10:00

So You Think You Can Yacht

Inspired by Jessica Watson's admirable effort to sail around the world, contestants will embark upon several yachting based challenges to decide who will become Australia's first Masterskipper (c). Audiences around the country will become savvy with yachting terms. What Masterchef did for "plating up", So You Think You Can Yacht will do for "mooring lines". Each Sunday evening a contestant will be thrown overboard.

nb. Plenty of scope for making jokes about "seamen".

She's a Tiger

2010-05-16T18:10:00.004+10:00

This was me last night at Baz's Scarface party. I was ever so excited to spend the night dressed as Elvira Hancock.

I spent the night cold and devoid of feeling. Occasionally I would breathe "Fuck you, Tony" and stride out of the room.

Look out world, expensive lady coming through.

The dress came from the op shop (A friend commented on it, telling me I was as sparkly as the moon) and the wig I found in Newtown while junk shopping with my mother. Actually, we were walking down King street discussing my options for my Elvira costume and Mum told me I would need fur coat, because it would be cold. Shortly afterward a super trendy Newtown hipster bloke came sauntering down the street wearing a fur coat and she elbowed me

"Look, you need that coat. You should take his coat!"
"Yeah Mum" I said "Should I go and roll him?"
"Yeah", she said to me "go smash him!"

After the party we went to the Coach and Horses, which is pretty much a tradies pub, and this guy started talking to me, commenting on my outfit.

"Look at you! You look amazing" he said. "You look like you're at the... Logies or something!"

He filled my simple small-town mind with grand, fancy city ideas.

Pitch to Television Stations #1

2010-05-12T18:49:00.003+10:00

'Wax and Wayne' - A sitcom

Wayne is a 21 year old virgin who just loves pornography. When Wayne finally loses his virginity and discovers that not all women in the real word have Brazilian waxes he embarks on a one man quest to rid Australia of female pubic hair all together by opening his own beauty salon, 'Wax and Wayne'.

Watch the hilarious antics as Wayne's clients realise the beautician they booked is not only a man , but one who uses words like "pussy" and "panties". Large portions of this show will consist of montages of Wayne getting slapped in the face.

Good Guys and Bad Guys

2010-05-12T09:26:00.005+10:00

This morning I was on the train at peak hour, standing because there were no seats available. Beside me, sitting firmly in the middle of a seat designed for two people was a solid looking man with silver-grey hair atop a fat head. He wore a blue suit with wide shoulders, a red tie and a gold watch. Sitting in the seat in front of him was a woman wearing a furry leopard skin coat, red lipstick and gold earrings. They obviously knew each other and she was turning around, leaning on the back of her chair to talk to him, crowding the space of the person sitting next to her.

As they loudly talked and joked she lazily fanned herself with a Liberal candidate pamphlet; with a similarly fat and silver-grey head of the candidate that waved back and forth in front of her face.

I immediately knew these people were obnoxious, cold hearted, lacking in empathy. The man raised his heavy hand to the woman's neck and started to massage her. I watched as the animal fur rolled and rose around her aging throat, the Liberal candidate in miniature came to rest on her thigh.

"Don't be prejudiced", I thought.
"Just because they clearly have more money than taste and they support the Liberals doesn't mean they are bad people. Just because they are taking up too many seats during peak hour while I stumble in the aisle, trying to maintain my balance doesn't mean they are evil cartoon villains. You need to have an open mind and heart about people. You need to stop casting the first stone. You need to stop holding all this unsubstantiated hatred in your heart, Tess".

At the next stop someone else got up so I got a seat after all. I opened up my paper and settled in to read for the lengthy journey I had ahead of me. I spend at least an hour on the train going to work in the mornings so if I can lose myself in reading I barely notice the minutes ticking away, or the stations passing by.

Half way into a article about scientists finding woolly mammoth DNA trapped in sheets of ice I was smacked in the back of the head with a backpack as someone left the train. I looked up and it was that fat-headed pig of a fucking Liberal scumbag sauntering down the aisle. He did not turn around to apologise.

What kind of a grown man in a suit carries a fucking backpack anyway?

Consumer Product Reviews

2010-04-12T10:37:00.004+10:00

Vera Bermuda is not on the cutting edge. For Vera Bermuda, style is timeless, and therefore timing is negligible. These products are not particularly new, or even very interesting, but I’m road-testing them anyway, for the good of the people, and for the fodder of this blog.

GHD Hair Straightener

Some down-to-earth, no nonsense marketing from GHD

I have never really understood the hype around the GHD hair straightener. Apparently, GHD to straightening hair is what Ferrari is to driving, what Prada is to dressing, and what Moet is to getting pissed. It’s a brand, it’s an aura, it’s the vibe, it’s Mabo. I knew a girl who got engaged a few years ago and all of her friends pitched in to buy her one- a bizarrely one person-oriented engagement present I thought, but nonetheless a coveted item.

I never really did understand how a brand could come along and do so much in the field of, what is essentially, ironing hair, and what had been done for decades before by- an iron. Anyway, many people will have you believe that a GHD is far superior to any other brand of hair straightener and therefore worth the $300 odd market price.

I came into a GHD via a friend, who was chucking it away because it belonged to someone who had done the bundy and is now living in America. I used it for the first time when I was rushing off to Sasha’s birthday dinner, which I was late to because Nicola and I were watching The Bounty Hunter, which was eight different kinds of shit.

I washed my hair and blow-dried it in the very technical manner I usually do which makes me look like Grug, and I plugged in the GHD to warm it up.

Timeless style

The first ting I noticed about the GHD was how big and heavy and black it was- solid, like a weapon. This pleased me. The second thing I noticed was that the chord was also heavy and therefore less prone to curling up like inferior cheap and flimsy chords. This meant that it fell in a straight line from the appliance to the power socket. This too pleased me because things that aren’t straight stress me out a bit (excluding people- relax). A red light went on and moments later started blinking and beeping. I took this to mean it was communicating with me that it was warmed up and ready to use, which was very considerate of the appliance.

My hair was slightly damp so a lot of steam was generated around my head while using the GHD. This, combined with the black and weapon-like design of the appliance made me feel a bit like I was in The Terminator. I commenced making sound effects.

The finished product was- exactly like my hair straightened with any other hair straightener. I am yet to bet convinced about the GHD’s superiority, apart from the stellar weight of the chord.

Vegemite Cheesybite Spread

Vegemite Cheesybite is, quite simply, genius. It’s all the advantages of vegemite without the encumbering labour inherent in the process of making a vegemite snack. Fuck. Even thinking about making Vegemite on toast the old fashioned way makes me angry. Putting in the toast, getting out the butter, opening the butter, spreading the butter, putting away the butter. NO! I can safely say, without hyperbole, that Vegemite Cheesybite is to the 21st century what the automobile, the internet, penicillin (nb I am not a historian) was to the 20th. Revolutionary and delicious.

My Jumper

I bought this jumper on the way home from a ski trip last year. We went into this café in Cooma which had a massive array of souvenirs which had not been moved or altered in anyway since the 1970’s. It was spectacular. Racist old postcards, crappy little kangaroo badges, desktop calendars, souvenir spoons, and this jumper. I had real trouble limiting it to a few purchases. When I paid for it the old lady behind the counter looked at me real funny, like she didn’t really know why I was buying it. There was another lady working there too. She was about 30 and slightly haggard looking. She had a t shirt on that said ‘I’m not easy, but we can discuss it’. No word of a lie, I swear on Zeus’s beard that is true.

I thought I lost this jumper and I was really upset but I found it stuck behind a drawer of a dresser I was about to throw out. I will never regret buying this jumper. It was worth every one of the ten dollars I spent on it. I give it five stars.

Mosquitos

Some days you bite the mosquito, some days the mosquito bites you

I’ve noticed lately I am kind of ‘the shit’ when it comes to avoiding mosquitos. Every night I hear one buzzing around when I turn off the lights but I never get bitten. Every time I am outside at dusk all my friends get bitten and I never fall prey. I also give mosquitos five stars, for avoiding me.

Goodbye Summer, Hello Edward

2010-04-01T12:47:00.001+11:00

I’ve been moaning ceaselessly these last few weeks about the end of summer and all that it means to me. The end of swimming, the end of totally effortless dressing, the end of weather lifted spirits in general, and I really haven’t been too zen about the whole thing. I’ve been kicking and screaming like a toddler, hanging onto the cuff of summer’s pants, being dragged on my stomach through the hallway of life, as it walks out the door telling me “Settle down, I’ll be back!” and it’s apparent now that summer has gone- the door is shut, it’s all over.

However,

Yesterday I went for a walk and I was happy to find my favourite kind of weather had blown in. It had rained the night before and the sun had come out in the morning so every smell was augmented and was being whipped around by the wild wind. The smells, the warm sun on my face, and the crisp wind which was sending the trees bending over in all directions- everything about this kind of weather wakes my body up. It’s almost like my blood becomes excited. It’s a purely physical reaction. You know when you feel like your heart is swelling- well that was how I felt, and I started thinking about all the things I love about autumn and winter- ugg boots, soup, knitting, port, chocolate, doona snuggling, fires. Yesterday I made my peace with the change of the seasons.

My transition was aided greatly by the excellent night I had the night before. Billy took me to see Edward Sharpe and the Magnetc Zeros at the Metro, and it was lovely. I’ve never reviewed a gig before so I’m going to Appraise ESATMZ on a points basis. If you please…

1 point for energy. With 11 people on stage, all bouncing around, the lead singers jumping on the speakers and down into the audience on a regular basis, I was well and truly bouncing too.

1 point for beards. Several of the men were sporting attractive beards, some in flannelette shirts and some in Shearer’s singlets- this combined with musical ability is pretty much everything I look for in a man, in fact-

1 extra point for the piano player- who combined all of this with long hair. He was dreamy.

1 point for instruments. Amongst the diverse range of instruments were a piano accordion, toy keyboard, big enormous tambourine thing with a drum skin on it, trumpet, and percussion worthy of a primary school music day. It got my wallet burning that’s for sure. There’s so much I need to spend money on.

1 point for the songs in general. I have the album, and truthfully only one or two songs get me excited, but on Tuesday night I loved every song they played. ESATMZ are definitely a “live” band, if you get my drift. They really have to be seen to get what they are all about.

1 point for the bartender- who was free pouring spirits rather heavy handed-ly. Frankly, when you’re paying gig prices for drinks I would expect nothing less but it’s nice to see some generosity every now and again. Mind you, I still drank VB.

1 point for Home. I love that song, and I wasn’t disappointed.

1 point for audience participation. On the second last song he got about 30 people on stage with him and everyone in the theatre sat on the ground at his direction. “Ok” he said “It’s story time” and sang a beautiful and gentle song.

1 point for inspiring me. They aren’t exactly musical geniuses, nothing ESATMZ do is groundbreaking but they are a great big bunch of people who get along and all come together to do something creative, which is exciting to me. It really did seem to be about doing something they love and having a great time doing it, which is inspiring, and something I want more of in my life.

1 point for the excellent car park we found.

-1 point for having to line up in the rain. It was really packed.

So there you have it, 9 points out of… well let’s say 10 for argument’s sake. Most importantly it reminded me of a sense of joy I haven’t experienced in a while, and that’s an important feeling to try and hang onto. Whatever does it for you, find it where you can. Have a joyful autumn every one.

Three Movie Reviews

2010-03-24T16:31:00.002+11:00

The Bounty Hunter- Categorically Shit

I’m not sure what actually drove me to see The Bounty Hunter. Nicola and I wandered into the Ritz, a little sun-drunk after a couple of hours at the beach with the wish to see “some dumb movie”, probably to groom us for the night of incredibly dumb drinking which lay before us. Because both of us have previously worked at the Ritz the ticket seller gave us a sneaky comrade discount so we only had to pay eight dollars each for the film. Let me tell you, I felt every cent of that eight dollars.

There’s something about Jennifer Aniston that I do find quite likeable. I think it’s that she’s incredibly average. She’s essentially average looking, she usually plays average characters, her media “scandals” are ones most of us can relate to, not to mention she’s Madonna to Angelina Jolie’s whore (no woman would want to be usurped by Jolie. She’s almost the ultimate woman, and therefore utterly hateable). I liked Aniston in The Bounty Hunter, although for the better part of two hours I was preoccupied by her bony chicken-bone (décolletage if you read Cosmo). Jennifer’s chest is harsh terrain and her bosoms are weird, this is primarily what I took away from The Bounty Hunter. Gerard Butler’s chest is also peculiar. He’s a big guy, I guess he “works out”, but he looks like some 1950’s cartoon character who inflated himself with a bike pump. Stick a pin, or Aniston’s elbow, into him and Gerard Butler would go zooming around the room, bouncing off the ceilings and walls. That’s science.

The worst part of the movie was the music, which was mind-bendingly unoriginal. The car chase was accompanied by a screaming guitar solo, the casino scene with Shirley Bassey or some shit, and the seduction scene with “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gay. I just couldn’t believe someone got paid to design this part of the film. It was like they gave the job to the director’s neighbour’s unemployed dad.

No stars. This movie made me want to tear the stars from the sky.

Men Who Stare At Goats- Probably starring Sean Micallef

I saw this at Fox Studios. I ordered the two tickets plus a medium popcorn and a bottle of water for my friend and me. The guy behind the counter told me “if you have the medium popcorn and the bottle of water you can get it as a combo, which is ten cents cheaper”,
“Great” I said. “What’s in the combo?”
“A medium popcorn and a bottle of water” said he.
“…Ok… thanks.”

The movie itself was enjoyable and mildly thought provoking, and it was nice seeing Ewan Macgregor doing something other than posing for perfume ads. The best performance was given by Jeff Bridges as a burned out acid casualty who really likes ice cream. Adorable.

I was also able to draw a strong comparison between George Clooney with a moustache and Sean Micallef with a fake moustache. I am unable to illustrate this comparison because I couldn’t find any pictures but trust me, they look similar. Image if they were both your uncles and had moustaches and patches on their elbows and gave you mini mars bars at Christmas time. That’s a thought that is going to keep me warm at night.

3.5 stars (.5 for display of excellent moustaches, worn by most characters)

Crazy Heart- Colin Farrel wears girl’s earrings

Hey, have you ever wanted to see a movie about an attractive young female who falls in love with a grizzled old alcoholic, maladjusted, loner of an old man? Then you should see this film, and just about every other American film made. Ever.

I’m so sick of this shit. When it’s an older woman she’s labeled with a nickname that essentially implies she’s a predator, when it’s an older man it’s called a “romance”.

Jeff Bridges earned his Oscar with the vomit in the beard scene, that shit was yucky. Mind you, the continuity person needs to realise that a conditioned alcoholic would probably need a little more than half a bottle of whisky to get wasted enough to spew. It takes that much just to get me dancin’*.

Both this and the Bounty Hunter are pretty much textbook examples of how to make a Hollywood money spinner and a heart… moving (I don’t know) indie film about country music. Neither push any boundaries and neither are particularly memorable.

3.5 stars (-.5 of a star for putting a kid so cute in it that I wanted to go get pregnant. That’s just irresponsible, Crazy Heart).

*Just kidding, that’s artistic licence. I never drink that much, Dad.

Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland Not For The Far Sighted

2010-03-11T16:28:00.002+11:00

I haven’t been to the picture shows in a while, and I was fairly excited to go and see Alice in Wonderland last night, not in the least because I was to see the film on a ‘date’- an actual ‘date’- I got picked up at eight o’clock just like in the movies and I was given a ‘flower’. I wanted my housemate to stand menacingly at the doorway and shout out “I know every cop in town, Bucko!” but he wouldn’t have a bar of it, because he is not a team player.

Alice in Wonderland is the first movie I have seen in the latest incarnation of 3D technology. The last time I saw a 3D film was at the age of 11 in the iMax cinema. For that I think we were given bulky headgear and my, how times have changed. I was very impressed at how square the glasses made me look. I felt a bit like Arthur Miller, or to a lesser extent, the dad in American Pie.

The 3D effect itself was, frankly, cheap and distracting. 3D films are, of course, not actually 3D, but multiple 2D planes placed at various levels on the 3^rd depth axis, so the overall effect is no less exciting than a children’s popup book, but the kids seem to dig it, so who am I to rain on their parade? (Actually, truth be known, all films are in 3D when the axis of time is taken into account, but we won’t get into that. I’m no pedant.) I am, however, mildly far-sighted, which I suspect was interfering somewhat with my perception, as I found a good deal of the movie blurry. Blurry and crap.

Tim Burton of late has proven himself to be somewhat of a one-trick pony. Like many others I was blown away by Beetlejuice, Edward Scissor Hands and The Nightmare Before Christmas. Burton seemed to have grasp of a delicious mixture between the eerie and the kitsch, and a delivery that was refreshingly unique but since Sleepy Hollow Burton’s films have burrowed safely into the niche he has created for himself, complete with the terribly overused faces of Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter. During the film the Mad Hatter (Depp) tells the somewhat gormless Alice “You used to be so much more… Much. You’ve lost your much-ness!” I would readily suggest the same to Burton.

The script, too, left much to be desired. The set up is trite, even for a children’s film, with the 19 year-old Alice (Mia Wasikowska) struggling as a social misfit in her stifling surrounds (she rebels by not wearing a corset, like so many 19^th Century young women of the movies. If we had Rose from Titanic and Jo from Little Women the three of them could go on a road trip and punch their fists in the air from the back of a convertible.) Alice is expected to marry a stuffy red-headed Lord with no chin. This is very difficult to care about as Wasikowska herself has all the screen presence of a CGI white rabbit, which she inevitably follows down the rabbit hole, shocking her chin-wobbling, pop-eyed elders. Once down the hole the story takes a turn of an anointed child nature and it is revealed that Alice is to save Wonderland from the evil red queen, played well by Helena Bonham-Carter. In fact Bonham-Carter is one of the only performers able to break through the thick makeup and unnecessary CGI manipulation to give a decent performance.

The art direction was spectacular. In the landscape was the welcome touch of the ‘Burtonesque’ with the merciful omission of one hundred curly striped things, but with the typical addition of many ‘spooky trees’. Costumes were attractive but less than interesting, particularly those donned by Wasikowska, which felt awkwardly like an haute courtier runway contribution. In fact, throughout the film, I couldn’t help but be painfully aware of all the ‘names’ who might be involved in this, and all the self-referential back patting it was going to spur. I could visualise the Vogue shoot, the clothing lines. Style definitely overtook substance to an irritating degree and the whole thing felt achingly hip, but I guess that’s what happens when you use someone who looks like a fashion model as a lead actor. Other star performers; Alan Rickman, Stephen Fry, and Matt Lucas were used to the least of their ability, which was disappointing. Oh, and there’s some So-You-Think-You-Can-Dance-style popping and locking used as comic relief at the end with Depp’s face plastered awkwardly over the dancer’s. This seems to be symptomatic of the whole affair. Depp is an impressive performer, and has proven himself to be of the old school of multi-threat actors, who commit to performances. I’d lay five bucks on the ability for Depp to learn a dance and perform it, but once again, the nifty whiz-bangery of the modern age seems to have enchanted Burton to the point of absurdity, as he sits in his throne ordering flamingos to be used as croquet mallets and white roses painted red. Off with his head.

2 ½ stars

Look, Johnny Depp is wearing a hat. How cool.

Writing a Screen Play: UR Doin it Wrong.

2010-03-10T13:47:00.003+11:00

I'm not sure how I managed to convince myself that taking a "creative sabbatical" was a good idea for me, particularly when my laptop has the photobooth application, and since I am a vain harlot of sorts, and enjoy taking hilarious photos of myself, such as this one, which I plan to use as a headshot to get gigs.

After a couple of hours last night working on my screen play (yuh, I know), I got a little distracted, and made this ad for my blog.

Oh and the screen play? We can blame Dad for that one, who encouraged me to take a proper risk. Yes, I am going to have to join the workforce again soon, but right now I figure I have no obligations, no responsibilities, and nothing to lose, so I'm giving it a crack. If any one, however, has any serious ideas about what to do with it once I'm done, I'd love to hear your input.

And no, I'm not going to tell anyone what it's about. Not just yet.

Things I have Done Since Becoming Unemployed

2010-02-17T23:20:00.002+11:00

Those who have been following the chronicles of my “funemployment” jaunt may be interested in how I have been spending my time since the GFC sword fell upon my head. The following are just a few of the activities I have been entertaining myself with whilst firmly ignoring reality.

Not Washed My Hair

A long time ago my dear mother told me she heard on the radio that shampoo was a capitalist plot and that I should stop washing my hair, and just let nature take it’s course on me head. According to the program she heard, shampoo is one of the many items our consumer culture has unnecessarily driven home to us as essential. She heard that if you stop washing your hair with shampoo and start just using water, eventually the natural oils will regulate themselves and your hair will no longer need washing. I was dubious, as I enjoy hygiene, so I ignored her, however now I have given more thought to the situation. It do still indulge in the Capitalist consumer sin of washing my hair with shampoo, often while give sexualised fashion dolls to tweens, and kicking caged-hens with my Nikes, but I do it less often that usual. I have noticed that the more one washes one’s hair, the greasier and smellier it gets, so I’ve been trying to cut back, and with the perfect environment to do it in, ie- not associating with anyone who has to take me serious on a professional level, I have been able to stand the greasy head.

Bought A Banjo

And she’s a beauty. I think I’m going to call her “banjo”. I can’t possibly think of anything wrong with this purchase at the moment. It’s tuned to an open chord so it’s fairly easy to play, and everyone loves the banjo! Everyone. Even you! The guy who sold it to me told me about his father who used to play in a bluegrass band. Apparently, whenever a fight broke out the band would bring out the banjo and people just mellowed the fuck out. They got happy and started dancing. In the face of redundancy many people takes steps to improve their skills set. I feel I have now ticked that box.

Vandalised Shit

Today, I was downstairs doing my laundry and my next-door neighbour asked me if I wanted to go and create some “street art” with him. I said yes, even though I had a very busy funemployement schedule of playing the banjo and reading 1950’s romance novels all day ahead of me. We went out to La Perouse and painted a wall with a picture of these two little alien-like girls in matching pea coats with Shirley Temple curls and a bunch of space houses behind them. My neighbour is a phenomenal artist, and the work he usually produces is amazing. This wall, with my contribution, was somewhat less so, but a fun time was had nonetheless. Some dero and his dog came up and told us it was “unreal”. I’M A PART OF THE COMMUNITY, HEY!

I hope I’m painting this picture for you accurately. Basically I have become and unwashed, banjo-playing, criminal. I have taken no real steps toward becoming gainfully employed and my bedtime hours have firmly slotted into those of a total miscreant.

And guess what…

I’m outrageously happy right now.

Facebookin'

2010-02-02T11:06:00.004+11:00

Facebook groups have taken the sting out of observational comedy, and will put such comedians out of a job. Groups like, "I like it when my elbow does a little wee in the shower", "Dear Pringles, I can not fit my hand inside your tube of deliciousness", and "Every time I hear Matt Damon's name I have to repeat it like a retard", are really just a forum for airing the one funny quip you came up with one day. In fact, there is even a group called "Facebook groups; I see the name, laugh, join the group, and then never look at the page again" or something along the lines of that.

Woah, hang on. I could even start a group called "Facebook group names will put observational comedians out of a job". Shit, the levels of irony could kill a man. I would have a photo of Jerry Seinfeld looking degenerative and sad. Something like this

People would think it was hilarious and I would have a million followers by sundown. Speaking of which, I'm also going to create a group called "I totally bet there isn't a kid called Batman right now", and one called "50,000 people against facebook groups by April, 2010".

The Grasshopper Who Sang All Summer (at Centrelink)

2010-01-21T10:15:00.006+11:00

I'm going to be 24 soon.

In the documentary I have been editing over the last few months I came across a director called Mia Hansen-Love who is also 24. She has directed a feature film and is pregnant with a human child. Her latest film (of three), The Father of My Children won the Special Jury Prize in the Un Certain Regard category at Cannes in 2009. She is 24. She is a female director and she is 24 and is carrying a baby in her womb. I am overcome.

At age 24 I will be newly embarking on a stint of unemployment. This is because I have (somehow) justified to myself that I am "due for a break". I plan to play my guitar, bake cakes and find neighbourhood cats to pat until my money runs out. This I thought a grand plan until I found out about Mia Hansen-Love, who would also probably kick my arse in a fight, probably.

Mia Hansen-Love did have a bit of a lucky start. She was cast in a film at age 16 after someone saw her in the street and decided she had the right look. The streets I was hanging around in at age 16 weren't really conducive to such opportunities, although I may have scored a leaf raking or baby-sitting gig from time to time. Luck or "knowing people" haven't really played a great role in my career development, but I've worked hard and have done my best as someone who is both a "gifted underachiever" and "not tv pretty". However, it is at this juncture of my career that I reach a point when I must ask myself, what the bloody hell have I been doing all these years?

In another interview I edited, Kasey Chambers recounted her solo debut as a teenager, stressing that is was simply the best alternative to taking a day job that she could think of. And she's certainly not the only one. Countless successful and famous people have achieved their success in their teens or early twenties. Youth is a commodity; it is revered and fetishized. It is marketed and sold to us in just about every advertising campaign you see, and it is a constant threat to those who no longer posses it. While many of us will grow to be more intelligent, more adept and experienced, more comfortable with ourselves and to be more productive members of society, none of us will be more attractive or more youthful than we are today, at this very moment.

At 24, I will have less responsibility or obligations than I am ever likely to have. I have no kids, no loans, no debt, no sickness or family ills, no relationship and few social constraints, but I DO have the constant, unshakable weight of the burden of youth. Sometime within the next few years I need to have the career impressively underway, the material wealth accumulating, the relationship existing and solid, the children conceived, and all the frivolities of youth well and truly played-out lest they wheedle their way into my sensible adult life.

So the question now remains; do I make the most of my unencumbered youth or do I knuckle down now and make the metaphorical jams and preserves that will keep me through the winter years of my life? I realise that the biggest danger is looking back with regret about the chances I could have taken, but what chances exactly should I be taking now? It's all a bit much to bare really. In fact, I'm sure writing this is a big waste of my time. I should be going out and having fun RIGHT NOW, in a systematic and efficient fashion if I want to achieve a well spent youth by the age of 25. Mind you, 25 is when they stop giving all those youth arts grants, so I have a lot of applications to complete before next year.

Things I Won't Miss About My Job

2010-01-20T10:34:00.003+11:00

Interviewer: And you wore a white suit to your wedding, and your lovely bride wore a ravishing red?
Completely Boring and Uncharismatic Belgian Popstar: No, I wasn't, er, in white. I was, um, in a colour we call, uh, jrege, which is, uuuhhhhh, a mixture between grey and beige.
Interviewer: ... mmm....

*editor kills herself*

Tortoise This.

2010-01-08T19:09:00.004+11:00

Trying to find love is like trying to fish a fly out of a glass of water with a straw. You can aim for it as delicately as you like but the fly will just slip around it like there’s some kind of force field around the tip. One of these days I’m just going to have to ram my finger in there and dig it out.

ANIMALS THAT CAN BE USED AS VERBS

Ram

Fish

Fly

and

Squirrel

Duck

Dog (slang)

Chicken (out)

Rat

Parrot

Ferret

(out) Fox

Ape

ANIMALS THAT CANNOT BE USED AS VERBS

Ant (I anted him good)

Lizard (lizard that paper to me please)

Dolphin (just dolphin on your day off)

Bison (I’d totally bison James Franco)

Tortoise (tortoise this!)

Just so you know, this post is going no-where so if you’re looking for coherent and stimulating prose, well…

…

… James Franco. See, I can’t even finish that sentence properly. The above is a picture of the totally aimless and distracted brain that is squatting in my head, kicking the back of my eyeballs like a ratty child on a long flight, and tumbling gracelessly forth through my mouth, all limbs and dirty sneakers.

I officially have one week left of employment until I am made redundant and as yet have no firm thoughts about what to do with my life. My job as a video editor has been incredibly rewarding, but now, faced with the kick in the pants I have long needed, I am forced to re-evaluate and decide if this is the right “track” for my “career”.

So now I’m presented with the illusion of infinite possibilities. So far my plans for the next year have consisted of “learn French” and possibly “patent new Nutella- iNuts 2.0”. “Get new job” would be a useful addition to this list but apparently it’s not allowed in. “Get new job” has its cold little orphan nose pressed against the glass window of the ostentatious restaurant that is my mind, and the gluttonous suited men raise their eyebrows and scoff. This is not a place for you, realism.

My family are no help either. Both my father and elder sister suggested I “go to art school”. I’m sorry, what? This isn’t what family are supposed to suggest to aimless, unemployed people. They’re supposed to slam their newspapers shut and shout “Get a haircut!” and THEN I enroll in art school to spite them. Why would they suggest I add to my HECS debt, and waste my precious youth studying when I could be concentrating on finding a rich husband? Why would they do that?

In the face of this highly confusing and unsettling period of my life I have done… nothing. I’ve wedged the situation firmly into the too hard basket and hung a “gone fishin’” sign on my life. I’m hitting the snooze button and propose to do so for a while. Money is a slight problem but clearly not problem enough for me to go “job hunting”.

I need a guidance counselor, like Mr Rosso in Freaks and Geeks. I’m sure he would help me out, plus I could hang out under the bleachers and make out with James Franco. I hope everyone here is cool with these train of thought derailments, because really, that’s all I have right now.

Merry Eczemas

2009-12-16T11:12:00.001+11:00

2009; kthnxbai. I am ever so glad to see the tail of you. OH, what’s that? You’re not quite done yet? You need to shove your slatternly begrimed face into mine one more time before you go? You need to be sure your hacking death rattle rings in my ears long into the new decade? Great. Cool. CHRISTMAS. I nearly forgot.

I’ve never been one of those, Scrooge McDuck, I hate Christmas types. I’ve always loved Christmas whole-heartedly. I turn up to one house after another and have delicious food driven down my throat like a fois gras goose and come away with enough soaps and nuts to last me half a year. The experience has always been nothing short of marvellous. This year, however, has been the first year I have thought of the festy season with exact the sentiment: “not too fussed”.
Let me add the disclaimer right now that I actually have no reason to actively dislike Christmas. We have money for presents, we are all healthy and our problems are trifling. I also realise that there are many, many people out there who are not so big on the holiday for good reasons. Maybe Uncle Mark gets maggot and gropes nieces, maybe Grandma Elsie doesn’t like the look of your “ethnic” boyfriend. I know, right? Family get-togethers can be a drag. But take a moment of compassion, if you will, for those of us who arise of Christmas morning and face a day (or two or three, depending on how many factions of the family we visit) with the need to be a perfect, creative, alternative, left-wing, artists daughter. Let me take you through a typically harrowing eczemas period.

Before the tinsel is even in the shop windows, I need to start thinking about presents. My family are good present givers. Good taste combined with esoteric pop-cultural knowledge and genuine thought usually leads to amazing gifts like a history of lingerie book or an obscure Bolivian percussion instrument. Against the mastered strokes of my family, however, I flounder, doggy-paddle style, in a constant struggle not to just by a gift pack form the Body Shop. Each gift given needs to reflect months and months of thought and effort. This year so far my only thoughts have been “shit it’s nearly Christmas. SHIT IT’S NEARLY CHRISTMAS! What’s on telly?” The present giving is always tempered with the age-old cry “don’t spend too much!” which is always meant well, but frankly, sometimes I’d rather a November phone-call with “don’t feel the need to hunt for a framed painting of an out-of-print children’s book from Norway in the 30’s. A voucher would be nice”, pouring like warm Christmas brandy down the line. Sweet relief.

After the presents are bought they must be wrapped in the most elaborate way conceivable. What started as a joke actually ended in a competition. Every year the presents look like they should be on a pedestal in a gallery. No shop-bought ribbons or lace mind you, no no no, accoutrement must be found in op-shops or made by hand, hip, retro or politically timely, and must ALWAYS be breathtakingly original. Cards are painted by hand, and the Christmas tree itself is usually a subversive one. Last year the lopped branch of a Jacaranda was painted pink with white polka dots and was strung with lights and African decorations.

The Christmas lunch is prepared; always elaborate and multicultural, not to mention vegetarian, gluten and preservative free and labour-intensive. The traditional John Lennon story about a murdered man is always read on Christmas eve, and we all get on the cans (read boutique wine) and have a very merry Christmas, but the entire affair is exhausting and competitive. It is nice to come from a family that wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I announced to the Christmas table I was gay or nipped out to the back veranadah to light a post-dinner spliff, but sometimes I think of the horrified looks I would receive if I didn’t take part in this year’s home-made, subversive bob-bon making, and I have a heavy heart.

So It’s off the library with me to look up obscure military hats to recreate for this year’s bon-bons, while visions of coleslaw and BBQ chicken from Coles dance in my head.

The Asylum Keepers

2009-12-14T15:51:00.000+11:00

After the last of them had finally left, a sense of anticlimax seemed to fall over everyone, followed by an undeniable restlessness.

For weeks we had campaigned to get rid of them, and the drive had banded us together in a way we had never been joined before. Intense and constant talks, planning, logistics, strategy. It gave us a purpose few of us had experienced, and filled us with a kind of fizzing liveliness that pushed us all to our very limits and forced many out of their shells in ways we hadn't experienced most of our lives.

Most of all it was the sense that our purpose was noble. It was a community effort that drove those away who were threatening our way of life. The place we lived was a great place. We knew we were lucky to be born in such a place, but we had also worked hard to make the best of what we had there. Generations lived in our community, some so deeply encrusted with elements and memories taken from their long lives of long journeys, that they served as an inspiration to us all. For a new colony to blow in, attach themselves because they thought the location was good and suited their needs, was simply not on. We had to protect our interests. Living well was sometimes hard work, and when it was a matter of us or them, charity was out of the question.

But now we simply had nothing to do, and the hangover of the common enemy proved only to dampen spirits. It was back to the same old same old. Grabbing food, eating food, building yourself up, searching for love, or being searched for love. The thrill of life which we had briefly experienced had undeniably gone.

The experience, however, would not be forgotten.

The day the first one was spotted it was floating past on a current. Perhaps a mere accident of chance had brought it there, and fate could just have easily have swept it away but the current was docile, and the stranger made a move to come closer. They loitered briefly, suspiciously, and then, just as easily as they had appeared, they was gone again. Some time later rumours had started to circulate that there were more of them, living on a piece of driftwood close by, and that they were looking for a new place to live. The thought of a clan of mussels, to stupid, ignorant and lazy to make their home on a solid foundation, coming to our whale, quickly incited uncertainty and anger amongst us.

The day they arrived and started attaching themselves the water was almost boiling with hostility. Many were saying that we simply didn't have the resources to house any more on the whale. Mussels were well known to eat more and live far less cleanly than us barnacles, and letting them on would ultimately be letting down the neighbourhood. There were a few of the softer minded amongst us who insisted that it would be alright, that we should give it a try, and take pity on the mussels who were not fortunate enough to be born near a rock or pillar good enough to live on. But certain older members of the community knew that this was dangerous thinking. "You can't trust them. They arrived here by being sneaky. They'll come in, eat all our food and pretty soon there won't even be any room for us. Plus, you know what mussles are like- they detach themselves from a place whenever it suits them. We've lived here a long time and worked hard at becoming a strong colony. These invaders will be the ruin of us!"

So we banded together in an almighty cold shoulder, and it worked, they were gone. But what of the colony now? Everyone seemed dispirited, unsure, and some even expressed feelings of guilt.

"Look" I heard someone say. "This is a great whale. I feel proud to be a member of the colony on this great whale. We don't live on a rock, where fish would hassle us daily. We don't live on a ship, always looking over our shoulder for the danger of being scraped off. We are very lucky to live on this great whale. But we have a responsibility to keep this whale great. Sure we can let the odd stray limpet, looking for a place to stay, attach itself. That's fine. But once you start letting dishonest mussels in well, there's no telling where it will end."

So now what we were left with was a colony brimming with uncertainty. My head, attached to the stomach of the whale, throbbed with confusion as I battled with the ethical implications of my colony's actions. The confusion plagued me for days until I felt my neighbours giant penis reach over and tap on my shell. Ah well, I thought, back to real life.

FACT

*Barnacles have the biggest penis to body ratio of any species.

Mr Pinchy

2009-12-11T13:56:00.002+11:00

Yes, that's right, the housemate we don't speak of, Mr Pinchy, makes his youtube debut today!!

I made this months and months ago one sleepy Sunday, and didn't get around to putting it together until now. The results, I think we can all agree, are breathtaking.

enjoy.

A Summer Playlist (without Shaggy)

2009-12-09T15:04:00.005+11:00

Summer is a very easy time to be happy. In the last few months I was dumped (I like to refer to myself as a dumpling) and I was made redundant, but every day I step out of my door to a massive blue sky, a bougainvillea that is currently going nuts and flowering all over the joint, and air that just smells green and I am filled with joy. So here is my ultimate summer play list to augment and add sparkle to the beautiful weather, like MSG on the ramen noodles of life. I’ve ordered them for you to live out your perfect summer day. You’re welcome.

FIG JAM – Butterfingers

I can’t think of a better way to start the day than with the affirmation “Fuck I’m good, just ask me”. Butterfingers may have this whole, "we're so flippant" comedy-Skip-hop thing going on but their lyrics are actually some of the wisest I’ve ever heard. Sentiments like “Stand up strait, don’t take no shit, head is on your shoulders, shoulders on your hips” (Get Up Outta The Dirt) is a nice refreshing slap in the face of self-indulgence. Listen to this while eating brekkie and punching every soft surface in your house. You will feel good.

78 Stone Wobble – Gomez (they won't let me embed. It's because they are sneaky.)

The start of this song is exactly like diving under the first wave of summer. I was on a bus last Sunday and let me tell you, Sunday public transport users have no idea what they’re doing. Weekday commuters get it, but Sunday riders bumble onto the bus, all teeth and sweaty grins. They have no idea where they’re going or how to buy a ticket. They shout out to their friends who are sitting right beside them, all bubbling over with the joy of riding with the people. This happened on Sunday and it was really hot and the window was stuck and everyone smelled like fucking plebs yammering on about appalling nonsense. I took a breath, put my ipod on, and washed them all away with this song. It was good.

Sky Blue Sky – Wilco

So it’s still morning and time to go for a nice bike ride with this song playing. Take this time to think about, like, “love”… or something.

Take It From Me – Girlfriend

This is kind of an obscure addition as many people may not remember this flash in the pan from the early 90s, but I was IN LOVE with Girlfriend, and hearing this song again recently got me higher than I have ever been. It instantly took me back to childhood and being so completely carefree, and having SO MUCH ENTHUSIASM AND ENERGY that I could spend the entire day rollerblading up and down the driveway. Also, CHECK THEM FUCKING OUT! The clothes and the dancing! This song is EVERYTHING THAT IS GOOD ABOUT THE WORLD!!

Minha Menina – The Bees

Middle of the day. Dance in the sun. Drink a beer.

Harley and Rose – The Black Sorrows

When I was a kid I pretty much expected adult life to be a summer’s afternoon painting the deck and listening to the Black Sorrows. It didn’t occur to me that I might have other responsibilities in adult life, and that a deck only offers a finite amount of surface area to paint, and probably wouldn’t need painting every weekend. This song now consequently makes me think of being a kid, and all the things you could get away with being a kid. I’m not talking about eating icy-poles and playing under the sprinkler- I still do that. I’m talking about things like lying on by back on the floor, squirming around with my legs in the air singing the same line off some Wollongong tv jingle over and over when Mum is doing the washing up and then moo-ing like a cow when she asks me to move, or crawling around the house with my brother in my sleeping bag, like worms. The first time I voted I was like, “I gave up childhood for this?”

La Mar – The Beautiful Girls

So it’s getting to afternoon time now, and everyone’s a little bit sun weary. This song is like aloe vera for the soul (feels good but don’t get it in your mouth. Tastes horrible)

Just Like a Baby – Sly and the Family Stone

The sun’s going down, but temperatures are rising IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!!!! I mean, this song is like liquid sensuality, warm honey dripping from glowing guitars onto ice-sculptures shaped like ladies. I don’t know. I’m not very poetic. BASICALLY THIS SONG MAKES ME THINK ABOUT SEX.

Festival Song – Pez and 360

This song comes on and I’m dancing and grinning like an idiot. Every time.

Sweet Summer’s Night on Hammer Hill – Jens Lekman

Party time. Fun in Scandinavia with just a hint of Supremes. Just the way I like it.

Harvest Moon - Cassandra Wilson

This song is for the end of the night, when everyone is sitting around in salty swimmers, skin tingling from sunburn, mosquito coils burning, cicadas singing, condensation dripping down fingers from cold beers in the warm night. This is when we stretch out our souls and feel the warm flowers of summer growing bigger in our hearts until they reach up to our throats and tumble down our chins in a long sigh.

Happy Summer everyone.

Powm, Pome, Po-em

2009-11-26T10:51:00.002+11:00

This isn't a crazy train
rolling down a crazy track
it's not a train that howls the blues
and I don't howl them back
I'm not on a journey
nothing I'm searching for
no-one's riding the rails
no-one here is that poor
There's no revolution of thought
I'm not reading a Penguin book
mostly I just sit
and give the billboards a look
this isn't a train of dreams
it doesn't level this great nation
it's just full of cunts
going to central station.

Dad's House

2009-11-24T14:23:00.000+11:00

I spent a lot of time growing up in a house that didn't have an indoor toilet. It was right down the back of the yard. If it was raining we would all go together, put on raincoats and Dad would walk us down with the torch and an umbrella, because it was too scary to go alone.

Our bath was in a room not much bigger than the bathtub itself, which was adjacent to the kitchen. There was a hole in the fibro wall with Dad used to talk through to Doran and me when we were in the bath and he was cooking dinner. One day in winter he bought a water pistol and squirted us through the hole by surprise when we were in the bath. The water was freezing.

After dinner Dad would make us hot chocolates in these tiny white and maroon china mugs with a picture of a blackface bellhop on the side. They were the perfect size for kids. Later he bought Doran a bigger yellow mug with the Flintstones on it, and me a blue one with a teddy bear wearing an eye patch.

After Dad started renovating the house, we the developed the tradition of asking him, as we arrived on a Friday night, “are there any changes?” (pronounced “chaaaaaaaaynges?”) Dad would answer yes and we would run around the house trying to figure out what had changed. Often it was something obvious but sometimes we just couldn’t see it, even if it was a new wall where a doorway once had been. It would take us nearly crashing into it as we tore through the house to see it there. Sometimes, when a really big change had been made, like when the fireplace was torn out, I was pained by the deep sense of sentimentality only a child can feel about inanimate objects. I felt the same sadness when Mum sold the green Subaru we grew up with and excused myself to say goodbye to the car while my brother was inside the shop, wildly excited by the new one. While the house was being renovated there were lots of great crawlspaces and opportunities to climb and hide up high in support beams on the wall. We were also allowed to draw on the bare gyprock walls. Some of those drawings never did get painted over.

During the summer we would play in the bush; pack picnics for the day or swing on the plank of wood Dad had hung which seemed to swing right out over the valley. We had apple trees that always had sour fruit, but the plumbs were pretty good. One day we decided to host a backyard Olympics, and piled plastic pots from the shed up with a broom across them for a high jump. Dad mowed the empty lot next door, cutting mazes into the long yellow grass. At Christmas a Santa on the local fire engine would drive down the street with a megaphone and throw cheap lollies out to kids. We would eat them as we jumped over the sprinkler, trying to stomp on the rainbows. Once, there was a massive flock of orange butterflies that flew up from the valley.

This was the new house. The old house was on the highway and surrounded by a rambling plant with little pink flowers. We didn’t have beds there, just mattresses on the floor. There was a paddock next door with a horse Dad told us was called Henry. We thought he belonged to us, but we couldn’t ride him because he didn’t like it. Once a month the car rallies would drive up the highway and the three of us in scratchy woollen dressing gowns would sit at the top of the steep driveway, eating porridge out of little china bowls, and watch the cars that looked like toasters and lobsters. The old house had an old milk shed out the back with lots of big, white, smooth rocks. I loved pretending they were eggs that I could collect.

Sometimes we would go for drives, to the pool or to Uncle Barney’s house in St Mary’s, or on various gallery errands. At 3 o’clock we would pull over and listen to the Goon Show. Dad could do a good Eccles.

New Blog

2009-11-18T12:45:00.001+11:00

Oh hey. This is me also www.scowlinganddancing.tumblr.com

ha cha cha!

You Gotta Have A Gimmick (nb. being crap is not a gimmick)

2009-10-28T15:39:00.006+11:00

I went to Dr. Sketchy's with Sarah last night. Dr Sketchy's is this really great fortnightly life-drawing event put on at the Arthouse on Pitt st that features burlesque performers as models. During the course of the evening the models put on a short performance- it's kind of an antidote to typical stuffy drawing classes. You can drink, talk, relax and see boobs, it's pretty great.

Previous visits I've seen a bellydancer who performed a drum solo as well as a hypnotic, contorted tribal dance, and I've seen a nice young chap who drove a nail into his nose and swallowed a really long balloon, blown up, and then popped it with a pin while it was down his oesophagus- it was lovely.

The performers last light both had the pseudonym suffix "the vamp". I don't know a whole lot about the burlesque scene but these ladies were both beautiful and slightly gothic looking, which leads me to assume that vamp refers to a look rather than a style of performance. So anyway, the performance last night from one particular "vamp" was this really awkward strip show. She was doing this Liza Minelli Cabaret thing complete with the black shorts, stockings and hat- straddling a chair. She was miming the words and kicking the air and stuff. It was incredibly lame, and then she started taking her clothes off and everyone kind of wrinkled up their noses. It was particularly awkward because they put us right in the front row. I could have punched her in the knee, if I so chose. She didn't get fully nakey, which was just as well, and she was covered in really bad 1990's tattoos. I felt bad that she was so shit. I have a great deal of respect for anyone who is passionate enough about an art form to want to make a living out of it, but I can't help but feel that if someone wants to be a performer, they should probably have some kind of marketable skill. The thing is, what she was doing looked piss-easy. I could walk up and down a stage, lip-syncing the words to a song that I don't really know that well, and take my shirt off, so seeing someone else do it just as well as I could just kind of makes me sigh.

But the night wasn't all bad. On our way to the toilet Sarah managed to identify a schizophrenic by analysing the way he drew. I asked her how she knew and she told me that his drawings had 'KILL HER!!!!!' scrawled all over them.

Well I'll be jiggered, I said.

A Conversation with the Gentleman Friend

2009-10-27T13:22:00.004+11:00

"You know Tess, ever since you told me pants weren't in fashion I've been noticing it everywhere."

"uh... what?"

"Remember you told me that pants weren't in fashion. You read it in a magazine or something. We saw those girls at the shops wearing really short shorts and you told me it was because pants weren't in fashion any more"

"..."

"they've become uncool"

"... I said that?"

"Yeah"

"Oh I guess I did. Yeah... pants are pretty passé"

"Yeah, I've been noticing it everywhere"

"you-... you have?"

"yeah"

"what kind of... everywhere?"

"Oh, just... everywhere"

Just thought this should probably be recorded for some kind of posterity

2009-10-22T16:54:00.005+11:00

you can click on the images to make them jumbo, k?

*even if it's only internets posterity

Things I Thought About John Safran's Race Relations

2009-10-22T09:33:00.004+11:00

Didn't like it.

I was really looking forward to it. I went to dinner with Sarah early, at 6:30, specifically so we could come home and watch it, and I was disappointed.

After watching Safran masturbate emotionally for a bit; making examples of wicked ex-girlfriends by stealing and sniffing their used underwear- an exercise in catharsis I'm sure; we were treated to the sight of him masturbating literally, at a Palestinian sperm bank.

Shock and self degradation are some Safran's strong points, along with embarrassing himself and displaying painful moments from his past in a kind of living awkward television vivisection. It's what he does. It's how he got famous. It's why he's here, but these are only some of his strong points.

Safran's strongest point is his intelligence, and last night's episode of Race Relations, to my disappointment, didn't offer any knowledge, insight, or intelligence. It was pretty much lowest common denominator stuff. It was funny- sitting down to a serious interview with a Pussycat Doll only to excuse himself to raid her dirty underwear in secret, and masturbating to an Obama biography being the best moments, but the laughs were cheap. Unlike Music Jamboree and Vs God, which felt a lot like learning, fulfilllingly so, Race Relations felt like the learning equivalent of when Mrs Killeen put on 'Outbreak' in year 9 science, because it was "too hot to teach".

I'm a really big fan of Safran's and I really want to like this, so here's hoping it will turn into the ethically provocative exploration of our post-race world it was promised to be. If not, I will probably just be satisfied with pepperings of Justin Heazlewood throughout the series, as there were in last night's episode. Oh Justin, I do love you madly.

WE ALL LOVE BOOBS BUT PLEASE, NOT BEFORE MY MORNING COFFEE HAR HAR HAR!!

2009-10-20T09:55:00.004+11:00

I saw a magazine called 'Nuts' this morning on the news-stand at central station which featured as the covergirl a woman with monstrous fake breasts, covered only by a pair of nipple tassels.

Now porn has its place and porn will always have its place and blah, blah, blah, but is that place really next to the New Weekly and the Sydney Morning Herald, on clear display of every man, woman, child, grandparent, child, religious person, child, child, OR CHILD??

Lest I be labelled a prude I'd like to point out that I have no problem with nudity, or with children seeing nudity in print or in real life. Nudity is merely the lack of clothes. It is a state which many people seem to forget we are all in underneath the various shit we layer on. Sexualised nudity like massive fake breasts coupled with a come hither look and NIPPLE TASSLES, however, really should not be so clearly on display. Children just should not have to deal with that until they are older- it's creepy, and completely baffling to deal with, and most parents probably aren't emotionally equipped to explain that sort of thing clearly, because a child's brain isn't emotionally equiped to deal with that information. (Plus, imagine the sort of uproar there would be if a 40 year old man was on the cover of, say, Cosmo, with a sock on his penis. That would be perverted. We have some pretty deeply ingrained sexist double standards that most people fail to question).

I realise I probably sound like some Victorian harridan from the corps of Fred Nile but I really think this particular edition (or perhaps the newsagent, for displaying it in such a way) is crossing some sort of line. Again, porn will always be around, who cares, but when little girls are growing up wanting to be wank fodder, perhaps we do have a problem on our hands. That ambition really should be left to when they are "trying to pay their way through uni" (it's called centrelink ladies).

THA END OKTHNXBAI!!!!

I'm keen to know, what do you think?

Massive Fail-Dogs

2009-10-15T09:08:00.006+11:00

Last night Emilie and I decided to road-test two of the recipes in my new cook book, which is full of Nanna recipes for cakes, slices and biscuits. The book is produced by the swell people who put out Frankie magazine so it's full of pretty, delicate, frilly images of delicious sweets plattered on 50's crockery sitting atop 70's tablecloths. We were both incredibly, incredibly excited.

15 minutes later we were both staring gormlessly into a bowl at something that didn't quite resemble a cake batter.

"Did you follow the recipe?"
"I think so..."

We shuffled, bumping shoulders over to the other side of the kitchen to stare gormlessly at the book.

"Maybe I put too much flour in"
"did you measure it?"
"... kind of"
"ok so, pour the cake batter into the tin"
"it won't pour. I'll spread in."
"is there enough?"
"it won't cover the bottom"
"spread it thinner. Get a butter knife."

The recipe was for a Belgian Bun with "lemon cheese" centre (no cheese involved). Giving up on the bun, I opted to make the "lemon cheese".

"It doesn't look like lemon cheese"

I was looking at a bowl with a lump of sugary butter in the middle, surrounded by a pool of lemon juice. Any efforts to stir the butter in resulted only in swishing the lump around in the juice. It looked like cancer.

"Did you follow the recipe Tess?"
"... um... woopsy."

The recipe involved melting the butter over a low heat and combining the ingredients, stirring until it thickened over the heat. I, on the other hand, put all the ingredents in a bowl, and stirred.

I won't go into detail about the "chocolate balls" we also tried to make, which resulted in a mixture roughly the colour and consistency of badly digested poo, which we were supposed to roll into balls with our hands, but was so wet it just smeared all over our hands and then we had hands of poo- I won't go into that.

The Story of The Only Time Someone Has Been More Hungover Than Me

2009-09-30T09:44:00.003+10:00

It was morning, and sunlight was prying open her eyes, but she rolled over and spread out, stretched and foetled for an hour because she liked the feeling of his clean sheets.

"Morning"
"...morning"
"How are you?"
"Terrible"

He had spent the majority of the walk home last night veering into parked cars, intermittently announcing that he fucked a fish-dog, a stray cat, and the back half of a camel, and that it was good. She had got him into bed safely.

"Can I get you anything"
"Morphine"
"Water?"
"QUIET!"

He was spread eagled, or perhaps a term that suggests less majesty; spread seagulled. He was spread seagulled across the bed in a position that doesn't afford a naked man much dignity. She looked out the window.

"It's a beautiful day outside"

Her looked to her with disgust.

"I'm going to have a shower"
"No!" He cried, retracting his knees underneath him and shuffling to her side of the bed like a limpet. "Don't leave me! I'm dying"
She quickly whatevered her face, looked him in the eye and said "I feel great". She stood up and walked to the door.

He lowed like a bull, shot his legs out underneath him to lie flat on his face and rolled toward the edge of the bed. He teetered, precariously, preciously, like the last horizon ray of sunshine on a winters afternoon, then crashed, with a limbed thud onto the carpet. For a moment he lay still then he shot to his knees and threw his arms and head back to the heavens, rage and fire in his bloodshot eyes, and bellowed with the thunderous roar of a man possessed.

"HECTIC!"

Aaaaaaaaaaaah, shithouse.

2009-09-14T22:59:00.002+10:00

I just broke my brain watching this:

The only way to fix it was to watch this:

Now It's Just Getting Awkward

2009-09-09T09:31:00.006+10:00

Thought I would post an update in the humour in the kitchen.

There is now a piece titled "The Three Stages of a Man's Life". Said three stages are illustrated by photos of lions. The first stage; "Before Marriage" is accompanied by a photo of a pair of lions in coitus. The second stage; "After Marriage" has a picture of a female lion roaring at a male, who is cowering in the corner of his enclosure. The third (and I assume the punchline); "After The Divorce", has a skinned lion throw rug, splayed pathetically on the floor.

Look. I appreciate that everyone has a different sense of humour but these jokes are getting more and more awkward to read because they are so obviously revealing the neuroses of the poster. Lets' review the intonations of the jokes so far, shall we?

The old ladies getting "screwed" reveals the mirth and satisfaction the poster receives from the though of older women being sexually empowered. The flies on the phone joke suggests that the poster is actually servile to stereotyped gender roles, but is, perhaps, not entirely happy with that, and this most recent joke does the same, with the snarky undertone of a malevolent attitude toward retribution for husbands in general. (If this joke has indeed been posted by a man the sentiment would be different- kind of a "such is the modern disenfranchised man's lot", but I suspect very strongly it is the woman who I suspected before).

This woman makes me want to quit by job and make my fortune selling natty little fridge magnets on ebay that say things like "Good coffee is like a good man, strong, hot and steamy!" and "How can it be wrong, when it feels so much like CHOCOLATE!", and "screw housework, pass me the Baileys!"

On a serious note, unchecked sexism and anger, unfairness and violence toward women is still a very real issue and I have known several women close to me who have had to deal with it, so more power to someone who voices their opinions about it but geeze Louise! Coupled with really bad and un-funny jokes in the staff kitchen at work- it really is just getting awkward. I'm half expecting to see Freudian sexually angled Rawshack tests or something on the board next.

Who I Want To Write Songs Like

2009-09-08T09:31:00.006+10:00

Leonard Cohen and Nick Cave
for their poetry

Sly Stone and Harry Angus
for their musicality

Amy Winehouse and Clare Bowditch
for their honesty

Tom Waits and Butterfingers
for their humour

Tex Perkins and Tim Rogers
for their unhampered cool-ness

All of the Beatles
for all of the above.

What I Actually Write Songs Like
Wollongong television commercial jingles

Hatred In The Sunshine

2009-09-07T10:10:00.010+10:00

When I was about 16 I discovered Michael Franti and Spearhead and for a couple of years I was completely enamoured of living a barefoot life of peace and all-encompassing love. I would love my brothers and sisters, embrace my enemies, and keep chickens and grow vegetables.

At the age of 23 I now live in the Eastern suburbs of Sydney and peace and love is the name of a scented candle I can buy at a 'nifty' little boutique after I have a latte and patted all the cocker-spoodles on a Sunday morning in Coogee.

Perhaps I am a little further removed from believing that "all the freaky people make the beauty of the world" than I used to be, but generally, I do aim to live a reasonably chilled existence. I try to be as tolerant as I can, and to understand and appreciate difference. Not only does this help others by virtue of me not bashing cripples and slandering ethnics, and not only does it put positive energy into the world (keeping it real Franti. Respect) but this attitude, above all, helps me. I realised some time ago that I am the only person who can determine my daily mood, and being negative toward others will only create a nasty little reservoir of hate and anger within me. I'm not one of those people that froths on the Dali Lama but I did hear him say once that anger is like holding onto a hot coal. You can hold it until you see the person you are angry at and throw it at them, but the damage done to you will be far greater than that done to the target. This, I agree with.

There are, on the other hand, people who are not like this. And one of these people is Emile.

I spent a good part of my weekend with Emile, an Emile spent a good part of the weekend compiling a list of things he hates so much they make him want to vomit with rage. Here are a few things that inspire malice in my friend Emile, in his own words (or an approximation there-of).

Zombies
because: "They're terrifying! They're the scariest things that could ever possibly exist in the world! And they would smell awful, like a dead body. I hate them!"

Breakfast Cereal
"It's useless! I hate it!"

Children
"I just hate them!"

Small Talk
"It's like when you're at a party, and you see someone, and they don't want to talk to you, and you don't want to talk to them but you have to! Why bother? You could just keep walking instead of standing there talking about the weather. It's a waste of time! Why say hello to every person you know? Who cares what they're doing these days? They're boring! I hate it!"

Chocolate Freckles
"Aaargghhh!!! They're the worst! Nobody likes them but everybody ALWAYS EATS THEM! They're disgusting anyway, they're made out of poo chocolate! They're so useless! I hate them!"

Bad Grammar
"A man is only as good as his grammar"

Humanity in General
This was followed by no commentary, just a thousand yard stare.

Barnacles
Urgh! Don't they just make you so ANGRY? They're disgusting. They make me want to vomit ALL OVER THEM! It's like, the whale comes out of the water and they're all nice and smooth and shiny, and then there's all these horrible barnacles all over them like disgusting acne. I HATE THEM!!!!!!
(this quote is basically word-for-word, no exaggeration).

For what it's worth, Emile is lovely, an all-round nice guy. He just tends to get a little bit ranty every now and... always. We try and accommodate him and make the world a little bit easier on him by taunting him with incorrectly pronounced German and by calling him a sourpuss.

Happy birthday Emile. May all your brightest dreams come true. Shoot for the moon, because even if you miss, you'll land among the stars!!

If anyoe wants me, I'll be sheltering from Emile in the panic room.

oh yeah...

Also, I was telling Dad about this on Sunday. I got to the bit about barnacles and Dad clenched his fist and snorted: "Ah! That pisses me off too! I HATE barnacles! They RUIN THE WHALE!"

Happy fathers day too Dad!

Top Banana

2009-09-02T09:49:00.008+10:00

I think I may have figured out why I'm not exactly functioning to full capacity in my adult life.

I need a sticker system.

In primary school most teachers had a system of reward whereby each achievement was marked with a small stamp or sticker and when a student had accrued a certain number of stickers a huge, glittery sticker was awarded and displayed proudly in the pages of an exercise book, or on a school uniform collar.

The reward system of adult life is somewhat less tangible. The huge glittery stickers I have received over the past five years; graduating uni, promotions, happy times in relationships- have each brought with them little barnacles of sorrow and doubt and, consequently, I have never really displayed them quite so proudly on my collar.

My adult life system of punishment, however, is infinitely easier to grasp, as every hiccup, every pitfall I experience, I have berated myself sharply for, and promptly sent myself for time-out on the silver seats.

This is why I need someone, an external mentor, to dole out the stickers when I deserve them. Last week I did my tax return which was, for the first time in my life, on time. THAT, deserved a gold star. On Sunday I finally bought a pair of jeans to replace the ones with a massive gaping hole in my 'ladies area'. The same jeans I continued wearing for months since said hole appeared. THAT deserves a gold star, and every day I get out of my warm bed to travel by two trains and a bus to NORTH RYDE to go to work, and in my opinion, I deserve a gold star for every day I have done that, not just the paltry reward of being paid enough to sustain my existence with mi gorings and gin.

Ok, where are the cameras...

2009-08-28T08:44:00.007+10:00

Surely someone must be having a lend.

Why is it that my two age-inappropriate celebrity crushes and idols have merged into the same person? Can someone please tell me how some one who looked like this:

and someone who looked like this:

Have both turned into people who look like this:

Is the universe delineating some future partner archetype that I'm now somehow supposed to adhere to? I mean, is this it? Is my subconscious drawing me to the inevitable fate of being in love with a pale moustachioed man (something which, I'm afraid, my current tanned and fair-headed paramour can never be)?

I mean, I know it's called "aging" and "it happens to the best of us" and all that rot, but I can't help but think, on some level, by some chance happening of events- THAT SOMEONE IS PLAYING A JOKE ON ME.

*startles, steps back, knocks over lamp*

See??

Funny Bone Fail

2009-08-19T16:16:00.003+10:00

Oh. My. God

It keeps happening.

She's fucking relentless.

Two days ago another really unfunny joke appeared on the noticeboard in the staff kitchen. This one was a picture of a woman wearing a crop top of sorts made out of a pair of men's y-fronts with the crotch cut out. The picture was titled "Campbelltown Crop Top".

Today another "joke" appeared about a husband who was swatting flies who's wife came in and asked how many he killed. He told her "three males and two females" when the wife asked how he knew the genders of the insects he replied "three were on the beer can, two on the phone"

Fuck.

Am I just not getting this? These jokes are so mind-bendingly un-funny. The funniest comedian in the WORLD could tell these jokes and they wouldn't be funny.

or

is this woman actually some kind of comic genius playing an elaborate hoax on all of us, a la the Emperor's New Clothes?

Oh Christ!

In this millenium of irony and post-modernism and cool kids dressing like nerds and high brow turing into lol brow and politicians on twitter...

I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT TO THINK.

*whimpers*

Lady Crush

2009-08-13T17:12:00.001+10:00

Just once in my life I would like to be described as the "poor man's Marieke Hardy". This is my goal, my aim, my raison d'être, if you will

*leans back in chair*
*raises eyebrow*
*swirls brandy in glass*

Anyway, since Marieke is too busy these days being the most amazing woman in the Australian media, she has abandoned her post as Ms Fits, which makes me sad. Finding good writing on the internet is difficult, and when Ms Fits went away I got cranky, withdrawn and desperately needed a fix.

Which leads me to my brand new lady crush on Caragh. Caragh's blog is an hilarious and at times quite moving account of her life, written in the kind of marajuana fostered neurotic and paranoid detail that I can relate to (regardless of my distatse for "bushwalking"). The blog reads like this:

"Tonight I’m seeing Hall & Oates at Mohegan Sun!

I am seeing the singers of “RICH GIRL” at a CASINO! I am going to hear “Rich Girl” LIVE and then immediately hit up the casinos.

I’M NOT SAYING I’M GOING TO COME HOME RICH TONIGHT, but I AM saying I am already picking out what color I want my helicopter to be. Aqua and white. Like a fucking toothpaste. I’ll call it my Smile of the Sky. None of this makes sense. HALL & OATES!!!!!!!!!!!"

She also has a blog called hotguysholdingcutepuppies.com which is even more amazing than it sounds.

Other blogs that have caught my attention are thesomewhatambitious.com written by Paul Verhoven (who does 'Nerds of a Feather' on Triple J brekky) and Luke Ryan. It's basically a wrap up of cool things in the world of geek media- not my area of particular interest as I am a cool kid and not a square, but good writing nonetheless. Cake Wrecks always affords me a chortle, and then of course there is the seminal Golden Shower written by my good friend, Sir Pantsalot (who needs to get his shit together and write more blogs. DANCE JESTER! I GROW WEARY WITH BORDOM!!)

But I need more.

So much more.

If anyone knows any good blogs out there please let me know. I'm not talking about shit like fmylife.com or textsfromlastnight, nor any description of lolcat- although these all hold a special place in my internet-heart. I'm talking about good writing. That's all I ask. Well thought out prose or analysis. OH HAI! HALP MEH PLZ!!

Also, if you happen to swing by this blog on occasion, drop us a comment. I've resigned myself to being a technical pleb so I haven't sorted out a site meter or anything. Maybe one of my genius friends can help me with this? :D

Have You Heard The One About The Shitty Office??

2009-08-12T09:30:00.004+10:00

Someone just put a very not-funny joke up on the kitchen notice board at work. The joke goes something like this:

An officer in a patrol car [nb. the joke was obviously American and set in American locales which makes it even less funny] came upon two elderly ladies sitting in a car late one night in a used car lot. He asked the ladies if they where ok, they said yes, he asked them if they could drive they said "oh, heavens no", so he asked them what they were doing there and they replied; "Well, someone told us that if we bought a used car from here we would get screwed, so now we're just waiting".

...

...

"AHAHAHAHAHA! IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE I'M EMPOWERED!!1!!1"

Frankly, this joke is stupid and not funny and, I suspect, posted by the new divorcee who recently invited me to a sex toy party.* It was even illustrated by a phenomenally crappy piece of clip art.

The thing that I found most offensive about this joke, however, was the heading attached which read: IF YOU DON'T LAUGH AT THIS ONE, YOU NEED TO LIGHTEN UP!

Look, I'm pretty fucking light. I'm generally chilled as shit, but your joke wasn't funny. It was lame, and your suggestion that my not finding it funny is because I'm somehow uptight or repressed IS MAKING ME REALLY FLIPPING ANGRY!

Maybe I do need to lighten up...

*whatever, more power to you sister etc, but please excuse me if i want to keep ideas of sex and work at poles as far apart as they could possibly be.

The Death of Bunny Monroe

2009-08-11T14:06:00.004+10:00

Thank you Nick Cave. For nigh on 7 years I have been waiting for you to write a new book, and you release one with a cover that looks like this.

I can not read this on trains, Nick. To do so I would have to be some kind of brazen harlot of lax morals and frankly, Nick, I am not. And why did you have to print your name in such massive, insistent type? Now those with vision poor enough to soften the soft-core on the cover will still assume I am reading an airport novel or some variety of "chick-lit" and, just quietly Nick, my desperately tenuous sense of self-esteem, which is solely based on pretensions of psuedo intellectualism, just can't take that.

And why, Mr. Cave, wasn't I made aware that other covers- such as these ones:

which are actually quite cool, are also in print somewhere out in the world before I handed my money over at Borders this morning and was made to have a very boring and awkward conversation with the guy at the counter about the differing pronunciations of "ass" and "arse" in regards to your last book? HHMMMMMM????

I'm waiting for an answer, Nicholas.

My Job

2009-08-10T12:24:00.001+10:00

apparently, entails me listening to prominent Australian media personalities go for a wee because when they leave the interview set they forget to turn their microphone off.

ahhh... perks.

A Real Conversation I Had This Morning

2009-08-07T09:40:00.002+10:00

Him: I had the most amazing dream last night! I was a big time drug lord and I was in a Bolivian prison but I escaped and I was driving off road through the dessert and then I got surrounded by all these cheetahs! A family of cheetahs! And I thought they were going to eat me and I was really scared but it turned out they were friendly cheetahs and we we're just chillin and hanging out! It was amazing!

Me: ... I had a dream about Andre Rieu.

Him: ...

Me: ...

Him: ... Man. That sucks.

Messy Tessy

2009-08-04T16:43:00.003+10:00

Honestly, it takes a lot to gross me out in my house. We're pretty filthy, and I've grown to be comfortable with that. I've lived with so many abhorrent social mutants that I've learned to put the pleasure of living with people I like over that of living in sanitary digs.

So yeah, most stuff doesn't perturb me. Not the random socks or the dusty shelves. Not the overflowing ashtrays or the crumbs in the sink. Not the contents of the fridge, which Tom removed one by one the other night screaming "HOLY SHIT! LOOK AT/SMELL/TOUCH THIS ONE!!" Nor did it faze me when we were eating pizza in the loungeroom and Emilie dropped a piece on the carpet, looked us all in the eye, and slowly and deliberately place a beanie over the top of it so it couldn't be seen. Nor do the numerous and frequent placements of empty juice, beer, and coke bottles next to the toilet.

But waking up hungover on Sunday morning and finding a "king" sized condom wrapper on the toilet seat...

YEP, THAT'LL DO IT!

Because I am a lady, I will refrain from telling you which one of my mates frigged a Seppo in our loungeroom that night. I will tell you that he remained ever the gentleman and insited on washing the bedsheets he used to do it.

... my bedsheets.

Ballad of the Skeletons

2009-07-30T09:28:00.002+10:00

Last night I had a dream that I started exclusively having relationships with skeletons, the reason being that they were more sophisticated and mature than most folk. In my dream I had a massive fight with the skeleton beau I was seeing at the time. I can't remember what the problem was but I'm guessing he didn't let me play xylophone on his rib-cage.

Three Reasons Why I Am Totally Definicient As A Human Being

2009-07-28T11:43:00.006+10:00

1. I Don't Have a Driver's License.

I'm twenty three years old. I don't have my license. I didn't even grow up in the city. I grew up in a place it is completely necessary to learn how to drive. I am appalling.

What makes it even worse is that I CAN drive. At the moment I lack the confidence to drive by myself and there are a few things like reverse parking that still trip me up, but I have the ability to drive competently. I CAN drive and yet I DON'T drive. This stems from the simple fact that I don't WANT to drive. I never have, and yet I realise I must. I'm not a total failure. I have my L's and I have lessons and I will eventually go for my P's and buy a car, but I have always somehow stopped myself from doing this. Getting my license is one the last thresholds of adulthood that I have to reach. Subconsciously, I am not ready for this. Once I have my license all sorts of shit might come pouring out of the sky and crash into my life like the storm of frogs in Magnolia. SMACK! will come 'doing Europe' and owning new furniture and buying decent wine. FWACK! will be home loans and voluntary super payments and primary school choices. And then all those frogs of adult life will be limping and clamouring over each other, limbs broken, belching mournfully as frogs do, for the childhood I was so eager to leave behind. The wet road will be thick with adult life frogs, and my tires will lose their tread and I will skid, and I will crash, and I will die.

2. I Brush My Teeth Like an Idiot.

I'm not talking about the fact that I don't floss or brush the way the dentist tells me to, no-one does that shit. I'm talking about the fact that whenever I put toothbrush to mouth I ALWAYS end up with toothpaste all over my chin, and more often than not, on my clothes. I mean, look, whatever, I get 'er clean, I do a good job, but I ALWAYS look like an idiot. I just can't keep the toothpaste in my mouth. I end up looking like a rabid dog EVERY TIME. I've always admired watching people clean their teeth on tv. For some reason girls who clean their teeth on tv are always in trackpants with a ponytail and guys are always without a shirt, and they never look like they even USE toothpaste. They pump their brush around their mouth really quickly with a really satisfying CH-CH-CH sound, and then they always do a really elegant tiny little spit, right into the plug-hole. I, on the other hand, look a bit like I'm barfing after the money shot. Try as I might, I could never manage the elegant spit, and I'm pretty sure the sound my toothbrush makes is more like a wet Maltese terrier squirming on a brick driveway. It took me until I was about twelve to get over how spicy the toothpaste was. I don't think I'm ever going to grow out of this one.

3. I Killed Dr Pain.

Dr Pain was my mentor, confidant, room-mate, and most importantly- Yabby. An adopted child I doted on as tirelessly as a suburban stage-mother, the Doctor got me through some tough times, and saw me through some good ones. He was vicious, temperamental, a tireless re-decorator. I once saw him actually lift the wooden log in his tank. The log was at least forty times his body size. Dr Pain was an inspiration.

Sadly, last week I decided to revitalise his environment. I went to the aquarium shop and bought lots of nice plants for him to destroy and even the world's seediest looking siphon vacuum pump for cleaning the gravel. I cleaned the tank, refreshed the water, gave him some food and encouraging advice, and turned the filter back on. Everything looked good, but the filter was struggling, and the electrician advised me not to let it struggle as it might burn out the motor. So I left it off. With plenty of plants to oxygenate the water and keeping in mind the dank, murky water the Doctor had arrived into my life in, I thought nothing of leaving the filter off for a few days before I would get a chance to fix it.

I continued to feed him and open my window everyday so he would have light and air, but, for a week, I became emotionally neglectful. What I forgot is that Yabbies need conversation, recognition for their efforts, a few lingering looks over shredded water plants. In short, what i did not give Dr Pain over the last week of his life; was love.

How long was the doctor dead for? I couldn't tell you. I feel just like the mother of the ceiling baby in Trainspotting. I was so wrapped up in the heady pleasures of my life outside my bedroom, and trivial matters like work and fridge collection, that I didn't even notice the last precious hours of my friend's life. When I opened the tank last night, however, to give him a friendly "sup yo, long time bra!" He was motionless, and the tank FUCKING REEKED. It smelt so foul I nearly gagged.

So here's my question; did I kill doctor pain? Surely leaving a tank for a week without a filter is ok? Is it possible that the plants might have been diseased? The tank had the putrid odour of rotting organic matter. I don't think a yabby carcass could create such a reaction- the smell was from the plants. But these plants were water plants- how could they go rotten?

Should I suspect foul play? Dr Pain's arch nemesis does live just across the hallway, and if anyone could have figured out how to upper-deck a fish tank, I'm sure Baz could.

Whatever the reason, the world has lost one metal yabby. Doctor; I will miss you. I'm sorry I didn't prevent this tragedy. My penance will be the long lonely hours I will spend, rearranging my room in your honour. I salute you dark prince.

Busk

2009-07-24T09:17:00.002+10:00

This morning at Central Station I saw a busker that I've seen several times before. He is an old Chinese man who sets up a miniature stage draped in yellow cloth and adorned with Australian flags, plays traditional Chinese music on a boom-box of sorts, and dances a Chinese puppet up and down. Continuously.

I've seen some fairly shithouse buskers in my time. I've seen human statues that fidget, guitarists who bang out Oasis songs so badly that it's necessary to cross the road to get away. The best busker I've seen was a stooped guy in a heavy metal t-shirt with a long pony-tail, playing the recorder as hard as he possibly could.

And headbanging.

The first time I saw the Chinese guy I was like- "are you fucking kidding me? You're not even DOING anything! That's a marionette you have there! The artistry you are SUPPOSED to posses is SUPPOSED to make that thing look like its moving like a person. You're just bouncing it up and down! Am I supposed to give you money because you OWN a puppet? Is that your marketable talent? REALLY?"

This morning, however, I uncovered the most integral part of his act. It's genius really. A learned art form, clearly passed down through generations, adapted and refined according to cultural influences. A skill; an inspiration in creativity. The man is a virtuoso.

While the music whined and the puppet bounced the man stood there, making eye contact with everyone who passed, and smiling the biggest, most heartwarming, toothless smile I have ever seen at 7:45 am on a cold winter's morning.

Failure

2009-07-23T09:12:00.004+10:00

This is why I don't watch scary movies.

Last night I had a dream at about 2 am that my room was haunted by ghosts. In my dream I took a work colleague home to get a second opinion and he confirmed that, yes, there was indeed a "dark presence" in my bedroom.

After waking up and telling myself that it was only a dream and, besides which, if there was actually a ghost in my room I had slept unmolested by it for around 5 months now, I was completely awake and faced a solid three hours of insomnia before I finally gravitated back toward sleep. When my alarm went off I felt like I wanted to fight Pol Pot.

Why did I have this dream? Did I watch any scary films or tv in the last few days? Did I read a book about the supernatural or engage in any kind of dialogue about ghosts in any way in the previous hours before sleep? No.

I did, however, walk past Margaret and David At The Movies earlier that night while they where reviewing a horror film, and I managed to see a 15 SECOND clip with a ghost coming under a door to get a blond girl. That's all it takes. 15 seconds and I'm checking under my bed before I step out of it to go to the toilet.

Way to go, my brain. Way to take the most obscure and unanchored media sampling of my day and make me lose three hours sleep. In the dream the ghost was a girl who had been paralysed and had committed suicide some years after the accident "like a scorpion killing itself with its own sting" (I remember that part from the dream). I'm sorry, me, but where do you even come up with this shit? What is it about my general makeup that allows these thoughts to form inside my head? Anyway "dark presence"? Really? Is my brain American? Is my brain an idiot?

I'm fairly certain the only "dark presence" in my room was Doctor Pain, and I'm pretty sure that he managed to sleep soundly last night. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was inventing the word "plastical", and promising myself I would use it in a sentence today. Promise fulfilled.

You Don't Scare Me- the next big thing in video direction

2009-07-03T10:07:00.002+10:00

Last weekend some associates and I made a short film to enter into a competition to be the next Josh Pyke video. I was a long day shooting with a brief interlude of delicious mussels and balmain bugs (would balmain bugs be capitalised as a proper noun? I hardly think they merit that much importance). The day went smoothly apart from a dog who apparently thought it was 'opposites day' and wouldn't do a single thing we wanted her to do, even when we gave her microwaved sausage.

Credits are as follows:

Erica Baron: Girl
Andy Pringle: Boy, ghost
Tess Brewer: Concept, director
Tristan Brittaine: Camera, further direction
Tom Metzner: Dog wrangler
Maxie: Dog
Ben Compton: Amazing piece on the wall the ghost has lunch in front of

Many thanks to: Em for your room, Ciara for washing up before we started shooting, Taz, JAmes, and John for the use of your lovely home, and anyone else who listened to me ramble about my concept and gave me feedback.

Be great if you could all view it and leave comments like: "This is amazing, the best thing on the youtubes, Tess you're really good looking etc."

The Bedroom Philosopher

2009-07-02T12:46:00.002+10:00

I don't know why I feel like an idiot saying this, but I'm incredibly happy today. Happiness is a bastard of an emotion. Feeling sad is easy. It's always easy to find plenty of reasons to feel sad, but happiness always brings with it so many unwashed stowaways of doubt, guilt, and half-bred, disallowed hedonism.

Regardless, I feel happy, and I think I'm just going to have to deal with it.

I'm happy because today started with tea with Tams, then a bus ride watching a sky full of fast moving fish-scale clouds, the tops of flame trees, and this song playing in my ears:

And I'm happy because last night was wonderful.

First Tom bought us sushi from the best sushi place I know, the one on Dolphin st near Coogee beach, which always has amazing manly sized slabs of tuna sashimi, and is surprisingly cheap (go there. Do it). This made me particularly happy because I was watching Masterchef, a show I find myself in front of with depressing regularity. I hate reality shows like this because the producers obviously bait the contestants and encourage them to behave in such a way that amalgamates competitiveness with meanness, and associates bitchiness with power: juvenile, detrimental, and paralysing attitudes. Plus, that show always makes me really fucking hungry, so eating something other than mi gorings in front of it was a pleasant change. I’m also happy because we made Matt eat the sushi. Matt is the only white middle-class citizen left in Australia who hadn’t tried sushi, so it made me really happy when, after a lot of coaxing, he tried it, loved it, and then proceeded to eat everyone else’s meals with unbridled enthusiasm.

After this we went and saw The Bedroom Philosopher (aka Justin Heazlewood) and his “awkwardstra” play in Kings Cross, and it was flippin unbelievable.

The Bedroom Philosopher is easily one of my favourite comedians. He writes for Frankie, Jmag, Big Isssue, and others and performs musical comedy. Last night there were six good-looking men on stage all wearing ill-fitting 70’s polyester. One of them had a sitar. It blew my mind.

Those of you who have followed my facebook blog may remember that late last year I may or may not have hatched a plan to stalk TBP at Peats Ridge. I was planning on approaching him in my bellydance costume (I was performing at the festival- WE WERE ON THE SAME LEVEL! KINDRED ARTIST SPIRITS!) and in a flurry of shining coins, beads and veils, I would have placed a gypsy curse on him, and dragged him home to be my husband. Of course, like the best laid plans of mice and morons, I didn’t. I didn’t even talk to him. I never am too sure whether approaching someone you admire and spluttering “omg, you’re so gosh!” is ever a really good idea. I had this confidence beaten out of me when I was eleven and approached Dennis from Heartbreak High at the Beach Hotel in Byron. He made fun of me, and his friends laughed at me. I was a broken child. Ah well, “Dennis”, WHERE’S YOUR CAREER NOW? HMMMMM??

Anyway, I talked to TBP last night. He was nice, and told me that we were the best audience he’s had on the tour, in particular Geoff, Matt, Anna and I, who were right at the front and apparently “laughed at all the bits people don’t usually get”, which leads me to believe that there’s a strong possibility my hero thinks I’m a simple-minded guffawing fool, but whatevs, I got to talk to him. Win.

So I’m happy. Mostly because seeing someone so talented and clever doing something that impresses me so much; something that I could never do myself, that pleases me so perfectly, makes my heart rise to my throat. It’s lovely, and most importantly, and antidote to all the Masterchefs in the world.

Travolting

2009-06-24T23:13:00.013+10:00

Ok, so John Travolta believes he is an alien. You know something, I’ve known worse qualities in men. So he loves airplanes so much he named his son “Jet”. I can live with that too. Ok, so John Travolta starred in “Look Who’s Talking” opposite a talking baby voiced by Bruce Willis. For me, that’s a plus.

The fact is, very few men melt me from the knees upward as consistently as John Travolta does. Ever since I was a kid and watched Grease every weekend at every sleepover and birthday party I went to (possibly the only video I watched as a child that suggested that “chicks would cream” at someone’s “pussy wagon”, but then, I couldn’t be sure), Travolta has burrowed and held like a Hollywood tick into my fragile suburban heart.

The ice-blue eyes, the voice, that arse, that chin! I gotta tell you, the man does things to me- even now that he’s fat and old and apparently delusional.

Those who know me well, know that I don’t like to keep quiet about, well, anything really, but least of all my inappropriate celebrity crushes. That is why, a few months ago one of the best things that will probably ever happen to me did happen when Billy handed me the greatest present a man could ever give a girl: John Travolta: Staying Fit! A book about exercise, Travolta style!

Ok so, a book may not be the most appropriate medium to teach exercise. Especially exercise based around the dancefit program Travolta had to undergo to get his disco-sexy body for Staying Alive (a movie in which the man refers to his “pussy fingers”, be still my beating heart). But with pictures like this:

How could you not be inspired to leap off the lounge and into positions like the ‘Jazz Lotus’ p. 80, or the good old ‘Hip Thrust’ p. 84, a favourite of mine.

Here are a few of the more notable excerpts from the text, each marked with ‘astonished face’:

:O “Taking up exercise lessons is a little like learning to fly… many people quit after the ninth or tenth level of instruction… I quit flying at this point twice before I finally stuck with it and got it; and now flying is one of my favourite things.” Here, Travolta proves he is human and humble. Hot.

:O “I was a brat- I admit it. If there was a way to put off the session, I tried” Oh Travolta, stop it! You’re TOO ADORABLE!

:O “My appetite for food decreased- but my appetite for sex increased! Fortunately sex is not fattening, so treat yourself to it” *swoons, passes out, hits head*

Other amazing things include the mention that one of his personal trainers was SYLVESTER STALLONE! Lifestyles of the rich and famous, I tells ya. My personal trainer is my yabby, Dr Pain, and my motivation stems from the ever prevailing fear that he just might, one day, fight me.

And what’s more you KNOW the book is authentic, because Travolta insists on having a print of his signature on just about every second page. Oh Travolta, you megalomanic cutie-pie!

*Ladies*

Holy Crap I'M JUST LIKE JOHN TRAVOLTA!!!

The Lobster and The Dinosaur pt 3

2009-06-22T14:16:00.000+10:00

They hurtled out into the neon wash of the city once more. All round them cars, rubbish, people, lights and noise. Ian struggled to keep abreast of the stranger, scuttling alongside his giant prehistoric stride. As he scuttled questions began to fill his mind, floating around inside like a big bow of cereal. He wondered what other lobsters would be like, would they be friendly, would they get along? The stranger seemed to sense Ian’s apprehension and gave him a quick grin as they turned the corner into a dark alleyway that smelt like things rotting. A shaft of light from the crack in the door fell over the dinosaur’s face as he knocked heavily. They waited. Suddenly Ian didn’t feel so confident. “Do you know anyone in there? The owner or something” He asked his new friend. The dinosaur looked straight ahead and didn’t answer. Ian thought that perhaps the dinosaur hadn’t heard him. He asked another question. “What do you think they do in the club? Are there rituals? Customs?”

Once again the dinosaur didn’t answer. He scratched a spine lightly with his claw. Suddenly the door opened. Standing there was a skinny man wearing a t-shirt that was probably white at one stage. Wrapped around his waist was a dirty black apron and on his head a cap. His face was sallow and looked as if it had been pulled downward by the claws of an over anxious and playful kitten. He was covered in a layer of grease.

Quite suddenly the dinosaur grabbed Ian by his pincer and roughly threw him into the room. Ian let out a little cry and looked up to the man and the dinosaur just in time to see the latter excepting a bundle of cash from the former and heavy door slam shut blocking out the street and the dinosaur with it. The room he was in was brightly lit and filled with crashing noise, sharp metallic bangs and spiky sounding whacks. Ian, who had always been a little short for his age, couldn’t see what was on top of the silver benches that filled the room but noticed that lots of people in big black boots were pacing quickly around. The greasy man didn’t look Ian in the eye but pulled him, by the claw into another, more dimly lit room. Ian was scared. He was a fool for trusting the stranger. He was a fool for leaving home in the first place. He thought about his home, his comfy bed, his parents watching “The Bill” in the next room, bringing him milo in his special cup. Just as salty tears were welling up in his shiny black eyes the stranger let go of his pincer.

“Say hello to your new friends” the man laughed.

In all Ian’s years, all of the things he had seen, nothing came close to the horror of the sight he saw then.

The dinosaur hadn’t been lying. There were a lot of lobsters there, just like him, but this was no social club. The lobsters were crammed into a murky tank. Some looked at him beseechingly as they were hopelessly whirlpooled around by the strong filter. Others didn’t even look up as they knocked against each other, their pincers bound together by elastic bands. Before Ian knew it he was hoisted up and into the tank. The outside world became smudged, a vague impression filtered through the murky green that surrounded him. Through the filth he made out the face of another lobster, just like him. The lobster didn’t speak but looked at him hopelessly. Ian was afraid to ask but he had to know.

“What is this place?”

The lobster sighed, a thin ripple of water floating from her mouth.

“The waiting room” She answered

“What” Ian squeaked, “are we waiting for?”

The lobster shuddered. “They take us away, about three a night, sometimes more. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been here, could be a night, could be a month. You never know when your time is up. I’ve been here two weeks. That one” she gestured to a gnarled looking individual crouched in the corner of the tank “has been here nearly two months. He’s mad”, she added in a whisper. “They never come back. You can hear them screaming”.

The bands around Ian’s pincers were starting to sting. He felt a lump in the pit of his stomach that had been steadily rising to his throat. He asked the lobster with a whimper “What’s your name? Where are you from?”

“Huh? Don’t have a name. I’m from…” she drifted off, squinting with her stalk like eyes “outside. I’m from outside”.

Once again in Ian’s journey of discovery he realised something about himself. The discovery Ian made stemmed from the simple fact that he had a name. He had a name, parents who loved him. He knew the name of the town he was from, the street. He had a school, friends, a favourite food. He knew how to do things. He had skills and talents. Ian was now aware of just what a lucky lobster he was. It didn’t matter that he was different from all those around him at home. What was important was that he had the things he had; a loving family and friends. These lobsters around him had none of these things. They were nothing. Lonely individuals just waiting to be picked from the tank and murdered. He, on the other hand, was Ian, and Ian now realised he had a job to do.

“We’re getting out of here”.

It didn’t take long for Ian to explain his plan to all the other lobsters. Some were enthusiastic, brimming with the hope of once again seeing clean water and sunshine. Others were quite scornful. Escape, they maintained, was impossible, but Ian persisted. He told them all that a better life was possible for all lobsters. He told them of his life back home; maths lessons, playing basketball, his pet budgie, Morris. The more he spoke the more excited all of the lobsters got, and they soon agreed to his plan.

The greasy man approached the tank with special orders. He was to take two lobsters and boil them alive. Pushing up the sleeves on his grimy arms he reached the dank prism of crustaceans. Floating on the top, belly up, was a single lobster. The man scoffed. One or two often dropped off the perch. The food he gave them, when he remembered was pretty rank, he thought, and it didn’t surprise him that a few didn’t survive long enough to become bisque. He grabbed the limp body and tossed it with a hollow clunk into a plastic bucket on the floor. Plenty more where he came from, he thought, his face bending into a slimy grin. Just as he reached his hand again to abduct two more another floated to the surface. The man was starting to think it was his unlucky night, two lobsters wasted, and a fare bit of money would go out in the skip where he would have to throw them. Another lobster bubbled and floated, belly up the top of the tank, followed by another and another. One by one, each lobster, limp and glassy eyed floated to the surface where they gently bobbed and bumped into each other like apples.

The greasy man wiped his hands over his face, covering it completely. What started as a rumble turned into a roar and exploded from his face, now red as the corpses he served in his restaurant. All his lobsters were dead, poisoned, he guessed, by a spy from a rival restaurant. He could not serve these to his customers. They too would be poisoned and a food poisoning charge was the last thing he needed. The only thing for it was to throw each and every lobster into the skip outside, and push the veal.

~~~~~~

The MELT (Movement for the Emancipation of Lobsters Today) was proving to be a great success. Just last month Ian led a street parade of hundreds, lobsters and people alike down a main street of the city, every lobster screaming a battle-cry in unison, past many restaurants currently practicing unfair employment of lobsters in the workplace. Ian had met (with the help of committee members and his mum) with the local member who had agreed to help Ian with his movement and to back the Lobster’s Worker Union in future parliamentary meetings. Lobsters everywhere were being empowered, standing up for their rights and even adopting names for themselves (popular ones were Morris and Ian for boys). One lobster in particular felt the most powerful of them all. Ian realised that being different was indeed a truly great thing. As for being understood, Ian came to realise that it was he who had to make himself understood. He had learnt that not all lobsters were just like him, and not all lobsters automatically understood him. He also learned that some, like the dinosaur understood him better than he did himself, which had proved to be a dangerous thing. Ian vowed when he had gotten home that night, and was sitting in is bed with a warm cup of milo, his parents tearfully checking in every ten minutes, that he had to communicate about his differences both to those around him and to himself as well. He was proud to be a lobster, and he vowed to make others proud of him too. He also realised that the love of those around him, those who had always been there, throughout his lobster life, would carry him through any period of doubt he may experience. Yes, was a very lucky lobster, he thought as a he lay down to sleep, a lucky lobster indeed.

The End.

The Lobster and The Dinosaur pt 2

2009-06-18T22:46:00.001+10:00

The further Ian got away from home (and this was happening at a rapid rate on the express train to the city) the more exhilarated he felt. When he thought about it he wasn’t running away. His friends had never reacted badly against him being a lobster, in fact many of them told him they already knew or at least had an idea, and Ian knew his parents would always love and support him no matter what his species, but Ian knew that no matter how understanding everyone was, they would never truly know how he felt. Ian needed to find others who shared his experiences and who could tell him their stories.

Stepping off the train and walking out of the city train station Ian felt more excited than ever. The giant sky-scrapers, the advertisements for toothpaste and home-loans on every surface, the angry traffic noises and the thousands of anonymous people pushing past Ian (who between you and me could be described as a bit of a back-water rube) made his head spin. For hours Ian walked, not minding so much where he was going. Some people stared at him but for the first time in weeks this didn’t bother him as here in the city he was just another face in the crowd, one that would be forgotten by all who passed him as quickly as they noticed him. Even when an old drunk began abusing him in English that Ian could somehow not understand, he kept walking, finding once again the brave face that his mother had always taught him to maintain.

The day grew old and soon twilight had settled over the concrete and the neon of the city was lit. Feeling no great need to go to sleep straight away Ian thought he’d try his luck in a small pub. Ian was underage but the pub had no bouncer and was dimly lit so he had no trouble going in and ordering a beer. He took his drink to a table in the corner. The pub was thinly populated, mostly with old soaks in stained shirts with fading green tattoos and neatly combed hair. One plump woman with a t-shirt with two kittens on it and makeup which seemed to retreat into the wrinkles on her face played the poker machines alone, which sung merrily along with a television in the corner that showed dog races. While surveying the room Ian noticed someone watching him from the other side of the pub. He was tall, old and looked as hard as nails, a face only a mother, who was probably long dead, could love. He smoked a cigarette that he rarely took from his mouth, choosing instead to exhale through his nose and let the smoke curl around and sting his eyes, which he still squinted in Ian’s direction. He never got up to go to the bar because he had a bottle of whisky sitting next to him which he refilled his glass with, keeping his eyes on Ian. At first Ian felt uncomfortable. He felt the stranger probably knew he was a lobster, in fact he felt the stranger somehow knew all of his secrets. However, the stranger, leaning heavily on one elbow, didn’t seem as threatening as time drew on. When Ian had finished his beer, putting the glass carefully back on the table, he glanced at the stranger who had now leaned back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. As if waiting for Ian to finish his drink he casually made a motion for Ian to come over. Ian felt (taking all the stranger danger he had ever learned into account) that the stranger meant no harm. In fact Ian had a sneaking suspicion that the stranger knew his plight, and could help in some way. So, picking up his backpack, Ian walked over to his table. He sat down and at least twenty long seconds passed until the stranger spoke.

“Runaway son?” the stranger asked in a growl.

“Not running, but away” wavered Ian. The stranger took the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed in out on the bare table. He leaned in toward Ian.

“Do you know what I am son?”

Ian’s mind raced, he wasn’t sure what to answer for fear of insulting the stranger. An alcoholic? A murderer? A mafia boss? Ian had no idea what the stranger was getting at so he remained silent. The stranger lit another cigarette and took a long draw.

“I” began the stranger “am a dinosaur” he pointed a claw, “and I don’t mean I’m old, or outdated, I mean I’m a dinosaur. I have a tail, I have spines, scales and big teeth” with this he grinned revealing a sharp smile, with one or two teeth missing. He continued “and you know what? I’m happy. I’m happy because this is who I am, and you know what, I know who you are too. You’re a lobster aren’t you kid?”

Ian could only nod. He suddenly felt overwhelmed at having found someone who finally understood his plight. Suddenly the loneliness, the fear, the cigarette smoke stinging his eyes and probably giving him second-hand cancer all seemed to dissipate. There were a million questions he wanted to ask. He began with one.

“What did you do when you first found out?”

The dinosaur smiled, wrinkled scales creasing around his beady eyes, and looked over Ian’s head into the distance like he was remembering something from long ago. He chuckled.

“I was fourteen. I found a book in the library by accident about prehistoric animals. My folks had hidden them all me life. Suddenly, everything made sense. The early morning growling I hid from my family, the way I always liked my meat rare… the tail, it all made sense.”

Ian smiled.

“So, I went off that afternoon to spend some time alone, just being a dinosaur. I roared, I ran- scared some kids like you wouldn’t believe! But basically mate” he leaned in toward Ian again “It’s important to be yourself.”

Ian knew what the stranger meant. He took a drink from the second whisky that had somehow appeared in front of him without him noticing. It burned on the way down. Ian was just about bursting at the seams with excitement. He felt like a whole new world lay ahead of him. So absorbed he was in imagining his wonderful new future that he didn’t notice the dinosaur’s face had fallen until he spoke again.

“The thing is, no-one really understood. In my day there weren’t many dinosaurs living around where I was. Most of them were extinct really. I’ve heard about others but… well, I’ve never met one”. The dinosaur took a long drag of his cigarette that burned the ash right to the end. He gave a little shrug. After a couple of seconds he sat up straight and looked Ian in the eye again. “You, on the other hand, are a different kettle of fish. Did you know there are places in this city, clubs, for lobsters? There are tonnes of them here mate! You should go, find out what being a lobster is all about you lucky bugger!”

Ian couldn’t believe his ears. A place, right there in the city, full of lobsters just like him.

“Could- could you take me” he ventured.

The dinosaur stubbed out his cigarette. “Let’s go”, he said with a wink.

The Lobster and The Dinosaur pt 1

2009-06-11T22:10:00.002+10:00

In a time not so very long ago, (more like the modern day than any forgotten period), and in a place not so very far away, (much like our current location), lived a boy who was, in fact, very much like you and I. The boy went by the name of Ian and partook in activities typical of any boy his age (his age being of no real importance other than in a round-about way. Let’s say for the purpose of this exercise he was a teenager). Yes, Ian enjoyed what you’d expect a young boy of his age to enjoy; sports, music, being with his friends of which he had many, and the occasional activity of which his parents remained blissfully ignorant. Like many boys of his age Ian also felt himself experiencing changes (not so much to his body, in which Ian never really placed much importance, preferring to construct himself as a well-rounded individual with a focus on brains rather than brawn. To Ian this seemed a noble intention). The changes Ian felt, rather, were those of character; changes in spirit and temperament. Quite suddenly it seemed Ian found himself aware of his opinions, and the differences between him and his friends in terms of thought patterns, priorities and values and these differences soon bloomed like some fast growing fungus into questions of difference in political opinion, religious views and identity. Ian found he quite enjoyed analysing himself and defining just who he was and his place in the world. It was during this time of self-reflection that Ian became aware that he was a lobster. Now, the dictionary defines a lobster as:

a large marine crustacean with a cylindrical body, stalked eyes, and the first of its five pairs of limbs modified as pincers.
• Homarus and other genera, class Malacostraca: several species, in particular the American lobster ( H. americanus).

At first the discovery seemed confusing to Ian. Neither of his parents were lobsters and as far as Ian new about genetics and breeding and so-forth he was never aware that non-lobster parents could give birth to a lobster son. The possibility that Ian was adopted also seemed strange. He loved his parents and had always felt naturally like part of the family. The idea that he may have different parents somewhere out in the world, or even under the sea somewhere frightened Ian. He suddenly felt displaced and alone.

Now Ian was always raised to be a brave boy. His mother often told him throughout his childhood that sticks and stones may break his bones but that names would never hurt him, often adding that “sticks and stones are really nothing to be afraid of either”, but so much had changed. Ian was now aware, for example, that his mother probably knew that sticks and stones would never hurt his bones due to his hard exoskeleton and moreover that he, in fact, had no bones to speak of. Try as he might Ian just couldn’t endure the whole ordeal of his self-discovery with a brave smile on his face, choosing instead to retreat to his bedroom to read, watch television, and sometimes just to lie and stare at the ceiling. No-one interrupted his self-pity. His parents assumed he was merely going through a phase, as boys his age do, and left him be while Ian, feeling more alone than ever, sat and let giant tears fall slowly from his stalk-like eyes.

It was a Tuesday morning when Ian, awaking with the sun in his eyes and smells of frying bacon creeping under the door, decided it was time for a change. Packing into a back-pack some clothes, a book, a packet of digestives and seven muesli bars (as this was all the traveling food he could find in the kitchen) and a small childhood teddy which he packed right at the bottom of his bag, Ian set out on a journey. He knew his parents would worry so he planned to call from his first stop and reassure them. He had money in an account for which he had a key card, and he knew the public transport system well. Armed with this plan Ian set out toward the city.

Vera Bermuda and the Newstart Allowance (and other compleatly fucked bandnames I thought of to avoid engaging in real life)

2009-06-09T14:17:00.002+10:00

Sugarphoelia and the Explosions

Lady Electric and the Fire Men

Mc SexDog and the Wagging Tongues

Sparrot Dickson and the Suckholes

Ronny Harlot and the Brazen Hussies

Maynard Spunk and the Upstanding Citizens

Raunch Stagger and the Humidifiers

Wesley Snipes and the Fuck You Bunch

Geraldine Sproog and the Untimely Deaths

Pillow Honeyfed and the Dizzying Heights

Funk Skunk and the Face Dunkers

Annie Ankles and the Dirt Underfoot

Baby Sawdust and the Rough and Tumblers

Senior Cinnamon and the Mex Toys

Spazzle Dazzle

2009-06-08T21:42:00.002+10:00

I’ve just finished watching the most heaps movie in the world. Xanadu is about Olivia Newton John who falls in love with a guy who wears rollerskates, or something, I’m not really sure, I wasn’t really following it and I only tuned in half way through, but nevertheless is was pretty fucken heaps. Anyway there’s a sequence at the end which is nothing short of spectacular when the roller disco they founded has its opening night and there’s all this synchronised roller-dancing and roller-singing and all round roller-sex explosions all over the joint and then Olivia Newton John appears in a flash of neon and sings the Xanadu song. Mind blowing.

Anyway, during this sequence each character undergoes about twenty costume changes and each one is more boss than the last. My personal favourite was the wet-look vinyl tiger-print body suits during the ‘rock out’ section of the song, they were hot. Anyway, while I was watching this, I had an epiphany. In a sudden moment of clarity an entire section of my life suddenly made sense. I’m talking, of course, of the Sandra D. years.

Sandra D., or as we were instructed to call her under threat of public crucifixion, Mrs D., was my ballet teacher between the ages of four and ten. She was a shrieking, bleached blonde, chicken-necked, childless, bedazzled harridan who swept into every room in a flurry of sequins and feathers and left only tears, fears and destruction in her wake, along with her long suffering and subservient husband- the “yes dear” type that actually seemed to take it all in his stride with a dry defeated sense of humour. I’m not sure why I started going to her classes and I’m really unsure of why I ever continued to go, but every week under the watchful eyes of the Queen’s portrait, we sashayed and pirouetted through Warrimoo community hall with Mrs D. swearing and stomping the floor behind us.

Mrs D. belonged to an old school class of ballet marms. Children all over Australia have their own version of her, a bit like how folk tales in rural Eastern Europe and fishing villages in Indonesia have a similar boogy man. She was an impressive looking woman, tall and broad, too much so to have ever made it as a professional dancer. She has bleach-blonde hair, teased out from here to eternity, favoured lycra and chenille fabrics in garish colours, with her long legs always shown to their best advantage, even though the woman was well into her sixties, and her makeup palate could best be described as ‘summer clown’. Her height and size lent to her intimidating air as she towered over children and parents alike, terrifying all.

The end of year concert was by far the worst time for anyone involved in the school. Classes would end in screaming and tears, and that was from Mrs D. herself. One fated day she burst into the adjoining kitchen in which all the mothers were waiting for their little girls, cups of milky tea clasped between palms. Legs astride in the doorway she pointed like a sharp shooter at each of the mothers in turn and barked “for the concert I want: braids, braids, braids, braids- and you: thousands of tiny ringlets!” and swooped out the door .The mother of the ringlet girl, horror struck, croaked something about not knowing how to do ringlets. The others rushed to comfort her but of course, everyone remained detached. One does not associate too readily with the condemned. The risk is too high. She was a dead woman walking.

And hence Mrs D. created an environment of contempt, suspicion and general apprehension that added to the ever-present stage mother vibe that already poisoned the air. She wasn’t much better with children either. We were regularly insulted, humiliated, and snubbed as being “not nearly as good as her other class”. She would single out under achievers with a very special brand of tough love that ensured her student turnover rate was high. I however, along with a small handful of other girls, remained with her through the years, and our dolour was rewarded with the privilege of wearing some of the most spectacularly ugly costumes to ever grace the stage.

The colours, the sequins, the feathers and tinsel, were a sight to be seen and good reason why I plan on never taking acid. No costume was complete without at least 7 brightly contrasting colours and fabrics and some form of choker that would operate quite literally. We were the last bastions of 1980’s glamour. We were Gaudi on Ritalin. We were Xanadu.

Of course, we loved it. We were too young and unspoilt to appreciate how kitsch and camp it all was. We loved it genuinely, with all our hearts. The only thing we didn’t love so much was the dances Mrs D. chose to participate in herself, wearing a matching costume and a grimace-smile pasted on her face. There she would be, out in front of all the girls, tap, tap, tapping away, obscuring the fat ones. Her Kath Day-like bouffant shimmering, alive in the purple spotlight.

Mrs D. was eventually usurped by one of her students who left to start his own school, taking most of her students with him. She didn’t take it gracefully and told us (as ten year olds) in a huff “you girls will NEVER be dancers ANYWAY!”

I always hated her, and I suspect for the most part I always will, but watching Olivia shimmy around in her tassles, sparkles and spangles, through the Vaseline smeared lens, led me to realise, for a brief moment, where Mrs D. was coming from. She was a woman with a dream, and we were but the tools, merely the tools, she used to achieve that dream. Anyway, we looked like pretty massive tools.

what I did in my summer holidays... not really

2009-06-07T13:26:00.003+10:00

My best friend throughout the first few years of primary school was A.T. The details of how we became friends are hazy but the grounds for our friendship were typical of kindergarten friendships; we looked kind of the same and we kind of liked similar things, namely, ballet and MGM musicals.

I always remember being slightly envious of A.T. Her mum stayed at home and consequently had a lot more time for canteen duty and athletics carnivals, as well as packing A.T's lunches; white bread Nutella sandwiches cut into animal shapes with cookie cutters and packed with hand written notes about how special she was or something. When I think back to the wholegrain nutmeat monstrosities I was given, always eaten with extreme efforts of secrecy on the silver seats in the playground, I still feel a twinge of envy thinking about the neat little lunches A.T had. I comfort myself by assuming that later on in life she will probably die of colon cancer*.

One rustic coloured autumn day, A.T invited me to her church Kid's Club fancy dress evening. Raised an atheist I was only just beginning to come to terms with how unusual this was in the Blue Mountains, a place where they say to live, you must be retired, religious or retarded, so I was, on a marginal level, aware that I would be a bit of a fish out of water at this shindig, to put it conservatively (which is not really my style. A great-hulking-sasquatch-of-a-sore-thumb-heathen-intruder would probably be how I would be most comfortable describing myself). I knew, to avoid lynching, I would have to be on my best behaviour, be polite and courteous and, perhaps most importantly, have the best costume in the scout hall.

As luck would have it, I did happen to own a fairly kick-ass princess get up which consisted of a typically eighties, typically woggy pink frilly dress emblazoned with sequins, diamantes and tulle as far as the eye could see purchased at Haberfield by my Uncle Ray and Uncle Keith. To top it off I also owned a medieval princess hat, cone shaped with a gold braid that spiralled toward the tip from which a glorious piece of pink chiffon draped onto my shoulders. This piece was courtesy of my Dad's girlfriend at the time who worked part time in a medieval dinner-theatre restaurant. The regal air I obviously imparted was only slightly diminished by the thick tights and skivvy my Mum made me wear underneath due to the cold weather but, all in all, I was thrilled to bits with my costume, and quietly confidant of winning the lucky door prize for the best costume.

I walked up A.T's steep driveway. Her mother answered the door and my Mum and I waited in the lounge-room for A.T. Eventually A.T made a grand entrance into the room and showed off her costume, which consisted of some kind of velour purple cape with a velour halter dress underneath and some pink feathers in her hair. Also, a pair or scuffed tap shoes on her feet.

"What are you?"

"Ginger Rogers"

"Oh. Of course"

I wont bore you with the details of the evening; the skinny kids dressed as pirates with paper hats and swords, the magicians with bed sheet capes or the cats wearing brown tracksuits, suffice to say, everyone's costume was fairly shithouse. Throughout the course of the lame party games and the group prayer (had I been older and wiser (read: more cynical) I would have know to stay away from the cordial) I held the exalted look of a winner in my eye. I could practically taste that lucky door prize, I was going to show all those creepy Christian kids what a true champion dressed like; in pink tulle and chiffon.

When, however, the prize was announced, guess whose squeaky, scuffed tap shoes chassed across the dirty wooden floor to collect her prize. The women judging thought it was cute that A.T had dressed as a 1940's film star who had coupled with a gay guy and danced in a bunch of movies. I still cry into my pillow every night**.

*I'm probably kidding

**Again, this is artistic licence.

Are you there Screamin' Jay? It's me, Vera...

2009-06-05T11:19:00.000+10:00

Screamin Jay Hawkins was born Jalacay Hawkins in Cleveland, Ohio in the year of our lord 1929. As a child he learnt some classical piano and harboured aspirations of becoming a trained opera singer, after the likes of Paul Robeson.

Hawkins is most famous for his song “I Put a Spell on You” which was originally meant to be a tender ballad. Upon recording, however, the band were so completely inebriated they recorded something quite different; brilliant it turns out, but when asked to play it later none of them could remember how it went, as they all blacked out shortly after playing the song. After recreating it from the recording, they then had to re-record it one more time, as many radio stations refused to play it- the grunting and howling sounds Hawkins made deemed too sexual for radio play.

On the success of this song Hawkins and his band developed a successful and eventually rather elaborate touring show in which Hawkins scattered the stage with numerous voodoo-like props including snakes, severed hands, skulls on sticks and a smoke machine. During performances he would scream, splutter, talk in tongues, and snort with abandon. Hawkins was also wheeled on stage in a coffin. The coffin was often on fire…

…

…

This was during the 1950’s. This was an era in which racial segregation was still firmly in place in America, and an era in which mothers everywhere were gnashing their teeth at the (retrospectively innocuous) pelvis thrusting of Elvis.

THE COFFIN WAS ON FIRE.

Another famous song of Hawkins was “The Constipation Blues”…

…

Hawkins was also allegedly held in a POW camp in the Pacific Ocean in WWII. According to a documentary Hawkins taped a hand grenade into the mouth of his tormentor upon liberation and blew the guys head off.

He was also the middleweight boxing champion of Alaska in 1949…

…

…

…

What the fuck?

Can an individual kick so much arse?

I have a feeling Hawkins was that completely fucking insane person that everyone knows and a lot of people suspect is actually a genius, but he actually made something of himself. Seriously, watch this. It is so funny it had me in tears. Watch the whole thing. Amazing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNjD9DYp33g&NR=1

Upon his death in 2000 after a complication during surgery the number of his suspected offspring from many, many women came to 75 …

…

…

…

I’m not in the least bit surprised.

Position Vacant

2009-06-02T19:10:00.000+10:00

In the face of my newly established singledom I have found myself for the first time in my adult life free to ponder the endless possibilities of potential conjugal bliss. Apparently there are many paths to roam, many fish to hook, many desserts on the Sizzler smorgasbord of mating life, which, after sampling delicately (mouth directly under the soft serve nozzle, main course plate in each hand, belching massively to create more room in my stomach) I will eventually take my mountain of sweet back to my table and consume. But, oh the possibilities! The variety of men and the manners in which they could love me must be endless. In the face of such enormity of choice (shucks, calm down gentlemen, lets do this in an orderly fashion) I have reduced my potential life partners down to a short list:

1. High Powered Cocaine Baron
We would live in some amazing huge penthouse apartment with walls made entirely of glass. Of course he would be horrible and I would scream things like “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU TONY!!!” while I hurled rare vases at the fireplace, but I quite like the idea of swanning around in a white jumpsuit and sunglasses. I think I would get some Afghan hounds as well, and we could all tumble around on our long legs in a banana lounge next the a kidney shaped swimming pool. I think obscene wealth would suit me. Bit of placcy surj and I’d look just like a movie star *two thumbs up* “Ameeeerica!”

2. Cowboy/Fireman/1940’s Army Officer/Batman
Or any other suitably manly man.

3. Man with Whom I’d Have Many Children and Create Family Band.
First things first, he’d have to be virile and father me many children. From what I understand virile men look something like David Boon, perhaps this is my starting point. Anyway, we’d need keyboards, guitar, bass, some kind of horns section, a spunky young one to play drums, and a shy homely one who will be good at making sequined costumes and remain content to sit in the shadows and watch, and of course a near even mixture of boy and girl children (nb may need to employ Chinese policies to ensure this. *jokes* ;p ). We’d be called something like “Sunshine and Sugar” and- oh yeah, need a mechanic-child for the tour bus as well- better get started on this one soon…

4. Hamish Blake
He is just a dishy dish isn’t he ladies? We could make each other laugh… and orgasm.

5. Man with Whom I Will Start a Soul Food Café
I’m thinking along the lines of Aretha Franklin and Matt Murphy in the Blues Brothers. The marriage will sadly be a childless one but the people of the streets will be our children. I’ll get really fat but in turn I’ll acquire a sagely wisdom and sassitude to boot. He’ll be mean and short with me but when no one can hear he’ll grab me by the waist next to the deep fryer and say something like “You may have the fattest ass this side of Illinios but you sure do make the best fried chicken of any woman I ever knew”. I’ll playfully whack him on his barrel chest with my tea-towel and go back to work blushing and smoothing my hairnet. “What the hell do you want?”

I may have to be black for this one.

6. Royalty
Well frick, if Mary can do it…
Actually, I’d marry Harry. He seems to be aging more gracefully than his brother plus the queen would like me. She didn’t want William to marry Kate because Kate had never had a jorb and therefore has little character. Liz, I’ve had HEAPS of jorbs and have old skool character and capability coming out my arse, I would absolutely keep it real: STRAIGHT OUTTA COMPTON YO!!

*sits back and waits for phone to ring*

An Open Letter To Dr Pain

2009-06-01T19:48:00.000+10:00

Dear Dr Pain,

I am writing to you to express my sheer disgust at your behaviour of late. I adopted you under the understanding that you would be the most metal pet I have ever owned. I now believe that I was led to this conclusion under false pretense.

When you first arrived at Cowper st, bequeathed unto us by Emile, your situation was grave. Abandoned by an owner driven to madness by your outlandish and, might it be said, incredibly metal antics, you were dumped; housed in a tank with a broken filter and a small amount of dirty, vile smelling water. When asked about your previous life, Emile had this to say:

"His name was crabby 10, he was the only one out of 10 who survived, he ate the others, then he ate all the fish, then all the plant and finally the filter, hes a basterd, and i wouldnt be surprised if he is planning all your demises. . . so keep an eye on your mr pain, and watch out as he like to eat everything and everyone. One time I was trying to rearange a plant and he dived at me and pinched my thumb, and it drew blood! He is a crafty basterd so keep an eye on him…"

It must also be noted that when you came to Cowper st you were left in Baz’s room. Baz, an otherwise staunch and brave warrior, has but one Achilles heel and you, sir, are member of that group of beings that gives him the willies. Now tolerance has its place but a man can only bear so much. For this reason, when Baz looked into the murky depths of your home and found you to have escaped, a small, audible crack came from inside the man’s brain. Believing you to be loose in the place he sleeps, Baz turned into a crazed and violent cartoon version of himself, sneering out the side of his mouth devilish plans about “smoking him out”. You, as you are aware, were hiding the entire time, like some reclusive dessert-bound terrorist, coming out only to be fed by your fellow conspirators. This behaviour impressed me greatly and, moved as I was by your plight, I took you into my room and pimped your tank real good.

We cleaned the slimy walls, refreshed the water, added several plants and rocks and installed a strong and attractive filter. Your delight at this renovation was apparent to all as you ran around the tank like a mad snake. You even wrapped your little tail around a reed and waved your pincers in the filter stream, not unlike a fan at a 90’s hip-hop concert who, quite clearly, “just don’t care”. The pure joy I received at watching you scramble, with your evil little eyes and jagged claws of destruction- I can tell you now, Dr Pain, that joy was unmatched by any other. They say you truly don’t know what love is until you’ve had your own children. For a brief period, Dr Pain, I understood that love.

But now it would seem that you have reached the surly teenage years of your yabby life. You spend all day hiding in the little cave you have made for yourself, gorging ravenously the food I leave for you without a word of thanks. You’ve destroyed the nice plants I have given you and the moment I arrive home from work you scuttle off, I don’t even get so much as a hello. When I tried to speak with you the other day you charged at me, brandishing a broken piece of reed in your claw. This was awesome, but it was but a brief and shining event in what has become a very stale relationship between us. The magic has gone Dr Pain.

Tonight I intend to clean your filter and refresh your water once again. I hope this maintenance leaves you in good humour and will revitalise your metal tendencies. If not I will have to consider taking matters into my own hands. You have grown quite large this last month Dr Pain, and I don’t think I am unfair in saying that if you don’t straighten up, I will fight you.

Cordially yours,

Vera Bermuda

Vera Bermuda's Famous Lobster Fantasy Camp

2009-05-20T17:00:00.001+10:00

Attention anyone who cares.

Do you want fame? Money? Respect? Women? The other kind of Women?

YES?

Well, quite obviously you can't have them. If you could, you would by now already. Let's face it, with microwave induced cancer and cyber bullying and what-not your life is probably already half way over and you haven't achieved anything. I know you cleaned the cupboards out last week but that's hardly impressing me. Nor should it. Who do you think I am your mother? Your life coach. Anthony Goddamned Robbins? Hhhmmm? HHHMMMM??

In this day-to-day millennium lifestyle, some of us have to come to terms with the fact that we haven’t been living the lives we always dreamed about. Maybe we’ve made some compromises along the way, let a few little dreams die here and there, and then one day, you wake up and you’re reading a friends blog to avoid the job you hate and you realise that “I’ve never been to me!”

Friends, there is finally an answer.

At Vera Bermuda’s Famous Lobster Fantasy Camp you can live out the dreams you have always had of being a lobster! You’ll enjoy such activities as:

*Screaming Classes
*The Favourite ‘Pinching Jamboree’
*B52’s karaoke night
*Deep Personal Psychology Assessment: Are you a Mornay or a Thermidor?

All from the picturesque location of a fish tank in a China Town restaurant, crowded with twenty or so like-minded individuals!

Go on! Do it now! Contact Vera Bermuda with all your money and remember:

Are you a human “being” or a human “doing”?

…

…

…

…or a lobster.