To Sir, With Love

There comes a time in a young, over-privileged white kid's life where the need to learn, grow and achieve returns to you. The burn to prove oneself over again drives you to the point of yelling "Damn it! This is the year I'm going to turn things around and chase after what I really want!"

Well, that happened to me five years ago. I went to uni; got a degree and now I'm the proud owner of a low-paying, entry-level job.

So this year when the thirst of knowledge returned, I slapped it in the face with a cold dose of reality – the reality of community college. Ahh community college, the bastion for those moderately interested in a topic, and only willing to apply one weekend day, or several weeknight's worth of application to it.

Knowing all this, I still entered my one school day with high hopes, a keen mind and no hangover. I was reeking of dedication. Sadly, dedication seemed to be the one quality missing in my fellow class mates, and teacher.

After twenty uncomfortable minutes of six people sitting in a silent classroom, our teacher entered with a bag of biscuits and wearing track pants. Perhaps this is the community college equivalent to the tweed jacket with leather elbow patches?

Two hours into what could only be loosely classified as work, I hear the cry of a child very close behind my head. 'What the…? Why am I hearing a baby's voice in a…' It was the French lady's husband and daughter. Apparently he'd had enough of being at home with the child, and decided that walking into the classroom and holding out the roaring toddler was the best way to handle his situation.

Like every good mother, Frenchie took her baby in her arms and briefly comforted her…before she turned to the teacher "So we have lunch now, yes." Notice how I didn't end that sentence with a question mark? That wasn't a mistake.

After 45 minutes of non-class time bliss, our return was marked by a mystery. Inbu, the Philippine photographer, did not return and a missing student in a class of six is blindingly obvious. I was sad for our teacher, the slow pace and zoo like conditions were not all his fault. He had tried his best and kept nerdy IT jokes to a minimum, but I also understood Inbu's decision to skip the rest of the "class"….or did I?

At 3pm, two hours after lunch, Inbu strolled sheepishly back into the room. Shocked at his return, the teacher naturally asked "Inbu! Where've you been mate?" To which he replied "Oh, I fell asleep." It would appear our student M.I.A. had taken a three hour nap in his car on the side of the road missing half of the course.

I think it was half an hour after the South African decided to leave for a surf that I concluded I would have a more rewarding experience relaying the chronicles of Inbu to my mates than actually staying. I made my awkward apologies for not attending next week's class and ran home.

School's out suckas.

My Life After Milan

As we approach another weekend, I can't help but reflect on the glorious one just past. It was three nights  full of high hopes, glitter, the most powerful wind machine ever invented and then shoved at the end of a stage, and a young man named Milan.


Yes, I was swept into the glory that was the Eurovision Song Contest 2010.


Every year this event gets a little more magical, and 2010 surpassed all expectations. Who can forget the stage invasion during Spain's performance? Or the lovely lady from Azerbaijan whose dress lit up during her power ballad? Or just how boring it was when someone was actually talented?


Before going into the comp, I had my money on Lithuania...for no particular reason other than the idea of them winning tickled me. I was not let down by their performance, though victory eluded us. I can't help but feel a little cheated, I mean - look at these lyrics:


We've had it pretty tough
But that's ok, we like it rough
We'll settle the score
Survived the reds and 2 world wars
Get up and dance to our Eastern European kinda funk!
 
Testify.
 
However I must admit, though my loyalties to Lithuania were strong, there was one man for me that stole the show...Milan Stanković of Serbia.
 
Representing a previously wartorn country, this androgynous performer had everything a Eurovision talent should have.
 
*A questionable appearance - "is this person good looking, or really bad looking?"
*That ultimately leads to..."hmmm, I'm strangely attracted to it"
*A haircut that looks as if done by a relative. An angry relative
*A completely naff wardrobe
*Questionable back up singers &/or dancers
*Questionable sexual orientation.
 
Yes, Milan had it all. And though he was robbed of the Eurovision title, he will go on in my heart for at least six months.
 
 
 

R.I.P. Happy Travellers

Today I mourned the loss of an old friend…my pair of brown Havaianas. Is it wrong to be sad over two pieces of six-year-old rubber? I think, no.

Why? Because it’s not just the shoes I’m saying goodbye to, it’s all those times I had staring down at my feet in those shoes around our happy world. Walking through Egyptian sand, hanging off the side off Thai boats, trudging through Glenworth Valley mud - places my feet may never be again.

I should have seen it coming, the plug had been blowing over and over again for the entire summer but still, when the strap actually snapped this morning I was forlorn. I even considered taping or gluing it back together. Deeper consideration lead to the conclusion that my appearance was already leaning a little close to hobo these days and thus, ‘Operation Glue’ was abandoned.

So, in honour of the little fellas that have carried me across the world and all around Sydney, I dedicate the below track of awesomeness – Ramblin’ Man by Hank Williams Snr:

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1by83_hank-williams-ramblin-man_music

SIGH. Gym Music Set To Get Worse

Let's hope they outlaw Scooter.



Australian Gyms Face 1,500 Percent Hike in Music Royalty Fees

Music Lady Love

I have never met a woman who doesn't like Stevie Nicks.

In fact, most females would even admit to having a slight lady-crush on the top-hatted gypsy. But why? Usually women folk are divided by successful examples of our own kind...so what makes Nicks different?

Madonna - polarises women into those who idolise her achievements, to those who feel she is a praying mantis-like-harpy capable of eating her young, and incapable of singing in key.

GAGA - definitely divides. You either dig the weirdness or are scared by it.

Britney - sigh. Poor ol' crazy Britters. After her dismal Circus tour, America's sweetheart, turned white trash idol, turned outbound mental patient is more deserving of yawns than gasps of delight or disgust.

Kylie - pop robot. Fabulous for the dance floor...but do any of us feel like we really know Kylie? Sure she's good fun on a Saturday night, but unless you're a gay man in Soho circa 2003, you're probably not snuggling up in your room with a copy of Fever.

And perhaps it is this element of intimacy that's missing with Kylie that makes Stevie Nicks so damn likable. In every song her heart's front and centre. With Rhiannon we're right with her being the unattainable spirit, with Little Lies we're the weak lover breaking up, and with Seven Wonders...well...hmm... maybe we're just watching her freak out after too many lines.

Could she be the once-drug-addled, rock n' roll, everywoman? The 21st century, female Hamlet...in awesome boots, long skirts and a top hat.

A Logie. An award, not a disease.

If the Emmys and a footy club presentation night were to sleep together, then The Logies would be their ugly bastard child.

Australian television's night of nights represents so many things to so many people. For young Home & Away stars its their big step into wider fame, and also their chance to make out with a star from Neighbours. For Bert, its a chance to reminisce on the times when he had real hair. For the rest, its a time to reflect on the year that's passed and get hammered free of charge.

And this year for journalists, in particular The Age's Catherine Deveny, it calls to attention the desperate need for a SARCASM font or key, that allows readers of binary produced messages to recognise that the author is not 100% serious.


I by no means condone what Deveny said in regards to the Rove comment...but must admit to a chuckle when reading her post about Bindi Irwin. In the case of the latter remark - lighten up Australia...she wasn't actually hoping that an 11 year-old was gonna get some at the Logies.

And so to return to the point of my blog - I call on all those clever computer type nerds to pull themselves out of their current game of World Of Warcraft, and ply every minute of their monitor-lit hours into the invention of - SARCASM THE FONT. Surely it can't be too far from Comic Sans?




Sidebar: Yesterday it was reported that Elvis Presley actually died as a result of chronic constipation. Kids, please take it easy on the double-decker cheeseburgers and peanut butter. Dying on the toilet well before your time is just not rock n' roll...think of all the 'Best Of' albums you'd be missing out on plugging.

Is love really a mix tape?

I currently have three mix tapes on the go... and one 3 album swap. I'm firmly residing in music research heaven and hell all at the same time.

Whilst I drag my sorry ass across my own library and those of the good people at the AV Club, NME etc ad nauseum... I consider the time and effort I am putting in to each of these discs and arrive at the question posed by many a teenage girl before me - Is love really a mix tape?

Basing the answer on my own experiences of making and receiving, the maker at the very least wants the receivee to think their cool.

One never hands over a mix containing Michael Bolton's seminal soft rock classic "How Can We Be Lovers" unless of course the title of the mix is "Soft Rock by Cocks".

How far you read into each track of course, is dependant on the person. If the shy guy at work hands you a mix with Hall & Oates "You Make My Dreams Come True" on it - JOY; if your ex hands you a mix with "Where The Wild Roses Grow" or something by Pantera...hmmm run.

In primary school a boy once rang my bestie and played Guns & Roses "Patience" down the line in order to get him to go out with her...a live mix tape...ballsy.

In conclusion...I think the proof is in the mixed pudding. If it's a disc full of awesomeness (including at least one cover and one classic) then you've got your self some love there. If the disc features three songs by the one artist, the mixmaster either needs some schoolin...or probably just doesn't like you all that much.