Fools and Lovers

and I still call Bondi home . . .

2010-03-01T08:26:00.001+08:00

Just around the corner from Bondi - the bit jutting out between Tamarama on the left and McKenzie's Bay on the right is my favourite spot to stretch out with a book before jumping in off the rocks

Surf photographer Eugene Tan is part of the scenery down at Bondi and Sydney's surrounding beaches. I often passed him while out for my morning run, him with camera poised and shuttering or sitting cross legged with pad and pen, facing the horizon. Aside from producing stunningly beautiful images of our stunningly beautiful beaches and the beautiful people that surf them, Eugene also runs the Aquabumps Gallery in Curlewis St and keeps Bondi up to date with his blog and noticeboard. Strangely enough, his blog is one of the best places to look for a vacant room listing or a for a casual job in Bondi.

Being on far Western shores I can no longer pop into the gallery, but photos like these (the top one was put up online yesterday) go half-way to curing homesickness. Subscribe to Eugene's daily emails here.

Bondi

Bondi at sunrise - I was treated to this view every day

My beloved North Bondi

Tamarama

Hot Tip.

2010-02-28T22:10:00.000+08:00

In an effort to earn some extra cash and stop spending frivolously on eating out, I recently crossed the dining room floor and joined the ranks of tippees. No longer do I while away my evenings drinking, eating, having my plates cleared, and doling out tips. I watch others drink and eat, I clear their plates. The tips, however, have proved to be few and far between.

Living in a small city (Perth, a glorified country town, darling as it may be) my diners are perhaps less cosmopolitan than those in larger cities, where people may be more well-travelled and aware of tipping etiquette. Nevertheless it astounds me that investment bankers, lawyers, engineers, ladies-who-lunch and business owners will happily spend $100 a head on dinner, another $60 on a bottle of wine, and then think it acceptable to scrawl in a $2.40 tip on the credit slip at the end of the night. In the words of Super Nanny, “that is NOT asseptable.”

I suspect that stingy tippers suffer from extreme self-focus. Anyone who has considered what it might be like to walk a mile in the shoes of the person serving their meal would surely go red at the very thought of tipping anything less than a good 10% for their efforts. After all what is a waiter going to do with Scrooge’s loose change at the end of the night? Save it up and buy a loaf of bread? Excuse me while I scoff.

No one likes a Scrooge

I personally have a rule of thumb that I reserve a minimum 10% of my dinner budget for the tip – so if I budgeted $100 for dinner (sides, water, and wine included) then I will order up to $90 worth and the last $10 is the tip. On a table of 4 people that’s a fair $40 tip for the waiter.

As Australia doesn’t have clearly established guidelines for tipping, it really comes down to common sense. It’s kind of like the whole ‘should men open doors for feminists?’ thing. Always better to err on the side of goodwill and manners. Let the feminists (or in this case anti-tippers – not that I have ever come across anti-tipping service staff to date) have a tantrum if they will; at the very least the money goes into your karma account . . .

Portman Props

2010-01-25T19:52:00.001+08:00

It's old but it's funny and I just rediscovered it.

and now, for a pro

2010-01-12T21:27:00.000+08:00

My grace period for wallowing in misery post move to Perth has expired (I allowed a very reasonable seven days) and so I now begin listing pros so as to induce a positive state of mind.

To begin with, we look at vintage shopping.

Finding a bargain in an inner city vintage store is equally as challenging and unlikely as finding the needle in the proverbial haystack. It's a case of the quick and the dead when thrifty fashionistas get pillaging as the weekend approaches, and the old biddies at Good Sammy's are catching onto the fact that they can charge high street prices and get away with it (well, it's still cheaper than buying designer off the rack).

Now, imagine a city one quarter of the size of Sydney, with the nation's highest number of millionaires per capita (and therefore a higher number of designer goods falling into the Salvos' hands) and nary a fashionista in sight (at least, not the full-time-fashion-is-my-life-and-I-spend-all-of-the-money-I-don't-have-on-it type).

More spoils + less competition = bargain-hunter heaven.

Today's find at a Salvos store in the outer suburb of Mundaring: a pale pink 90's crepe jacket with cut outs in the back for a trifling $16. Keen beans can find a list of op shops in Perth by suburb here.

Channel your Mother with a vintage reindeer jumper.

Channel 90s all-girl pop groups with a vintage sunflower hat.

Or channel ageing, coke snorting rock gods with vintage lame pants.

Perth, the city with no street signs

2010-01-10T10:50:00.000+08:00

The upside of living in Sleepytown is that one has all the time in the world to drive round in circles, completely lost, because of the patent lack of street signs.

Efficiency is not a buzz word in Perth, and I have cried several times in frustration (my very zen, anger-management style of road rage) at that fact since I moved West-side from Sydney four days ago. I have also developed a nervous tick from listening to people talk (slow, and with much repetition, much repetition, much repetition) and the number of people wearing Crocs in earnest is giving me reflux.

But other than that, the glass is totally half full, like, spilling over.

get smart

2010-01-09T20:03:00.000+08:00

Just watched an old re-run of Get Smart in which Max was assisted in his crime-solving tom-foolery by a Chinese laundry-man. Except that the Chinese laundry-man was a caucasian actor speaking in a ridiculous Chinese accent with a tiny black moustache drawn on. Too good.

The Big Rig Diner – Not The Ticket

2009-11-28T18:51:00.000+08:00

The Big Rig Diner

Traversing the backstreets of Darlinghurst and Surry Hills in a rusty Ford last night, we were in search of cheap eats. The little hand had just passed 11 and, not being inclined towards pizza or kebabs or Mexican (I carry the fussy gene), we were drawing blanks.

"Ruby Rabbit!"
"No I don’t want to dance I want to eat."
"No, the diner. "
"Oh yeah, the diner. I heard it’s shit."
“Let’s just go. It’s near your bus stop."
"Oh yeah it’s near the bus stop. Clincher."

And so we stacked ourselves into a booth at the Big Rig Diner. Sweaty skin sticking to vinyl, sceney kids nodding ‘hey babe how’s it going’ from the other side of the room, lip reading as top of the pops circa 1982 blared over conversations. I’m about to say that it was the worst food I’ve ever been served, but before I do, I would first like to say that the staff are darlings.
They mucked up our order and comped us our starter to make up for it even though we didn’t complain or particularly mind . They smiled and smiled and smiled, all of them, and they’re a bit cute to look at too.

The problem with cute staff, however, is that the chances of them also making great food are slim because their ‘good looks’ genes crowd out the ‘good cooks’ genes. At the Big Rig Diner they fail in the kitchen with flying colours. The Caesar salad came so heavily doused in dressing that oil literally dripped off the lettuce leaves into a big puddle in the bottom of the bowl. It was slimy, at best. The ribs tasted of burnt meat and nothing much else, and the steak wasn’t much better. The only thing they got right was the chips, and I would venture a guess that if we’d ordered hotdogs they would’ve been good too because they’re almost impossible to screw up and tend to taste better when served in genuine diners (as opposed to cafes), you see.

As I don’t like hotdogs, I will never eat there again. If only there was an all-night organic salad bar on Oxford St. With hot staff.

you just got friended

2009-11-19T19:01:00.000+08:00

Sometimes, when I log in to Facebook, I think I am popular. But then I realise that all the messages in my inbox are from promoters pressuring me to come and spend all my money in their bars. If they were really my friends they would have pressured me in person.

Ksubi Book Club: Eyewear for Nerds

2009-11-15T18:27:00.000+08:00

The new Ksubi eyewear range, Book Club, drops into stores this week. I have three pairs on order because they are amazing.

This may be a little known fact, but Ksubi are actually very big on quality - all their shades are fully UV protective and are made by the same group that produces specs for Karen Walker and Oroton. The design is still all done in-house though, which is why the frames are all quite unique. I'm yet to see a Le Specs knock off in General Pants (touch wood it stays that way).

The look for this range is all about flat frames. A couple of previous styles have been reworked (the Regor is a sleeker reincarnation of the Ksubi classic, the Old) and the long-awaited Tiga will finally be available in three colours.

Head down to the Bondi or Paddington stores (or Armadale if you live in Melbourne) to see the full range.

Crux in black, $329

Skeleton in black/tortoiseshell, $329

Bellatrix in matte clear, $289

Tiga in mottled black/clear, $289

Lyra in ksubi leopard, $289

there's no such thing as a free lunch

2009-11-15T11:54:00.000+08:00

Why must free drinks always taste like water?

Why is it that free pizza always tastes like cheese, just crust and cheese?

And the most probing question of all:
Knowing that we will be served free water and melted cheese, why do we still turn up to events promising free drinks and free pizza with the expectation that they will in fact taste of alcohol and pepperoni?

Albert Einstein said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. We are a generation of party-going nutters.

Pow-Wow

2009-11-09T20:09:00.000+08:00

“But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to continue it.”
Lord Henry to Dorian, The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde, 1890)

It is a universal truth that when it comes to douchebags, women just can’t let go. This phenomenon, otherwise known as Doormat Syndrome, is as common as the, er, common cold. Now I’m not a man-hater by any stroke of the imagination. I visibly cringe at feminists' remonstrations to the sisterhood to unite against people who are not in the feminist sisterhood. Nevertheless, when I was recently stood up for the third time by the same guy and STILL wanted to call him, I did feel the need for a little girl-power pow-wow. So, this one's for the girls . . .

Doormat Syndrome has many faces; Needy Girl, Naive Girl, and the Masochist are but a few. Personally, I'm your garden-variety Fixer, that being a woman who thinks she can save the world, one jerk at a time (no pun intended).

Fixers turn people into projects. They are the ones who say such ridiculous things as “he will change because he loves me,” and “ I think I should give him one more chance,” and “but underneath all the B.S he’s really a good person.” They unwittingly attract human train-wrecks and go to work at once on putting them back together again. The shittier the man’s behaviour is, the more necessary the Fixer believes herself to be to him, and the harder it is for her to down tools and move on.

Luckily Doormat Syndrome in all its manifestations is not terminal. He’s Just Not That Into You (in either book or movie format) is recommended in initial stages of recovery, as is vigorous discussion of the offender’s douchbaggery with friends over a glass of wine. If you lack self-control, deleting his number will prevent drunken texting. Ladies, take your cue from Oscar Wilde and let the damn curtain fall.

this will be fun

2009-11-09T18:29:00.000+08:00

What: Pete Versus Toby summer range launch
Where: Ivy Pool
Wear: As little as possible (30 degrees people, 30 degrees!)
When: from 1pm
Perks: drinks are freeeeeee til threeeeeee

Outside the PVT store in Bondi

The PVT boys set up shop on Curlewis St in Bondi a good year or so ago (a lopsided mash up of office, shop and hang-out goings on) and are seeing the beginnings of a cult following with their tongue in cheek tees and quirky prints. They remind me of the early days Ksubi crew only with less hype - relaxed, artistic and a wee bit 'devil may care'.

Anyone who calls their new range ailartsuA Dreaming (I'm assuming copious amounts of weed were involved in the range naming process?) is surely the thrower of good parties and so this coming hot, hot Sunday, the Pool is where I shall be. If you want to come too make sure to RSVP to ivy@peteversustoby.com

So are you coming? Don't say no. That would be so uncool.

Punctuation.

2009-11-08T18:01:00.000+08:00

If only there was such a thing as a CAPITAL EXCLAMATION MARK, I would use it all the time(!).

Flash Mob hits Bondi Beach

2009-11-04T08:18:00.000+08:00

The whole flash mob thing's probably getting a bit tired - there's been a slew of half-arsed, badly done mob dances lately - but this latest one is cute, mostly thanks to Mr Red Budgie Smugglers, who gets the whole thing started.

Crazy, this whole thing happened four days ago while I was at work only 200m away, and yet I first heard about it on the net.

My ALL-TIME favourite flash mob video:

Fancy being a mobster? Visit the official website for worldwide flash mob updates.

Highbrow Goodtimes on Low Dorra Budget

2009-11-03T13:08:00.000+08:00

Good news, people. For the piddling price of a Goldclass movie ticket, highbrow 20-somethings can indulge in a night at the theatre, thanks to Sydney Theatre Company's policy of offering $30 tickets to under 30s.

Coupon-clipper that I am, this year I have taken full advantage of STC’s overt ageism. Seeing Cate Blanchett in full force on stage (first in War Of The Roses and then in A Streetcar Named Desire) was worth the ticket price alone.

Next on my ‘to see for thirty bucks’ list is The Mysteries: Genesis. Back in times medieval the masses couldn’t read, so Bible stories (ie: The Mysteries) were performed on wooden carts in village squares, and that is how people learnt that Eve was a sneaky wench and Cain was a murderous douche. The Mysteries are the very antithesis of the King James Bible’s court language. Raucous, rollicking, theatre for the everyman. Book tickets to STC’s reimagined Mysteries here.

Smart people buy cheap tickets to the theatre

Incu presents Topshop and Topman

2009-11-02T16:39:00.000+08:00

Two months ago I was in London and practically raped and pillaged Topshop, only to return two days later and find the three floors of entirely new stock. Blimey. You can literally shop till you drop in London and then some.

When I heard Incu was bringing Topshop and Topman downunder I was curious - how will a high turnover business model like Topshop work in such a tiny market, especially when selling from the racks of what is known as being more of a boutique, higher end store? The launch last week was much talked about but will it translate to sales?

I waited out the weekend and ducked in today to flick through the racks, looking for telltale signs of frantic ransacking, but no. There was plenty of stock. Every size in every style was neatly displayed, boutique style, and in a way I was quite disappointed - this is not the Topshop experience! I should be elbowing some minger out of the way to get the last size 8. If the slag beats me to the punch I should miss out and have to wait two whole days for the next shipment to arrive. This is how Topshop works, this is the thrill of it!

The prices are on par with UK prices, which is pretty darn good considering that it's apparently bloody expensive to import. That said, 20 quid sounds so much cheaper than $40, even though they're one and the same. The buyer's done a pretty good job in terms of the selection although, just quietly, some of the pieces in Incu right now are items that I saw in Topshop last season. Which means that they may well be on sale online. Like the Kate Moss Halter Mesh Dress. Maybe (definitely).

Overall I am ambivalent. It looks like Topshop, it smells like Topshop, but at the end of the day it's still just Incu selling things that the Northern Hemisphere got to buy/wear/get over months ago. I still wonder if it will be a money-spinner long term, or if the novelty will wear off and highstreet shoppers will just go back to their Sportsgirl bargain dumpbins. I did buy a cute top . . .

My new top, $40 at Incu Oxford St

Kate Moss for Topshop dress, $120 instore at Incu
or 35 pounds (approx $70) at www.topshop.com

How Lovely, the Western Sun

2009-11-01T18:40:00.000+08:00

The light is special in Western Australia. Shadows are long, dusk is golden, and sunsets are peachy. My friend Jai took these photos in Margaret River and I especially love the shot below (portrait). All the different shades of white and Valli's sweet but knowing expression suggest a sense of purity that is multi-hued; that lies in the grey area between the poles of black and white.

Darlo, you're bangin'

2009-10-29T21:24:00.001+08:00

Grungy indie kids (Gaslight), dancing pill poppers (Oxford Art, Q-bar) or same sex pashers (Slide, The Columbian), Darlinghurst has had many lovers. She was used up of late and had begun to look like the hussy who stays out till tomorrow and then moves on to a recovery bar. Seamy and stale, in need of a spruce up.

BEFORE: Darlo, letting it all hang out

The Crown/Burton/Oxford St triangle has seen a flurry of bar openings these last few months, which has transformed the dingy end of Darlo into a hive of BondiScenesters+DoubleBayDollies+SurryHillsHipsters hobnobbery.

Ching-a-Lings, Low 302 and Pocket round out the small bar trifecta – finally somewhere cosy to drink where you can get a proper cocktail, listen to bang on music and get bar food other than birdseye wedges. The Winery is Gazebo’s Surry Hills sister and lends a bit of chic (tiptoeing on the border of being oversized and commercial) with a great wine list and an excellent menu upstairs, although the cocktails are average.

Doctor Pong came next and I predict a limited lifespan. Kitted out with ping-pong tables and chesterfields, the idea should work but it just plain doesn’t. Soulless, sparse, and populated with leftovers from The Gaff – I lasted five minutes before leaving because of an allergic reaction to the backpackers.

Last out of the stables, The Pond. A short stumble from Pocket, the Two Thousand crew have set up a home away from home. The basement bar, with low couches, crates and an adjoining courtyard is all dimly lit nooks and crackly jazz music. Upstairs the menu of local produce changes daily and is served at long wooden tables, much like eating in a country house kitchen. The food has been cracked up to be one of The Pond’s main selling points, but I’ve sampled about half of the bar menu and three or four of the mains and they were good but not amazing. Bang for buck, I’d say.

AFTER: Darlo, bitching

Cops In Jeans

2009-10-24T17:51:00.000+08:00

Based in Bondi, this leggy blonde (whose name I failed to catch) sources vintage fabrics and whips up all sorts of dresses, skirts, body suits and the like. She'll mostly make just one or two of each item (depending on how much fabric she can get her hands on), so you won't catch anyone else cruising the eastern suburbs in the same outfit.

Cops In Jeans floral trapeze dress $149

You can buy Cops In Jeans creations from the online ebay shop www.copsinjeans.com - best thing about the website is that Blondie is also a bit of a hack at styling, so every piece has a little pictorial accompanying it showing how to get your retro/sex-pot/cutie-pie on. And if you happen to live in Bondi and want to try your pick of the bunch on before you buy, drop a line to copsinjeans@people.net.au and if you ask very nicely Blondie might be able to pop over with a little selection.

Cops In Jeans lace bodysuit $79.99

Cops In Jeans leather skirt currently on auction

BEST.

2009-10-15T03:16:00.000+08:00

TEX-early-90's-pub-rock-sex-symbol-PERKINS

2009-10-13T18:24:00.000+08:00

Thick necked and sweaty as a bore, Tex Perkins is at first sight more lumberjack, less minstrel. But as any number of his fan-base will tell you, this is all part of his appeal. A man’s man with a breakable heart, who can drink his mates under the table, come home late and then write a song for his lover to make amends. Women want him, and men want to be him, and to top it off he plays a mean guitar solo and sings in tune.

Perkins’ heyday as a mid-level rock/sex god was the late 80’s/early 90’s, fronting bands The Beasts of Bourbon and The Cruel Sea. Known for his riotous onstage antics – he has performed naked, and once inside a giant condom – Perkins has always guaranteed a great live show, and so, not quite knowing what to expect, I joined the throng of mostly middle aged (no emo tweens in sight) punters for his show at The Metro on Saturday night.

Swaggering onto the stage in a shroud of smoke and with beer in hand, Perkins and band launched into a lively and varied set, beginning on a poignant note (“She speaks a different language but I seem to understand …”). From there they swerved to black humour (“On Sundays I perform miracles, I turn paycheques into wine...”), and then to the utterly ridiculous as a pornographic educational video rolled whilst Perkins warbled on about “reeeeaaaaal love.” Long-time collaborator Charlie Owen was a highlight on the classical guitar, although the entire band were solid and each and every member quirky in his own way, especially Joel Silbershier (on bass) who, at surely no bigger than 5ft 5”, provided comic relief simply by standing next to the hulking Perkins, let alone with his squawking vocal moonlights and funny little clapping interludes.

While this gig showcased a somewhat more mellowed Tex Perkins as compared to the pub-rock-sex-symbol-Perkins of the 90’s, there was no compromise in entertainment value. The audience sang, laughed and cheered; the band hammed around and played with gusto (and considerable skill); it was good times all round. I should also make mention of Jordie Lane, a Melbourne up and comer (although by Australian indie standards he has already up and come) who, with his band, was the support act for the night. One part old school troubadour, one part rockabilly, Lane has a delicious, classic voice that is to the ear as buttered rum might be to the tongue, and woos his audience with a confidence which belies his years.

And so, with mock tears and much silliness, Perkins group-hugged his band, bid his amorous audience goodnight, and was gone. The venue emptied pronto with punters most likely racing home to their baby sitters, while my girlfriend and I surveyed the mass exodus, quietly amused that we had enjoyed the gig every bit as much as these sweaty 30-somethings. And secretly, I may just have a bit of a crush on Tex Perkins myself . . .

CLOGS

2009-10-11T18:17:00.000+08:00

Abbey-Lee for Chanel SS10 at Paris Fashion Week

My love affair with clogs began at the tender age of three, when my Mum kitted me out in smocked dresses and a toddler-sized pair of wooden and leather navy clogs. Like money, clogs are neither good nor bad. It all depends on what you do with them. Socks and Crocs is offensive in the utmost. Karl Lagerfeld’s white studded take on them for Chanel at Paris Fashion Week however? Deee-lightful.

For we plebs who can’t afford Chanel, Funkis does a cute range of matte and patent clogs that all sell for under $160.

DO: Funkis t-bars, my next purchase. Available at www.funkis.com

DON'T: You know why.

Chris Jordan - making art of consumer stats

2009-10-04T19:30:00.000+08:00

On the ever-popular subject of consumerism, we Westerners are inundated with information - statistics, tables, reports, study findings, etc. Apparently, however, the human brain cannot comprehend numbers upwards of a few hundred thousand or a million, and so, even with all these stats so readily available, we cannot fully comprehend their meaning and are therefore somewhat oblivious to the effect we are collectively having on the world around us.

U.S based photographic artist Chris Jordan aims to bring a sense of consumer awareness to his fellow Americans (and really, Westerners in general) by translating these inaccessible facts and figures into a visual language that we can understand. Beginning with anything from plastic cups, barbie dolls, shark teeth and other such dross, Jordan creates grand-scale images which create a sense of context and scale, giving us an idea of the way many many small actions snowball to create a startlingly large whole effect.

Plastic Cups, 2008
Depicts 1, 000, 000 plastic cups, ie: the number used on airline flights in the U.S every six hours.

Zoomed in to actual size

Barbie Dolls, 2008
Depicts 32, 000 Barbies, equal to the number of elective breast augmentation surgeries performed monthly in the U.S in 2006.

And zoomed in

Jordan's hope is that his artworks may "serve as portals to a kind of cultural self-inquiry." First we become aware; then we can consider our behaviour in light of that and effect change. Have a listen to what he's got to say in his spiel for TED ....

Parisian shortbread, Turkey and cats.

2009-08-19T03:36:00.000+08:00

Sylvie's stellar decorating skills are on display in the Sibel's reception area

Should you find yourself in city of Antalya on the Turkish Mediterranean coast (well you never know), and should you be weary from your travels, in need of a room with a western bathroom and a cracking aircon then listen up – the Sibel Pansiyon will light your fire.

Tucked in the back alleys of the historic Kaleiçi district of the city, the Sibel is a Parisian shortbread in the budget hotel cookie barrel. The unseasoned traveller may at first mistake the hotel for a kooky upmarket cattery whatwith the boggling number of moggies sprawling on all available surfaces, however a quick turn about the streets and one will find that the stray cat is in fact the national animal and no respectable establishment (restaurants included) would count itself Turkish without at least fifteen. Thus the Sibel is both undeniably French and Turkish, and it is with the marrying of the two that the story began …

Some years ago a charming Parisian songbird named Sylvie met a dashing Turk. They fell in love, married and moved to Antalya with their son, who grew up to be very thin and possessing the most wild of beards. It is Sylvie and her son who greet us when we arrive with the warmest bustling, chatty welcome (truthfully the son is more of an inert object than anything, but Sylvie has enough joy de vivre for the two of them). Exclamations ensue –
‘Oh but you came so far today!’
‘Oh but you do enjoy your trip so far!’
‘Oh oui oui of course we can do that for you, oui!’
And we are escorted by this Warhammer playing son from the quaintly shambolic reception area (reminiscent of Nanna’s lounge room) to an equally quaint room decked out with Turkish carpets and French countryhouse furnishings. The most unique thing about this room though is the prospect from the window – we are literally across the road from the ruins of an Ottoman-period church, which is surreal to me considering not a building existed in my neighbourhood until a measly two hundred years ago, if that.

And finally breakfast. Never have I had such an eager hostess, such nodding and smiling and delightful French babble, such lovely cheese and delicious peaches (plates of which kept appearing on the table once Sylvie discovered we liked them, until we either had to burst or walk-away-Renee). We sat in the ivy and cat strewn courtyard bathed in goodwill, listening to crickets and feeling the balmy morning air settle on our skin and I honestly wished breakfast would never end.

But end it did and our delightful Turkish-French cross culture experience is yesterday's news - we're road tripping to older F-off sized ruins at Ephesus - Kaleiçi UPSIZED. For any intrepid traveller who may wish to pick up where I left off, the 411:
http://www.sibelpansiyon.com/
Nightly rate is 60 Turkish Lira for a double, breakfast and internet included.

Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

2009-07-24T10:48:00.001+08:00

Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter

Mia Wasikowski as Alice

Helena Bonham Carter as Queen of Hearts

New preview for Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland came out today . . . predictably equal parts dark and quirky (as any movie starring Helena Bonham-Carter is bound to be). Can't believe we have to wait till 2010! Tim Burton is such a tease.

VIDEO: Alice in Wonderland

Shared via AddThis

On the Subject of Pockets

2009-06-30T21:03:00.000+08:00

I went to Pocket Bar on the weekend, a cute new hole in the wall on the corner of Crown and Burton in Darlinghurst. They’ve got a good wine list and it’s all reasonably priced – my round of 3 drinks cost just over $20 – and during the day they serve boutique roaster Little Marionette’s coffee, which is easily as good as Sydney’s better known specialty roasters Single Origin and Campos. The staff look cool but aren’t too cool to be friendly, the vibe is chilled and comfortable (deep, plush couches and concrete floors) and in the evenings they have an entire menu of crepes. Tre bien, oui oui.

www.pocketbar.com.au

Pocket Rockets A-go-go

2009-06-29T20:33:00.000+08:00

Charlie Thorpe a.k.a Dash

Amy Meredith's Christian Le Russo

Singing, dancing pocket-rockets were the M.O on Saturday night, when Amy Meredith supported Dash and Will in a night of good old fashioned sweaty fun. Indie music haven the Hopetoun was the perfect venue – the no bullshit vibe (no Diet Coke served here, or fresh lime for that matter. Yes, I asked. Yes, I live in the eastern suburbs) was fitting for Dash and Will’s bolshy, acerbic set and Amy Meredith front man Christian Lo Russo’s tongue in cheek stadium pop theatrics.

I walked in just in time to see Lo Russo take to the stage and launch into a surprisingly energetic, ambitious set. For such a small guy he throws himself every which way with such conviction and glee, and I couldn’t help but grin - anyone that ridiculous is, by default, amazing. The fact that he really can sing (his soaring top register is remarkable) and that these Sydney boys are a good-looking bunch of lads makes them easy marketing fodder. And the fact that they list Heart Break High as an influence and that Lo Russo’s equally height-challenged parents are his number one fans (in the crowd whooping, waving and singing all the words) makes them cool cats with tragic undertones, which really is the best kind of cool. One bone to pick before moving on: what’s with the band name? Look out for their as yet unnamed debut album due out soon, and if you haven’t seen them live already, get thee to a gig.

Charlie Thorpe (Dash) and Josie De Sousa-Reay (Will) are Josie and the Pussycats for the noughties. Brash, pouting De Sousa-Reay is no bigger than Kylie Minogue but has all the attitude of the Spice Girls put together, while Thorpe has a more mysterious, broody presence and the sweeter voice of the two, and they foil each other beautifully. Much of their music is based on strong vocal harmonies and call and response melodies and Thorpe’s delicious alto notes and wispy, girlish top notes add depth and range to De Sousa-Reay’s extroverted performance, which would otherwise run risk of seeming trite.

Playing a mix of old and new material, the Melbourne girls got the packed room moving in that indie-crowd-awkward-dancers-someone’s-elbow-is-in-my-back kind of a way, thrilling the keen beans at the front if the number of aforementioned elbows in my back is anything to go by. Current single Out of Control was a winner of course and their new song Didn’t Know (to be released on their new album Up In Something in August of this year) and a charming Easybeats cover were highlights.

Still only in their teens, Dash and Will probably have some growing up to do before they carve out a definitive niche in indie pop – they’re still uncomfortably close to The Veronicas’ territory – but they’re damn good fun in the meantime. A rocking gig, and two young bands that, with a bit of spit and polish, could definitely shine down the track.

Remember the Time (when Michael Jackson was black)

2009-06-26T13:55:00.000+08:00

For all the saccharine, sentimental tributes flying through cyberspace today you’d think Michael Jackson was in line for sainthood. If we’re honest, it was only yesterday half the world was calling him Wacko Jacko, and with good reason – hell, there’s even some who’ll be glad to see the back of him.

Prince of Bahrain Sheik Abdulla bin Hamad Al Khalifa, who bankrolled MJ for 2 years as well as paying his legal fees of US$2.2 million from a 2005 molestation court case (he later sued MJ) springs to mind, as do the apparent victims of MJ’s penchant for playing sex games with children. To be fair, the molestation charges were never proven but while the judicial court system holds the defence innocent until proven guilty, the court of public opinion is not necessarily so gracious (or bound by technicalities). Considering the number of charges brought against him and the suspicious circumstances surrounding them (most notably the US$22 million out of court settlement with his first serious accuser), one can’t help but call to mind that old aphorism “there’s no smoke without a fire” (even if it is just an eency weency fire).

There’s also the bizarre relationship between MJ and ex-wife and mother of his eldest two children, Debbie Rowe, which involved two rounds of IVF, a quickie marriage, an equally quick divorce after Rowe found herself unable to bear any more children, and the mutli-million dollar payout she received in exchange for granting MJ full custody of the kids. Sure, the Rowe/MJ freak-show, his propensity to cross-dress on occasion, his hissy-fit meltdowns and obscene shopping sprees (memorably caught on film for Martin Bashir’s 2003 doco Living With Michael Jackson) do not sum up MJ’s legacy. But let’s not forget all his flaws and appalling behaviour in favour of granting the man demigod status.

Lets remember the King of Pop as the man he was – damaged and flawed, tragically fragile, and blessed with the most extraordinary creative and musical giftings that the world’s seen since, ah, around about 1971. Oh and a shit hot dancer . . . favourite ever MJ video below, how good is the breakdown half way through.

Pony Up! gideeyup up down under

2009-06-20T20:44:00.000+08:00

Montreal cuties Pony Up! were in town this week to promote their sophomore album Stay Gold, follow up to the hugely popular Make Love To The Judges With Your Eyes. According to bassist Lisa Smith, Aussies are Pony Up’s #1 fans – still in the ranks of the ‘almost famous’ in their native Canada and some parts of Europe, the Ponies really took off here when Triple J put the instantly recognisably ditty The Truth About Cats And Dogs (Is That They Die) on high rotation – and so it was surprising then that the band didn’t look happier to be here when they played at Oxford Art Factory on Thursday night.

Performing to a decent (though hardly sold out) crowd, Pony Up! turned out a solid but somewhat lacklustre set that felt more like a rehearsal than a show, only seeming to warm up just in time for the encore. The fact that the two lead singers, Laura Wills and Jess Moundroukas, were stuck behind their instruments (guitar and keys) the whole time probably didn’t help, but save for a bit of jumping up and down and skirt twirling on Laura’s part, the lack of personality, banter and enthusiasm onstage made the foursome come across borderline apathetic.

That said, the Ponies’ new songs are everything indie pop should be – hooky, hummable, and downright fun. A slightly rockier, darker edge showed that the band has grown up with this new album, and it was in the moodier songs that they shone, particularly Laura, whose voice has more depth than one might have thought from the first album. Perhaps the smartest thing about Pony Up’s music is that they follow the K.I.S.S rule of keeping it simple (stupid) and so their songs are easy – easy to listen to, easy to sing, easy to like – and in pop, that’s a good thing.

Supporting Pony Up! was Ben Fletcher’s Sydney based outfit The Devoted Few, whose sound is more thoughtful rock than the Ponies’ effervescent pop and fit the bill nicely (although incidentally the line up choice probably had more to do with the fact that the two bands share the same management, Laughing Outlaw). Fletcher is a pleasure to watch, so thoroughly absorbed in the heartfelt, melodic music that he makes, and the rest of the band does a great job of supporting him whilst letting him be the main attraction. Their layered sound was also well suited to the venue - Oxford Art has not a bad little sound system – and it was nice to be able to hear all the nuances of the performance. Special mention must be made of the guitarist bearing an uncanny resemblance to John Lennon for being particularly aesthetically pleasing in a John Lennon kind of way.

Hopefully for Pony Up! Thursday night’s gig was a temporary flat-line on the chart. The songs are there, as are the heckling groupies (“Can I be in your band?”), all they need next tour is a live show that lives up to the energy and spark of their albums.

Pony Up!

Thou Shalt Not Trespass

2009-06-15T10:21:00.001+08:00

A moonlight stroll in Sydney's Royal Botanical Gardens last night took an unexpected turn with the appearance of a couple of law-enforcing, burley Rangers in a golf buggy. My protestation that we had no idea it was an offence to be there after dark was to no avail - not surprising I suppose, given that we jumped the fence to get in. Snaps to Nat and Kenneth the Rangers for doing their jobs with vigour and integrity (although less vigour would have sufficed) and for their considerate offer to escort us to our gate of preference after they'd screwed us with a fine.

Kenneth and Nat the Burley Rangers, Me the Trespasser

Ken Lee

2009-06-12T08:48:00.000+08:00

This Bulgarian Idol contestant wins the prize for most un-researched, fly-by-the-seat-of-one's-pants interpretation of a popular song. Bloody brilliant.

"Ken Leeeee, tulibu dibu dauchoo . . ."

The Call

2009-06-10T20:10:00.000+08:00

I recently saw the play The Call (presented by the Griffin Theatre Company), which is loosely based on the life and times of Al Qaeda recruit David Hicks. Set in a small country town, The Call depicts the journey of the protagonist, Gary, from his drug addled, hoonish youth, to his limp attempts at marriage and fatherhood, and finally to his surprising conversion to Islam. Gary aches for purpose in his life and, after failing to find meaning in his day to day country town life, responds to an inner sense of being called to Islam, immersing himself in ritual and prayer. The effect of Gary’s conversion is largely negative – he isolates himself socially, abandons his family in his search for enlightenment and discards old friendships with a self-righteous ruthlessness – and the play closes with a symbolic suggestion that Gary is no closer to finding true purpose than he was at the opening of the play.

Playwright Patricia Cornelius does not appear to be commenting on the religion of Islam so much as posing the question of whether our secular, ‘self’ orientated Western society is failing to meet our deepest human need of a greater sense of purpose. Gary muses that “to believe so completely in something that it’s worth dying for, that’s all a man could want for”, and it has to be said that religion, on the most part, offers this. It could be argued that the principle driver in Western society is the pursuit of happiness (in the form of physical wellbeing, financial security, and hedonistic excess to name a few) and that even many a philanthropist is motivated just as much by his desire to feel good about himself as he is by genuine concern for others. What then, for those who find that the pursuit of happiness does not, in itself, fulfill them?

The question we all asked when David Hicks was first taken into custody was “how on earth did a regular Aussie guy from the burbs wind up training with a fundamental religious regime in the foothills of Afghanistan?” Cornelius has sketched a feasible explanation, offering the notion that, when a society neglects the common human need for a cause outside of oneself (or for a sense of being called to greatness, if you will) then in the absence of something to believe in, people may put their faith in the next best thing they can find, whether it be right, sane and productive – or not. It’s not a new concept; historians would no doubt identify this proposition as a key reason for countless fascist regimes getting off the ground; Charles Dickens illustrated it with searing insight in A Tale of Two Cities, his novel set during the French Revolution in which the hopeless and downtrodden lower classes, stirred and united by the common cause of fighting injustice, excuse their atrociously violent uprising as a justified reaction to the persecution they suffered at the hands of the nobles.

Cornelius leaves her audience with the impression that, although Gary may believe he has found his calling in life, he is no more enlightened than he was when we first met him, confused and aimless, in the opening scene. It’s interesting that, rather than offering a glib solution to the questions she has raised, Cornelius instead chooses to give a caution that we would do well not to let our disillusionment with our secular, self-focused society lead us to adopt a cause or beliefs out of rebellion, resentment, or naïve hopefulness. Ultimately the audience is left with the message that, in seeking, we should be mindful that the first answer to present itself may not be THE answer - after all, any cause or faith that does not stand up to careful scrutiny is hardly “worth dying for”.

Thought Slide #2

2009-06-09T12:49:00.001+08:00

The little fish swam till there was no swim left in her
but it was all for naught. Big fish always have little fish for breakfast,
it’s just the way things are.

Cassette Kids: even indie pop-rockers need a little soul

2009-06-08T20:10:00.000+08:00

Cassette Kids are a scene marketing dream. Cute blonde singer, sceno looks all round (all the boys are currently sporting mos), more onstage posing than their fans can poke their iPhones at, and a rocking set of catchy songs that elicits frenzied indie dancing action. They must be doing something right because this week they’re supporting Lily Allen on the Australian leg of her tour, a nice little career highlight right there.

I saw them play for the first time last week (At the Beachie. It’s becoming a habit - I’m cheap and I love free gigs) and it was a good show. I wonder though, is “good” good enough? They’re certainly competent musicians and the songs are solid. They’re great performers, particularly Kat Noorbergen (aforementioned cute blond singer) and they’ve got the look down, what with their Kicks and their Nudies and hair that’s been styled within an inch of its life to look un-styled. But, with all those boxes ticked, there still seems to be something missing. It’s like the glue, the feeling, is lacking and so all the parts don’t hold together properly and the whole is no greater than the sum of its parts.

Comparison to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs is inevitable (Kat could be a blonder, younger Karen O) and it’s this comparison that probably best highlights what I’m angling at. Karen O and the YYYs have that rare commodity: the X-factor. Aside from being skilled musicians, they completely embody the sound they make – they way they move, look, dress, everything is coherent and the impact is fantastic. They’re not trying to be cool or different, they just are, and so we can’t help but tune in (even people who aren’t fans would most likely agree that they’re great at what they do and that Karen O is one cool cat).

Cassette Kids seem to be too wrapped up in the styling of being an indie cool band to really feel the music that they’re playing, and so for all their energy and enthusiasm onstage, they ring a little hollow. It’s the little things that all added up to give me that impression – the way the bass guitarist threw himself around the stage but only once in the whole set looked to the drummer to lock in with him; the way Kat yelped her high notes every single time as though what started as a unique vocal styling has become a fallback easy-way-out technique and so sounds stale after the first four or five songs; the way the only one on the stage whose body moved completely with the music was the guy on keys/samples, who I’m pretty sure also happens to be the only unofficial member of the band; the way the songs, though catchy, lack a sense of musicality and all sound similar on the first listen.

The band is entertaining enough and they’re definitely stacked near the top of the pile. They’ve got all the right bits and pieces in place to be deserving of their Sydney ‘It Band’ status, but if they want to join the big league they’re going to need some soul to hold it all together.

Cassette Kids at Beach Rd Hotel

Cassette Kids at Beach Rd Hotel

The Road Not Taken

2009-06-05T06:57:00.000+08:00

Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920.

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Bat for Lashes - New Video

2009-06-02T20:59:00.000+08:00

If Luke Steele (aka Empire of the Sun and The Sleepy Jackson) was a hot girl he would be Natasha Khan (aka Bat for Lashes). The new video for the first single off the Two Suns album, Pearl's Dream, is cooler than cool. If anyone else had done this video I would have scoffed but she owns it and I'm frothing over it.

as a wave comes into shore

2009-06-01T18:20:00.000+08:00

How do I know You love me?

You see all that is good in me. You appreciate my complexity, comprehend my paradoxes, and You believe me when I say I want to be better. You hurt me now with piercing honesty to save me from blindness to my own human condition. And then You stick with me while I fall apart and love me back together again because You see what I can’t – the whole me.

And when You do, I trust You. As a wave comes into shore, I increase in assurance; I love, I turn towards You and You get the best of me.

(I love You because You loved me first.)

Thought Slide #1

2009-05-29T19:26:00.000+08:00

Run away with me? We will go to a place where statues keep bears and cobblestones lead the way to hidden forests and golden towers . . .

Old Man River = tops

2009-05-28T21:14:00.000+08:00

grainy mobile phone shot, apologies

Let me start by saying that Ohad Rein and his band are - in the words of Derek Zoolander - incredibly, incredibly good looking. The fact that they smile a lot, make beautiful music and are excellent musicians also contributes to me rating Old Man River (OMR from now on for the sake of preventing RSI) as an all round tops band.

I caught their show last night upstairs at the Beach Rd Hotel (God bless the Beachie for putting on great shows every week for freeeeeeee) and considering the only songs that I knew were the obvious hits, Sunshine and La, I was surprised that I was able to sing along to most of the songs with the rest of the crowd. Such is Rein’s pop sensibility; though he uses exotic instruments (most notably the sitar) and is heavily influenced by Indian music, his song writing is so solid and his songs so laden with hooks that one can join in before the first chorus is even half way through. Upon closer listening though, OMR use a lot of interesting harmonics and breakdowns and I get the impression that I’ll need to a) buy the album, and b) have it on loop on my Ipod for a while to fully appreciate the songs with all their layers and carefully placed interludes.

Perhaps the best thing about the gig was all the infectious smiling going on. The songs are so uplifting, the harmonies so delicious, and the band members themselves clearly love what they do, so I suppose everyone couldn't help beaming at each other, at the band, and then at each other again. Apart from the distraction of the drunken twits ballroom dancing (wtf??) in front of the stage, I was completely wrapped up in OMR’s utterly delightful sing-a-long, and was quite disappointed when it ended. I shall now download the album and continue karaoke-styles in my bedroom . . .

Shout Out to my Ashun Browdas

2009-05-26T21:12:00.000+08:00

Do the right thing: BE A MAN

Whimsy

2009-05-25T19:07:00.000+08:00

If Whimsy were a woman she would be four and twenty.

Lithe and wan, open, delightful -

she would flick her hair, skip two steps and then
Stop

to entwine her fingers with those of her lover. She would stay in bed till four in the afternoon, she would sing, and her laughter would tinkle like a thousand tiny shards of glass.

It's all in the LABEL

2009-05-24T14:10:00.000+08:00

I went to see a band play the other night at Oxford Art Factory. No ordinary band mind you; in fact, they are quite an extraordinary group of individuals because the five members met at a centre for the disabled in Melbourne and are either blind, deaf, autistic or have Downs Syndrome. They’re a solid band (as any quick google search will attest), but I got there just in time for the last song so I’m in no position to bang on about that. What I want to talk about is a label.

A few days before this particular gig I was invited to come and see “a disabled band” play. Just like that. No mention of radio play, gigging background, genre, or any other defining elements, just a simple and effective label: “disabled band”. The label worked – my curiosity was piqued, I talked about it for the next few days, invited other friends down, and we all showed up to the gig. I was delighted to catch the last few minutes of these enthusiastic musos rocking out, lapping up the applause and posing for photos with fans afterward.

The next day I got to thinking. Would I have been as delighted for any other band of able-bodied 20-somethings? Would I have even bothered to turn up to a gig of some band I’d never heard of and whose music I didn’t know if they hadn’t been disabled? Maybe I just contributed a couple of little drops to the ocean of discrimination against people who have disabilities by treating them as a novelty act, rather than taking them seriously and enjoying their music just like I would the music of any other person.

It has to be acknowledged that getting a band up and running and on the road with a national tour is no small feat given their particular physical and mental disabilities, but I think that perhaps there is a thin line between giving due credit for triumphing over obstacles and identifying these people primarily by their setbacks. So, in the interest of tearing off the label that I over-zealously slapped on them last week, check out this video and make up your own mind about them . . .

Rudely Interrupted playing for the UN General Assembly 2006

fully sick wedding

2009-05-22T14:20:00.000+08:00

W.O.W

Anna? Carine? I’ll take Karl.

2009-05-20T21:25:00.001+08:00

Anna Wintour’s most recent interview with 60 Minutes* does nothing to dispel my long held view that she is hard, stiff, and bordering on safe (a dirty word in my fashion book). Wintour’s French envelope-pushing, Balmain wearing, eternally tanned counterpart Carine Roitfeld stomps all over her. The award for most entertaining/intriguing fashion figure, however, surely must go to none other than Karl Lagerfeld - writer, photographer, publisher and designer extraordinaire. As I am not eloquent enough to convey Lagerfeld’s brilliance in my own words, allow me to leave you with a collection of quotes uttered by the man himself . . .

"Life is not a beauty contest, some [ugly people] are great. What I hate is nasty, ugly people... the worst is ugly, short men. Women can be short, but for men it is impossible. It is something that they will not forgive in life... they are mean and they want to kill you." - 2003

"I’m a kind of fashion nymphomaniac who never gets an orgasm" - 1984

"I eat next to nothing." - 2006

"I'm very impeccable and clean before I go to bed. It's just like right before I'm going out. When I was a child, my mother always told me that you could wake up in the middle of the night and be deathly sick, so you always have to be impeccable. I laugh about it now, but I think everyone should go to bed like they have a date at the door." - 2009

"I don't know Heidi Klum. She was never known in France. Claudia Schiffer also doesn't know who she is." - 2009

* To view Anna Wintour's full 60 Minutes interview, follow the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0CyIOWePQa8

Forever the Motion

2009-05-19T15:13:00.000+08:00

Kirin J. Callinan

Robyn Wilson

one helluva slinky

I first read the press release for Forever the Motion (held Sun night at the Black and Blue Gallery in Redfern) a couple of weeks ago and I’ll admit that I was a little skeptical. “An audio visual collaborative collision” was the tagline (padded out by some awfully nefarious sounding creative waffle), and I suspected that the show just may well be a lot of exquisitely packaged wank. Happily, I was proved to be a doubting Thomas.

Masterminded by Robyn Wilson, performance artist and director of creative studio View of Courage, Forever the Motion was more of an encounter for the audience than a show. The third floor warehouse gallery is a raw, intimate space (at capacity it holds just over 100 punters) and was, in itself, a part of the experience. High ceilings with open beams, clean walls, littered floor, random installation pieces (such as the collapsed yellow human-sized slinky in the hallway) and the resident cat taking a nap in the towel rack in the bathroom; to step into the gallery is to enter a curious world where the bizarre sits side by side with the ordinary in the most natural way (a natty foreshadowing of the performances to come).

First cab off the rank was Morning Stalker, a trio of musos wearing yellow rain ponchos and white masks. The visual was verging on comical at first (I’m guessing that wasn’t intended), but as the music began and images of rain on a foggy night and wraiths exploring the underworld were called forth, it was all eeriness. A crescendo of mournful, wailing vocals and noise brought the set to a close and, as every good warm up act ought, left the audience with its senses awakened and appetite whetted.

Probably better known as a member of Sydney indie-too-cool-for-school bands Mercy Arms, (now defunct apparently) and Fashion Launches Rocket Launches, Kirin J. Callinan was the second and, to my mind, the standout act. There those who, with their half-baked, contrived performances, fuel the popular misconception that “performance art” is the sport of lazy buggers and intellectual wankers - Callinan is not one them. His stunning musicianship is undeniable, his voice gnawing, soaring and poignant; he embodies some fantastical character as he two steps across the stage one moment and throws himself on his guitar with a violent spasm of noise the next. Perhaps what is most remarkable about Callinan as a performer is that he takes the odd, the utterly bizarre, and presents it with such ease and assuredness that one cannot help but find it all quite normal. A mystical, winged being singing of a teenage joyride; howling, writhing, attacking, and then breaking for some humorous banter with the audience; at once astonishing, delightful, accomplished and original.

And then finally Robyn Wilson. She doesn’t walk; she sways, she floats, and her eyelashes bat gently as if she’s allowing you insights into her soul one lingering glimpse at a time. In this fashion Wilson took to the stage to sweep us into her kaleidoscopic orbit, an audiovisual collision of shapes and patterns, whispers and wails, noise and harmony. Beset from early in the piece by technical difficulties, the performance fell short of conjuring the wonderment that it probably deserved, and it is to Wilson’s credit that she handled the interruptions with grace and composure. Technical issues aside, the audience was privy to beautifully crafted moments in time, each one unique, delicious, arresting.

All in all Forever the Motion was a marvelous piece of theatre, an array of sensory delights strung together with ingenuity and panache. A stunning evening - I look forward to the next one (keep tabs on www.viewofcourage.com for future performances).

P. Whitehead, Champion of Bohemians

2009-05-16T09:40:00.000+08:00

“Breeding without art, why that’s rape!”

P. Whitehead, Champion of Bohemians, expounding on the notion that ‘breeding’, in essence, encompasses all of the arts and therefore when a man says sex is his primary passion one may assume he is equally as passionate about literature, music, theatre, fine art or any other aspect of ‘the arts’.

supercute superlovers

2009-05-14T10:53:00.001+08:00

My first and most likely only outing in the pages of Japanese ElleGirl (top left).
Watashi wa nihongo ga suki desu.

An Oldie but a Goodie

2009-05-13T22:20:00.000+08:00

My Granny is a lady and she is also a Lady (yup, she married a Sir). She’s always lived in ridiculous houses (in a good way. Like with maid’s quarters and a ballroom, orchards and even a dungeon.) She holds regular charity events in her gardens, prefers a set breakfast, and has a room in her current house which she affectionately calls the Vermeer Room (the walls of which are painted “Vermeer red” and are hung with copies of Vermeer works, painted by none other than the Lady herself. I kid you not.).

As a little tacker (and later, a bigger, back-chatting one) I didn’t think much of the Lady’s pomp and ceremony. I couldn’t see the point sprinkling salt on my dinner with a silver spoon from a silver dish when I could have just used a shaker, and I found the notion of serving a Charcoal Chicken family meal with a gravy boat and porcelain dishes utterly laughable. “Enough of this How Now Brown Cow business”, I thought - “Give me TV, Coco Pops from the box, and fish fingers.” The Lady, I figured, was stuck in a time warp - a time when men liked their women barefoot and pregnant and women preferred the men with bryll cream in their hair.

Nevertheless my twenties have brought about a change of heart. I still wouldn’t bother with the gravy boat but seeing as I’m older and wiser and fish fingers aren’t so appealing these days, I’m coming around to the idea that I’ve got more to learn from the Lady than I realised (after all we’re all doing the time warp again, and a Gen Y-er never misses an opportunity for introspection). I was so busy being narrow-minded 90s girl that I missed the point entirely - it’s the fuss and hooplah of etiquette that makes is so much damn fun. “Sugar? One lump or two? Allow me.” It’s a parade, a farce, a role-play of sorts. It’s considered, cultivated, executed for maximum effect. We all do it. These days perhaps less frequently and with less panache, but we all do it.

There’s also a lovely ‘others focussed’ bent to being awfully well mannered. The other day I called the Lady for a chat and she gave me the rundown of her week – a flower arranging demonstration for her church group, babysitting grandchildren, a visit to some old friends in a local Aged Home and a luncheon at her house for a group of ladies from a local home for the blind. She sits these blind women in her sunroom and describes the rose garden to them. She described one lady’s brooch and they begged her not to stop – no one had thought to do that for them before.

They say out with the old, in with the new. I say mix them up and take the best of both worlds. Snaps to Grannies– the world is a better place because of them.

Monkey Magic!

2009-05-12T13:00:00.000+08:00

Remember Monkey? Any show with demigods engaging in slapstick fights with demons (and each other), high speed cloud chases, spells and the search for the fountain of eternal youth is already going to be good. But it's the appalling wigs and total lack of lip synching that I really rate. Monkey is so bad it's good. No, amazing.

A Song of Love Lost

2009-05-11T19:48:00.000+08:00

It Could Have Been

Rebekah Barnett on iLike - Get updates inside iTunes

A scratchy demo I did a while back, just came across it. Follow the link to a broken heart . . .

“Wayne Cooper, how do I Loathe Thee? Let me Count the Ways . . .”

2009-05-10T20:48:00.000+08:00

How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways.
Your trashy frocks with thigh high splits
Churned out in bulk each season
Are truly foul (you must admit)
And cheapen girls who wear them.

An AVO won’t hold you back,
You love the social pages
Whoring around with bimbo blondes
Like Hefner, but more wasted.

And now your wife, she wants you back
So Heidi’s dumped, just like that
Detestable, you are dear Wayne
And that is all I have to say.

Greatness

2009-05-10T13:09:00.001+08:00

I met a guy (we’ll call him Bob) who said that although he does not particularly enjoy his job (to which he dedicates over half of his waking hours every week), he intends to stay in it as it finances him doing whatever he wants on the other two days of the week. Bob would quite like to take a different career path and follow a particular passion of his, but at this point in his life (and he’s still in his twenties), he can’t bring himself to take the pay cut that comes with starting at the bottom of a different career ladder.

I was struck by the bizarre logic of it – to be content with 5 days a week in a state of Blah to finance 2 days a week in a state slightly removed from Blah. To allow his passion to remain latent inside him, to disregard Madonna’s admonitions altogether (“Don’t go for second best, baby . . .”) and settle into the rut of mediocrity – all this he has rationalised. Whatever happened to his desire for Greatness? At what point did he cease to aspire and begin to expire?

Bob has settled. He’s not even out of his twenties and he’s chosen a palette of washed out greys to colour his life. What an aged mentality! Whoever said age is a state of mind was onto something. Jesus instructed his people to “become as little children” in their outlook and, being God and all, He was onto something too. Children believe they will be Great because in truth, anyone who wants to be, can be. Many an eight year old will aspire to something he perceives to be Great. He will honestly believe that all the options in the world are available to him – it’s just a matter of where he chooses to exercise his gifts and talents.

What do you want to be when you grow up? Prime Minister; an astronaut; an author; a pilot; a queen; a rockstar . . . .

As the child grows and the first flush of potential recedes, he adjusts his outlook. Maybe he begins to fathom the cost of Greatness (the years of training, self discipline and self belief), maybe he loses confidence and therefore courage, or maybe he discovers that, although the adults in his life say that Greatness is to be aspired to, very few of them believe it with enough conviction to commit themselves to it. So doing as his leaders do (not what they say), the adolescent shifts his aspirations into the realm of Attainable Achievement, (ie: the Safe Bet) and a creeping jadedness spoils him.

Settling, then, is a loss of childlike innocence. Nothing hoped for, nothing ventured, no character required, no great amount of inner strength or sharpening of skills and talents. It’s akin to quitting a game because you think you may lose. It’s a loser’s mentality. As my spritely Grandmother often says, “Aim at nothing and you’ll hit it every time.”

Lykke Li, I Like It

2009-05-08T12:52:00.000+08:00

N.A.S.A ft Lykke Li-Santogold-Kanye West GIFTED

Also check out Lykke Li's I'm Good I'm Gone acoustic live version with guests Robyn, Adam & Bebban (Shout Out Louds), Daniel (The Concretes), Lars (Laakso) and Ted (Hjalmar). The megaphone is a cute touch.

http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJHdT1j6hH8

Madonna (in Louis Vuitton) at Met Costume Institute Gala 2009

2009-05-07T20:39:00.000+08:00

There are 5 things wrong with this picture. Lets find them:

1. Only 5?
2. She’s grabbing her crotch. On the red carpet. June Dally Watkins would be mortified.
3. Cleaning lady headpiece would most likely work on a Harajuku girl but Madonna is neither Japanese, nor is she a girl, ergo she looks like a cleaning lady.
4. A cleaning lady caught in a gothic hooker 80s time warp. Like money, none of the elements are awful in and of themselves, but putting them together like that is utter fashion abuse. It’s tragic mutton dressed as a schizophrenic lamb.
5. Her steroidal muscles. She looks like she’s about to walk onto the set of Terminator.
6. She looks pleased with herself. Whoever told her she looked good when she was leaving the house is a very bad person.

Puma Party at Kit and Kaboodle

2009-05-06T22:28:00.000+08:00

Puma Party 06/05/09.
At first I thought the party was rubbish because the free drinks were stingy and foul (beer or smirnoff - how about NEITHER). But then I met the promoter and when I expressed my disenchantment he bought us champagne on the corporate card, so all was forgiven.
I also wouldn't have hated it if the DJs had actually been good.

Dion Lee: Cool-Calm-Collection

2009-05-05T20:09:00.000+08:00

With weeks of hype preceding his show, current wunderkind of Australian fashion Dion Lee presented his debut solo collection at RAFW SS09/10 on day two of the schedule and by the time the cool kids and fashion set made it down the elevator of the Kings Cross car park to the underground converted runway, they were positively breathless with anticipation. Dim lighting and a soundtrack reminiscent of a dank, dripping underground waterway set the mood as an unusually patient audience – the late arrivals of Lara Bingle and Kirstie Clements, plus a missing jacket backstage held the show up for close on an hour – waited.

And it was worth the wait. So often this week shows fell into one of two camps. The first is what I call the “Style” camp; those who took their inspiration from European houses and executed their very pretty and wearable designs with polish, but failed to take bold creative direction or show much originality (Camilla and Marc and Therese Rawsthorne to name a few). The second camp could be called the “Freshmen”; new kids on the block who had great ideas but lack industry experience and so presented cluttered, underfunded, and poorly finished collections.

Lee expertly avoided both of these traps, presenting a remarkably unfussy collection of twisted, tailored pieces with cut outs and blown glass features that essentially gave us what had been lacking in the shows from the previous day – true originality and creativity presented with restraint, coherence, and not even a whiff of a Balmain reference. Beautifully constructed skirts, pants and jackets in a palette of white, grey and black highlighted by pop-tastic blue were simple and yet they were anything but plain, with lapels that twisted over themselves and under the sleeves to meet at the back, carefully placed cut out details, and rows of glass trimming. Again, simplicity was key with the several cut out dresses that instantly went to the top of the mental ‘must have’ list of all fashionistas present, and the glass jewellery was neither distracting nor cluttered, but perfectly complemented each look.

Raucous applause and even a standing ovation from one enthusiastic audience member only confirmed what we already knew – Dion Lee is one to watch. Oh and you’ll be wanting one of those jackets too.

Theory of Relativity

2009-05-05T07:13:00.000+08:00

everything is relative .

cost
- man dem jeans are exp-ens-ive -
that's because you're used to buying your clothes in aisle 12 at Aldi

hunger
- i'm starving -
no you're not sweetie, you're just ready for afternoon tea. if you were really starving you wouldn't have stuck your fingers down your throat and vomited up your lunch when you found out the bread had been buttered

suffering
- there is nothing worse that waiting for a cab at changeover time -
comparative to drowning in spiders, it's a picnic

truth
- none can come to the Father except through me -
Jesus? cool. P. Diddy? dubious.

Kate Bush is a MILF

2009-05-04T14:23:00.000+08:00

She studied interpretive dance, looks hot in a leotard, writes bizarre/killer lyrics and lives on an island. When I grow up I want to BE Kate Bush.

“And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places.”
Kate Bush lyrics from Running up That Hill

It's not personal, it's just fashion.

2009-05-03T19:38:00.000+08:00

Lets rename Australian Fashion Week:

"AUSTRALIAN NO MANNERS WEEK"

You will be shoved, pushed, snarled at, stared at, or completely blanked by people who are dressed in such a way as to indicate good breeding and social adeptness (you will therefore be forgiven for your surprise at the discovery that they are, in fact, sorely lacking in both). You will also most likely introduce yourselves to the same people upwards of three times, as they will forget your name and possibly even your face from day to day. Drinks will be poured down backs in the VIP bar scrum, goodie bags snatched with frenzied determination, queue-jumping will be rife due to each individual’s conviction that he/she is so much, much more VIP than the rest. It’s not personal, it’s just fashion.

Could Cadbury get any cooler?

2009-05-02T06:51:00.000+08:00