Smith Westerns

It’s a strange experience being twenty. You figure out where to put your arms when you walk. You start to grow even more hair in places where there wasn’t any before (here we come, five o clock shadow). You become more confident in yourself, a couple of years removed from the fishbowl entrapment that is high school.

On the downside, you can’t rely on the stereotypes of teenagers for excuses anymore; people start to expect things of you. You get asked all the big questions:

-          What are you going to do with your life?

-          Are you going to move out?

-          Are you going to eat the rest of that donut?

One other thing that also happens, but isn’t really talked about all that much, is that your peers start to achieve. Friends start releasing albums of original music. University colleagues convert scholarships into lucrative career opportunities.  Former classmates pop up on “The Morning Show” on Channel 7 (yes, this happened to me last year). The point is, ambitions and dreams start to be realised- those delusions of grandeur teens hold, the ones you and your friends have cynically (and hypocritically) derided for what seems like an aeon, may turn out to be not all that delusional.

The so-called “big picture” starts to paint itself. Those to which this does not happen suffer from a quarter-life crisis as they struggle to reconcile their lack of a defined path with the looming need to gain some sense of responsibility. Those to which this does happen unfortunately also suffer from a crisis stemming from the uncertainty they feel in making these key decisions only two years after they were legally allowed to sip a glass of red and contemplate them. Envy for the other holds domain in each collective, and it bears repeating that being twenty is indeed a strange experience.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, and with my flimsy premise obviously constituting a rule, it is reasonable to assume some people do not have to suffer through this draining rite of passage. One of these people would be Cullen Omori. Since it is relatively unlikely that you know who Omori is, I’ll quickly bring you up to speed. He is the lead singer and frontman of the pop/synth/glam/rock band Smith Westerns. The Smith Westerns released their sophomore record “Dye It Blonde” earlier this year, an album that revolves around the themes of youth, love and partying. These are hardly groundbreaking areas for modern music to access but they are unquestionably fertile, and the Smith Westerns’ surprisingly mature and complex songwriting creates, in my humble opinion, the best album of 2011 so far.

The most instantaneously notable thing about the Smith Westerns is how young they are. Omori is 21, I think; the rest of the band is only either 19 or 20 years of age, despite them having been together for a few years now. These guys are making music presumably that they and hopefully other people their age will enjoy and relate to the most (which is probably why I’m biased towards them). Smartly, it focuses on the exuberant lifestyle being a twenty year old can present, rather than the impending choices we all have to make about such lifestyles. And this is because they can afford to; they’re just a few dudes living out their dream, playing music for a job and travelling the world. Though admittedly Omori does seem to realise that by doing so, they are tempting fate and possibly just pushing back the inevitable; in one interview, he tells the reporter of how he wants so badly for the Smith Westerns to succeed, for his greatest fear is to have to go back to school and join the rat race.

Of course, this all comes back to me. The way that I see it, I have two choices when it comes to the Smith Westerns’ music: either reject it as youthful positivity emblematic of the Facebook generation’s penchant for whitewashing life, or embrace it.

I think I’ll go with the latter. They seem like guys my band could get along with on a tour.

Top Five One-off Seinfeld Characters

Note: These new entries can be impersonal and stiffly written. I apologise for this.

5: Marlene (Episode: “The Ex-Girlfriend”): Marlene is a Southern beauty who, after George breaks up with her, uses her powers of persuasion to seduce Jerry. He plans to break up with her but is bested when she dumps him after seeing him perform comedy. “I can’t be with someone if I don’t respect what they do,” she tells him, to which Jerry indignantly replies, “You’re a cashier!”

4: Jimmy (Episode: The Jimmy): A character who only refers to himself in the third person, Jimmy’s offensive trait rubs off on George before slipping on some water and severely injuring his leg (“Jimmy’s got a compound fracture!”). This episode is also notable for finally crossing the line of having a character believe that Kramer is mentally handicapped.

3: Alton Benes (Episode: The Jacket): Elaine’s intimidating novelist father steals the show in an episode where the focus is firmly on Jerry’s candy-striped jacket. Lawrence Tierney, who played Alton Benes, was reportedly a terrifying man off-screen as well, at one point mimicking the famous Psycho shower scene with Seinfeld as his victim. Needless to say, he was never asked back.

2: Sharon the NYU reporter (Episode: The Outing): A female reporter who interviews Jerry and mistakes his symbiotic relationship with George for a sexual one. It’s not so much that she is a memorable character herself; it’s that her actions prompted one of Seinfeld’s most memorable quotes: “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

1: Frank Costanza’s Lawyer (Episode: The Chinese Woman): Co-creator and comedic genius Larry David didn’t often appear on camera in Seinfeld, but his most memorable role was as George’s dad’s cape-wearing lawyer. The power of the cape is such that he manages to talk a woman down from jumping off a bridge.

Beef

I’ve got a beef with beef. It is a lame but true conceit, a premise that is focused in particular on the indeterminate portions cooked up by fast food joints. As the price of most meats continually rises, evil empires such as McDonald’s and Hungry Jack’s taunt and tempt us by providing subpar products at subpar prices. In a display of radicalism, these corporations have fought against the prevailing inflationary behaviour of meat prices and now offer burgers for less than a gold coin each. (Of course, they can afford to do this after they increased the price of their cookies from 30 cents to a criminally high $1, a price determined after a Google search which also yielded a page claiming, “McDonald’s cookies with mustard: it’s almost double the price, but totally worthwhile”.)

The typical student’s diet is roughly established based on three key aspects: value for money (which accounts for 50% of the decision’s weighting), trendiness (30%), and taste (20%). Less than three years ago, McDonald’s presented Australia with a burger that contained two beef patties and one slice of plastic cheese. Inexplicably, this so-called “McDouble” is 15 cents cheaper than a regular cheeseburger, providing this consumer with such great value that it overwhelms any moral qualms I hold after reading “Fast Food Nation”. Had I lived in close proximity to a McDonald’s restaurant, I would most likely be morbidly obese by now given my habitual, wanton devouring of mountains of foodstuffs after a night out. Luckily the nearest Mickey D’s is not in my suburb, and a lifetime of heart issues was avoided.

That is, until Hungry Jack’s introduced a 95 cent cheeseburger.

95 cents is, simply put, an outrageous price for a burger. Never mind how it probably only costs them a fifth of this to make the damn thing; just consider how a single bottle of water can set you back $2.85, a price that is coincidentally the cost of three cheeseburgers. I found this out the hard way when I ordered four of them one time, only to be told by the girl serving me that three was the maximum amount one customer could order.

So thanks, McDonald’s and Hungry Jack’s, for not only making my future self terribly gluttonous and unhealthy, but for also embarrassing me in front of your other patrons. Thanks for making me feel like I was Homer Simpson, and you were the All You Can Eat seafood restaurant.

Some stuff I’ve been working on

These are a couple of the things I’ve written lately for the university newspaper. My editor told me the second one was “really good, just about 1000 words too long”. The first one he has not commented on yet, but if he possesses any semblance of sanity he will put it in his rubbish bin.

I think I might update this blog more regularly since I now plan on writing things that I don’t care if people view or not. If you enjoy them, then you are welcome to compliment me whenever we run into each other. If you detest them, then I challenge you to a duel.

First one’s about Woody Allen’s Narcissus complex (sort of), second one’s about the Big Day Out.

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From writing jokes for a living ever since he could fix his own glasses to making films celebrating, and celebrated by, incredible cities such as New York, Woody Allen has remained one of society’s most influential comedians and filmmakers. His neurotic, self-analytical persona has been appropriated by and influenced multitudes of people including Larry David, Jerry Seinfeld and, more recently, Michael Cera. Woody Allen has lived a pretty wonderful life.

It’s a pity he’s been too self-absorbed to appreciate it.

Allen’s first real job was as a script writer. At the age of 19, his precocious talents were on display in The Ed Sullivan Show and The Tonight Show, amongst other things. Over the next twenty years he tried his hand (and succeeded) at a variety of roles including stand-up comedian, playwright and maker of Marx Brothers-inspired comedies. It wasn’t until he was 42 that his magnum opus Annie Hall was released, its inventive structure incorporating dream sequences, fourth wall breaking, and of course his intellectual, nervy side. Annie Hall purported to be fiction, though parallels between the main character and the real Woody Allen are clear and distinct. The movie highlighted Allen’s agoraphobic nature, his paradoxical feelings towards fame, and concerns regarding his being Jewish. Annie Hall, not surprisingly, was originally titled Anhedonia, a Greek word signifying the inability to experience pleasure.

Woody Allen has since made countless movies; some were good, some were not so good, and some were incredibly good. His standing as one of the premier creative minds in cinema is somewhat blunted, though, by his reluctance to really even admit this. In an NYC Round Table interview, Allen claims “I feel like I’ve influenced nobody. I would be very surprised if my picture was up on someone’s wall.” For a man of his stature to make this assertion is patently ridiculous; it is a statement that goes far and beyond humility, and demonstrates the lack of import he places on his own work. Woody Allen, through an estimated thirty years of psychoanalysis, has convinced himself that his impact on culture is negligible and no more than that of any ordinary man. And that is just about the most self-absorbed thing anyone could do.

Also, he had an affair with and married his wife’s daughter. That’s fucked up.

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Last year, the Economist Intelligence Unit declared Melbourne to be the best city in the world to live in. Obviously this study does not take into account things such as beaches, sunlight, and nonchalance towards AFL, and can be safely discarded as bullshit. However, Melbourne does have a reputation for being an arts hotbed that provides excellent live music. With this in mind, I made my maiden voyage to the city for the Big Day Out and kept a running diary of the day for your (or more likely my) personal enjoyment.

11:55- I arrive via train at Flemington Racecourse, the venue for BDO 2011. Rumours circulate that temperatures will top 40 degrees, a prediction that will prove true mid-afternoon. I am here with four friends, two male and two female. The girls split from us due to irreconcilable music taste; when we meet up again afterwards, they decree Airbourne to be “actually pretty good”, immediately validating this decision.

12:30- Having lathered ourselves in sunscreen, we venture over to the main stage where Little Red plays their bogan-pleasing anthem “Rock It”. Admittedly I do like this song as well, but I’m from Gosford, so draw your own conclusions.

1:00- Now this is just awkward. There are no acts I particularly want to watch until 2:10 (Lupe Fiasco), so I have well over an hour to basically kill. I catch a song or two of this band and that, grab an overpriced, overcooked burger, and generally do nothing of importance or worthy of column space. Let’s fast forward a bit.

3:10- Despite performing in clear view of an obdurately intense sun and probably picking up some melanoma points for doing so, Lupe Fiasco delivers one of the more energetic shows I can remember. His impressive vertical leap is out for display when he almost kicks a guitarist in the head, causing me to ponder if he could be the first great rapper to attain their version of nirvana and become a professional basketball player. Incidentally, the reverse is true for already professional basketball players; in my worship of this sport, I have noticed an incredible level of respect existing between the two fraternities.

4:00- Are Die Antwoord an actual band, or are they full of shit? Are they a Kaufmanesque extended joke who, much like Spinal Tap, have fucked up everything ironic about enjoying them by being real? The answers to these questions elude me even after having seen them perform. At one point, MC Ninja goes into concurrent self-congratulatory mode, rapping “This is like the coolest song I ever heard in my whole life”, causing a good number of (awkward geek nickname alert) meta-heads to spontaneously combust.

In a show that including much crotch thrusting and ass-slapping, easily the most misguided attempt at confirming one’s sexuality came when Ninja disrobed of his white jumpsuit to reveal a pair of Spongebob Squarepants underwear, from the front of which protruded a giant phallic-shaped microphone, allowing him to autofellate literally (in addition to the metaphorical nature their music provided).

5:15- Sometimes great things happen when you least expect them. With that banal cliché out of the way, I can explain how the most transcendent moment of my Melbourne Big Day Out experience happened. Suffering from a centralized form of wanderlust, I chanced upon a small but psychedelically beautiful place titled Lilyworld, where the stage designers had evidently been under the influence of ‘shrooms and more while working. On stage was an unassuming American called Andrew W.K., a guy I’d never even heard of before, let alone any of his music. This proved no impediment for, armed with only a keyboard, he implored the audience to make requests for songs, any songs, for him to play. After a couple of well-received and hastily constructed covers, someone asked for the drunken karaoke classic that is Billy Joel’s “Piano Man”. Mr. W.K. claims he has never played this song live before, an assertion I am strongly pessimistic about but whatever. An audience member at the front asks if he can accompany Mr. W.K. on the drums. Unbelievably, he is accepted, and the two of them launch into a stirring, lyrically-misremembered version of the tune. As the first chorus comes to a raucous end, another audience member jumps up onto stage and, I kid you not, perfectly replicates the famous harmonica riff. The audience of two hundred made the noise of a thousand, and an unforgettable moment was had.

Oh, and I saw Crystal Castles. CRAZY!!!!!!

7:00- For roughly the next two hours I stayed in Lilyworld, entranced by the intimate setting and wishing I had gone and checked out Melbourne’s famous music scene instead of frequenting the Crown Casino three times in three days. Mum and Dad, I don’t have a problem; I just like to win money.

First up were Matt and Kim, Brooklyn natives and two of the nicest, happiest musicians I have ever seen. Kim’s ever present smile was juxtaposed nicely against Matt’s unfailing positivity… well not really, but it was kinda refreshing to see them enjoying themselves as much as we did. The highlight of their set proved not to be the insanely infectious, Mars advertising jingle “Daylight”, but rather Kim’s attempt to booty dance whilst standing on the open palms of the crowd.

After a horribly awkward interlude featuring a group of Black Swan-inspired dancers (and one dude wearing dickies), Reggie Watts appeared. Such was the laid-back, accessible nature of Lilyworld that right before he started, myself and a friend were able to get a photograph with the man himself. Watts’ show was a mix of a cappella music, where he generated all the necessary sounds and looped them using some magic musical box, improvised stand-up, and sounds effects worthy of a Foley artist- his impression of a pterodactyl was perfect, despite no one having a clue what a pterodactyl would really sound like.

9:00- We stopped by the main stage for the second half of Iggy Pop’s performance, which to an impartial bystander like myself seemed a bit of a debacle. A couple of minutes into each and every song he would go down off the stage to be glorified by the front row of the crowd, only the camera would constantly lose track of him and have to frantically zoom back and forth in search of him. And did I mention how old he was? He’s one of those guys who seems like they’re in good shape from afar, but close up are a bit of a mess. His skin was akin to that of a formerly fat person, where it is a size too large, only Iggy Pop was never fat- just old.

I also stayed to watch the first half of Rammstein’s show, though purely for its theatre. They were a group of pyromaniacs if I ever saw one, with fire shooting out through a grill at the stage front, flame throwers attached to their mouths so they could breathe fire and play guitar simultaneously- hell, they even got an audience member (presumably a plant) and lit him on fire!

Then it was off to see LCD Soundsystem on their farewell tour of Australia. A strangely small crowd was present but it did not deter frontman James Murphy and his fantastic voice. The highlight of the set was undoubtedly the anthemic “All My Friends”, a song so great even Pitchfork loves it.

11:00- Nick Cave is one of those legendary Australian musicians who you just have to see live, if only to say that you have seen him. Now I can saw I’ve seen him.

An excellent day of music ended lamely with M.I.A., the only performer scheduled for the 10:00 p.m. timeslot, dressing up like Kermit the Frog and generally underwhelming an audience waiting for her signature song, “Paper Planes”. This moment took about 45 minutes to come about, before which we were assaulted by a mixture of drums, bass, and no discernible melodies. Thankfully I had expected no less from her- does she rap or sing? I can’t work it out- and my sojourn to Melbourne proved to be a damn good decision.

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And with a cameo from Adrian Grenier…

I haven’t updated this blog in quite a while, primarily because of my willingness to disassociate myself from some of the ideas presented in earlier entries and submarily (that’s definitely not a word) because of my laziness. This is the trend of the last year or so- I write some pithy comment on a sociocultural evolution which may or may not be horribly misinformed, and forget this thing even exists until, apropos nada, I realise I have a website to maintain and a legion of hungry fans to satisfy by filling their minds with my words (and their stomachs with delicious sangers). And so it has come to that time of the month, so to speak, at which I choose a random subject to vent or perhaps understand a bit better.

The randomly generated (but strangely relevant) topic for this entry is…TUMBLR.

Tumblr, a blog/photolog (phlog?) network, came into prominence this year when it filled a gap in the blogging marketplace: the picture blog. Obviously, it is not at all difficult to put a picture into a blog entry on a website such as WordPress (though this particular one you are reading does have a delightful slogan in regards to its lack of literal imagery), but there has not really been a blogging platform that takes the whole “A picture says a thousand words” adage so seriously. As far as I can discern, the Tumblr community believes the average length of a blog entry is 1,010 words, and so writes a 10-word piece acompanying the giant visage of their choice. This is kind of perfect for our culture for two main reasons:

1. The length of an average Tumblr entry is similar to a status update. The picture provides author with a manifestation of said entry’s subject, saving us from having to either research or imagine what it possibly could be talking about; and

2. The added text, coincidentally (and maybe ironically) actually takes away from the subtext of the picture itself.

I’m not sure how much sense these reasons make, and I don’t feel like elaborating on them because I can’t concentrate as there is a television on in the background playing that god damn stupid “The Block”, a show that was cancelled years ago and brought back for absolutely no reason other than to provide another opportunity for Scott Cam to press his claim for the title of Australia’s biggest poser. I believe the guy, once upon a time, worked in construction et al., but to have him presenting television programmes in his King Gees and steel-capped boots is just insane.

The inception of hyperbole

If you enjoy writing, then creating a blog is an extremely fun option. I had forgotten this piece of knowledge up until today, as the last six weeks or so I have been trying to write other stuff (which I’m not going to delve into). This other stuff is kind of taxing on my brain, so to write a blog entry is akin to taking a hot shower after a hard day down in the mines. Actually, it’s not just akin; it’s exactly identical to this. Try it out for yourself and see!

Anyway, I would like to take this opportunity to admonish those of you who are attending Splendour in the Grass. I understand why you are excited about this festival, it being the greatest gathering of musical talent ever aseembled in Australia. But what I don’t understand is the constant social media updates regarding it. (By the way, can we drop the “social media” terminology? Communicating with people through blank text makes me feel more antisocial than ever before.) “Going to need gumboots for Splendour in the Mud!” is a general refrain I’ve seen on Facebook and such. For the life of me, I cannot comprehend why someone would want everyone to know this. If I were going, I don’t see why I would broadcast this thought to a whole network of people. Instead, I would ring/text the people I was going with, let them know all about it, suggest they do the same etc etc. It seems  there is a group of Splendour-going people whose sole aim is to piss off as many of the rest of us about our decision, whether through choice or necessity, to not go to such a festival. For a thing with such an array of indie musicians, it will be watched by a surprisingly high amount of populists.

I suppose I’m being too hard on the Splendour ticket holders, and just making an example of them for what I feel is a major problem with Gen Y. I’m also being anticipatory in my spite, for I know that when they return home, their statuses will be full of things like “THE STROKES ROCKED MY WORLD!!!!” regardless of whether the Strokes did indeed rock their world or not. This is another issue that I take umbrage (umbridege?) with: the hyperbolic nature of social media. No longer do people simply enjoy, dislike, or feel negligible emotion towards things they’ve experienced or seen. Instead, these things are crowned “The greatest ________ ever!” or disparaged unrelentingly. I saw Inception this past week, and half expected it to be the greatest movie ever made. for it appears a lot of Facebook friends feel this way. I found it to be an above average movie, one with flaws and draining expository aspects, but an interesting and thought-provoking film nonetheless. Of course, in this day, that kind of statement would be summarily dismissed, for people want the extremes. It seems that society wants to experience the peaks and troughs of culture, yet doesn’t care for the middling ground inbetween.

And another disjointed session of rambling comes to an abrupt close.

Rules of Attraction

You know, I’ve been reading a lot of Bret Easton Ellis lately because I’m going to see him talk and whatnot in August, and I have to say that he’s really, really good. I am quite impressed that he somehow wrote a book and got it published by the age of 21, and it wasn’t even crap. The thing I admire most about him, though, is his writing’s accesibility. Especially in ‘Less than Zero’, he doesn’t really use a lot of large, hard to understand words placed in there to show off the extent of the writer’s vocabulary; instead, it’s generally just written in a speaking style, as if an average person were retelling the story, which is integral as often it is an ordinary person, and not a writer.

Gilly for PM (That’s Adam Gilchrist)

Okay, I’ve finished my exams. I have no job. Therefore, I see it as apt that I take a little time out of my packed schedule to write about the latest happenings in politics, sport, and whatever else I feel like mentioning. Firstly: As I hope and pray all of you know, Julia Gillard has been installed as our new Prime Minister, defeating Kevin Rudd in an election decided by Labour’s caucus (or something like that- I’m horribly informed on the nuances of politics, which I don’t necessarily see as a bad thing). I was watching the TV last night, waiting for Margaret and David to pop on screen, when I first heard about Gillard’s decision to challenge. The ABC then unbelievably chose to cut to K-Rudd (this is quite possibly the only instance where a white guy can pull off a black athlete-style nickname) giving a press conference, where he quite rightly reminded us that he had been selected by the public to serve the public. This is one of the parts that I can’t really comprehend about this whole situation: the government is selected to serve the entire population, but once they’re elected, they become insufferably self-serving. I have no way to tangibly prove this, but I can tell you that Gillard wasn’t elected by the party members purely because they believed she is a more capable leader than Rudd. Preferential deals would have been cut, especially with the now-Deputy Prime Minister Wayne Swan.

I will be honest here. I did not know that Julia Gillard had the power to just challenge Rudd’s leadership like that. I know that the same thing happened with Turnbull/Abbott a few months ago, but in that situation, the Liberals aren’t in power, so a leadership change will have no measurable effect on anyone in the general population. But for Gillard to use this ability- well, this makes what happened today the second most randomly awesome act of power-wielding in Australian political history. Of course, the number one is undeniably Gough Whitlam’s dismissal, which I still remain flabbergasted by, not because of the dismissal in and of itself, but because it was the Governor General who did the deed. The Governor General! This is the highest of all figurehead appointments, a role that essentially requires you to attend government functions and the likes, but yet you inexplicably have the capacity to dismiss the most powerful (wo)man in the nation? The mind is baffled.

There is also a couple of other unusual things, in my opinion, about Gillard’s ascendance. One of these is that she has an absolutely horrible voice. It is a thing that elicits bogan pride, a lazy drawl which gets inside your head and doesn’t ever lead. I know that the PM position is a bit more hands on than, say, the American Presidency, but I think that, first and foremost, you want a person who can communicate ideas clearly and effectively. When the person in charge of doing that has a voice that makes Dave Hughes seem like a viable alternative, I think there’s cause for concern.

Another thing: she has red hair. There, I said it. Kerry O’Brien is overjoyed.

Also, wasn’t K-Rudd a genuinely popular PM? I know that he had his haters, but there was definitely no general sense of antipathy surrounding him, unlike a certain bald-headed fellow who managed to stay in office for the previous ten years or so. And when can Tony Abbott call an early election? Tomorrow? If I were him, I’d look to do it as soon as possible.

One last thing: on News.com.au, the six most widely read stories today all concern Gillard becoming PM. In seventh place is “Monster croc wins battle with shark”. People, I don’t ask much, but please, do whatever needs to be done to move this up to first place. A crocodile fought a shark? Holy crap!

All in all, it was easily the most exciting day of politics I have ever been privy to, and it’s good to see a female PM, even if *we* didn’t elect her. I think I’ll leave this as a single post, and write some more about sports in a separate one which should be up later tonight.

World Cup y’all

Alright, I’m bored with studying, so I thought I’d update this baby. And since it’s World Cup time, I thought I’d do a special sports-themed entry. It’s nothing to do with the fact that writing about sport is as easy as putting your shoes on. Nothing to with it at all.

Firstly- Andrew Johns. Woah. In case you hadn’t heard, Timana Tahu opted out of NSW’s State of Origin camp after Joey, the assistant coach of the team, described Greg Inglis, a Queensland player, as a “black c—”. Tahu took offence to this as his mother is Aboriginal, and took the unusual step of declaring himself unable to play. Now, I can totally understand Tahu’s stance on this; it’s one thing for a player to say a racial epithet on the field, in the midst of the battle, but for your own coach to say it- well, that’s just wrong. But the part that I fail to comprehend is that the media seems shocked that Johns even uttered such a term. I would like to take this opportunity to remind the media that, though Johns may be the greatest footballer of all time, he has shown a remarkable aptitude at being an absolute bloody idiot. He participated in illegal drug-taking throughout his career, and when first starting out as a commentator, seemed unable to string two words together without the help of an autocue; even with one, he’d have trouble reading it. In all likelihood, his mental development was stunted as a result of being so precociously talented at rugby league, and only now is it starting to becom eknown. So media, please stop harboring a belief that Johns’ greatness on the field extends to his personal life. After all, he’s the reason someone like Matty Johns can be considered the smart brother.

From one form of football to another- this time, the real version. The World Cup has once again graced us with its presence, and for this I am grateful. Along with the Olympics, this is the only sporting event that truly transcends everyday life, and to see how much these games mean to the players and the fans is indescribable (is that a word?). But enough about the premise re. football > life. I want to talk about World Cup Fever.

There is a reason I capitalised the F in fever as well. This is because World Cup Fever is a television show, aired nightly on SBS at 8:30. I have only seen two episodes of this show (coincidentally, there have only been two made thus far), but I already feel the need to tell everyone to watch this show. Last night was its debut, and in the spirit of Murphy’s Law, everyone that could go wrong, did go wrong. Pre-taped segments went unaired, leaving the hosts red-faced. An interview with Mark Viduka was rendered obsolete as his microphone was dead, and no one could hear his responses. An “interview” with Kim Jong-Il was conducted without the background present on the green screen it was being taped in front of; bizarrely, as we watched Kim answer questions, not only could we see the studio panelists in the background, we could see Kim as well, perched on the original Kim’s shoulder in a manner not unlike Angel/Devil Homer in the Simpsons. The production quality was a solid D minus, and for this reason alone, you should tune in tomorrow (and every day after that). Oh, and the hosts were kind of funny.

Misc.

- Please, everyone, watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iG3MYQHTnWk&feature=related. It is of Paul “Fatty” Vautin’s television debut, and is comedy gold. In fact, do yourself a favour, and trawl through YouTube’s endless collection of Australian tv bloopers. It will be an hour well spent.

- I have $25 effectively put on Spain to win the World Cup. They are clearly the best team in the tournament, won their warm up match against Poland 6-0, and possess probably the world’s best finisher in Fernando Torres. So why am I so nervous about them?

- Uruguay’s starting team against France had 4 Diegos in it. 4!

I am the MasterChef

Tonight, I pulled off what could be considered one of the greatest culinary achievements of all time. Usually, if I’m at home and hungry, I’ll happily put on a tin of baked beans, toast eight slices of bread, and proclaim that to be my lunch or dinner. The food I cook, for lack of a better term, generally only requires the ability to press “Start” on the microwave. The most complex dish I could conjure up was simply ravioli and tomato paste, made from the vestiges of a food tech practical. But then I cooked dinner tonight.

Because she’s Irish, my mum suggested I should make a stew. Because I’m ignorant, I really had no idea how to make a stew, and so approximated one as best I could. This meant making a spicy Asian curry. (INTERPOLATION: Do people who watch cooking shows like reading about cooking as well? I would hope not.) Despite my total lack of experience, I somehow managed to pull off the massaman- in my biased opinion, it was up there with the top 300 Thai restaurants on the coast. More importantly, though, was the fact that I was insanely pleased with myself, as if I had executed a guitar solo perfectly, or eaten a jam doughnut without having the jam squeeze out the other side.

This innate happiness is probably why these people get into cooking and go on MasterChef, I believe, and I am stunned that I didn’t realise it would exist before experiencing it first hand. Inexplicably, I’d assumed making a meal was not seen as a challenging activity, but rather a laborious example of… labouring. Now I see why cooking has emerged as an evolutionary pseudo-art form, albeit one somewhat limited in its scope. I also grasp why MasterChef’s ratings are otherwordly, and still don’t get why they haven’t created some kind of decathlon of reality television. Tell me you wouldn’t watch this show:

DAY ONE- The contestants, living in an enclosed compound, compete to see who is the best singer. The winner gets immunity from malaria for the week.

DAY TWO- Then they proceed to beat the crap out of each other in a series of boxing matches a la “The Contender”. The females can use what we call “The Stinger” on their gloves.

DAY THREE- Sporting black eyes, swollen lips, and generally looking hideous, the contestants have all day to create a delicacy-and-fashion-garment combo, allowing them to hide behind models and great amounts of steam.

DAY FOUR- Another singing contest.

DAY FIVE- Contestants are dropped into Karma nightclub on Jersey Shore, where they immediately proceed to ‘pound out’ each and every guy and girl there (thought the definition of ‘pound out’ varies in accordance with the subjective gender).

DAY SIX- Abandoned on a deserted island, the contestants have nothing to do except deconstruct the series finale of Lost.

DAY SEVEN- Freedom! Interviewees are conducted with contestants; some choose to respond, others let their “FREE TH REFUGEES” signs do the talking for them.

Awesome show, right?

The problem with Entourage

I am a very happy guy. Why? Because I just worked out the reason why Entourage doesn’t work.

To be unreasonably succinct: Adrian Grenier is a bad actor.

To be a little bit more elaborative: we are meant to believe that Vincent Chase, Grenier’s character, is a movie star, not only because of his looks but because of his great ability to act. There are various scenes where Chase’s “acting” is used to persuade other characters, and is then described almost reverentially by whoever is witness to it. But the problem with this is that Grenier, in real life, is not a good actor. So now you have a bad actor playing a good actor, which is an unsolvable problem. If it were the other way round, it would be much easier (for example, Johnny Drama is a terrible actor, who is interpreted excellently by Kevin Dillon). But the problem remains.

Now, the confirmation of this theory lies here: if Grenier had performed as a big-time movie star as intended, it would be plausible to expect that his real life would follow suit; life imitating art, if you will. But Grenier sucks as Chase, has sucked in movies, and is probably a B-grade celebrity at best.

Has anyone seen The Devil Wears Prada? Yeah…

Damn you, James Cameron

I don’t understand this 3D television thing. Granted, I understand the significance of its development, how it will give previously unknown depth to sporting events yada yada yada; I just can’t comprehend why Channel Nine continues to insist on telling us that next week’s State of Origin rugby league match will be shown in 3D. The campaign that they have been running is rivaled by only Avatar in its omnipotence- for example, today’s Sun-Herald had a promotional cover detailing the positives gained from watching the match in 3D. Doing so would have cost Channel Nine an incredible amount of money; it’s not like it was the Daily Telegraph.

But here’s the weird part. Supposedly there has only been something like 750 3D televisions sold so far. 750! Assuming the average purchaser will watch the State of Origin (a generous assumption) and that they will have three friends viewing with them (also a bit of a stretch), this means there are only 3000 people with the potential to view this game as Nine have intended. Obviously it would be stupid of Channel Nine to splurge so much on advertising if they were only considering the viewing figures, so what other reasons could they use to rationalise this, economically speaking?

(Five minutes later)

I’ve thought about it, and there seems to be only one real answer: that it’s funded more so by electronic retailers such as Harvey Norman than Channel Nine. This makes sense only because a full funding by Channel Nine does not. Nine would only be concerned with viewing figures, as this equates to advertising revenue, and not with something trivial like generating awareness of 3D televisions.

So there.

I have a twitter, and I’m not afraid to use it

ACHTUNG!

Actually, I don’t mean that. But funny story about it- until about two years ago, I had always thought achtung translated as “Attention”, and not “Danger”. So whenever I used it to get my dad’s attention, he’d jump up in fright.

Enough hilarity. I’d just like to mention that I have recently started my own Twitter account (twitter.com/b_e_day). Now, I haven’t started this just to update people on my personal life. The truth is, I was already using Twitter semi-regularly to see what my favourite writers, musicians, and assorted others were up to, and I thought it would just be easier for me to get an account. But for some reason, non-users of Twitter seem to think that it is just an amalgam of Facebook status updates, that its primary use is for people with no appeal whatsoever to melancholically update others on every aspect of their mediocre lives.

Whilst there may be a significant portion of the Twitter crowd who do engage in this, I think the more media-savvy, intellectual part utilises it for its greatest obvious benefit- the rapid sharing of information. Twitter, with its 140 character limit, allows, nay demands news to be told in a concise manner, and in this era of information overload, is not part of the problem, but rather part of the solution.

It’s also, as previously mentioned, a great way to keep up to date with your favourite celebrities, for want of a better word. For instance, the other day I found out that Chuck Klosterman’s newest piece of work, a series of cards called “HyperTheticals”, will be released in July. He announced this exclusively (I think) over Twitter, a small reward for his 20000 odd followers. This kind of thing is now becoming commonplace, with the celebrity allowing the snowball effect of Twitter to come into play.

Okay, I’ll admit that there are some bad aspects of Twitter. It gives Ashton Kutcher a crazily high opinion of himself. It has the potential to ruin the lexical abilities of current generations (and generations to come). It allows Graham in Cairns to think that knowing what he had for breakfast is of actual value to anyone and everyone. But when used correctly, Twitter can also be kind of cool.

Congratulations MGMT

I think I speak for nearly everyone when I say that MGMT’s first album is soooooooo 2008. Whilst we all danced along to Electric Feel, Kids and Time to Pretend for the entire summer, we knew that it was only a fad- that these intensely catchy songs would soon fade to oblivion, their impact diminishing over time and MGMT becoming less and less a part of our zeitgeist. Messrs Van Wyngarden and Goldwasser realised their cultural significance was waning, and choose to do something about it. It would be reasonable to expect this something to subsist of another bunch of disposable dance songs, with perhaps a few interweaved tracks demonstrating their broad-mindedness and musical nous. To be honest, I don’t think anyone would have really been disappointed with this; MGMT had obviously built a solid foundation on which a lucrative music career could be built on, and besides, no one expected anything more from them.

But now Congratulations has come out and changed all my preconceptions about them. Since I live in the 21st century, I have an amazingly short attention span. Since I live in the 21st century, I only listened to the hits from Oracular Spectacular, and failed to really see what they were doing with the other not so popular tracks. Since I live in the 21st century, I think “The Office” is the greatest sitcom in television history.

(Oh wait. That’s not related at all. But my point still stands.)

When I heard that MGMT announced there would be no singles off their new album, I was intrigued. Why would a band eliminate the very thing that brought the acme of their musical stardom about? The only logical reason appeared to be that they had simply gone insane. When I listened to the album, I was proved right.

Congratulations is plain weird. From Andrew Van Wyngarden’s sometime faux British affectation, to the occasional screams heard on certain tracks, it seems there is nothing remotely normal about any facet of this album. And this is why it is so good. The duo have taken umbridge at the fact that they are popular in the traditionalist sense of the word, and seek to destroy this and rise, much like a phoenix, from the ashes of their demise. For there is rarely a predictable, good ol’ MGMT moment on Congratulations. From the first track, the delightfully zany “It’s Working”, the listener is made to work to appreciate the music and lyrcis presented. It’s almost as if they feel a role reversal is necessary; they earned our love on the first album, now we have to earn their’s. It’s a band who have no thought for musical self-preservation, and is analogous to the sportspeople who behave in much the same way- whilst you may not be a fan, you do have to respect them for it.

It’s easy to say that this is the year’s most daring album by an ultra-popular musical act. (Oops! I just did!) But this is underselling the album as just being deliberately confluential. The truth is, it’s merely what the guys probably wanted to do in the first place. By creating a safer, more commercially viable debut, they set themselves up with maximum artistic license for their follow-up. In a way, this is a vanity project for them. Though rather than wallowing in self-indulgence, MGMT feel the need to highlight their inspirations, whether it be The Television Personalities, Brian Eno, or even Lady Gaga.

The actual music, I suppose, is rather important to the import of the album itself. But I only have one thing to say about it: it’s wholly unpredictable. Even the 12 minute epic “Siberian Breaks” is constantly changing.

The lyrics? “If you’re conscious you must be depressed/ Or at least cynical”. This sums up MGMT fairly well, I think. They’ve toured the world, lived out the most fantastical elements of “Time to Pretend”, and have had enough of it. These are just two guys who want nothing more than to write music that challenges you, music that provokes an emotional response. And I’m fine with that.

Once

Kate’s Party

To Kate, Justin Bieber, turbans and misogynists.

What is your appeal based on? Why do people feel the need to create wave after wave of groups dedicated to you, your exploits, or just exploiting you? I admit that the original ideas are often very clever; that Laughing So Hard My Turban Unravels and Falls Into My Curry is a hilarious exercise in acronymal beauty; that the viralling of Kate’s party was ingenious.

But why must you clog up Facebook in a relationship resembling that of the Internet and porn? What do people feel they gain from creating, or even joining, a group whose title is in the format ”Lame Joke about Justin Bieber’s gender #347″? Why do they think it is groundbreaking to combine these themes into a portmanteau group?

Why are backward-thinking jokes about women and irons and kitchens so in vogue? Who would repeat these sentiments in real life?

Why are people so disparaging of Justin Bieber? Actually, I know the answer to that. Generally, they’re jealous of his popularity, feel it’s unearned- why should he be so adored when he looks like a kid off a toilet paper ad?

Most importantly- why do you even exist?

Please answer these questions promptly and thoughtfully.

Yours in disdain,

Brendan.

Arze is Ezra backwards

I should be honest, I’ve been perusing “Stuff White People Like” (I’d put in a link, but have no idea how to) quite a bit lately, and so am understandably a bit influenced by its thinking at this moment in time. I have also been listening to Vampire Weekend far too frequently, leading to my urge to scream “IS YOUR BED MADE?” when my mother woke up this morning. So it’s only natural that these two interests would intersect in the form of yet another debonair and witty blog entry. Unfortunately, this is not that blog, as my style of writing is best described as “a series of rambling, quasi-coherent, pseudo-literate pieces of crap”.

Here’s the thing about Vampire Weekend: they’re white. Stunning, isn’t it? But really, these guys would have to be the whitest (in the vein of this entry’s appropriation of the term “white”) band in the world. To support my case, I shall provide a series of bullet points, because that’s what lazy writers do.

• They all went to Columbia University, an Ivy League school. If you know even a little bit about American university, you’ll know that Ivy League schools are a simultaneous breeding ground/ nursery for the upper-middle and just plain upper classes of America- a status almost entirely populated by those of a, shall we say, paler complexion. I have no idea how much these schools cost to attend, but a totally unresearched estimate would put it at about $40000-$50000 per year. In other words: Columbia is so rich, it has its own television station.
• Their name was originally used for an amateur film their singer Ezra made.
• Ezra and the drummer originally formed a comedy rap group. This alone is the whitest thing I could possibly imagine doing.
•  “First the window, then it’s to the wall/ Lil’ Jon, he always tells the truth” is pure hipster irony.
• The largest and most crucial reason for their whiteness, though? Simply put, their music. See, by starting up a comedy rap group, there can be no denial that these guys recognise (and appreciate) the influence African-American rappers have had on today’s musical zeitgeist. However, they have gone one step further incarnated as Vampire Weekend, as their music is often infused with African tribal themes and instruments. Their eponymous debut album, when it’s not talking about racing across college lawns, seems to often find it’s locus in Africa, both geographically and instrumentally. By skipping the middle man and focusing purely on Afro-stylings, Vampire Weekend have done something which is so diametrically opposed to the norms preceding it that it can only be described as “white”.

After reading this, please don’t think I’m a (COLLOQUIAL TRANSITIVE VERB WARNING) hater. I can’t think of a band that dually appeals to both the glib and the thoughtful niches of indie music. Being extremely talented musicians and songwriters doesn’t hurt their standing either. Groovin’ The Moo cannot come fast enough.

Also, a quick shout out to my sister, who sang on community radio on Sunday to rave reviews from completely unbiased schoolmates. If you want to listen to it go here and click on the one titled “BAND-PLAYED-WALTZING-MATILDA”. I’m feeding the ego.

Melbourne Storm, WTF?

Melbourne Storm, wow. You guys had everyone convinced that you had somehow managed to create a dynasty in this era of equality, that the salary cap was no barrier to success. And whilst this still may remain true, and the salary cap did prove to be no barrier, you have disgraced yourself, your fans, your players, the NRL, and all of New South Wales- basically, everyone who has a vested interest in rugby league.
The thing I’m most concerned with in this situation, though, is the ramifications of the punishment laid down to the Storm. They’ve already gotten rid of Brian Waldron, the supposed hubristic architect of this scheme, and have been fined millions, were stripped of their last two premierships, and deducted all their points earned (and any potential future points earned) this season. I see how the NRL has done pretty much all they can given their stunted powers, but it doesn’t seem enough to me. How can you retroactively strip someone of a premiership? All the emotions and personal glory that comes with it cannot be reversed; maybe the players might feel a small bit cheated now, the victories seeming a tad hollow, but there’s no doubt that feeling like that is infinitely better than never having won at all.
The other main aspect of this that I’m interested in is the aforementioned deduction of this season’s points. I agree with the loss of all that the Storm has accumulated so far, but to say that any more points amassed this year will count for naught is absolutely bizarre. By doing so, it highlights a weird philosophical quandary that exists in sports. Here’s why.
The general consensus is that because the Storm cannot gain any more points, their wins count for nothing, and there is effectively no point to them playing other than to disrupt other teams. This, it seems, would result in their games being attended by literally none of their supporters (assuming they still have some). The players would have literally no reason to play in these games, apart from playing and winning bonuses.
Of course, my thinking is not quite diametrically opposed to this, but pretty damn close to being so. I kind of look at it as a chance for us to step back and look at sports objectively. What is the point of sporting contests in the first place? Why should a particular team winning have any impact on our lives? Why should it have an impact on anyone’s life? Realistically, whether you can catch a ball two and a half metres up in the air doesn’t make you a better person, nor should it make your life better. What I’m trying to say is that there was no reason for anyone to support the Storm in the first place.
When I asked my Dad why winning the Premiership is important this afternoon, he was dumbstruck. Like many unabashed sports supporters, he cannot take a step back and look at the situation holistically, and see sport for what it is (or should be)- just a game. Of course, this isn’t to say that I can’t enjoy or appreciate a Premiership; I follow many teams in a multitude of sports, and if they happen to win, I honestly am affected by it. But my affectation is for different reasons, I think. I like what sports does to other people, mostly; how if their team wins, a die-hard supporter will be genuinely blissful. Watching the Thunder-Lakers NBA match today, I found myself cheering every Thunder basket vicariously. Admittedly, I do actually support them, but I was cheering partially because of the crowd; their sheer dedication, their willing along of the Thunder, was infectious and irrepressible. And this is why I find it much easier to support the home team in any sporting competition- if I am unbiased, the only times I’ll go for the visitors is to be a non-conformist tool.
(Apologies for the lack of coherence, I wrote this whilst hungry.)

Jonathan Holmes: What a man

 If you don’t watch Media Watch, then I feel sorry for you son, ‘cause I got 99 problems but a lack of knowledge of media protocol ain’t one. Tonight’s episode brought to attention an interesting if totally immoral technique that Channel Nine have been using. It seems that they can’t possibly promote Underbelly enough; 60 Minutes runs stories on the ‘characters’, A Current Affair does their usual shilling of the new season, and in-house advertising has reached its apex now with the news referring to criminal suspects as “Underbelly-like”. As the insufferably smug Jonathan Holmes points out, didn’t the correct terminology used to be underworld? If Nine are going to use their news to further Underbelly’s agenda, when will other networks start doing likewise? Will Channel Ten focus almost exclusively on the culinary tales of “Master Chefs”? Will Channel Seven illuminate overcrowded suburban dwellings that are “Packed to the Rafters”? Will SBS report purely on their employees’ sexual encounters?

“Good evening. I’m Anton Enus, and I just got a BJ from the make-up lady. That and more, coming up shortly.”

Jokes aside, this could be the next big development in subliminal advertising, and there’s no real reason why it could be made illegal. You’ve been warned.

Comedy Gala- Running Diary

8:37- And welcome to another running diary, an idea shamelessly stolen from Bill Simmons, who in turn shamelessly stole it from someone else, who in turn… I’ve lost you, haven’t I? I’m here alone tonight, as the parents are out of town and my sisters are preoccupied. I feel a slight tinge of guilt as I write this; being a teenager, shouldn’t I be throwing a Corey Worthington-like party if home alone? Or at 19, am I too old for that?

8:38- The always solid Paul McDermott, as our venerable host, kicks off proceedings with an overly dramatic song. I don’t really see the need for McDermott to constantly sing a song or ten at these galas. There’s no way that he’s getting a music career out of this.

8:50- My propensity for changing the channel when a comedian sings (let’s hope there’s not too much of that) leads to me missing the first one or two acts, and so when I do flick back it is David O’Doherty’s turn to perform. As far as musical comedians go, he is up there with the Flight of the Conchords at the top of the pile. The reason is simple: if these guys stopped playing their instruments, they’d still be insanely funny.

8:59- Reginald D. Hunter follows, and doesn’t live up to the second top billing he received on my television’s program guide at all. His act, whilst short, seemed to go on and on, as he only had about three jokes, with only one of them being particularly humourous.

9:07- Fiona O’Loughlin- I think the revelation that O’Loughlin is an alcoholic was one of the more startling news stories of the past year, if solely for the fact that her admission actually got covered by the media. I mean, comedians are D-level celebrities in Australia on account of there being absolutely no sitcoms being made in the last five years by people other than Wayne Hope. O’Loughlin’s alcoholism coverage was also surprising for the less publicised yet infinitely more important revelation- that she is indeed a comedian. Because her and Denise Scott’s inexplicable popularity, Spicks and Specks has effectively been ruined for me.

9:12- A Yank, whom I missed the name of, is doing a hilarious self-deprecating routine on dealing with getting old and the problem of “sleeping wrong”. Kind of reminds me of where Dane Cook will be in fifteen years, assuming he’s developed an ability for satirical humour by then. Wistful thinking on my part, methinks.

9:16- Josh something-or-other, a young Aussie musical comedian, effectively ruins any chance of me taking him seriously by singing about a train cake. A fairly lame, nostalgic premise like this needs to have actual jokes peppered throughout the lyrics if it has any hope of maintaining my interest, so I think it’s fairly self-explanatory when I say that I muted it 45 seconds in.

9:24- DENISE SCOTT! NO! NO! NO!

9:26- She only lasts two minutes. Can I get a “That’s what he said”?

9:28- Sammy G and his alien puppet sidekick Randy sing a pretty entertaining song about unknowingly dating the same girl. There’s one pressing problem, though, and it’s this: why can’t the guy voicing the alien just come onstage? Suspension of disbelief is a big thing to ask from a comedian, so wouldn’t it be easier if they just pretended this two-timing girl stuck to her own race? And why isn’t her interspecies dabbling addressed? If I had a girlfriend who was cheating on me, I’d be pretty shocked if it was with one of my chickens.

9:32- Must they show the entire series of graphic anti-smoking ads in the space of a minute? That shot of the woman with half her teeth gone always gives me nightmares.

9:34- A song by Paul McDermott fails miserably because of its contextual humour. Do they really expect us to still laugh at Sarah Palin jokes?

9:36- YES! Another singing act!

9:37- These guys are actually funny. Not only do they make jokes every line, the singer looks uncannily like a dark-haired, younger Jeremy Mitchell. And even though no one knows who he is, it’s a positive in my eyes. Also, the drummer (yes, they have a drummer) is using one of those electronic drum kits that should only be found in the basements of Gen Xers.

9:42- Ali McGregor and her butler (what?) are on. I honestly thought she was an opera singer before this. And I still do after it, as all she does is cover AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long”. The audience are laughing; presumably she gave them hash cookies beforehand.

9:46- Terry Alderton is on, and despite his lack of musical proclivities, I don’t really watch his act. His shtick seems to be imitating a multitude of nationalities and accents, something that is right down my alley. To give you an idea of my love of impersonations, I feel that a two-minute clip of Jim Carrey mimicking Jack Nicholson and other celebrities remains one of the ten funniest clips on YouTube, despite it being DUBBER OVER IN POLISH.

So why don’t I watch Alderton? Simply put, an incriminating photo of myself has arisen on Facebook. Enough said.

9:54- Adam Hills is on, and it couldn’t be timelier. The thing I love about him is his universal charm; it seems that he could simultaneously be the funniest guy in a pub, then go to an old folk’s home the next day and prove a hit there. Of course, the routine might have to be toned down just a little bit.

10:02- The legendarily boganesque Dave Hughes is on. My respect for Hughesy has skyrocketed following his decision to advertise for Eagle Boys Pizzas- his catchcry of “Come On, Pizzas!” is undoubtedly the greatest slogan of the last twenty years.

The night has come to a surprisingly early end (I thought these galas went on until I went to bed? I’ve never lasted an entire one before), so it’s time to go and watch the Lonely Island’s “Boombox” on Youtube for the fortieth time this week. I’m absolutely convinced that Casablancas cannot hit that last part- I’ve seen enough butchered Strokes songs to know his limits.

Skins

I was overjoyed when my sister brought home an illegally downloaded copy of the fourth season of Skins the other day. For one, I discovered the Internet is home to more than just porn. Imagine that, a place where porn and teenagers can coexist (and occasionally combine). For two, I am an extreme fan of the show. For three, Skins isn’t really mainstream, and as this season wasn’t available in Australia on either the television or DVD, I felt like an ultra-hipster watching it.

INTERPOLATION

In entertainment media today, what actually constitutes mainstream?  With the Internet and all that accompanies it (and the supposed ‘Digital Age’ that is upon us), how can we classify anything as mainstream when our tastes have become so fragmented? And is it a numerical kind of tipping point, or is it a qualitative measure?

I think the mainstream, as I would apply it, is possibly defined by a single aspect: it contains overt advertising. If you listen to a radio station with multiple advertising jingles between songs, it is a mainstream station. Whatever music they play on that station is now in the middle of pop culture’s road. I heard ‘Little Secrets’ by Passion Pit on Sea FM the other day; to me, that song is now mainstream, and (perhaps unfairly) has lost some of its appeal to me. You can pretty much dump any movie showing in Tuggerah’s Greater Union into the mainstream category, as this is the entire point of the business- they’re not trying to be culturally relevant, they just want to make as much money as they can. Any television show that you watch on free-to-air TV is instantly mainstream, with a few minor exceptions: if it is on between the hours of 10:30 p.m. and 4 a.m., if it is on SBS (at any time), or if it is ABC3’s Prank Patrol. That show is awesome.

INTERRUPTION TO THE INTERPOLATION

Why do I always refer to Punk’d in real life? I rarely watched episodes of it, it finished long before Ashton Kutcher pursued a career as a Twat, and it was a crappily done show. Yet I still say it whenever I perform a practical joke on anyone, or even when something unusual (but humourous to me) happens to someone else. Example:

Mum: Argh, I just stepped in the chickens’ poo.

Brendan: Ha! You got Punk’d.

It doesn’t even make any sense. I am a strange guy.

END OF INTERPOLATION

So, you know, I got to watching it, and within three days, I had finished it. All eight episodes lasted only about 45 minutes each, though in typical Skins fashion, they felt more like movies, albeit pointlessly long ones. The ability of the Skins creators to simultaneously make it seem like everything and nothing happens in each and every episode is a rare and infuriating skill.

But after four seasons, it seems the show’s writers have stumbled into a conundrum. For me, the attraction of Skins was in both its subtlety and its ability to relate to its audience. Of course, it was soon apparent that the Skins’ writing team were less like Bruce Springsteen and more like Rivers Cuomo in this regard, telling stories that paralleled our own experiences only by circumstantial chance, and not through deliberation. I mean, how many of us can honestly say we’ve been kicked out of our house by a squatter in the bathtub?

Nevertheless, whilst the stories didn’t always manifest our troubles, the characters pretty much did. Generally, our favourite television characters are ones we perceive to be most like us, though in a glorified way. With Skins, it was near impossible to have a favourite, mostly because so many of them inhabited multiple personality traits we have. And in the first two seasons, they also had genuinely fake chemistry, for lack of motivation to find a better, less clichéd, word. Essentially, that meant that the characters had reason to hang around together; it was conceivable that they would be friends.

Season three stretched these parameters a bit too much for my liking. I failed to ever deduce why someone like Freddie would hang around with Naomi unless he wanted to become even more depressed and moody. As a result, the storylines and their accompanying issues were much more overt, forcing the writers to make things unnecessarily batshit complicated, illuminated perfectly by the whole Effie-Cook-Freddie-JJ love rectangle. There were glimpses of the previous two seasons’ brilliance, though: Thomas’ episode was unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and in a good way. Cook was the reincarnate of Chris, albeit taken to the extreme in nearly everything he did. Nothing felt tokenistic or stereotyped, despite the possibility of having a black guy, a lesbian couple and a gangster being interpreted as such. The main detraction from the season was how it sometimes seemed to do things just because it could. The sex and drug adventures presented quite often don’t add anything to the storylines, and I suspect that a good portion of it was added afterwards, as filler needed to pad out a shorter episode.

Understandably, I was disappointed when it turned out Season 4 had more than its fair share of pointless debauchery. The storylines at times felt like rehashes of previous episodes, insinuating that there is actually a limit to teenage exploration. Some episodes were great, some were average, and some should never have existed (especially the JJ-centric one).  Characters were often in focus for one episode, and then slipped out of the conscious entirely for pretty much the rest of the season. The parents are as absent as usual- I think about three of the characters still live with theirs, showing a fairly liberal use of dramatic license on the writers’ behalf. Relationships are made, destroyed, made again, destroyed stupidly for a second time, placed in purgatory, and generally act as an attempt to get the viewer’s mindset to be as addled as a habitual drug users’. The characters make irrational, unfathomable choices, show heartbreaking integrity, and generally act in a bizarre, exaggerated teenager-ish way. Basically, it’s Skins as you know and love it.

But is it worth the five hours of your life you have to spare to watch it? Well, if you need me to answer that for you, then you’re an idiot, because it’s still clearly one of the better shows on (or off) television. But I wouldn’t have your hopes set, say, at the same level as Seasons 1 and 2. Instead of a return to form, this feels more like a show that is in irreversible decline. One of the main ways I judge the effectiveness of the arts (music, movies, television, writing etc.) is how it affects my outlook on life, either temporarily or permanently. Actually, that should probably be if it affects my outlook on life. After the first two seasons of Skins, I went around for a couple of weeks at least thinking I was invincible, that partying is my number one goal in life, and growing old is the worst thing that could happen to me. As time passed, these beliefs waned considerably (except the growing old part), but I was left with an imprint of what they had meant to me. Contrastingly, these last two seasons of Skins have had about as much psychological impact on me as Two and a Half Men does. And I don’t even watch that show.

No Country for Old Men

Friday

This weekend, I and my dad have chosen to meet up with another father and son pairing for a couple of nights of debauchery, albeit under the guise of “Patrick’s Bridge Climb”. See, we got Pat a voucher for a Harbour Bridge Climb last year for his 21^st birthday, and six months later, he’s finally worked up the courage to tackle (figuratively) the thing. To celebrate (and execute the actual deed), we have appropriately met up in Sydney, as Gerry is already there for some conferences, and Pat’s flying down tonight (they live in Brisbane). For an unknown reason, my Dad offers to pick Pat up from the airport, inexplicably forgetting the amnesiac qualities that Sydney’s one possesses. Sure enough, when we eventually turn up there, it takes us at least four round trips of the place (and numerous phonecalls) to spot Pat, thus making us late to collect a guy who’s already had his flight delayed by an hour. Politely, Pat declines to berate us/take his anger out on us/ beat us to death with his suitcase, and within a few minutes we’ve met up with an already tipsy Gerry at the hotel. It appears that Gerry has been frequenting a pub for the past couple of hours, and though he claims to have only had four beers, he lets slip that they were pints. In the words of the immortal Will.i.am, I gotta feeling. That tonight’s gonna be a good night, That tonight’s gonna be a good night. Blah blah blah…masel tov!

(Isn’t anyone else annoyed by the grammatical faux pas in that first line? “I’ve got to feeling” is not a real sentence, you idiots. Then again, the Black Eyed Peas isn’t a real band.)

After a dinner at which I proved my knowledge of Italian food was unmatched (Pizzeta= baby-sized pizza) the four of us entered the Orient Hotel, a semi old-fashioned pub on The Rocks. This instantly got off to a bad start when we were charged a fiver each just for entry. I can understand if it’s an unbelievably packed establishment, presumably adorned with a dance floor and DJ, but this was just your average pub- beer on tap, footy on the television, singer/guitarist playing Crowded House covers in the corner. After one beer, though, the Orient was irrevocably changed, as it started to smell like a sewerage pipe had exploded. If there’s one thing stereotypically manlier than beer, then it would be farts, so you would be right in saying that males often have a strong smell threshold. But imagine if someone farted on you, locked you into an airtight toilet cubicle with the scent, and left you there for ten minutes. Well, that’s essentially what this place smelled like (I’d imagine), and within a minute or two we were out the door. The silver lining to this story was that Gerry somehow managed to badger our cover charge out of the bouncers, a guilt trip that provided the money for the next round.

Scoping out the variety of drinking spots that litter The Rocks, the dads agreed (us sons have no say whatsoever, which is fine with me if I’m not buying drinks) on a pub whose name now escapes me, but which I know for sure was created in 1828. If this is Australia’s oldest pub, then I am stunned that it took the settlers forty years to work out that a communal drinking place is a good idea.

Setting foot inside this pub, I was immediately struck by one small (but significant) detail: the people here were old. Now I’m not going to make any jokes about the clientele having remained unchanged since the bar opened (oh wait! I just did!), but it would be fair to assume that Pat and I were below the median age by about thirty years. It was apparent that this was a place our fathers were extremely comfortable in, as they instantaneously set about making new friends and generally embarrassing us. They try introducing us to these people whom they are talking to, but soon realize that Pat and I are dead wood- basically, we’ve reverted back into a designated driver-like state, standing there smiling at people who pass us, but generally avoiding the drunkards. And for a ‘mature’ bar, there really were a crazy amount of people draining those social lubricants. One fellow in particular had had his fair share, and spent the night wandering around, vociferously screaming at everyone and being a general douchebag. At one point, he walked up behind my Dad, who he’d talked briefly with before, and did some kind of karate chop to the crotch that I thought was reserved for twelve year olds. Dad laughed off, yet turned to me and warned, “You wonder how fights start”. Fortunately, the biff was not brought back, and the 47 year old bully left shortly afterwards to enjoy a domestic with his wife. (No, that’s not a joke.)

The old men soon become enamoured with a certain gent from South Dakota who went by the name of Casey. Casey was a farmer (or so he said), and his genial nature, combined with an inability to open his eyes more than 3 millimetres, saw the three of them fastidiously making plans to go to dinner tomorrow night, and then party like it’s 1999 once again. I was tempted to ask him about his knowledge of Chuck Klosterman, my favourite writer and a North Dakotan native, but was put off when he compared the geographic division between North and South Dakota to that of Australia and New Zealand. When it was pointed out that there is a fairly significant body of water lying between our country and New Zealand, he neglected to reinforce his argument, and just stood there laughing.

The rest of the night was patently uneventful, with the blaring exception of Gerry and my dad pausing on the walk home to piss on the wall and into a pot plant respectively.

Saturday

Jesus. It’s 6:45 in the morning, and I’m already awake. My neurotic tendencies have, once again, gotten the better of me; this time, it is my ambivalence towards foreign beds. In my own sleeping headquarters, I could sleep for literally the entire day. No matter how many times I would hypothetically wake up, as long as I didn’t get up and have breakfast, or shower, or do anything stupid like that, I could lie in a catatonic state with ease. However, this scenario is absolutely reversed when staying in a hotel and the likes. Then, I transmogrify into one of the greatest REM avoiders this world will ever see. A speckle of sunlight flitting through the curtains? I’m awake. Early morning AGB? I’m awake.

With nothing really to do except get up and sit around, I decide to use this quiet time to get a bit of reading done. My consumption of David Foster Wallace’s exposition on the Adult Video Network Awards is going so enjoyably that before I am aware of it, the time is 9 o’clock, and the guys are up. Pat is tinged green, though I presuppose that’s more to do with his imminent bridge climb than any alcoholic dalliances. The dads, though, are worse for wear, death warmed up- any number of lame clichés can be used to describe them. Basically, they look like the typical uni student after a night out, minus the trendy clothes and full head of hair. To my utter amazement, they manage to digest a large breakfast about an hour later without as much as a mouthful being regurgitated. Of course, my amazement is due to my ignorance of hangover-coping methods that differ to mine. Whereas I prefer to lay prostrate for as long as possible, and only eat once my internal organs threaten to cannibalise each other, I guess the normal person goes for a big ass coffee, accompanied perhaps by a grease-laden breakfast of bacon and/or eggs. I really cannot understand how anyone can do this, as just the thought of solid foods is generally enough to send me sprinting to the lavatory.

Addendum: At breakfast, we all ordered the big breakfast (bacon, sausages, eggs, baked beans etc.), only to be informed that the sausages and baked beans would incur an additional cost. Is it just me, or is this behavior, charging for something which you assume (and the menu concurs) is included in the meal, just a little bit ridiculous (and even illegal)? If you go into MacDonald’s and see that the Quarter Pounder is $4.45, proceed to order it, and then get told the beef patties are an additional 50 cents each, you’d be a bit outraged, wouldn’t you?

After breakfast, the four of us traversed up to the Sydney Harbour Bridge, as Pat’s bridge climb, the excuse we used for this weekend, was in half an hour. To whittle away the time until the ascension of the bridge, we doddered around an exhibition/museum that was, in fact, dedicated to the Harbour Bridge itself. Here, we learnt innumerable factoids and figures about this architectural wonder, none of which will ever come in use in situations, or even conversations, anywhere, anytime. Ever knew that sixteen men died building the bridge? Ever wanted to know? Exactly.

The fathers decided that while Pat was completing the Bridge climb, they’d head back for a siesta of sorts. I had beaten them to the punch, though, and arrived at the York Hotel about twenty minutes before them. As I entered our complex, I could hear that someone was already in one of the bedrooms. My conscious mind immediately skipped ahead to the worst scenarios possible, and I deduced that the intruder was more than likely a thief, a serial killer, or Bert Newton. Approaching with hesitation, I peeked around the corner of the door, and was greeted by a maid. Now, this may seem like a nice alternative to the aforementioned possibilities to you, but I was wishing that it had been a thief instead. And this is because I have no idea (nor does anyone, for that matter) on how to act when someone is cleaning up your filth. I ended up going with the lame joke/ thanking approach, and just went and watched the television with my feet on the couch- even if I feel uncomfortable with this scene, I at least want to maintain an illusion of comfort.

Dinner tonight was preceded, predictably, by a few beers in a pub. A slight outrage on my behalf took place, as I was quizzed for my ID for the second night running. The bouncers may have felt I was trying to surreptitiously follow these two old men in, in the hope that I could sneak an underage beer or ten. However, the truth of the matter is that I was just catching up to them, as I had just escaped from a Ken Done speech in one of his own galleries. Well, to be honest, I was actually a latecomer to the trials and tribulations; I spotted the Ken man himself orating, presumably, on just how great his infantilised artwork is. Purveying an open door, I assumed this meant I was welcome to join the teeming crowd, and listen to the words of Australia’s most overrated artist; instead, I was greeted with numerous icy glares, and quickly got the message: get out, you giant.

I’m not sure what the psychological reason for this is, but I always gain a great deal of satisfaction from passing the bouncer test. It’s like they’ve affronted my actual existence, and the only way to defeat it is to prove I do, in fact, consist of a bunch of protons and neutrons (and maybe electrons? I’m allergic to chemistry). I like to imagine that they question their better judgment and fall deep into an existential mire; as it is, they probably just get a power surge from their ability to stall my night.

After a couple of hours, we travelled directly across the road to the nearest Thai restaurant. Thai food is undeniably the most omnipresent international cuisine in New South Wales these days; at last count, Terrigal had 34 different establishments in an 800 metre radius. These are, for the most part, excellent- who doesn’t love a bit of lamb penang?- but they’re dreadfully monotonous, and it turns into a competition to see which is the cheapest, rather than the best. Before tonight, I believed the scope for Thai food had been fully comprehended and explored. But a single meal changed all that.

The place we went to (I am just terrible with names) was irregular, to say the least. Designed like a mess hall, it required all diners to literally rub elbows with one another, in an intrusive yet comfortable dining experience. And I use the term ‘experience’ as appropriately as a journey to a restaurant can be, because this was something else. The service was out of this world; if your water got below half full, it was instantly replenished by a waterboy as eager as Adam Sandler. Of course, the menu was apparently way overpriced; being a uni student gives a false dichotomy on the value of things in the real world. My meal, the chicken mince (really? Mince?) with snake beans, chili, and holy basil (the only basil endorsed by the papal crowd), was a flavour explosion. I can’t describe flavour tangibly, partly because I’m not a food critic, and partly because I couldn’t be bothered, but let me assure that my taste buds were assaulted in a way Kobe Bryant would approve of. It was deliciously unique in taste, but the main thing that struck me was how hot it was. Let me justify my validation for ascertaining the spiciness of this dish; I have been known to eat the odd chili whole, without any hydration help. Earlier today, I stopped by The Chili Factory’s stall at The Rocks Markets, and ate (with consummate ease) their hottest sauce available. So when I tell you that this meal caused me real physical pain, that I was halfway on the path to tears, you can be assured that it was the hottest damn meal ever made. Further confirmation of this presumption was provided by the bill; whilst everyone else’s meals were listed according to their ingredients (i.e. green curry), mine was simply put as “Kapow”. KAPOW! A comic book sound effect designed to imitate the physical degradation of another human being was what my dinner was being described as.

Casey neglected to phone the old guys today; it’s fair to say they’re pretty upset over it. My theory is this: being married for 20 plus years has obviously (well, at least ostensibly) meant they haven’t been on a first date in that passage of time. So when they start making comments such as, “He really seemed genuinely keen last night”, it gives the impression a pseudo-date was in store; I mean, the guy was even going to bring his brother along!

To get over that South Dakotan heartbreaker, they decide that drowning their sorrows is applicable. And I must admit, I’m legitimately impressed with them. Not only did they outlast and outdrink us and our youthfulness last night, but they shrugged off their killer hangovers and got straight back into it tonight. Myself and Pat both agreed that we probably couldn’t have done such a feat now, let alone at an age closely resembling Michael Clarke’s batting average. (One observation on the Clarke/Bingle insanity that has clogged the newswires for the last week or two- it’s really strange to see such a story reported as though there are no villains or victims. Pretty much every incident like this that is reported is given a slant towards one party or the other; it creates controversy, which then perpetuates discussion and maintains interest in the story. How this filler has managed to stay in the public eye without a clearly defined camp division is beyond me.)

Bedtime came early tonight, as we all were suffering from the brutish physicality of a day strolling around The Rocks.  As I lay in bed, I recognised this weekend for what it really was: a passing of the torch. Myself and Patrick have reached that age, the time where shit starts to get serious, and the patriarchs of our families know this. But we also know that there’s a few years left before this reality completely sinks in, and thus in the meantime, we shall embrace the relative freedom in our current possession, and party in a way that will make our dads proud. If I have to pee on the wall to achieve this, then so be it.

Technology- I’m pretty sure it’s a Daft Punk song

Most days, it feels like my body is decaying. Sometimes, it’s just a general, visceral feeling, typified by nothing in particular, or perhaps by everything I do. The decay manifests itself in more obvious ways as well; a work out at the gym us now followed up with three days of aching muscles, resulting in my screaming like a little girl when, coincidentally, a little girl punches me in the arm. Of course, a lot of this is self-perpetuated; instead of seeing my increasingly hairy face as a sign of manliness, I just view it as a metaphor for my inability to maintain myself; they are weeds encroaching on the garden that is me.

(God damn, that’s one awful metaphor)

So whilst I supposedly continue to grow bigger, more powerful, and possibly more intelligent, I kind of see my relationship with my body as regressing. And in a way, it parallels my relationship with technology. Everything in the tech world is becoming bigger and smaller at the same time. Televisions are about eight times the size they were twenty years ago, yet an eighth as thick. Mobile phones are literally all screen now. Stuff’s gotten portable, too. I’m currently writing this on the train, hoping I don’t cause too much noise with the tap-tap-tapping of my laptop’s keys. (I just read in mX that this was the case on a train yesterday, and the offender was severely berated.) Actually, should I digress to what is going on around me at this moment? Yes, I shall.

Firstly, I hate touching other people on trains. (That rule extends to pretty much my entire life, and everyone in it, to be truthful. Except for that girl in my management tute. If anyone deserves a cheesy angel pickup line, it’s surely her.) If I’m resting my arm on one of the brilliantly-titled armrests, and some other dude decides to put his sweaty radius on it too, then I immediately retract. So it wasn’t really all that pleasing when a fellow passenger chose to sit next to me, and proceeded to literally sweat all over the armrest. Ten minutes after he’s gone, and the evidence has dried up, but I can’t bring myself to lean on it. I get the feeling that the guy’s excess moisture has been forever ingrained into this seat, and there’s no way I’m risking catching whatever disease he has (probably cholera, known science as I do).

And now I’m a little bit pissed off. This guy who’s standing up, despite there being plenty of free seats around, just picked up the used, sweat-destroyed copy of mX on the seat adjacent to me. But rather than perusing it, he’s chosen to throw it at me. It strikes me that this might be his way of breaking the ice; regardless, I give him a death stare, and go back to listening to Weezer.

In the seat in front of me, two fat young gentlemen, presumably brothers, are enjoying a computerised game of chess just a little bit too much. In fact, with all the whooping and hollering going on, I would have guessed that they were engaged in a game of chess-boxing, which is exactly what it sounds like. The integration of such a pairing instantly challenges the osmotic capabilities of history’s greatest duos, the rankings of which looks a little like this:

5. Laurel and Hardy

4. Beer and pizza

3. Seinfeld and Costanza

2. Coffee and donuts (embarrassingly underrated)

1. Bacon and eggs

9,834,210. Country and Western

Anyway, back to my original, mediocre point. It feels to me that every time technology takes a step forward, my relationship with it takes a step back. We got a 50-inch plasma television about 9 months ago. For the first three months that we owned it, everything was glorious; high-definition basketball games, life-sized Bruce Willises, and the ability to spot blemishes on certain actors’ skin all contributed to a utopian viewing experience. But the honeymoon period ended abruptly, as one day the TV decided to pack up shop and refuse its right to crystal-clear reception. Now, all we can get on it are Channels 9, ABC and SBS; if you try to watch anything else, the flickering screen is guaranteed to drive you to insanity. Of course, being a white middle class family, we didn’t go the normal route of getting a guy in to fix it; no, we just bought another giant TV. But the point remains: digital television is like a hooker. Sure, maybe she’ll be more ‘technically astute’ than your ex-girlfriend, but there’s something missing from the experience.

Television isn’t the only thing that elicits a scream from me in our house. The dishwasher seems to be one of the most annoying innovations in kitchen appliance history. It takes just as long to fill and empty it as it does to wash the dishes, you still have to rinse them off first, and when it comes time to take them out, they’ve approached the temperature of the earth’s core. In addition, we’ve been through two dishwashers in ten years, despite regular maintenance and replacing of broken parts. Right now, our current one has a crack in its door. How the hell does this even happen? It washed the dishes too furiously, and paid the price for it?

I could go on about technological ‘advancements’ for much, much longer, but I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m a whiner.

Empire State of Mind

I’m a self-doubting kind of guy. Often, I’ll analyse the way people respond to my jibber jabber to the point of obsession, deliberating over how they perceive me, the level of their sincerity, and other stuff that normal people try to avoid thinking about. I had always assumed that if I were to, say, become extremely famous and well-received, that these pangs would disapparate, as people would ostensibly be falling over themselves to please me, or perhaps just to be near me (my God, that sounds so arrogant). But after listening to Jay-Z’s latest album, The Blueprint 3, I’m not too sure this would be the case.

Now, I’m not the world’s biggest rap/hip-hop fan. I appreciate that sometimes it can be lyrically transcendent, a postmodern poem set to a thumping beat. I love how the storyteller stylings of Bob Dylan and the likes has transformed into something that potentially has almost uniform acceptance. But I dislike many more aspects than those I care for.

I hate the derogation of women into ‘bitches ‘n’ hoes’. I hate the posers who just rap to rhyme words, believing that people won’t care if they just spout mountains of unrelated crap. I hate 50 Cent and his exploitation of his bullet wounds. I hate Kanye’s ego. Essentially, I like what rap stands for; I just don’t like how it’s carried out.

So what’s my point? Probably that I’m a white guy, totally unqualified to comment on rap, yet will do so anyway because I feel entitled to. And with that in mind, I’d like to give my thoughts on The Blueprint 3. Actually, scratch that, I think I’ll just concentrate on one song: “Empire State of Mind”, his ode to New York and all that it symbolises.

It seems that a lot of rappers feel they need to have this braggadocio that, whilst meant to show how anyone can succeed, instead help them come across as the most egotistical dudes ever. Jay-Z employs it as well, but there’s a difference; he’s earned it. When you’ve got 11 no. 1 albums in a row, more than even Elvis had, then you can boast all you want. And Jay-Z uses this license to its utmost extreme in this song. He claims he “made the Yankee hat more famous than a Yankee can” and that he is “the new Sinatra”. Mixed in with this hyperbole is the philosophical (“The city of sin is a pity on a whim”) and the random (“Rest in peace, Bob Marley”. Really? REALLY?) But the main messages from the song remain these: that if you put a soaring Alicia Keys chorus into any half-decent rap song, it instantly becomes crazily infectious, and that New York is the greatest city in the world.

Yet… I still feel that it’s all a bit of a façade that Jay-Z is hiding behind. Considering that he’s possibly the most ubiquitous music star in the world, it’s amazing that he still feels the need to remind us of his status and success. I think that when he says
“they love me everywhere”, he doesn’t really believe it- rather, it is something that he wants, but will never truly feel justified in claiming. I think that Jay-Z has analysed the presence Sinatra still has in New York, and has turned his focus to gaining much the same.

Jay-Z is so obsessed with his own immortality, and so limited by his medium of expression, that his attempts at ingraining the concept of this larger than life rap star come across as contrived, and only seem deep as though by accident.

And we can’t forget this: the guy is 41 years old- it’s about time that he had a mid-life crisis.

Oscar the Grouch

The Academy Awards were held this week, and once again I found myself tuning in. Why, I do not know, for if I pause to think about it in the abstract for too long, it suddenly becomes utterly ridiculous. I mean, the whole show is a self-aggrandising, pat-on-the-back kind of affair created by Hollywood, for Hollywood. It is an exercise in shameless promotion, disguised as a night of recognising the past year’s filmic achievements. As a marketing ploy, few have the clout or insidious nature of the Oscars, and this kind of makes me die a little inside. Yet, I continue to watch the telecast each year, and probably will do so for decades to come.

The producers made a smart (if safe) choice in going with co-hosts Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin this year. For me, comedy is often at its best when performed by a duo or a group. It allows the comedians to work off one another, generally leads to some enjoyable repartee, and creates the straight man/funny man dynamic that has proved so effective. With these hosts, however, neither seemed willing to play the stooge; ostensibly this would be fulfilled by Alec Baldwin in normal circumstances, but whoever cast him forgot about his monstrous ego (and head- his head is enormous, something I’d imagine that would be even more spectacular in person). Martin, that old vanguard of comedy, did manage to land a few soft blows to Baldwin’s ego; in one instance, after being introduced dramatically by Baldwin as “Grammy award-winning, Oscar-winning, one of the most enduring entertainers of all time”, Martin returned the favour by announcing, “And this is Alec Baldwin. Score one to Baldwin.

At some point in the last couple of months, someone running this show decided that having Neil Patrick Harris do a Jackmanesque song and dance routine would be a good way to initiate proceedings. I’m not sure exactly who this was; I just hope they were fired immediately. Watching from the comfort of my leather lounge (yeah, I’m rubbing it in), I could barely hear what he was warbling about, catching only fractions of lame jokes. Why do people think that if you accompany mediocre attempts at comedy with a melody, that it somehow becomes at least eight times funnier? This is my main beef with musical comedians; a lot of them are just stand-ups who don’t have enough quality jokes for a routine, so they stretch them out into repetitious, 4 minute long songs. Why do you guys think that you can repeat the same joke three times under the pretence of using it as a chorus? Stand-up acts can’t just fill out 30 minutes by repeating a 10-minute set twice, can they?

Where was I? Of course, the Oscars. I, personally, was over the moon at Avatar’s failure to win anything of meaning. I’m open to anything that prevents James Cameron from being allowed to give a spiel on just how great he is. James, if you’re so great, then how come your date for the Oscars seemed to be a zombie? Honestly, the woman looked about 73 years old, with sagging upper arms, a multitude of wrinkles just waiting to burst out from underneath all that Botox, and a smile best described as “Evil. Just pure evil” When interviewing them on the red carpet, Richard Wilkins was easily more scared than I’ve ever seen him. Actually, let’s digress to Wilko for a second. Despite having been in the annoying interview business for at least twenty years, his journalistic technique remains as unprofessional and childish as ever. Bumbling his way through a cavalcade of celebrity interviews, he appeared to be starstruck for the most part, asking inane questions and awkwardly discussing the Oscars with people who obviously just wanted to go inside, away from this gnat of a person, and get magnificently drunk. His interrogation of Matt Damon was legendarily ineloquent. Here’s a rough transcript:

WILKINS: Matt! Matt Damon! (Tries the Team America voice) Matt Damon!

DAMON: (Looking quite pissed off) Yeah?

WILKINS: Matt, can you tell us a bit about the next Bourne sequel? What’s it all about?

DAMON: Uh, sorry, I can’t say anything.

WILKINS: (Pleading) Come on! Come ooooooooonnnnnnn!

(Damon walks away)

Great work, Dicky.

Back to James Cameron, though. His loss of Best Director, whilst extremely gratifying in itself, was compounded by his losing to his ex-wife, Kathryn “Deuce” Bigelow. This, along with “The Hurt Locker” winning Best Picture, was the highlight of the night for me, for I have previously documented (and preached to anyone who will listen to me) my distaste of Cameron’s “epic”.

Other award winners were not as satisfying for me. It seems that the Best Actor award is turning into a pseudo-lifetime recognition award. Sure, Jeff Bridges might have been great in “Crazy Heart”; I haven’t seen the movie, and so aren’t in a great position to comment on it (but I will anyway). The question I want answered is: could another actor have done just as good a job? I’m in the affirmative camp. And I’m a Jeff Bridges fan; if anything, he should have won it back when he was The Dude.

Oh, and Sandra Bullock won. Sandra Bullock!? SANDRA BULLOCK!? The woman had just won a Razzie!

Shoal Bay- Part 2

WARNING: This is a pretty long entry. Like, about 3500 words. So if you have a short attention span, how about you read this over the course of four days or so, okay?

Day three- Friday

 This was easily the best start to a day so far. When I woke, the college basketball was on the TV, and would be followed by another 2 games of NBA. Usually, I would have sat in front of the box for the next 7 hours, and not considered it a waste of time, but being on HOLIDAYS meant that this plan went out the window. Nevertheless, we managed to fit in the entire college game (and the first quarter of Cavs-Magic, in which LeBron and JJ Hickson were proving to be the most unstoppable duo since Jordan and Pippen). I then embarked on my first shower of the holiday, a fact that I should be ashamed to admit to anyone; however, I think I am the second person here to actually wash themselves in something other than the ocean, so please spare the judgement.

 As I am sure you are chomping at the proverbial bit to know how my shower went, I’ll give the general gist of it. Essentially, I never get sunburnt, but when I do, it’s on really weird spots; the backs of my hands and the front of neck being two prime targets. Unfortunately, I managed to get burnt yesterday on my shins and feet, which didn’t bother me until I went for a shower. If you have ever been sprayed with a jet of hot water on sunburn, then I share your pain, because it really couldn’t have been more painful. If someone had given me the choice of hot water on my sunburn, or a kick in the nuts, well, I’d definitely choose the former, but I would at least think about it for a second.

 Brucy arose to a smattering of interest at nearly midday. Apparently, he and Jess had shared a bed, but not done the bold thing: something that I have no qualms with whatsoever. I personally don’t see why members of opposite sexes cannot share a bed if they maintain a platonic relationship. It’s not in every hetero guy’s nature to jump any female thing within a 3 metre radius of him, so why should there be a different set of rules when it comes to sleeping? I can only think of one possible answer, a two-word phrase: morning wood.

 As Brucy wished Jess a safe trip home from Shoal Bay, the rest of us watched intently to see if there was a proper goodbye in store. Unfortunately our tempers were tested after a couple of minutes of cat and mouse, and Joe decided to scream an obscene word at Brucy, instantly giving away our expertly covert spying positions. There were to be no final fireworks in store, as Jess felt too self-conscious in front of our prying eyes (and rightly so). I felt slightly guilty afterwards as I, either directly or indirectly, had contributed to the general awkwardness that engulfed these two. Oh well.

 The night was truly splendid, the highlight being an incredibly intense D & M, the topics of which cannot be broached in such a literal form. The runner-up to this was undeniably Evan’s surprise theft of the combined Maggotron and Vomitron title from Brennan. To make it easier on ourselves, we simplified it to “Maggovomitron”, which I further abridged to “God”, the thought process bring that the previous title sounded like Tetragrammaton, a Hebrew word for God, and hence easier said as just God. Needless to say, no one else shared my enthusiasm for this. I believe that whilst I lay in bed reading, the rest of the guys may have engaged in some wrestling after being inspired by the televised mixed martial arts competition. Once or twice I heard my name thrown out as a potential champion of the sport, so I slept soundly, content in my knowledge that no one would dare shave my eyebrows in my sleep.

 Sleep isn’t always that cut and dry, though. There is a black sheep residing in our bedroom; namely, the fact that Brucy’s handyman grandfather seems to have cut a few corners when he constructed these bunk beds. The only thing keeping two of the top ones up is a skimpy piece of dowel wood in each corner that connects the bottom half to the top. If Joe were to engage in some sort of vigorous activity that could possibly make the bunk move back and forth quickly, I think it could lead to Evan’s death by way of crushing.

 Having a house full of guys, you may be prone to expecting that the place is a shambles, with rubbish decadently strewn everywhere. And you’d be partially right, but then at the same time surprised at how little mess there is (if that makes any sense). Sure, we have a large table entirely covered in beer bottles, and the recycling and rubbish bins have converged to become some sort of superbin, but for the most part the place is kind of clean. (We can still see the carpet.)

 Day four- Saturday

 I’ve decided that Shoal Bay is stuck in a retro time-warp, possibly around the era of the mid 1990’s. Mocha coloured bricks, garish curtains, and corrugated plastic roofs take me back to a time when we could still quote Prince and say we would party like it is 1999. The lack of ventilation in the house is impressive, with two small fans providing us with the brunt of it. An analogue television provides us with much of the electrical entertainment, and Brennan’s Nintendo Wii seems oddly out of place. There are two microwaves in the kitchen, which is unjustifiable. Who really uses microwaves so much that they felt one was not sufficient? Having two of them, an oven and a full sized refrigerator jammed into a kitchen the size of a large shower just causes insane overcrowding issues.

 Possibly my biggest problem here is the unavailability of Internet access. Since the house has none, I have none, and everyone else is too god damn lazy to drive down to an Internet café, I have not been online in four days, easily my longest stint of the past year or so. I feel that there is a developing disassociation between myself and the real world, as my other main link to modern day society, my mobile phone, has already died of battery. The irony is admittedly delicious, though, as not being able to connect to ultimately meaningless things like Facebook makes me believe the world is moving without me, that I have been relegated to a stationary pawn. You could make a case that I am overcoming my addiction to this virtual alternate reality, but who’s going to say that when you probably have the same problem?

 I have invited the others to give their perspective on the Shoal experience, so I’ll hand it over to Chris.

 My Two Cents: Chris

Alright, so I’m not the blog writing master that Brendan is, but I thought I’d give it a go. It’s currently 8.25pm, Viscera Eyes is playing through my dying speakers and Joe is serenading who I can only assume is himself outside. The beer bottle collection, which has been slowly growing over the last couple of days around this laptop, has now completely filled up the table and will probably end up covering every flat surface in the house by the end of the week. This will undoubtedly cause some stress to Brucy, who has already had to apologise to the next door neighbours for the  apparently unholy raucous we caused a few nights back. Kind of makes me glad that I wasn’t the supplier of the holiday house. A bit selfish? Yeah, probably, but it’s just Brucy.

 Today we played a round of golf at a par 3 course. Joe introduced the brilliant “10 second rule”, which meant that if you completely screwed up the tee shot, you could replay it – provided you could retrieve and replace your ball within 10 seconds. This led to several hilarious sprints, usually from Brennan. The game was surprisingly tight; Brendan only beat Joe by two shots, and last place was highly contested if not as sought after.

 The afternoon was spent in pretty much the same way as the rest of the week – drinking beer, playing ping pong, drinking beer, playing bocce, drinking beer, watching TV, drinking beer and playing poker. I’m guessing that another round of King of Beers is imminent, so on that note I might hand the reins back to the guy who can actually write. Oh wait, apparently it’s Joe.

 My Three Cents: Joseph

So I may not have the literary prowess of Brendan or even the ability to form a proper sentence like Chris, but what the hell, I’ve been drinking.

I’ve stopped serenading myself after the speakers were blasted at full volume, though I refuse to believe that had anything to do with my singing.

Shoal Bay has been an engaging experience for all involved. It’s included many nude moments, lots of alcohol and some surprisingly deep conversation.

The highlight of today was most definitely the Shoal Bay World Championship of Golf. It was a hotly contested prize, with Chris’ math skills almost convincing us he had won, when in actual fact he had grabbed second last from the filthy claws of Brennan Meyers Junior.

After we had emulated Tiger Woods it was time to head off to Salamander Bay for a spot of shopping. By this stage at least half the group were suffering the combined effects of sunstroke/hangover/dehydration, yours truly most definitely included. This resulted in us following whoever could still walk in a straight line, the lone wolf being Brendan Day. He proceeded to march us into Electronics Boutique, where we stood in a haze while he perused the second hand games. This ultimately resulted in the fantastic value purchase of Madden ’05 for the princely sum of $6, which we all agreed was an absolute steal.

The afternoon continued in a similar fashion to the previous ones, namely drinking beers and being ultra competitive at average sports, if you can call Bocce a sport.

For now I shall bid you all goodbye and prime myself for the game of King of Beers which is sure to follow my attempt at the keyboard. Adios!

 Stevo’s Soapbox

 <obligatory cant write for shit excuse so don’t hate me> Shoal Bay has been a pretty sweet holiday, just a mad house for us to all chill at, but with Brucy having a somewhat less fun time due to his shift work at Eagle Boys. Because of this he has been unable to party hard with us, which has made him pissed off at us for leaving the house in disarray and causing a small political tug of war, his parents and grand parents leaning on him due to soft neighbours, and his mates, who are undoubtedly the best people he has ever met, getting somewhat rowdy due to a particularly hilarious play of a rule card in King of Beers (one must swear at least once in every sentence).

 With the arrival of the police at the holiday house, Brucy was set off and has been spending the last few nights in a silent rage, making me feel that we should continue partying at accommodation where we can all be as mutually irresponsible as each other. Hoping that he cheers up again soon and parties the house down with us.

 The great golf game of 2010 took place today, with myself taking a striking 3^rd position as the underdog having never played before. The game was fairly consistent as a par 3, but I averaged mainly dee bangers and trips, (Double Bogeys and +3), and managed the Putt of the Day, scoring from a mere 14 yards (yes I measured it).

 Tonight we were all meant to go for a walk but Brennan and Joe, being too cool for the rest of us, disappeared before we could even reach 50 metres down the pathway. I am sure this is for a reason mainly due to the male condition, or because they are too cool for us.

 All in all a good time so far,

Stevo

 Brucy’s Business

 With work for the week culminating in a rather enjoyable 6.5 hour shift, I’m back at the house by 9:30 ready to party for the rest of the trip without having to worry about driving 45min from Shoal Bay to Mayfield to drive pizza around whilst the rest of the crew get messy and piss off the neighbours. Luckily enough I arrive home to get a dinner that was thoughtfully cooked for me… well at least that’s what I thought. It seems they ate out the house leaving a mere loaf of garlic bread, awesome! It also appears we are down two men as Brennan is off wingmanning Joe, likely in some dirty, dirty caravan park with my prediction of little success. We’ll have to wait and see.

Tonight is a noticeably reserved night. Brendan’s in bed reading, whilst Chris, Evan and I watch Star Wars and eat garlic bread (the breakfast, lunch and dinner of champions).

*Time passes*

So Brennan and Joe return, without success but that’s because I was mistaken in my assumption. Rather than off trying to score they were instead untying dingies and pushing them out to sea. Clearly a better choice *note the sarcasm*.

It seems that me being last to write on here except for Brennan (who isn’t expected to write as he is yet to form a coherent sentence) that all topics have been covered, thus rather than ramble I’ll return to eating and drinking.

 Brucy out!

 Day 5- Sunday

 Ah, Sundays. Its reputation as laziest day of the week remains in tact, as I have achieved the following things today:

• Slept in
• Eaten leftovers for lunch
• Shopped for groceries
• Enquired at a book store whether they had any of Chuck Klosterman’s work
• Semi-watched the cricket

 Given that it is now 6 in the evening, I’d say that is one hell of an underwhelming day. I think that everyone is suffering massively from a bit of an alcoholic burnout. Joe is noticeably quieter today, though that could be due to his being asleep. This whole lackadaisical attitude is no doubt beneficial to our health, both long and short term, as no one has really drunk more than one or two beers so far. An SOS for our livers has been answered by the introduction of shandies, a half lemonade half beer concoction. This allows us to still feel like we’re not degrading our own masculinity; the liquid retains a shade of cool amber, and it slows down the inebriation process greatly.

 Question: At what point does an audience become a crowd?

 At a certain point this week, I think several of my internal organs have ceased to work. Living off beer, Corn Flakes and pasta/noodles has killed our collective well-being, with Joe being reduced to a shadow of his hard-partying self today. I find myself craving the everyday balance of a five food group diet, and when eating a chocolate chip cookie this afternoon, wistfully imagined what it would be like had I invested in some fruit for the trip- a granny smith apple would be an absolute godsend right now. The group’s energy levels are plummeting rapidly, with Brennan and I only being able to sustain a run along the beach for a kilometre before it all got too much. There is a silver lining to this alcohol-filled cloud, though, and it is that I now have a re-appreciation for home cooking. Over a year since Schoolies, I had grown accustomed to Mum’s pesto chicken, Dad’s tikka masala; even Niamh’s….whatever she makes.

 Another thing I’ve learnt: the glamorisation of that alcoholic literati type is way off kilter. I really cannot write after having a few drinks, as my inbuilt thesaurus turns to mush, and typing becomes much too cumbersome a task.

 I have nothing more to write about today that wouldn’t break the “What happens in Shoal, stays in Shoal” mantra, which disappoints, as the funniest event of the trip occurred tonight. Oh well, perhaps YOU should have come with us.

 Day six- Monday

 I’d love to live on the beach. There’s nothing like the soothing noise of the tide coming in to inspire me, to imbibe me with the naturalistic relationship Wordsworth had. Granted, it still doesn’t make me want to go out and wander amongst clouds, though this could just be because I’m not smoking some wicked drugs that WW must have been. But to quote The Castle: “The serenity. Serenity. Ah, serenity. Serenity.” And so on.

 Having said this, there are some things about beaches that do annoy me. One of them is other people. Now, I’m not some kind of secluded hermit who thinks that the only good beach is one where there are no people; if this were to be the case, I’d be a little bit freaked out, as my Woody Allen neurosis would make me wonder why I was the only one there. (Is there a killer rip? Is there a shark? IS THERE A SHARK?) No, when I say people, I am referring purely to idiots who don’t know what personal space is. Having escaped to the beach for a dusting of solitude, I was happily reading my book in the shade-covered sand, as far away from all others as I could be without climbing into a tree. It was just my luck, then, when an elderly couple decided that I had chosen the perfect spot to rest, and proceeded to sit down no more than 2 metres away from me. Immediately, they struck up one of those dreadfully boring, let’s-point-out-the-obvious-because-I-have-nothing-interesting-to-say kind of conversations, except this one was about thrice as loud as normal. With reading now an impossibility, I chose to lay there seething, occasionally giving the couple an evil eye (that was greatly reduced in effectiveness by my ultra-fashionable sunglasses. Oh, the price you pay to look good.) Thankfully they left after fifteen drawn-out minutes, and I was free to resume my book. However, no sooner had I reopened the front cover, than I was accosted by more people. Luckily, these people were friends, a few of them (Renee, Erin and Vanessa) having come down (up? I have no idea) to visit us for a couple of days, so I was really rather thankful.

 The afternoon soon turned into night, and hydrating liquids turned into alcohol. Bill and Britt decided to grace us with their venerable presence, and a night full of merriment was had. The highlight of the party was definitely the night time swim, though this strangely also contained the lowlight: Brucy taking off his Speedo’s and going in naked. He was complaining about someone giving him wedgies, but it was really just an excuse for him to do his thing, which unfortunately consists entirely of being nude.

 This being essentially my last day at Shoal, I think it is time for some reminiscing. Actually, scratch that- how about some anti-reminiscing? And by that, I mean looking at the future. Odds are that we will all rarely hang out together in the future; Chris is moving to Sydney, Brucy lives in Newcastle, I don’t like Brennan, and so on. We’ll all probably get real jobs in a couple of years, taking us to different places, perhaps on different sides of the world. Once or twice, for potential weddings and the likes, we’ll all meet up again and get incredibly drunk, have more deep and meaningful conversations, and drive a car into a hotel pool. But as we wake the next morning, our view of the world clouded by world-class hangovers, we will ask ourselves: is this the last time? Will I ever see these friends again? Will we ever bond like this again?

 And as we lie contemplating the definite length of our lives, we may shed a silent tear, wiped away only when we are mercilessly teased about it. But hey- that’s life. We’ve been through it before, we’ll go through it again, and on the way, we’ll eat at MacDonald’s about 4000 times.