The Barbershop

Yes, the title does in fact describe where I went today. It’s part of a new blog direction I’m taking- “What’s new and mundane in my very boring life”. But unfortunately, this does not actually fit either of the descriptives of the blog, for I have been going to get my head sheared (yes, sheared) by random strangers for years, and today’s experience was actually semi-interesting, in an awkward kind of way.

See, my hair is the kind that looks normal when it’s cut for approximately the next three days; after this, all hell breaks loose. It explodes into a kind of surfer dude- jewfro- hat hair amalgamation, which is probably not the most desirable combination of hair qualities. Ever heard a shampoo commercial advertise its jewfro potential? Didn’t think so.

Anyway, I went to Umina (don’t ask why) and decided to get it cut, right there and then. Of course, this decision was made easier by the fact that West Street, the main street of Umina, has about 50 shops lined up along it, of which at least 11 are hairdressers. And while I’m on it, are they really dressing my hair? Isn’t it more the opposite? It’s not like they’re crocheting me a beanie with a bonbon on it (which I would definitely wear, irrespective of the weather).

So I decided to go to “Nathan’s Barbershop”; it had one of those old-fashioned candy-striped poles in it, which I’m a sucker for. However, the epynomous haircutter refused to tame my wild locks, and instead I got stuck with an ageing woman (its not an insult- literally everyone ages constantly, in case you hadn’t noticed). As I took my seat and explained what I wanted done (two inches off all round, thin it out with the “chomping shears”) she merely grunted, and got to work. Her fingers flying, my hair was soon just a puddle on the ground, if said puddle was made out of hair and not water. Beads of perspiration dripped down her furrowed brow as she expertly trimmed; beads of sweat dripped down me because I’m a prodigiously sweaty guy. As the finishing touches were applied, I stared in wonderment at the new man in the mirror in front of me, and once dusted off, paid my charge and left a happy, relatively unhairy man. So what’s wrong with this stupidly embellished story?

Well, during the whole time she cut my hair, she didn’t say a single word to me! Not one! For half an hour, I was forced to sit there in silence and not endure the tiptoeing nature of smalltalk. That’s bliss, you say. But you are wrong, because there is no such thing as silence in a hair salon (there I go again). There should be awkwardness due to too much conversation, and not a lack of it. But no, she wouldn’t even ask a simple, “So you’re 19. You’re getting your hair cut at 10 in the morning. What the hell are you doing with your life?”

And for those of you who feel that I should have made an effort to intiate, you’re crazy. What are we, ordinary citizens of the world, meant to say to these people? Here’s a sample of how smalltalk fares when initiated by the customer:

CUSTOMER: So, how has your day been?

BARBER: Are you actually serious? Can you not grasp the fact that my work is so inherently self-explanatory that even a small child would know how my day has been? (voice rising) How has my day been? It’s been great; having to listen to idiotic questions like this one is my passion! I’ve always wanted to do this; I remember when I was little, and I’d tell my mother, “When I grow up, I want to listen to inane strangers rabbit on about their pitiful lives, and when I get sick of this and ignore them, the barrage of questioning regarding my existence will just be the proverbial icing on the cake!

(Yelling)

NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY STORE!

Nickelback and AC/DC- One show only

Let’s get one thing straight: Nickelback are bad. It doesn’t matter what tangible measures you use to gauge their talent, the end result is the same- unless, of course, you value commercial success above and beyond anything else. In which case, I’d like you to stop reading now (I’m joking- please read, I’m desperate for the attention!). On the other hand, AC/DC (it’s a shame we can’t replicate the lightning bolt in type form) are regarded as rock legends, instrumental in the mainstream recognition of heavy metal. They too have sold unbelievable amounts of music, yet retain their musical credibility for their originality.

 But is there really such a gap between these two bands? Are Nickelback a modern incarnation of AC/DC; are AC/DC perhaps a devolutionary Nickleback? As a long-time Acca Dacca basher (since when was a nickname deemed worthy if it was longer than the original name?), I would argue that the bands are, in essence, one and the same. Here’s why.

 The musical origins of both bands remain murky, mysteries wrapped inside enigmas (translation: I don’t know how they started, and frankly don’t care). But this I can be sure of: their names, whilst semi-memorable, were derived from some of the most anti-rock activities ever. The name AC/DC? Depending on which story you believe, they got it from either a vacuum cleaner or a sewing machine. To paraphrase Bob Dylan, how can the name of such a band be in the palm of some fool’s hand? What kind of extenuating circumstances causes the heaviest rock band ever (at the time) to feel that a brand name of a domestic appliance would accurately convey their MO?

Similarly, Nickelback supposedly got their name from a band member’s stint at Starbucks; when a customer paid for a coffee, he’d give them their change with “and here’s your nickel back!” I can’t say that I expected too much more from them, but once again, isn’t this a really, really dumb name? It’s memorable, I’ll give them that; though hepatitis-memorable isn’t the kind of memorable anyone wants (exception: Tommy Lee).

Another aspect of Nickelback that you probably didn’t know or care about is that they have a pair of brothers in the band: Chad and Mike Kroeger. And being a true blue Aussie (i.e. drinking an ice-cold stubbie as you simultaneously read this and check out your ute’s siiiiiick V8 engine), I’d assume that you knew about the Angus/ Malcolm Young parallel that exists in the AC/DC universe. So what, you say. Well, I know that including your younger brother in your jamming sessions is a sure-fire way to get in Mum’s good books, but doesn’t it stymie your musical potential as a band? I mean, all the greats- Beatles, Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin etc- they mightn’t have got along famously on a personal level, but when it came to music, they were kindred spirits. Now how can that happen when two of your guys are continually trying to outdo each other and argue over who gets the top bunk? I don’t care what anyone says; brotherly competitiveness cannot be overcome, and thus is detrimental to a band’s progress.

An undeniable fact about Nickelback is that basically all of their music sounds the same. Now it’s granted that I’ve never actually listened to their entire discography, but the ones I’ve heard, the ones everyone’s heard, are effectively carbon copies in so many respects that it isn’t even funny. (Okay, maybe it is a little funny.) Each song starts off with some heavily distorted guitar playing a few basic chords, then follows the verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge pattern, culminating with a rousing chorus taking the place of the proverbial icing on the cake. Only thing is, the icing’s made of shit.

But here’s the thing: AC/DC’s songs? They all pretty much follow the same format. A few months ago, when I actually had a job, I was regularly subjected to the horrors of commercial radio for 12 hours at a time. Generally, there would be a gross overabundance of mega-hits in their prime, mega-hits on the decline, and mega-hits from the 80’s and 70’s. (Actually, the songs from the 80’s weren’t mega-hits as much as they were just randomly selected songs to take the baby boomers back to a younger, skinnier version of themselves. And since every station is run by baby boomers, these songs were played basically non-stop.) Occasionally there would be a half-decent Pearl Jam or Bob Dylan track played, but that’s beside the point. I discovered during this time that AC/DC were played incessantly, as if there were some kind of local content rule which required at least ten of their songs be heard each day. So when they released a new album last year, the lead single was obviously played non-stop. But my first thought upon hearing it? “Wow, haven’t heard this one in a while!”

The point of this: their songs are horrifically repetitive.

So if Nickelback are essentially the evolutionary AC/DC, how did they come to be so maligned? If you say AC/DC were the innovators of hard rock, I can argue that Nickelback established kid-friendly rock (apologies to Matchbox Twenty). Sure, the latter mightn’t hold much esteem in the music canon, but surely Chad Kroeger and co. deserve some respect for squeezing every single inch of their musical talent and making high-selling, tremendously crappy records.

My theory is that because AC/DC made it big in America, we have placed them on a pedestal- a totally undeserved accolade seeing as Nickelback are Canadian, and their success in the USA is as unlikely as Mugabe and Tsvangirai having Christmas lunch together. Since America is a notoriously self-absorbed country on the whole, to break into its market either requires impressive musical talent, a stupid gimmick, or a combination of both. AC/DC fell into the third category- as well as being a great guitarist, Angus Young brought back the school uniform look, then kept on wearing it for the next 30 years, even though it was as out of fashion as Hammerpants (girls, they’re ridiculous!). They also benefited from the Kurt Cobain corollary- that when the frontman of the band dies, their musical output becomes ten times more appreciated- especially when the band releases their defining album just 5 months later. Actually, there is a strange phenomena relating to this within AC/DC; whenever you ask someone who the singer of AC/DC is/was, more often than not they’ll say Bon Scott. Um, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but he was only with the band for about 5 years, they hardly had any hits with him, and they only really took off when Brian Johnston took over on vocals; it really seems like an egregious overstatement to say Bon was ‘the heart and soul’ of a band that has continued to prosper well after he left them.

Back to the point. Since we fancy our country as a mini-America, AC/DC’s acceptance into their musical culture has massively inflated their importance, much like Jet when they inexplicably achieved the same. But Nickelback’s popularity has led to backlash and ridicule, highlighted by Chad Kroeger’s JFK-style assassination (no, this didn’t happen- just checking if you’re still reading). Regardless, as long as both bands continue to make music, I will continue to ignore commercial radio completely. And could someone please make Rob Thomas mute? Thankyou.

Hayley versus Stan

I know that very few, if any, of you care, and frankly I don’t expect you to. But it’s down to the last two in this year’s Australian Idol, and since I’ve actually watched about half the shows, I thought I’d do a breakdown of the two contestants, Hayley and Stan.

SINGING ABILITY

Stan has a great voice; velvety smooth, it’s definitely in the mould of an R & B superstar (think Usher with a neck tattoo). He’s the male counterpart to Paulini, even down to the judges mocking him about his dress sense and weight. Hayley, on the other hand, is not in the competition for her singing (as that obviously makes so much sense); she sounds like a supergeneric rock/pop starlet, except with the range of Leonard Cohen. As I type this, she’s singing her debut single, and I’ve gotta be honest, she can’t hit the notes. When you can’t sing a song that has been designed specifically for your voice, there’s something wrong.

Winner: Stan

IMAGE

Image may seem like a stupid, unnecessary criterion, but the judges seem to think it’s imperative to popularity, and to a certain extent I agree. The Hives are well-known for their matching suits; Angus Young still rocks out in a school uniform despite being a geriatric codger; Britney Spears wears nothing, and people love her for it. In regards to the contestants: Stan seems to be all over the place with his style, one song wearing ill-fitting waistcoats, the next rocking a dress that some brilliant prankster has convinced him is actually a shirt. He is well and truly dominated in this category by Hayley, who worked out early on that to simply wear every piece of item for sale at the surf shop where she works would do the trick. And amazingly, it does!

Stan’s marketing nous is more developed than you may think, though, as his neck tattoo allows him to tap into the burgeoning culture of “inking it up” (yes, it’s become so big that it is no longer a subculture). Though since the target audience of this show is 12 year old girls, maybe this isn’t the smartest idea- it’s probably more scary, and less endearing, to them. Hayley doesn’t have any tatts, but she does have superb bags under her eyes, meaning she is able to relate to the drug addicts of Australia in a way Stan could never dream of- mainly because he doesn’t do drugs.

Winner: Hayley

ABILITY TO BALANCE AN EGG IN A SPOON

I think Hayley would probably win this due to her skateboarding proclivity, and hence better balance.

Winner: Hayley

POPULARITY

Alright, whoever wins this is ultimately the winner of the show, thus making the previous three categories obsolete. Sorry for wasting your time guys!

Stan is undeniably popular; hell, even I’ve thought about voting for him once or twice. But that’s exactly the problem- I’d only vote for him to help him out against Hayley, because it seems as though the entire audience is in love with her. Honestly, it’s surreal. She is, hands down, the most popular contestant in Idol history. And for that simple, blindingly obvious reason, she will win.

Crying Lightning, Hidden Telephone Book

I finally got around to listening to the new Arctic Monkeys album this week. When asking what it was like, I had been answered 9 times out of 10 with one simple word- “Dark”. But what did that mean? How can music be unequivocally described as dark, especially when done by those peppy Scouse lads? Where did my pants go? (Oops, wrong blog.) To answer this question, I went where only several million men have gone before, and gave “Humbug” a listen.

ONE HOUR LATER…

Alright, I’ve just finished the album, and I have one thing to say: dark is the wrong choice of word- its gothic. It’s unlike anything Alex Turner and co. have written before, but then again it’s exactly what you’d expect, if that makes any sense. See, their debut LP was full of outstandingly simple guitar riffs, satirical references to pop culture, and whiny Poms. Their follow-up was equally great on the riff front, just as clever with the lyrics, but seemed not as light and indie as the previous one had been. So it stands to reason that their new album would be riff-tastic, bitingly clever and full of stuff Edgar Allen Poe might have written. Which it is, but also is not. (Now that definitely doesn’t make any sense.)

The opener, My Propeller, is honestly scary. Alex Turner’s unmistakeable accent is replaced by an uncharacteristically deep and haunting voice; I’d compare it to another singer’s if I weren’t such a bad writer. It strives to set a mood, as any good opener should do, and would succeed if not for one small lapse. Halfway through, Turner decides he’s had enough of being spooky, and randomly bursts out an elongated moan of “Momentary synergy”. Now that’s just silly; it makes the song seem fit for a business conference, but not one of Britain’s best talents.

The next song, Crying Lightning, is probably the standout track, and was deservedly released as a single. Random fact: the film clip was directed by Richard Ayoade, known primarily as Moss from The IT Crowd. Starring in one of the best sitcoms this decade, and then directing the Arctic Monkeys? I am officially green with envy.

This is then followed up with Dangerous Animals, which brought on a bout of déjà vu for me. Why? Because the third track on Favourite Worst Nightmare is titled “D is for Dangerous”, and this current one simply spells out “D-A-N-G-E-R-O-U-S” in its chorus. A terrible song, redeemed only slightly by its riff, it got me worried that Turner’s lyrics had lost their mojo; wasn’t spelling out the title something that idiots like Fergie did?

This concern abated slightly in the next song as he spoke of “night time phantasms”, which I’d like to believe is something Fergie would never have heard of, let alone use in a song. It also got me thinking of the other day’s Entertainment Tonight. Usually a truly awful show (they’re still going on about Michael Jackson!), it brought a small piece of heaven to my life the other day when Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz were interviewed. As Cruise moved a light out of Diaz’ way, she gushed about his gentlemanly attitude, describing him as “chivalrous”. Or, at least she tried to do this; being a Hollywood airhead, she couldn’t really pronounce it, and so it came out as “ch-chival…chivaly….shimmy”, until the interviewer graciously rescued her. World-class comedy.

The rest of the album is a slight blur thanks to my lack of retention, though I did manage to detect a bit of an influence from Rush, which was weird. The guitars kept on riffing, but the lyrics failed to deliver; Turner seemed more abstract in his thoughts, and not really interested in taking his usual Bob Dylan, tell-us-a-story route. There were, of course, still glimpses of his wonderful wit, culminating in the hilariously subversive “What came first? The chicken or the dickhead?” If I were to guess, I’d say the chicken.

The rest of the band performs admirably (I guess). The guitarist is always improving, and seems to be turning into a new-age Tom Morello (or at the very least, a poor man’s Matt Bellamy. Or in the worst possible scenario, The Edge.) The bassist….what can you say about him? He sure knows how to use those fingers? Nah, that sounds like I had a sexual encounter with him, something I categorically deny right here and now.

The drummer (Matt Helders) has evolved, transforming the frenetic hi-hatting of his youth into a more diverse sound (meaning he has finally added tom toms to his kit). But even he is susceptible to a wild turn on this album, as the final two or three tracks seem as though he is possessed by Lars Ulrich’s spirit, resulting in a military-like backbeat. To me, this is obviously a dastardly ploy courtesy of the United States Army- the pseudo-subliminal nature of the drumming patterns are an attempt to get America’s hip, indie youth to sign up with Uncle Sam. Then again, I have been accused of looking WAY too far into things.

So overall, it’s a quality album. It would probably be an accomplishment for any other band, it’s just that the Monkeys have set themselves such a high standard that anything remotely different is going to be received in a lukewarm manner by their fans (i.e. me). Of course, it probably still got rave reviews from the so-called music critics, but we all know that this is just a misguided attempt, on their half, to stay cool, fresh, and relevant- all things they never were in the first place.

Facebook Rantings- Part 2

 

Sorry for the lack of updates, but I’ve been studying rather hard for my end-of-semester tests. I’ve still got two to go, but they’re only Marketing and Philosophy, so study isn’t strictly necessary (or so I tell myself). But there’s something that has come to my attention thanks to the new Facebook. It’s the fact that these groups seem to be popping up which, seemingly devoted to a worthy cause, are doing so in an aggressive, totally unprovoked manner. And if you think this is boring, THEN SHUT THE HELL UP AND READ OR I’LL COME SHOOT YOU.

But all jokes aside (relax- it was actually a joke!), I have had it with these groups. Example: I recently got “invited” (because I’m that special) to a group standing for the allowance and recognition of gay marriage. Being a non-bigoted kind of guy, I have no problems with issues like these, as they are merely indicative of modern society’s transgression towards a more welcoming stance. I, however, decided not to accept the invite, purely because of the group’s title: “Against Gay Marriage? Then Don’t Get One and Shut The Fuck Up”. I know that whoever created this group and/or joined it believes in gay marriage, and that the right to it shouldn’t be impeded by a bunch of backwards-thinking rednecks, but doesn’t having a title like this just scream of hypocrisy? It’s basically saying that if people don’t support gay marriage, then they have no right nor reason to say as much- which is exactly the kind of narrow-mindedness that caused this whole kerfuffle in the first place!

Another group I have seen is called “The Letter H is pronounced ‘aitch’ not ‘haitch’ you illiterate fuck head”. Again with the swearing! Just because people pronounce a letter a certain way doesn’t make them illiterate- I say it as ‘haitch’, and I think writing a blog is evidence enough of my literateness (though I do tend to make up words to suit my needs). And how does pronouncing a word incorrectly make you illiterate? Just because both involve words does not mean they are correlative; paintball and painting both use the same thing, but you wouldn’t brand Michelangelo as a terrible artist if you found out he possessed a truly horrendous shot.

So Facebook users, please calm down. Your beliefs are important, but forcing them on others with the zealousness of the 15^th century Catholic Church is just rude.

Another note: Why is Harry Potter so popular? Half the Facebook groups revolve around it, everything on MLIA is tangential to him, yet I haven’t discussed the series with anyone in depth since the last book came out. Is there a burgeoning sub-culture of die-hard Potterites out there, or is it just a guilty pleasure?

One more note: Facebook does have one redeeming feature (well, apart from the connecting to others and ease of planning events): the hack. In case you are illiterate, this is where someone, often after saying something inflammatory, is mercilessly torn to shreds by another individual/group of people. When it happens, it is a thing of rare beauty; to see it unfold in real time is akin to watching a masterpiece be painted. And yes, this is very sad.

Zombies

Irrespective of whether you love or hate the Twilight saga (HATE! HATE! HATE!), you will most likely acquiesce with the idea that vampires are the most prominent mythological/horror creatures in the entertainment industry. Billion dollar movies are made about them, 4000 television shows revolving around them are currently screening on Go!; even the Arctic Monkeys have a song titled “A Vampire Weekend”. But guess what? You’re wrong.

(Well, unless you guessed that they were superseded only by zombies. In which case, bravo.)

Yes, ever since George Romero’s zombie film duo of Night of the Living Dead and Dawn of the Dead, our fascination with the living undead has grow exponentially. Whereas we once saw them as mere horror movie villains, the domain of zombies has expanded to include such things as music (The Zombies, Rob Zombie), literature (Harry Potter- those “Inferi” things sound awfully like zombies) and food (Zombie Chews, possibly the most teeth-unfriendly lolly ever made. Once it got stuck in your mouth, it was good riddance to the affected teeth.) Even with the rise of Robert Pattinson and his unshaven mug, the Zombie Renaissance has continued to gather momentum, and has actually led to the recent rewriting of a literary classic. The book in question, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, has been given a modern twist with the release of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, a look at how Mr. Darcy and his associates would have coped had there been an eminent zombie invasion on their hands. This is quite possibly one of the greatest concepts I have ever heard of- in the near future we could possibly have tomes such as Catcher in the Rye with Cheetahs, or War and Peace and The Abominable Snowman. With the creation of these mashups, Encore/Numb would finally be put to shame.

But why is it that such an affinity for zombies must exist? Well, not to be philosophical, but I believe that it is all due to our inherent wanting to know if afterlife, or perhaps reincarnation, actually exists. Now I know that there are atheists out there who may dismiss this notion, but really, they’re just fooling themselves. No one naturally thinks that when you die, your only further impact is to provide the ground with some nice phosphorus, as that’s just way too depressing. No, we want to know if we can come back to life- and if we can remain as ourselves. Hell, cryogenics has made billions perpetuating this concept.

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, the original precursor to modern-day zombies, dealt with this through the reanimation of a golem-like monster. The rampant killings and general misbehaviour of the monster (several times, he neglects to flush the toilet after using it) leads us to an interesting philosophical question- if we could indeed come back as ourselves, would we be human? Or in a more theological manner, would we have a soul?

So here’s a breakdown on the attributes of the typical zombie in modern cinema, and how these act as a sort of answer to the aforementioned question.

Zombie characteristic	Pseudo-Freudian analysis
Mindless, unremorseful killing machines bent on cannibalism	We humans have morals. To come back from the dead, we would lose thesemorals, and thus be capable of doing the most unforgiveable act possible, something only a tribe in Papua New Guinea and the 1972 Uruguayan Rugby Team have ever participated in (and only one of those was voluntary)
Live, hunt and feast in large groups	Living humans often pride themselves on their independence, with “ability to work effectively on my own” featuring in my resume. If we were to be reanimated, we would lose this skill, and instead be forced to live in a herd- it’s basically downgrading from a mighty shark to a lowly wildebeest.
BRAINS! BRAINS! BRAINS!	Zombies love to feast on brains because they want to learn about the human condition. If you don’t have a soul, you will effectively become that student in your tutorial who, despite never asking any questions, manages a high distinction in any assessment AT WORST. And no one likes that guy.
They live in the dark	This symbolises the “in the dark” attitude of zombies; they know of little other than a nasty killing mechanism, and are not “enlightened” to the nuances of humanity. It is also possible that by eating brains in the dark, they can at least pretend they’re eating caviar.
They’re really, really ugly	Dead people are ugly! They decompose! It’s really difficult to get a date if you do actually come back from the dead. Especially given your propensity to devour your date’s brains.

So from this table, it can be gleaned that it is indeed impossible to come back from the dead AND have a soul. Which means we have to destroy Walt Disney!

What is the best chocolate?

For centuries, humankind has asked one question of confectioners: What is the best type of chocolate? Well, using my patented “Pros versus Cons” method, today I will discover the answer to this age-old mystery, and in the process of doing so, enrage two-thirds of chocolate lovers.

Disclaimer: I ignored ones like marble, chocolate with fillings, and fruit and nut. Because really, who honestly enjoys fruit and nut? Chocolate-covered peanuts are good, and the same goes for the raisin variety, but both in the same block? It’s akin to tuna and Nutella being equally delicious on a sandwich- except that people aren’t idiotic enough to put them on the same piece of bread.

White Chocolate

PROS

• It’s white, so you know it’s got to have milk in it
• Has the greatest potential of any type of chocolate: a good white chocolate will obliterate any competitor
• If it melts on your white t-shirt, it doesn’t show!
• Adopted nickname of Jason Williams- NBA player, and possibly the most street-skilled white guy in the entire league.

CONS

• Dangerously high in fat; at least, moreso than the other two types
• Bad white chocolate is, more often than not, actually just really old milk
• The preferred chocolate of Neo-Nazis and the KKK

Verdict: Whilst a tasty option, the fact that white chocolate was originally made as a way of getting rid of excess cocoa butter diminishes its place in the pantheon. Also, don’t eat this outdoors; the likelihood of being accused of bigotry is unbelievably high.

7 bananas.

Milk Chocolate

PROS

• It’s called milk chocolate for a reason!
• The most popular form of chocolate in history, slightly edging out the wonderful alliteration of Neanderthalean charcoal chocolate
• Consistently brilliant, irrespective of the brand
• Barack Obama’s chocolate of choice (unverified)

CONS

• Still really, really fatty- if they made a “Super Size Me”-style documentary about a guy eating only milk chocolate for a month, he’d get diabetes three days in
• When I said “consistently brilliant”, there was an exception: Hershey’s Chocolate, which tastes oddly tangy- not something I actively seek
• So populist, man- hipsters are way too cool for this shit

Verdict: Easily the most reliable form of chocolate, milk rarely fails to deliver. The common ideologies it manifests, though, may be off-putting to our culture’s non-conformists, who would rather eat the independent thinker’s chocolate of choice, dark, thereby paradoxically conforming themselves. Sound confusing? Well that’s because it’s stupid.

(Note: Have you tried eating a block of the stuff used for cooking? It’s nasty.)

11 bananas.

Dark Chocolate

PROS

• The healthiest option; doctors keep saying that it lowers the risk of cardiovascular problems
• Not as sweet as the other two, which, using the logic of beer, makes it exponentially more manly
• Morgan Tsvangarai’s chocolate of choice (again, this is totally unverified)

CONS

• Its proliferation has led to Lindt making those “85% Cocoa” dark varieties- quite possibly the foulest tasting chocolate in the world.
• Isn’t chocolate an indulgence? So shouldn’t our indulgences not really benefit our health? It’s similar to if there was a type of cigarette that, instead of causing lung cancer, actually increased our aerobic capacity. In other words: it’s not on!
• In relation to the logic of beer, it is not advisable for females- when you have to shave your chest girls, you know you’ve gone too far.
• Quite possibly also Robert Mugabe’s chocolate of choice

Verdict: In this age of super-obesity and health-consciousness, it is probably the right choice. However, if you live by the self-fulfilling motto “Life’s too short”, then it immediately is replaced by a bacon sandwich, only the bread is replaced by two slabs of milk chocolate. And why is this motto self-fulfilling? Basically because if you live life to the fullest, and indulge at every possible opportunity, then your life will indeed be too short, as you will die of a cocaine overdose at the age of 24. Whereas if you take the “Life’s a bit of journey, isn’t it?” approach, you will take things as they come, be sensible about your decisions, and lead a sheltered, unexciting existence up until the ripe old age of 87. You may not be any wiser about the world, but at least you got to see the first Aboriginal Prime Minister!

9 bananas.

So the winner is: Milk chocolate! Take that Arts students!

Paris Hilton Non-Sex Tape

Hollywood loves a bit of Hollywood.

 Whilst this statement might seem blatantly obvious, it’s hard to fathom just how narcissistic Hollywood is. For years and years, they have fooled audiences into believing that what we are seeing is an “inside look” at their business, when really we’re just getting the glorified, censored version.

 Why am I saying this? Well, mainly because of two recent navel-gazing projects that have come out of Hollywood. The first is the movie Tropic Thunder. Directed (and starring) Ben Stiller, it is surprisingly good (when you take into consideration the rapid downward slope his career has been on). It’s fairly funny in patches, mostly those featuring Robert Downey Jnr.’s Australian playing an African American character- especially hilarious is the following interaction between him and Jay Baruchel:

 Baruchel: Didn’t you read the script?

Downey: I don’t read the script. The script reads me.

Baruchel: What the hell does that even mean?

 Tropic Thunder also features a great deal of action, which easily satisfies the minimum required explosions per blockbuster (also known as the Michael Bay Rule. On the other hand, it is a Ben Stiller movie, which results in a main stream of humour being his impersonation of a disabled farmhand. So as a whole, Tropic Thunder is reasonably entertaining, yet ultimately forgettable.

 But…

 Since it is a movie about making a movie (sort of), Hollywood has ostensibly upgraded the film from “a slightly above average comedy” to “a genius satire on the excesses of show-business”. This inexplicable glorification culminated in Robert Downey’s nomination for Best Supporting Actor at the Academy Awards; as his character in the film was a perennial Oscar nominee, this provided me with the possibly the most delicious irony I have ever heard. Nevertheless, Tropic Thunder somehow managed to sneak into many a film critic’s top ten of the year.

 Similarly, the television show Entourage deals with the life of a Hollywood star and the eponymous guys who live with and work for him. This program plays up the hedonistic aspect of a Hollywood lifestyle, showcases the dirtier, and often lampoons the nature of celebrity- an intriguing premise, especially to the self-absorbed business it was pitched to. Unfortunately, the show seems to have taken the easy way out, and gone with a Simpsonsesque approach (the actions of characters seem to hardly have any consequences), though sadly it lacks the satirical social commentary of the legendary animation. In addition, the acting is substandard- Jeremy Piven seems to be the only one putting in any effort, and as a result looks like the reincarnation of Marlon Brando (Adrian Grenier would be a stoned Steven Seagal, minus the martial arts skills). Simply put, the show is popcorn television- easy to digest, but unsubstantial and horrible-tasting when burnt. Seriously, is there a worse thing to do to popcorn than burn it? I’d rather eat the uncooked kernels than devour a blackened one.

Both of these endeavours, whilst sometimes glamorising the entertainment industry, often tear into the idiotic nature of showbusiness with aplomb. And though we know egoism runs rampant in Hollywood, wouldn’t the financial backers draw a line somewhere, at the very least to keep up the façade that this industry is a modern day utopia? You’d think so, yet there is a small detail that I haven’t discussed yet: that any publicity is good publicity. And who’s to blame for this? Paris Hilton.

 I’m sure you all know who Paris Hilton is, but do you actually know why this is so? Here’s arguably the top five reasons she is a pop culture identity in Australia:

1. The sex tape that originally catapulted her to fame- One Night in Paris (probably the greatest porn title in history)
2. The Simple Life, which thankfully brought the incredibly talented Nicole Ritchie into the public spotlight
3. Having sex with Mark Philipoussis and resultantly breaking up his relationship with Australia’s darling, Delta Goodrem (who then stole Brian McFadden from his wife, possibly for karmic reasons)
4. A horrible, horrible single- so bad I’ve blocked the title out of my mind, and do not dare look it up on the WikiBible
5. Having sex with Millsy of Australian Idol fame (fame is used in the loosest possible way here)

 So three of the top five reasons involve sex. Possibly due to the desexualisation of sex, she became famous, despite having no discernible talents (fornicating with random guys is not a talent in my opinion. At least, in my sober opinion.) Regardless, the popularity of this vacuous heiress has caused a rethinking in PR worldwide- essentially, Hollywood sees Entourage and Tropic Thunder not as disparaging comments on the state of their industry, but rather as a way of increasing its ubiquity.

 In a way, Paris Hilton is to blame for the world’s problems. Then again, I’m just being melodramatic.

John Mayer is God/Satan- you decide

 

When you’re dreaming with a broken heart
The waking up is the hardest part
You roll outta bed and down on your knees
And for the moment you can hardly breathe
Wondering was she really here?
Is she standing in my room?
No she’s not, ’cause she’s gone, gone, gone, gone, gone….

These words form the opening lyrics to John Mayer’s “Dreaming with a Broken Heart”, a song off his most recent album Continuum. It deals with the heartbreak of losing someone you love, and would strike me as quite poetic and touching if not for the fact that Mayer sleeps with anything that moves. But have you ever actually wondered why the work of so many songwriters seems to revolve around love, loss and heartbreak? Is it because these are universal themes, easily translatable throughout the world’s culture? In short, yes and no. Allow me to explain.

When the typical singer-songwriter begins their career, they are more often than not completely broke. This could be attributed to a number of things: too much time spent playing the guitar, not enough emphasis on formal education, or perhaps because of a healthily growing acid addiction. They may be stuck in a dead-end job, earning just enough money to pay the rent for a crummy apartment. Sound clichéd? Well maybe that’s because they’re true.

Bereft of a Wordsworth-like appreciation for nature, the artist will put these depressing scenarios into song form. If they’re lucky, these songs will be bought by millions of people. Suddenly, the struggling songwriter is now an international superstar, playing to thousands of adoring crowds. Their life has undergone a complete transformation; private jets replace public transport, groupies replace prostitutes, and caviar replaces baked beans (which, in the infinitesimally minute chance I ever become famous, I will still eat on occasion, smothered over 8 pieces of toast. Some things will never lose their appeal to me.). But soon enough, the evil record company (and isn’t it about time we stop referring to them as “record companies?) demands a new album be written and released. The fabled writer’s bloc strikes; having escaped from the rat race, they soon realise that the thing they despised was in fact the very thing that inspired them. Unfortunately, the songwriter will be much too egotistical to allow this line of thinking to permeate their music, and thus will be faced with two viable options: either write an album whilst high and hope it is hailed as ground-breaking and innovative, or write one about love.

Now why is it that the artist cannot write about anything else? Mainly because their insulated lifestyles prevent them from doing the things that make life great (or that actually make up life). Things like grocery shopping, picking up the kids from school, and mowing the grass. Alright, maybe they’re better off not doing these things, as their time is now spent mingling with the bourgeoisie. But people don’t want to hear this interpreted through song; they’ll watch television about this lifestyle non-stop, yet when they can’t actually get a glimpse of Kim Kardashian’s cleavage their attention plummets.

(On a side note, and to be totally honest, I am fascinated with the Kardashians, or to be more precise and pretentious, the concept of the Kardashians. In no other era would they have been known outside of their hometown. However, they are now well and truly a piece of today’s pop culture landscape, in spite of having no discernible talents whatsoever. Amazing!)

But now back to the idea at hand. So the songwriter writes an album about love, or more specifically, girls*. Why do they do this? Mainly because it’s the easy way out. Whining about the other sex is a skill the majority of our species has. Being able to convert this into a melodic pop tune, however, is a talent only a special few have. So when John Mayer sings “Tell me why, Georgia, why?” the listener feels as they can relate to Mayer; even he has his problems with the fairer sex.

So maybe you’re wondering why I’m picking on John Mayer? Well, it just so happens that he’s releasing a new album next month, strangely titled Battle Studies. I say strangely titled only because when I checked out the track listing, it became abundantly clear that he was not talking about the real-life battle soldiers are fighting everyday. Rather, it is more from the Pat Benatar, “Love is a Battlefield” school of thought. For an instant, I was disappointed**; after all, he’d promised a new sound on this album, one closer to the Stevie Ray Vaughan and BB King-influenced blues that I knew he was capable of performing. But then I came to a sudden realisation. For, as much as he changed his musical style, John Mayer’s lyrics would always continue to be about a girl. And for this reason, he is the music industry’s greatest phony.

You see, John Mayer doesn’t pine for a singular girl- he wants conquests. He wants the biggest belt in the world. He wants so many notches on his bedpost that he has to go and buy a new one every second week. He is like Chris Klein’s character in “Just Friends”- he writes a nice song about a girl, and then interchanges the title of the song depending on who he is singing it to, in case this turns them suddenly into an animalistic sexual being that will bang like a barn door. This whole thing with Jennifer Aniston? He’s faking it. I mean, notice how he just got back together with her right before his album is out? It’s sickening.

Having said that, I still love John Mayer.

*This is why Katy Perry is popular. Writing a song about dabbling in lesbianism? Hot!

**Should probably mention that I’m actually a John Mayer fan. If you can ignore the lyrics, you’ll see that he’s one of the better musicians in pop/rock today. However, his “O-face” method of playing the guitar is incredibly disturbing to watch.

 

Fat Cops

In case you hadn’t noticed, Australia (and to a similar extent, the developed world) has gotten fat. There are myriad reasons for this, including (but not limited to) an increasingly sedentary lifestyle, the development of the “Fast Food Nation” that Eric Schlosser detailed in his identically titled expose (a brilliantly eye-opening read), and the overabundance of food at baseball games. I’m not kidding about that third one either; there’s a fantastic article (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=hruby/091014&sportCat=mlb) at the ESPN website about this subtle trend. It would have been my favourite article of the week had Bill Simmons not posted his NBA preview a few days later. But that is really, really, really beside the point. In fact, I haven’t even got to the point yet. So please let me elaborate, for you shall die from the suspense if I do not do as such.

We have heard much about the “fat police”. These mystical creatures, whose real identities have remained unknown, are supposedly cracking down on the causes of our obesity epidemic, in a futile attempt to stem the flow of people going from “normies” to “fatties” (self-conscious large people, I apologise). But dear reader, you will be amongst the first in the world to know of their true identities, as I discovered it for myself last Tuesday. So sit back in your plush leather seat, and brace yourself.

It all started when I was walking to Central Station. Having completed my classes for the day, I was off to my home, and with a spring in my step I strolled down one of the many wonderful back streets of Sydney (if you ever get lost in Sydney, it’s a blessing in disguise, trust me). Whistling merrily to myself (and to the bemusement of others), I noticed a pair of police, one man and one woman, walking towards me. As a single bead of sweat swam down my face* I shifted over to the side of the footpath closer to the road, in anticipation more than anything else. Yet as I walked forwards, the two previously diminutive figures that I had spotted all of a sudden grew, like they were those spongey dinosaurs that you got as a kid and sprayed with water to enlarge in size**. As we approached the point of intersection, I found myself moving closer and closer to the road, as these two gargantuans took up more and more of the pathway***. Upon crossing paths with them, I suddenly lost my footing; I had been forced on to the road! Treading on the gritty tarmac, my extra-sensory perception went into overload and I found myself stumbling wildly, as if I had just been kicked out of Blush nightclub. Pivoting with alarming difficulty, I craned my neck to observe for any oncoming traffic. And wouldn’t you know it, bearing up on me is a great big dirty Hummer, oblivious to my existence (as Hummer drivers can only see other Hummer drivers. Little known fact.) Praying to the Lord Almighty, I was struck a mortal blow by the 4 ton weight of the car, and paralysis was instant. Cruelly, I was still alive at this point, for in the throes of death, we are often required to look back on the accomplishments of our life. My greatest accomplishment? Creating a blog that was actually read by someone outside of immediate family.

As I lay prone, the police turned around to see what all the commotion was about. Seeing me motionless on the road, they quickly scurried over; well, as quickly as their massive frames would allow them to. Sensing I was in dire trouble, they did what they were trained to do: put me down. Emptying two cartridges of bullets into the back of my head, they laughed quite disconcertingly, and as I passed into the afterlife, their cackles rang through my ears like an  inconsiderate bogan’s ringtone.

What is the point of all this? Well, dear reader, the point is this- that the fat police are, indeed, simply fat police.

Now, to quote a (sadly)unknown Skyhooks song, I may be living in the 70’s, but aren’t our law-enforcement officers meant to be in peak physical shape? If a robber were to literally be on the run, shouldn’t they be able to run them down?  I’d like to think of our cops as being like Starsky in the movie version of Starsky and Hutch: living for the job. Yet with the advent of technology and the likes, our police seem to be getting fatter and fatter, and presumably (perhaps unfairly) less devoted to serving the citizens of their fair city.

The same goes for ticket inspectors on the train. The amount of times where I have been sitting in an aisle seat and been brushed in the face by an unwarranted muffin top are too numerous to count. Maybe this extra mass helps with stopping renegade ticket-avoiders, but what happens when they run the other way? Do the inspectors give chase for two carriages and then pause for a short nap? Or am I being the most insensitive person since Michael Richards****?

 

* Is there anyone who doesn’t get slightly more nervous when they see police? And I’m not just talking to my Mount Penang readership here. Even if you have done absolutely nothing wrong, you can’t help but be anxious passing police, as if they’re going to apprehend you for wearing an untucked t-shirt.

** I’m great with similes

*** This is about where the real story ends, and the drugs kick in

**** Look at me! I’m a real writer now that I’m using footnotes!

Powder on my fingers like LeBron

Sorry to go all philosophical on you, but is there a window for regret? As in, is it possible to suddenly feel a pang of regret not doing something that happened a year ago, or is that just a sign of mental instability? And is it regret if you never planned on doing the thing at the time? Or is that yearning, or something similar.

The reason I ask this is because I have been listening to Powderfinger. As many of you will remember, Powderfinger and Silverchair decided to team up and embark on a music tour extravaganza in 2007 called “Across the Great Divide”. The tour was a massive success, and rightly so: two of the premier Australian rock bands of the last decade on a double bill for the ages. However, despite my love for Silverchair, I was much less of a fan of the ‘Finger, and so chose not to go. Instead, I caught Silverchair at the Big Day Out a few months later, staunchly applauding their songs even as everyone else threw missiles aimed at Daniel Johns’ head.

But a few days ago, urged on by Brennan Meyers’ drunken revelling (don’t worry Brennan, I don’t expect you to remember), I popped a few Powderfinger albums on the old iPod and had a listen. And I have to say, what I heard blew me away.

See, if you are only a casual Powderfinger fan, you may be under the impression that all of their songs sound the same, and that they are pure pop-rock at its finest (or worst, depending on your stance towards pop-rock). Tunes like “Already Gone” and “My Happiness” have that kind of instant likeability that doesn’t seem to bode well for the longevity of the song or band’s popularity (see: Hey There Delilah, Plain White T’s). Yet listening to virtually their entire discography, I was pleasantly surprised with how varied their musical influences seemed to be, whilst simultaneously resulting in a good, catchy rock song. Take the album “Internationalist”; it combines the anthemic (“Already Gone”), the old-style punk (“Don’t Wanna Be Left Out”, “Good-Day Ray”), the guitar-crunching (“Belter”) and the hauntingly eerie (“The Day You Come”) to create one brilliant piece of work.

In fairness, their latest album is a bit of a slip-up (shouldn’t it really be called a slip-down?), with the undeniably boring track “Lost and Running” being a fair indicator of the rest of the bunch. But we can cut them some slack; after all, even Bob Dylan has released a bad album once in a while.

So to return to the point of this post, as soon as I had stopped listening to “Vulture Street” I was rueing my lack of faith in Powderfinger’s musical ability circa. March 2007. The opportunity to see two pantheon-bound bands play together doesn’t come around too often. But there’s a silver lining to every cloud, as Jerry Seinfeld may or may not have once said. For the ‘Finger are one of the main drawcards for next year’s BDO, and guess who’s going?

I am.

(Along with what seems like the rest of Australia.)

Have a question that you’d like to ask? Want to send me your bank details? Email me at brendo_day@hotmail.com

The other John Howard is gone

As one household Australian drama comes to an end, anothers gains momentum in its quest for juggernaut status. To paraphrase the Lion King, such is the circle of life for a television show.

The show that sadly has come to a halt is that grand old dame All Saints. After 12 years and 302 episodes (I’ll admit, I made that up), the head honchos have decided that enough is enough. And even though I tune in intently each week, I will freely admit that they made the right call. For whilst it may have once been a powerhouse of Australian TV, it is now but a mere shadow of its former self.

There are many reasons why All Saints doesn’t work anymore as a show, but most of these are boring and I don’t want to talk about them. There are a couple, though, that I would like to bring to the fore, and the first of them is it’s repetitious nature. Frankly, I have no idea how All Saints lasted for so many years. Every episode seemed to be a carbon copy of the previous one- some person’s had a horrible accident, one of their friends may or may not have been involved and/or hurt; meanwhile, another patient is displaying erratic behaviour and unusual symptoms; in addition, a different, quirky patient acts as a sort of comic foil. Maybe we could deal with this for a few episodes, but every single one? Can you imagine if Friends had just revolved around the various relationships of its cast, with Ross moaning non-stop about Rachel for eleven seasons? Oh wait, that’s what actually happened.

Admittedly, All Saints did try to un-one-dimentionalise its characters by occasionally embroiling them in a personal drama of their own. But more often than not this seemed contrived, designed purely to extend the show’s lifetime by an episode or two. Also, these issues, upon having being resolved, almost never seemed to resurface. For example, when Gabby’s father passed away a month or two ago, she was understandably distraught. Yet two weeks after the fateful event she was all smiles, leading me to presume that she was either a) schizophrenic; or b) just poorly written. 

The latter of these choices was probably the truest, as there were some truly awful patients brought into the All Saints Hospital. In this last season alone, there has been an inordinate amount of sexually frustrated cases. For instance, we have seen one man who somehow got his appendage stuck in a park bench, another who had an “accident” whilst in the midst of extramarital relations, and another who couldn’t masturbate for it would somehow kill him. In fact, this last patient showcased not only a slip in the show’s quality, but also in the ethics of the nurses- one of them took him to a friend who showed him how to have a good time, yet almost killed him in the process.

These above examples demonstrate one of the main factors in All Saints’ demise: its cringeworthy grip on reality. Because amongst all this existed a disgusting manifestation of technology,  perhaps the greatest flaw of all. For in the fictional world of All Saints, televisions did not exist; phones were replaced with walkie-talkies; and using the Internet to research similar cases was virtually unheard of. This embarrassingly out-of-touch approach culminated in a young male patient who basically lived online. Of course, this was established through a nurse’s horrible series of questions such as “What is your Avatar?” Really? The young, hot female nurse who’s working 80-90 hours a week is going to go know what an Avatar is, let alone inform people of this knowledge? And who even uses the word Avatar unless they’re discussing the upcoming James Cameron epic? It makes me sick.

Having said all that, I will miss All Saints. I had grown to love each character’s idiosyncrasies: Adam’s stubborness; Gabby’s vivacity; Von’s zombie-like appearance; Frank’s morbid obesity. I can only wonder what they will get up to next. Waiting tables is my guess.

 

Now on to the aforementioned juggernaut- Packed to the Rafters (PTTR). PTTR, in case you’ve been living in Maitland and don’t know what a TV is, is a show about the Rafter family. With the help of a puntastic title, it has catapulted to the no. 1 rating drama on television, as the audience’s thirst for everyday suburban existence is left unquenched by their mundane lives.

But really, the success of the show is inexplicable. Here’s a few reasons why a show might succeed, and how PTTR fares in these categories:

• Storylines: Thought-provoking storyliness, extreme realism and stupendous cliffhangers are just some of the facets of traditionally excellent dramatic storylines. PTTR has none of these. The plots are crap, it’s realistic in a way that is the antithesis to something like The Wire, and we haven’t had a “Who shot JR?”-style moment yet.
• Acting: Sometimes a shabbily presented show can be saved by its high-calibre acting. Unfortunately, PTTR comes up a bit short in this department. Sure, the parents are established veterans of the small screen, but some of the younger actors are just awful. I’m looking at you, guy who plays Nathan Rafter. A bit of emotion when your wife leaves you wouldn’t actually be out of place. And don’t be such a smug bastard. No one likes that.
• Controversy: Just ask John Safran.
• Nudity: Can a show ever go wrong with gratuitous nudity? If it’s of the continual prison rape kind, then the answer is yes. But on the whole, this is a proven ratings winner.

So how is it that PTTR is so successful despite having almost none of these qualities? The general consensus seems to be that it has a familiarity about it, an air of comfortableness that is less prevalent in CSI and the likes. But is this really true? I mean, having watched an episode or seven myself, I am often amazed at the antics they get up to, and the situations they find themselves in. For example, Carbo began an illicit affair with a woman he met while working in a flower shop, Chrissy is being forced away by her unexplained love for Dave, Nathan sleeps with his relatively unattractive (compared to his wife) co-worker, and Rebecca Gibney is pregnant 20 years after her last child. Never before has there been as much sexual activity in a supposed family drama. And this is the key to the show’s success; for whilst we may consciously view it as an accurate representation of modern suburbia, it is little more than well-scripted pornography. And no-one dislikes porn- just ask the Internet.

Don’t forget to join the fangroup thingy on Facebook- just search for ”Kingculture”, it’s the only way (that I know of) to get updates on the blog

Public Service Announcement

Note: Whoever spots the spelling mistake in the following entry gets a free hat! I’m not sure which one, though; still tossing up between my sister’s school hat (don’t worry, she’s in America at the moment) and one fashioned out of last Saturday’s Sydney Morning Herald. But good luck, and happy hunting!

Let’s get one thing clear. When you, whoever you may be, talk to me, face to face, that is real life. Notwithstanding the fact that 90% of communication is non-verbal, we do not need emoticons, acronyms or abbreviations to express our feelings. So why then must people insist on doing it in real life conversations?

I may be old-fashioned, but I would have liked to believe, nay hope, that there is a sort of parallel universe ideology that exists between our real lives and our online ones, a distinction that exists to differentiate the two. Yet, unbeknownst to me, it appears that a paradigm shift has occurred. Our “avatars” (does anyone use that word anymore? I got it off an episode of “All Saints” last month) have merged with our real-tars, and resultantly so has the language of the two. And not in a good way either.

For instance, whenever someone screws up something relatively easy, it used to be common to give them a bit of a ribbing about it. Say your friend is at the bar. He orders a drink, pays for it, acts in a courteous manner i.e. doesn’t grab anyone’s ass, and picks it up and starts walking back over to you. But on the way, he spots a girl at the opposite end of the bar. This girl is stunning; imagine of a younger version of Joan Holloway from “Mad Men” minus the red hair (and that means a different colour, not bald!). Not unexpectedly, he can’t take his eyes off her, and waltzing over to your crew, he trips up and spills his drink. Actually, let’s give this hypothetical guy a name: Brucy. So Brucy now has to endure the walk of shame back minus a drink, but plus a big red stain on his frilly white shirt (imagine Captain Feathersword’s garb). When he finally arrives, you would expect that he would be mocked relentlessly, maybe slapped on the back a bit for being a world-class pervert, wouldn’t you? Well, the truth is, it’s increasingly likely that your associates will merely greet this with a n exclamation of “Epic Fail!”.

But why do people feel the need to express their feelings in ways usually represented by a complex series of 0’s and 1’s? Well, I’m not going to lie: I have no idea. But I do think that part of the blame can be placed on Facebook.

It’s a sad day when someone tells you that they were conversing with another person, and you have to ask whether it was in real life or just on Facebook. But that’s what I find myself having to do more and more. And let me just say that I personally don’t mind Facebook Chat; it’s a quick and easy way of contacting people who may otherwise be tremendously difficult to reach. Perhaps you can talk to people with whom you’re just not that comfortable talking to on the phone. But it is by no means a substitute for real conversation. Talking online is atonal; there is no method of detecting excitement, anger, or any other emotion through simple text. Sure, turning caps lock might convey your “pissed off” mood, but it’s more than likely that people will just get pissed off with you for doing it in the first place. “Stop yelling!” they’ll say. “You’re hurting my eyes!”

But truthfully, “talking” to someone online is just incomparable to real-life conversation. For one, people may take a minute to respond. This gives them more than enough time to think of witty retorts worthy of a place in the “Gilmore Girls Hall of Fame for Impossibly Funny and Incisive Remarks in a Casual Conversation”. And I know that this screams hypocrisy. I’ll even admit that it took me at least 45 seconds to come up with a name for the aforementioned Hall of Fame that would seem just as funny and incisive as the remarks it contained. And yes, I am confusing myself majorly with all this talk about meta-Halls of Fame, so I’m just going to take a quick break.

……….

Alright. I’ll wrap it up, since I’ve been sitting down for at least an hour, and my backside is starting to hurt. “TMI, Brendan, TMI!” you say? Fair call. Just don’t mention those initials to me in real life.

ROFLCOPTER away!

Like it? Hate it? I don’t care, just as long as you tell every single one of your friends individually to read this blog. And become a fan on Facebook if you want updates; I’m not too sure how else people can track it otherwise. I mean, no one can be realistically expected to know what an RSS feed is. Just look up “Kingculture”, and it should be there. And don’t be put off by the extraordinarily small amount of members; it’s “indie” if you join!

Also, there were no spelling mistakes, at least none that I know of. Sorry for wasting your time, hat aficionados.

NBA Season Preview

I know that I shouldn’t really write about sport as it is such a divisive (and to many people, boring) topic, but never have I anticipated a professional league’s commencement as much as I do the 2009-10 NBA season. So here’s just a quick preview of how I think the season will go, followed by a few predictions:

 Eastern Conference Final Standings (predicted)

15. New York Knicks- 15-67 (15 wins, 67 losses)

14. Milwaukee Bucks- 24-58

13. Charlotte Bobcats- 29-53

12. New Jersey Nets- 30-52

11. Philadelphia 67ers- 35-47

10. Detroit Pistons- 37-45

9. Miami Heat- 37-45

8. Toronto Raptors- 40-42

7. Indiana Pacers- 41-41

6. Atlanta Hawks- 44-38

5. Washington Wizards- 47-35

4. Boston Celtics- 50-32

3. Chicago Bulls- 51-31

2. Orlando Magic- 60-22

1. Cleveland Cavaliers- 66-16

 Western Conference Final Standings (predicted)

15. Sacramento Kings- 9-73

14. Minnesota Timberwolves- 23-59

13. Golden State Warriors- 25-57

12. Houston Rockets- 26-56

11. Oklahoma City Thunder- 35-47

10. Memphis Grizzlies- 38-44

9. Los Angeles Clippers- 40-42

8. Denver Nuggets- 46-36

7. New Orleans Hornets- 49-33

6. Dallas Mavericks- 50-32

5. Phoenix Suns- 52-30

4. Utah Jazz- 53-29

3. Portland Trail Blazers- 59-23

2. San Antonio Spurs- 62-20

1. Los Angeles Lakers- 67-15

 

MVP: LeBron James

Rookie of the Year: Blake Griffin

Pothead of the Decade: Lamar Odom

Player most deserving of a Red Bull sponsorship: Anthony Randolph

Greatest hobo impersonation by a multi-millionaire: Pau Gasol

 

“World” Champion (that’s what the winner is called): Cleveland Cavaliers over San Antonio in 6 games.

                                                   

Five players whom I guarantee will improve:

1. Kevin Durant
2. Anthony Randolph
3. Courtney Lee
4. Rajon Rondo
5. Trevor Ariza

 

Five players who will get worse/injured:

1. Derek Fisher
2. Dwyane Wade
3. Stephen Jackson
4. Elton Brand
5. Kevin Garnett

 

Five players who you might assume would get better, but they won’t:

1. Danny Granger
2. Andre Iguodala
3. Jameer Nelson
4. Deron Williams
5. LeBron James- only because it’s practically impossible for him to get any better

 

 

Completely Random Predictions/Thoughts

• Kevin Durant will average 30 points a game AT LEAST
• LeBron James will repeat as the almost unanimous MVP save for a solitary vote to Shaq, who somehow wrangles his own voting form and nominates himself
• Lamar Odom and Khloe Kardashian (I don’t even know if that’s the right one) will split up 3 months into the season after he introduces her to LeBong James
• Robin Lopez will be forced to shave his head after catching his feminine locks on the ring
• Same for Joakim Noah
• Anthony Randolph will smash the league record for “most games spent crying on the bench”
• Glen “Big Baby” Davis will shed the unfortunate moniker after losing 80 pounds in the off-season; is now called “Tall, Skinny Baby who doesn’t actually look like a baby at all”
• Rajon Rondo will deck at least 12 opponents, yet somehow never get suspended due to the fear instilled into David Stern by Rondo’s alien relatives
• Dwight Howard will be rendered useless after packing on so much muscle that he is unable to actually jump
• Hedo Turkoglu will be too embarrassed to play in his first game for the Raptors after his traditional pre-game meal of pizza results in an acne breakout
• Tyler Hansbrough, fresh off being named the College Basketballer of the 2000’s, will be honoured with another title: “Most dunked-on player since Shawn Bradley”
• After learning how to shoot three-pointers, Hasheem Thabeet will become this generation’s Manute Bol.
• Dikembe Mutombo will be hired as the Houston Rockets’ game announcer
• OJ Mayo will release an orange-flavoured mayonnaise that inexplicably proves to be wildly successful
• The Memphis Grizzlies take a leaf out of “Semi-Pro” and play with a real live Grizzly bear as their mascot
• The New Orleans Hornets follow Memphis’ lead and release a swarm of hornets into the crowd
• The Orlando Magic follow suit, and Rashard Lewis “magically” disappears into thin air; his body washes up on the shore three days later
• By the season’s end, we might actually find out if Blake Griffin is white, or Hispanic, or African-American, or just an amalgam of the three.

Speed 1 and 2

1.

Speed. Arguably the greatest action/thriller film of the 1990’s, its plot revolves around an egomaniac’s planting of a bomb on a bus. The  bus must maintain a speed of at least 50 miles per hour or else the explosives will be set off, triggering an explosion. Whilst not the most original of stories, the tense atmosphere, combined with some kick ass explosions, made this a part of the film canon. And though I personally love the movie (Dennis Hopper proved he was the ultimate chameleon, transformed from an alcoholic deadbeat dad in Hoosiers to an evil mastermind in this film), for the sake of movie-goers it should never have been made, for the following reasons:

• It catapulted Keanu Reeves into superstardom. Possibly the second worst ever actor to headline a classic movie (Arnie in “Terminator” wins this category hands down), Reeves has set about demolishing traditional acting methods with his ridiculous incapacity to fool even Alzheimer’s sufferers in his performances. His preferred facial expression is one of unwavering unemotion, often remaining present despite changes in scenario, as if it were carved into solid granite. Keanu Reeves is essentially the anti-Nicolas Cage.
• It launched Sandra Bullock’s career. If Reeves can be the anti-Nic Cage, then Bullock is the feminine equivalent of Matthew McConaughey. And not in a “wow, they really keep themself in shape” kind of way. Moreso in a “what exactly is their appeal?” way.  Because really, what does she offer that any other actress struggling to make ends meet in Hollywood have? Bullock has moderately good looks, a mediocre talent for acting, and only a semblance of comic timing (somehow translating into the lead role in Miss Congeniality- just an awful, awful casting decision). How is it that she continues to work in such a cut-throat industry, one that has shunned Nicole Kidman mere years after her Best Actress Academy Award win? I’ll tell you how: she is a hypnotist. There’s simply no other reasonable explanation. (Crazy side note: According to whosdatedwho.com, Sandra Bullock actually dated Matthew McConaughey for a while. How did the world not explode with such a collision of wholehearted untalentness occurring?)
• The movie launched the most literal soundtrack in the history of cinema. Generally a film’s soundtrack consists of “music from and inspired by” the movie itself. Obviously a creative license is generally necessary, as the artist may simply want to showcase their talent (or lack thereof, in someone like Simple Plan’s case). But here’s a sample of the songs on this soundtrack: “Speed”; “Mr. Speed”; “Let’s Go For a Drive”; “Cars”; “Like a Motorway”. Oh, and just in case you’d missed the theme of the album: “Go Outside and Drive”, by the delightfully original Blues Traveler.

So in light of these facts, wouldn’t it have been better for everyone if this movie had never existed?

2.

Speed. It’s a drug, and Russell Brand used it once upon a time (along with every other one known to mankind). But let’s not hold that against him, because Brand’s autobiography, My Booky Wook, isn’t just good: it’s mesmerisingly awesome. Through three hundred-odd pages of debauchery and hedonism, we explore what it is to be a television presenter, drug/alcohol/sex addict and a sufferer of bipolar all rolled into one extremely interesting person.

Admittedly many a celebrity releases an autobiography, and many of these are useful only as toilet paper. This is because the purpose of these books is contrived; the celebrity feels that they have either reached their pinnacle as a performer, at which point a hastily organised, mostly ghost-written tome is released, or alternatively that they are in the twilight of their career, and just want someone, anyone, to listen to their story. One of the reasons My Booky Wook succeeds is that Brand has no right in releasing it. A star on a meteoric rise, he had nothing to gain from penning an autobiography other than to entertain. And that’s exactly why he chose to write it. The book details in unbelievable honesty his exploits, sexual conquests, and breaking of societal taboos, yet even when discussing morbidly depressing details such as his sexual abuse as a child, does it in a perversely entertaining way that you can’t help but be engrossed.

Actually, Brand’s unique view of the world is another reason why this should be on your must-read list. He often (and I mean often!) irascibly seems to plunge sharp implements into his arms, yet doesn’t think this is out of the ordinary. In fact, he almost seems bemused in one scene, as his then-girlfriend screams whilst his streams of blood “coagulated on her bedsheets”. It’s as if he sees the world in a completely different light to anyone else; it is his stage, his theatre. Indeed, when he is asked to write his life story as part of a drug rehabilitation scheme, a friend claims that rather than sounding morose and downtrodden (as you would expect of a recovering junkie), it is unusually rather self-aggrandising. Brand doesn’t see a problem with this, and who would have expected him to; after all, to paraphrase the man himself, a moment spent in humility is a moment wasted.

The other striking aspect about My Booky Wook is Brand’s language.  Though at times old-fashioned in his diction, Brand possesses a vocabulary and mastery of English that would do a journalist proud, let alone someone who never finished their formal education. In fact, of the multitude of high school dropouts that have permeated the arts, I would say that only Cedric Bixler-Zavala of The Mars Volta has a more extensive lexis. And no, I’m not being biased just because The Mars Volta are the greatest band alive. And yes, I will definitely be writing about them in the future.

But back to Brand. Before reading this book, I wasn’t even a fan of him. I found his stand-up comedy to be a bit grating and camp for my liking, and doubted whether his humour actually had an element of satire in it, or whether it was merely an amalgam of impersonations and funny voices. I’d only seen one episode of RE:Brand, and that one involved his participation in…an act of debasement usually participated in solitarily; one that is known to cause hairs to sprout forth from the palms of your hand. But since then, I have a renewed interest in him and his work, and would definitely recommend this book to you.

Final rating: 7 bananas.

Things I Can’t Do

#2- Imitate other people’s voices

Queer Eye From A Straight Guy

In case you hadn’t heard, the old Sydney University rag Honi Soit last week published its annual Gay and Lesbian issue, and was given the title “Queer”. Now not to sound like a sociocultural dinosaur, but just when did this term transform from a pejorative remark into an expression of power? Is there some dreadful irony that I am missing here? While we’re on it, the same goes for dyke. When exactly was the tipping point at which this primitive insult turned into a term of endearment? Nevertheless, I marvel at the ability of the gay community to turn these affronts to their sexuality into part of their nomenclature.

 But really, all that’s beside the point. The thing I have the most trouble understanding is why exactly they choose to run a “Queer” edition in the first place. Whilst I support the concept of giving the gay student population a voice, I just don’t feel the execution is top notch. Here are the facts:

• Percentage of people at university who are gay/bisexual: The Queer Society would have you believe that everyone in the world has an unconscious, Freudian urge for homosexuality. But realistically, the number is more likely around the 20% mark.
• Percentage of people at university who read Honi: 10% (and that’s being generous)
• Hypothetical percentage of people whom this issue will appeal to: 2%

 2%! That’s one out of every fifty students will see this issue and pick it up. If only 2% of the student population is actually reading it, that has to count as an undeniable failure to inform, especially considering Honi has basically a monopoly on the university newspaper market (sorry, The Bull). So here’s my proposal:

 Have a section of Honi Soit devoted to gay and lesbian affairs (not ones of the sexual kind either).

 I mean, if the post-graduates can have their own two-page section, why can’t the homosexual students? Hell, they could even replace the post-grad part; it’s easily the most boring part of an already dull newspaper. But really, wouldn’t it be better for the gay student community to be constantly, and not annually, updated on their rights, stories etc.? Plus this way the regular readers don’t get disrupted. And you wouldn’t want to anger the readers. They might write an angry letter to the editors. They might even start using spare copies as toilet paper! (Alright, that’s just me.)

 Also, to me it screams preferential treatment when there is a “Queer” issue, yet the international student cohort doesn’t get their own issue, despite being a similarly sized minority. What’s that? You say, “How could they do an international issue, when there are obviously students from many different cultures and backgrounds?” It’s a newspaper! Newspapers consist of many pages! Many pages= many stories= many cultures being represented. Duh.

 But really, the strangest thing about this is why do we actually still need a gay and lesbian issue? How can there be people who don’t know that some people are homosexual? Well, I think this naivety isn’t actually the problem. No, the problem rests on the uniform-clad shoulders of The Village People.

 The Village People, in case you’d forgotten, were the boy band (man band?) behind such horrible, inexplicable hits like “Macho Man” and “YMCA”. Their ultra-camp outfits soon led to them becoming gay icons (despite the majority of them not being gay), and inadvertently created many unwarranted gay stereotypes. They also effectively destroyed the reputations of the YMCA and the Navy, but we don’t really care about that. What is relevant to this post is that the effects, nay the curse of The Village People is only just wearing off. People are now realising that all gay people do not in fact wear leather police outfits and cowboy costumes whilst performing neatly choreographed dance routines. They are only just discovering that having a moustache does not equate to homosexuality (nor does it to pornstardom). So in effect, and in conclusion, The Village People set gay rights and perceptions back about 120 years. And it’s only now that it is being fixed.

 Note: If you liked this article- actually, scratch that- If you read this article, then tell your friends! And by tell them, I mean direct them to this site. I want to get more viewers of this than there were theorised readers of Honi’s Queer edition. Which was 900.

Beauty and the Geek- A Running Diary

What makes a reality television show good? Is it dependent on the glamour level? Is it the intensity of the competition? NO! You idiot! Of course it’s not! The key ingredient in a successful reality show is conflict. Yes, the main reason why we watch a scripted drama series is also the selling point of the unscripted ones. So then why are reality shows seemingly omnipresent, whilst their well-acted, well-planned equivalents dwindle in numbers by the day? It’s because of one vital, but oft overlooked, factor; unintentional comedy. Unintentional comedy is extremely hard to find in a modern day drama series (key exceptions: Days of Our Lives, Passions etc.) because, let’s face it, we don’t watch these shows to laugh at them. However, it has long been a staple of reality television, and it’s for this reason that I believe Beauty and the Geek (Australian version) will end up being in the hall of fame for this genre. The basic premise of the show groups 8 “beauties”, i.e. good-looking but ditzy girls, in with 8 “geeks”, i.e. intelligent but socially inept guys. The opening episode, screened on Thursday night, was the funniest hour of television I have watched all year. That’s not an exaggeration: there were moments of comedic genius perhaps beyond even the scope of the king of awkward comedy, Ricky Gervais. So I thought, what better way to celebrate this piece de resistance of Australian television than with a running diary. Here’s what transpired:

(Note: I actually missed the first part of the episode and had to download it, so I fudged the times and resultantly they may be a bit different to what you have recorded. If they are indeed different, then I implore you to get a life.)

8:30- And welcome to the series premiere of “Beauty and the Geek: Australia”. I sit here alone tonight, as the rest of my family are either:

a) In America; or 

b) In the other room, watching a documentary about the socio-political climate of…ah, who gives a crap.

The show claims to have “searched the country for the geekiest guys”. Well, at least we know we’re getting the crème de la crème of the nation’s geeks; who knows what it would have been like if they had done ungeeky things like play sport or drink alcohol. Probably a lot more sex would be my guess.

8:31- Now the potential beauties are being shown, and are immediately unfairly stereotyped as ditzy and dumb. Oh wait, maybe that’s not that unfair; when asked who wrote Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, one of them confidently answered, “John Farnham”.

8:32- The geeks make their entrance into the mansion on Segways. Does anyone actually know anyone who has one of these things? They seem to be a geek staple, but for the life of me I’ve never seen one, and I know my fair share of geeks. Also, why must these shows always be filmed in such expensive houses? Just once, I’d love to see them being forced to coop up in a Formule 1 for 3 months, eating McDonald’s for breakfast and drying their underpants on the bar heater. It’s a reality show, people!

8:34- Bernard, the host, is greeted by Xenogene and Corrin (they’re geeks, in case you were wondering) with the Star Trek finger split thing. Really not doing much for their cause, are they?

8:36- The beauties arrive in stylish Mercedes Benz’s and Lisa instantly reduces our expectations of them by claiming that her life goal is to be a soap actress.

8:38- Despite having never seen the show, I can safely say that Corrin looks exactly like one of the guys from the Big Bang Theory. Wait, isn’t this just a real-life manifestation of that series? Thank God I don’t know how it turns out, the mystery would have been shattered.

8:41- Corrin is the first geek to introduce himself to the beauties, and having not seen a man for perhaps 20 minutes, the beauties inexplicably go crazy for him. When Lisa selects him, he says to the camera, “She’s pretty. That’s the first thing you notice about her.” Uh, what about the breast implants?

8:47- Deciding that his appearance isn’t solely sufficient to terrify all the girls, Xenogene demonstrates his musical nous (or lack thereof) through a self-penned song, “Physics”. I don’t think I need to tell you how that went.

8:51- After much deliberation, Hadassah decides to bite the bullet and be Xenogene’s partner, for the reason that “it would be a challenge for me”. Has anyone in history ever turned off a group of attractive women more quickly? He could have worn a necklace with a vial of his own blood on it and it wouldn’t have had as much of an effect. Actually, that may have excited them even more; it seems like the kind of thing Robert Pattinson would do, and he’s MASSIVE. And yes, I needed capitals to emphasise just how massive he is. And no, I’m not talking about his appendage.

8:52- “Jeremy gave me a flower that he’d made out of balloons, because he makes balloons”. Now what part of that sentence is wrong?

8:55- Down to the last pairing, it appears Miss “I’d rate myself 11/10” Kimberley is going to be coupled with Nathan the comic book collector. This is just a horrible match, in my opinion; the ultra confident man-eater with the geek who seems most likely to be able to attract females. I’m betting she sleeps with him in the first week, causing him to become infatuated with her, and then plays hot and cold with him for the remainder, causing him irreversible damage when it comes to associating with the opposite sex. What a bitch.

8:58- Line of the night so far: When talking about how he felt having eight attractive women going into a spa, Peter responds, “My mind immediately raced to thoughts of the mating habits of the Panobo chimpanzees”. Despite this (and an unhealthy excess of back hair), he’s still one of my favourite geeks, right up there with Jeremy and Nathan, and way above Alan and Xenogene.

9:02- Move aside Peter, there’s a new leader in quote of the night! Jenna claims that the challenges they are set will help her discover “who her components will be”.

9:03- $100,000 cash prize for the winner of the challenges! This is all too much for Kimberley, who says, “I almost wet myself when I heard it. Money!” By the way, did you know the executive producer of the original series was Ashton Kutcher? He has to be the smartest dumb guy in the world. I am officially in awe.

9:05- The first challenge is a rap battle for the geeks. Toby takes this opportunity to tell us that he is a musical caveman, and doesn’t have any music on his iPod, which begs the question: what the hell is on there?

9:06- Yet another “beauties as airheads” montage is shown, though for some strange reason I am yet to tire of this. In fact, I don’t think I will ever tire of this; it makes me feel that much better about myself.

9:07- Oh my god I HATE Kimberley.

9:08- The beauties’ first challenge, teaching a class, is off to a brilliant start, with Lisa drawing a map of Australia that resembled… well, nothing really. Oh, and she left off Tasmania, but I’m personally alright with that.

9:09- Quick update on the map: Lisa tacked on Tasmania onto the bottom, but when dividing Australia into its states, discovered that somehow Queensland doesn’t exist. By the way, for those of you who feel that Barack Obama shouldn’t have won the Nobel Peace Prize, I have to say that it’s not so much what he personally achieved as it is what he stands for. I know it’s the World Peace prize, but when someone becomes a symbol for the uniting of the world’s most powerful country, that has to be rewarded.

9:12- Five things that were on the First Fleet according to Michelle: A piano, cows, kittens, puppies and a shovel. Convicts, anyone?

9:15- High comedy, as Paul showcases his go-to dance move: the “dog wiping his bum on the carpet”. And for those of you who say that this show is designed purely for the lowest denominator, well, maybe you’re right. But I am following this up by tuning in to Q&A, so there shouldn’t be too much of an overall decrease in my IQ.

9:23- The guest judges for the rap battle are Jessica Mauboy and Molly Meldrum. Toby claims not to know who Mauboy is, and putting two and two together, works out that she is Molly’s girlfriend. Uh, what?

9:26- Somehow Corrin is declared the winner of the rap battle, even though Peter blew away both the audience and yours truly. I’d like to see Peter and Michelle win the whole thing; Peter because he’s such a well-meaning guy, and Michelle because she’s mega-hot. And that’s just about a wrap. In conclusion, I’d like to say: nothing.

Commerce to the Rescue

I just came up with possibly the greatest idea for a business in the history of mankind. Well, maybe that’s selling it a bit high; it’s probably just the best idea thought of in the general vicinity of Gosford that hasn’t revolved around selling beer exclusively in paper bags, complete with a complimentary ringtone accesory to allow you to play crappy music at full volume on the train, much to the chagrin of all other passengers. And when I say the best, I mean the only. But ANYWAYS…, I was thinking that it’s a shame that the blogger has been typecast as a pretentious narcissist whose sole aim is to either write incoherent babble or regurgitate stale opinions. I mean, surely there are hundreds, if not thousands, if not millions, of people who write a well-thought out and structured blog that is possibly funny and/or socially relevant (unlike this one).

My idea? To publish an online magazine/journal/collection of unique and clever blog entries. These would hopefully span a variety of areas, and be submitted to the editing group by bloggers who, initially, just want to widen their audience, and as such would work pro-bono. Published perhaps weekly, the magazine would either be funded by advertising (hopefully not of the obtrusive manner) or by a reader’s subscription fee.

Why is this a great idea? Because people still want to read informed opinions, and since the physical newspaper industry seems to be dying an ungainly death (and is being replaced with an informative, though not informed, style of news reporting), the blogging community seems to increasingly be the first place they look for deconstructions of these pieces.

So what do you think? Yea or nay?

Spread the word! Tell your friends! kingculture.wordpress.com

Email me at brendo_day@hotmail.com

Things I Can’t Do

(This will be a series of things that I will discover are beyond my limited range of knowledge. It is intended to make you feel just a little bit better about yourself.)

#1: Read maps

A tale of two cities

1.

As a freshman student, there are two items that are essential if you wish to assimilate into the culture of the University of Sydney: 

1. An iPhone- Note: An iPod Touch may be sufficient, as two of my coursemates from the Central Coast have one of these each, and have whipped them out at every opportunity they can get. No one seems to spot the difference.
2. A pair of Converse shoes

Now I realise that there are different requirements for certain sub-groups; things such as boat shoes (for Law students), a scarf (Arts), a year-round wearing of footy shorts (college trustifarians), or perhaps a grandiose opinion of oneself which causes others to mock you mercilessly behind your back, yet still go out and get hammered with you after the lecture (again, Law students). But to be welcomed into the main class of students, you really do need at least one of the two aforementioned belongings. As I have neither the money required (nor the unsubstantiated belief that Steve Jobs is God) for an iPhone, it looked like I was going to have to get myself a pair of Chuck T’s.

I got off to a bad start, paying $90 for the low-cut black version, and finding out the next day that Paul’s Warehouse had these at half the price. In addition, my penchant for buying shoes a size too small always leads to a “wearing-in” week, one of the the only experiences I can empathise with females about. However the compliments were soon flowing, and I found myself making new friends hourly, trading tips on how best to accentuate the white toe of the shoe or perhaps deemphasise an overly long lace. Women were throwing themselves at my feet (literally), offering me drinks (or more!), and soon enough I was living the hedonistic lifestyle I had always deserved. But all good things must come to an end, as a wise man once said….

(Note: Why is it always assumed that it was said by a wise man, and not woman? Surely there have been a few profound statements by the fairer sex in the history of mankind? Women’s lib, thank me later.)

Fast forward to this week. My beloved shoes have started to fall apart. The soles have worn right through; the toes are not nearly so white anymore. It’s been six months, and they’re already worn out. $90 down the drain, essentially. Yet there is always a bright side to every situation, for it is now approaching summer, and that can only mean one thing- Havianas!

2.

Today my mother and sister left for America, where they will attempt to play basketball against some of the local schools, and live out my lifelong dream BY MEETING THE LOS ANGELES LAKERS! But I don’t want to talk about that. That’s boring. No, what I want to know is why on earth do airlines make people empty out their liquids/gels into plastic bags?

Well obviously the airlines believe that by doing so, they are being proactive in the fight against terrorism. It prevents people from carrying on potentially explosive liquids with them, they’d say. But when you think about it, is this really going to stop terrorists? Are they going to plan for months and months in advance on an elaborate scheme involving hiding liquid explosive in their handbags, only to be thwarted by the requirement that everything be in a plastic bag? And are they then stupid enough to label said explosive “EXPLOSIVE- Use when flying” and not simply put it into a skin care tube? I mean, how are the border security guys goin to test whether something is toothpaste or perhaps ammonium nitrate? Lick it? This is a situation that seems impossible to control without placing a complete embargo on carrying anything onto planes- i.e., all passengers fly in the nude. And that’s not going to happen. We just have to trust that people aren’t suicidal maniacs, I guess, and if we find out they are, then do everything in our power to stop them.

Yeah. That’s all.

Spread the word! Tell your friends! kingculture.wordpress.com

Also, email at brendo_day@hotmail.com

Passion Pit: This year’s MGMT, only much better

So its gotten to the stage where everyone’s just sick of MGMT. Sure, they were great last year, with their supercatchy electronica providing the soundtrack for a lazy, boozy summer. However, their rise to mainstream success has paradoxically led to a decrease in popularity, and coupled with an underwhelming live show, music enthusiasts have found themselves in need of a new soundtrack for this year’s summer. I propose that this void be filled by Passion Pit.

 Passion Pit’s singular focus is to make music which, frankly, is impossible to dislike. Fortunately, their debut LP Manners succeeds in this respect, with track after track of superbly catchy melodies. From the opening number “Make Light” to the closing “Seaweed Song”, this album is non-stop synthpop. Unfortunately, though, it still suffers from the traditional formatting of an album. Which it to say, it roughly resembles the batting line-up of a cricket team:

• Tracks 1-4: Starting out with a solid (if unspectacular) track, the album proves promising, and builds on this with the most radio-friendly track at no. 4. Cricket openers are often the most reliable players on a team: you can count on them to deliver, just don’t go expecting too much.
• Tracks 5-7: The middle of the album, often these tracks are hit-or-miss. The best song on the album may be sandwiched between two fillers, often being overlooked by all but the most ardent fans due to bad placement. In cricket, these positions will quite often produce the best score of the innings, only it will be diminished by the dismal failures of those surrounding.
• Tracks 8-11: The final third (fourth/eleventh?) of the album, this is basically the dregs. On the whole not too much is delivered by these tracks, save for an occasional spectacular performance. The best example I can think of is “Ize of the World” on The Strokes’ First Impressions of Earth, a superb track third from last that is encircled by mediocrity. In cricketing terms, this is the lower order/tail-enders. These batsmen are, by and large, woefully inadequate, save for the occasional spellbinding innings fuelled by an unorthodox technique that works one in a million times.

 Despite their American background, Passion Pit’s debut effort does tangentially follow the playing setup of an obscure (by their standards) sport. Tracks 1-4 are probably the best ones of the album, with “The Reeling”, an insanely likeable tune, rounding this section off. Honestly, I challenge you to listen to “The Reeling” and not even dance one little bit. If you do not, I am sorry; for it appears that you are paralysed from the waist down at least.

 Tracks 5-7 aren’t particularly outstanding, except for no. 6, “Swimming in the Flood”. Beginning with a memorable keyboard loop, it goes from strength to strength, culminating in a hauntingly beautiful chorus.

 Tracks 8-11 are again fairly mediocre, though we must remember that this is judging them against the extremely high standard set by the opening few songs; for any other band, they might have made a “Best of” compilation (I’m looking at you, Nikki Webster. How dare you think that you had enough quality songs to fill an entire CD? Outrageous!) The exception is Track 9, “Sleepyhead”, an amalgam of just plain weirdness that somehow, inexplicably, works.

 Overall, I’d give this album…no rating, as I am far too pretentious to reduce such musical wizardry to an arbitrary ratings scale.

 

In other news, Chuck Klosterman’s new book “Eating the Dinosaur” comes out next week, or the week after, or sometime soon. Why am I excited? Wait, you didn’t know I was excited? Well, I’ll tell you why. Chuck Klosterman wrote the best book I have read in the last year, and considering that I’ve read at least 14 different ones, that’s a pretty impressive achievement. In fact, my top five books of the year (that I read this year, not released this year):

5. The Professional Athlete’s Handbook- Drew Magary

4. The Orange-Mocha Frappucino Years- Ross O’Carroll Kelly/Paul Howard

3. Watchmen- Alan Moore + Dave Gibbons

2. Blink- Malcolm Gladwell

1. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs- Chuck Klosterman

 

See? Even better than Watchmen!

Yeah. That’s all.

iEnvy1.0

Being both a marketing student at university and an avid fan of the Gruen Transfer, I was perplexed when Kraft decided to name their new Vegemite spread thing “iSnack2.0″. It seemed to be an extremely ill-informed and just lazy attempt at labelling a product- to basically ride on the coattails of the ubiquitous nature of all things “i(insert product here)” related. However, it is now evident that this was all just a step in their master plan. For despite what the spokespeople say, this WAS a publicity stunt. How do I know this? Because of New Coke.

In the mid 80’s, Coke was fighting a losing battle with Pepsi for the no. 1 position in the unbelievably lucrative softdrink market. Through a series of blind taste tests (where the participant either wears a blindfold or drinks from identical, unmarked cups) they determined that a majority of respondents preferred the sweet flavour of Pepsi over Coke. To combat this, the company decided to create a new version of Coke, one much more similar in taste to Pepsi. As it fared much better in testing, they decided to go all out in marketing the product, and replaced all existing old stock with the new one. It was initially a massive success, but much like Hulk with Eric Bana, negative word-of-mouth spread about it and revenue plummeted.

But wait! Just as public dissatisfaction was at an all-time high, Coca-Cola bravely announced the return of “Classic Coke”. It was a triumphant return, with sales immediately placing firmly as the no. 1 softdrink in the marketplace. For people remembered what it was they liked about the original Coke, and hence bought it in droves.

How is the iSnack situation similar? Well, the almost universal cold reception of the name must have surely been anticipated by the marketing management, just like the backlash against New Coke would have been. For this reason, I believe both to be just large, expensive stunts; stunts that I marvel at. For as the saying goes, any publicity is good publicity.

Now onto a random tangent.

I am a lover of sports movies. For me (and numerous friends), Remember the Titans is a perfect example of what a sports movie can be- a true story about an underdog, excellent sporting scenes, and Denzel Washington in his glorious prime. However, I have a bone to pick, pardon the pun, with the creators of the Air Bud franchise. Let’s go through the five movies that have been made revolving around the famous golden retriever:

1. Air Bud- The original, in which it is discovered Buddy has an uncanny ability to play basketball, and leads his owner’s school basketball team to a championship victory.
2. Air Bud: Golden Receiver- Where it is discovered Buddy has an uncanny ability to play American football, and leads his owner’s school football team to a championship.
3. Air Bud: World Pup- Where it is discovered Buddy has an uncanny ability to play soccer, and leads his owner’s school soccer team to the state championship.
4. Air Bud: Seventh Innings Fetch- Where it is discovered Buddy has an uncanny ability to play baseball, though in this film he is deservedly called up to the Major League.
5. Air Bud: Spikes Back- Where it is discovered Buddy has an uncanny ability to play volleyball… do I really need to explain what happens?

Obviously this is just an example of terribly repetitive and lazy scriptwriting, but even so, what the hell! I could maybe comprehend a dog being a great footballer, given their exceptional acceleration and evasiveness, but basketball? We’re meant to believe that not only does he have the cognitive ability to grasp the fundamental objectives of basketball, but also the physical attributes needed to accomplish these? He stands 2 feet tall! And how would you expect him to grasp the concept of foot faults in volleyball, or slide tackles in soccer? HE’S A DOG!

Yeah. That’s all.

You’ve been Kutcherised

So I’ve been getting a lot of heat (read: one comment) on why I love to make fun of Twitter. And I admit, Twitter is a useful device; it’s free, fast, and connects us to people  But do you want to know what my beef with it is? No? Well I’m going to tell you anyway.

Primarily, it’s the fact that it has changed the way news is reported, and that this has led to the decimation of newspapers. The ease and speed of Twitter’s ability to convey news stories is unrivalled. Often stories are broken on Twitter before they are announced at press releases or even discovered by journalists, and in a time where people want breadth, not depth, of information, it is the perfect medium. Yet this is the problem- with the instantaneous nature of Twittering comes a dulling of opinion. I’m not stupid enough to think that people, in turn, are stupid enough to get their news off Twitter. However, I do believe that some of their interpretations of events are influenced by it, and are hence limited in their nature (to 140 characters to be precise). With a newspaper, columnists are very often paid to give their opinion on such matters and as a result have more time to get high and consider the story from an existential perspective. Or they could be boring, and just give an informed opinion. Either way, the quality of their work is infinitely greater than the ‘insights’ of Twitterers, who may take things out of context and just take it at face value.

What am I actually getting at? Hmm, that’s a good question. I suppose it’s that Twitter, by revolutionising news, has actually made it irrelevant. People don’t seem to want to know what the news is as much as they want to know what the public consensus is regarding it. When Patrick Swayze died, much media attention was focused on the tributes flowing from celebrity Twitterers. How can this be a good thing for society, when we are more focused on the reaction to someone’s death than the actual person who died? Additionally, despite its potential to allow for the diversification of opinions, it seems Twitter is actually breeding homogeneity. I mean, when Michael Jackson died (sorry for the continual dead celebrity usage), surely there were celebrities thinking “There goes one of the most batshit crazy music identities of the last thirty years. You’re next, Phil Spector.” But instead, he was given a mulligan on his last twenty years; the focus remained firmly on his admittedly spectacular musical achievements. So basically Twitter has developed into an extension of a celebrity’s PR. That, or a breeding ground for their craziness (see: Ron Artest, the NBA’s most insane player ever).

Another thing I dislike about Twitter is the amount of crap people post about their everyday lives. You just hopped a bath? Good for you, but I really didn’t want to know that. Oh wait, you’re now out of the bath and doing your hair? And now you’re reading the new Dan Brown book which is OMG the best book EVA lol? WHO CARES!

This also extends to celebrities. I understand that it’s a good way for them to connect with their fans and all that. But we don’t want to know all the details of your life. I’m looking at you, John Mayer. See, us commonfolk idolise you guys because we think you lead impossibly glamorous lives. So please, don’t ruin the illusion by Tweeting on the toilet.      

One more thing that I dislike about Twitter- it gives unwarranted attention to celebrities fading out of public view. For the past few years, if you wanted a career boost you might have had to go on some god-awful reality show like Dancing with the Stars. But now, B-movie stars like Ashton Kutcher are back in vogue, all because they beat CNN to be the first Twitterer with 1 million followers. Really? A photogenic twentysomething is more popular than a faceless conglomerate? Who would’ve guessed!

On a positive note though, I am happy to report that the overabundance of Twitter usage in the NBA and NFL has led to special codes of conduct being introduced to deal with social-networking etiquette, and timeframes for when it is acceptable to Tweet. In other words; footballers are being told they are writing too much. What is the world coming to?

By the way: I strongly encourage everybody to tune in to Media Watch if they do not already do so. A mixture of criticising and pontificating, combined with an overwhelming sense of superiority- it’s every blogger’s dream.

That is all.

Living in the 20th Century

Sorry for the lack of updates, I have literally been buried in uni assessments. Seriously, I passed out due to the lack of oxygen, and was technically dead for three hours. Luckily, this gave me a bit of time to think about modern society, and just how it has changed in the last ten years. For instance, back then, Pink was massive with her rubbish track, “Get the Party Started”. But now…. well, she’s even bigger than ever, so that example’s fucked. But it turns out that despite the static nature of our music tastes, the world of technology has been superdynamic. The continual change of techno gadgets and the likes have been warmly embraced by many of the younger, savvier generations. However, anomalies are still being produced, and certain members of society have remained rooted in their customs. These people still listen to Prince, and do indeed Party like it’s 1999. And sadly, I am one of these people. But you, treasured reader, will hopefully avoid the pitfalls and predilections of this stigmatic…stigma. All you need to know is whether or not you satisfy at least half of the following requirements of “People Trapped in the 20th Century”:

(Oh, I should mention that I satisfy nearly all criteria)

(And I apologise for the big words to any readers from the Central Coast and/or Redfern. If you want something more suited to your tastes, check out Twitter. I hear Ashton Kutcher’s making brownies! Yum!)

• You don’t know how to post a blog- Alright, maybe I don’t technically satisfy this. But the program I use is so easy to work that even a monkey would be eventually able to type out Shakespeare in blog form. If it were merely completed in HTML-speak (or however normal people post blogs) I would stand no chance of running a blog, and you would not be able to procrastinate by reading it. So thankyou, WordPress! Thankyou!
• You don’t really know what 4chan is- I could go about 4chan for years. But for brevity’s sake, I’ll condense it into this: Basically, it’s an imageboard website that, whilst starting off as an obscure forum for anime lovers, has integrated into the mainstream culture of the Internet with alarming ease. Its random imageboard, known colloquially as “/b/”, is freaking insane. Pictures of every conceivable thing pop up, each new one more frightening than the next. Chauvinism rules here; the second image I saw was a member’s scantily-clad girlfriend, whom he had labelled as “my cumdumspter”. However, despite these attitudes 4chan has become the breeding ground for many of the Internet’s cultural phenomena. How did RickRolling start? 4chan. Chocolate Rain? 4chan. LOLcats? Unfortunately, 4chan.
• You don’t know how to burn DVDs- Honestly, I haven’t learnt how to do this yet. Is it any different from burning CDs? Is it even possible to burn them? If I do, will Kevin Rudd’s SS come and arrest me?
• You think widgets are just upside down midgets
• You physically purchase CDs- This is our generation’s equivalent of our parents holding on to those records from yesteryear: it’s completely unnecessary to do so given the technology available and the proliferation of MP3s, but nonetheless certain people still buy them, more for future nostalgic value than anything else.
• You actually pay for CDs- Admittedly those people purchasing CDs on iTunes and the likes are a step behind the BitTorrent addicts. Downloading (or streaming) albums for free has become exponentially more popular ever since Napster appeared and immediately set about disintegrating the moral fibre of the Internet. Of course, these addicts will argue that this is a victimless crime, as the music companies are just evil conglomerates who set out to empty our pockets of money needed for milk, bread, and porn- life’s essentials. They position themselves as the modern day Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. It gets a bit more complicated, though, when there are 140 million Robin Hoods in existence. Sure, people now have access to basically every artist’s discography at their fingertips, which is good for the industry, as that’s all musicians want, right? Right? WRONG. Why would musicians put all their effort into something if it didn’t guarantee them a return? Sure, there are probably some of them who make music for the love of it, but these are the rare ones nowadays. Do you think Robbie Williams would make another album if all he got in return was an STD from a groupie? No he wouldn’t! Though that would probably be in the best interests of mankind.
• You don’t have Skype- Remember back in the olden days, when all the sci-fi movies would have those awesome phones where you can see the person you’re talking to? Well it’s arrived, and best of all, it’s free! Skype is probably one of the best things to develop from the Internet in the last ten years (actually, top three: 3. Skype, 2. YouTube, 1. Wikipedia), and to me it seems to still fly under the radar just a bit. So if you haven’t already, create a Skype account, and remember: 90% of all communication is non-verbal. (Note: that is hopefully the first and last statistic I throw into this blog.)
• You don’t have a mobile/MP3/camera all in one- Get with the times, dude! If you don’t have an iPhone, you’re screwed for university. Actually, this can be my next blog entry- No iPhone? No friends.

That is all- Oh no, not Kanye!

Yo Brendan, I like you, and I’ma let you finish, but the Steve Miller Band had the best “Living in the 20th Century” -titled artefact of all time! Of all time!