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

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

-          What are you going to do with your life?

-          Are you going to move out?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misc.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DAY FOUR- Another singing contest.

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

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

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

Awesome show, right?

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

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

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

Has anyone seen The Devil Wears Prada? Yeah…

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

(Five minutes later)

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

So there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once

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

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

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

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

Most importantly- why do you even exist?

Please answer these questions promptly and thoughtfully.

Yours in disdain,

Brendan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9:36- YES! Another singing act!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INTERPOLATION

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

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

INTERRUPTION TO THE INTERPOLATION

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

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

Brendan: Ha! You got Punk’d.

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

END OF INTERPOLATION

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

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

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

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

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

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