Pop Robin

The Rational Argument for Gay Marriage: a guest appearance

2010-09-17T18:25:00.000+10:00

It's something I, and most of the people I know, feel strongly about: gay marriage. Given a platform and an opportunity, I am more than likely to proselytize at length about the injustice done to the LGBT community by disallowing them basic rights granted to the more heteronormative segment of society, but in this case I am going to hand over the soapbox and let the very convincing Kurt Everard lay out his argument in what are, as always, the most rational of terms.

Australia’s current legislation regarding same-sex marriage is irrational in my opinion but furthermore it’s bigotry and without a doubt impedes the human rights of a law abiding, tax paying group in our society. Australia is definitely falling behind the eight ball in this area of politics as countries like Portugal, Mexico and Argentina have legalised same-sex marriage within the past few months. Recent statistics have demonstrated that around sixty percent of Australia citizens would like to see homosexuals be given the right to marry. There are many confusing questions I feel on the matter of same-sex marriage in Australia today and coming to a conclusion is definitely not easy.

The hardest fact to consider with these new countries is that Portugal, Mexico and Argentina are very well known Catholic countries. More often than not, it appears that the biggest argument against homosexual marriage being legalised is often fuelled by using religion as an excuse. Since according to the bible, homosexuality is not “natural,” most religious figures condemn it as it would mean breaking the sanctity of marriage. Within an Australian context Tony Abbott is opposed to legalising it and it doesn’t seem coincidental that he once tried to be a priest and is an outgoing Catholic. The hypocrisy is blatant in that Christianity and in fact all key religions stress equality, rights, respect and love for all of God’s children yet homosexuals are left out. Society, in general has the belief that religion has no place in politics and it should be governed by logic and reason rather than personal vendettas against a group that their religion targets. This is not the first time that his religious beliefs apparently haven’t had an influence on his policies. During his stint as Health Minister he cut the RU486 drug (used for abortion without a medical procedure) from Australia’s usage as it apparently had more adverse effects which according to the Australian Medical Association was only banned for political reasons and not due to the apparent heightened danger of the drug.

The Greens maintain a pro gay marriage stance and follows the pattern as they don’t claim or express any religious views or intentions. The pattern is broken with Julia Gillard, who has stated that she has no religious beliefs yet has the view that the rejects gay marriage. It’s unclear why she apposes an amendment but common belief may lead us to believe that she assumes that’s what we all want. This thought pattern couldn’t be more incorrect with studies demonstrating that at least 60% (Australian Marriage Equality Survey, 2009) of Australian’s would like to see same-sex marriage included in the Marriage Act. The fact is Labor and Liberal are both trying to do what they see is best for the country but reject common opinion which highlights that our leaders have too much personal opinion ruling their parties policy. I find it hard to side with either Labor or Liberal as they both completely reject the public’s opinion on the matter which is not governing Australia how the majority wants regarding this topic. It’s hard to understand why devout Catholic countries like Spain and Portugal have legalised same-sex marriage but an apparent secular and more open-minded country cannot reverse the wrongs of the past in which Australia continues to govern in a way that can be likened the times well before the 21st century on the matter. There is a positive move being made fortunately. It seems that the Greens will be exercising their new power in the Senate by attempting to put pressure on Labor to put a same-sex marriage bill through. As a result of the recent election the Greens will hold more power than ever before and if the Labor wants their continued support, they may have to subside and introduce this bill.

As can be seen above, it remains to be seen how our political elites came to their decision but one thing for certain, not allowing homosexuals the right to marry is a stringent violation of their human rights. Article 26 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights stresses that all people are to be given equal rights and protection under law and no group regardless of any mental or physical factor will be discriminated against under law. The fact that an entire group is not being entitled with such a fundamental right such as marriage is obviously an infringement as high as International Law. Our country evidently supports the United Nations in their bid to attempt to maintain human rights around the world as far as it is possible so why must we completely disregard a group that pays their taxes, has no higher criminal rate and really have no threat or negative on our country?

Marriage entitles couples to countless collective benefits, which obviously homosexuals can’t obtain. Some notable entitlements are joint tax returns, health benefits and rights as a result of a partner’s death. I feel Australia must take a stepforward from the outdated 19th century definition of marriage that it is the union of one man and one woman and thereis no variation. I can’t understand how anyone cannot rationally come to a conclusion that excluding an entire group from the courtship can’t be justified morally in any way. One last question that remains to be answered is how will society be hurtif homosexuals are given the right to marry? The simple answer is that society wouldn’t be hindered at all and most likely made richer if only our leaders would follow the Greens lead and end discrimination of homosexuals. They must not only take an open-minded look at it but also have to consider public opinion where it shows that a majority want same-sexmarriage. We must take a step forward and attempt to step into the 21st century on the topic.

http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/news/australian-marriage-equality-survey-shows-60-per-cent- support-gay-marriage/story-e6freuy9-1225736262110

Kurt is a young, white, straight, Australian man, who is consistently remarkable in his simultaneous adoration for sportz and carz and his undeterrable championing of justice and equality.

JETSETTING

2010-08-03T23:13:00.000+10:00

I finished up at my sweet office job yesterday. I lied when I said I was going to talk about offys polityx; there aren't any. Everyone was genuinely sweet, funny, generous with the biscuits and pleasantly left-leaning, politically. It was a good six weeks.

IN OTHER NEWS: I'm pissing off to Japan in a fortnight, and I'll be there for about a year. Take THAT, mostly-wasted language major! I'll get my money's worth outta you yet... But anyway! In honour of the occasion, I've started a "travel blog" or whatever, called Watakushi Wa. There is a single post up there but since I'm not actually travelling yet it might be a while before it gets off the ground and I have no moral qualms about cross-posting to both of my word-vomit recepticles so BE WARNED.

(May I take this moment to point out that yes, Wordpress is infinitely better & easier to use than Blogger. Sorry. It's true. Not giving up this URL though.)

This leaving thing is starting to get Real, man. Two weeks is a very graspable amount of time, and yet the fact that I am actually leaving the town I've lived in for three years and the country I've lived in for (a cumulative) ten still hasn't really sunk in. There is a distant sense of terror that clutches at me sometimes--a sense that yes, this is happening, you are flinging yourself into the great unknown, all alone, you foolish, foolish creature. Have I mentioned that all the Japanese I've learned over the last two and a bit years has completely leaked out of my head? It took me about ten minutes to piece together a sentence that MIGHT have approached "I am interested in Japanese culture, so I am going to Japan next month." Maybe.

So the thought of travelling alone with minimal language skills is a little daunting. And I will be travelling alone for a bit, rather than jumping straight into uni life: I'm going to Furano, in Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan, in order to escape the stifling August heat in Tokyo and also to roll around in their famous flowers, preferably with a local gentleman. Which is of course, very exciting and I am very much looking forward to it, but oh holy jesus, I've never done anything like this before, and what if I fail completely? What if my parents receive a tear-filled phone call 48 hours after arrival and have to deal with me being very sure that I hate Japan, everyone is awful and I need to come home immediately?

Not only will it be a waste of time and money, it will be EMBARRASSING. I have hyped this trip up so much, to myself and to anyone who will allow their ear to be talked off, that if it fails I will probably have to ritual suicide (which seems appropriate).

Jesus Christ. I'm going on this amazing overseas adventure, I have a scholarship to make things easy, a place to stay, people I know, and a bright future, and STILL I find things to whinge about. First world problems: I have them.

INSOMNIA

2010-07-28T22:01:00.000+10:00

The other night I had a dream.

I found myself in a cavernous building made of dark red brick, that went for many stories above and below the ground. It was latticed with walkways across a huge gallery space in the middle, and dimly lit, with no windows. Everyone there was young, my age, including the people running the joint, except they were all beautiful, charismatic, and cruel.

It took me a while to realise that I was being held in this building against my will, that there was a war and I was on the wrong side. I tried for so long to find a way out, but every time I found a window I was nowhere near the ground floor. Eventually, one night, I found it, and I saw a way out: a long driveway with a grassy median strip leading away into the night.

I ran for it, even though I knew they'd come after me. I thought I could outrun them. But there was a fence: a high chainlink fence topped with barbed wire. I climbed it, wrapped my sweater around my hands and got over the top.

Suddenly it was daytime. They were coming after me, slowly & deliberately, taking their time. They knew I couldn't run away, because there were guards on the roof of the building waiting to shoot anyone they saw running. I lay down in the long grass at the base of the fence, trying to hide. I was on the other side, staring out at this field of freedom, but I knew they'd find me, and be put back inside that dark place.

A little girl found me. She was about four, the only person not between 19 and 25 I'd seen there; the little sister of one of the girls who was in charge. She found me and went to tell her sister, who thanked her and went to tell the others. They had spread out across the field and she wanted help when she brought me back in.

The little girl came back over to look at me. I was still lying in the long grass, the side of my face pressed against the damp earth, smelling the soil. I looked up at the little girl. She was wearing a blue dress. I knew she was my captor's sister, so I told her to run away, and she did.

She ran away from me across the field, and the guards on the roof shot her in the back. I watched her fall. There was a heavy hollow feeling in my chest, and I thought, Good.

Because that is what you do when you are on the wrong side and you are lost and you have nothing, when you know you're going back into the dark. You take the little triumphs that you can.

WORKING WOMAN

2010-07-01T22:21:00.002+10:00

I'll be honest: I spent the better part of last month (a.k.a. "study break") in a haze of drink and drugs. This is partly because I have no self control and partly because I had access to the above drink and drugs, but mostly because I had been in the process of losing my job (this consists of being given one shift per week or fortnight because my unavailabilities are "difficult").

HOWEVAH! Recently, all this has changed! My boozin' and tokin' and whorin' and dancin' 'til four in the morning on a Tuesday have had to step aside to make way for my

ILLUSTRIOUS CORPORATE CAREER

That's right suckas! This bitch has a Monday-to-Friday, 8:30am-to-5pm, honest-to-goodness sit-in-a-cubicle Office Job. And let me tell you, after working in retail and hospitality for the last, ooh, five years or so, this shit is cushy as.

I work for a publishing company. My official job title is 'Copyright & Image Researcher', which means I spend a lot of time looking through stock photography sites for images that fit the brief given to me by one fickle editor or another, and obtaining permission to reproduce blah blah blah you don't care. Suffice to say it is actually pretty fun ("You want a picture of a sandwich, you say? Well there can't be too many of thOH MY GOD IT IS A GALAXY OF SANDWICHES.").

My workplace: let me tell you about it.

The general gist of work here is to sit at a desk in front of a computer for eight hours a day, which is good, because that's what I do even when I don't have a job. The only difference is that here I have to mostly look at the stuff I am directed to look at on the internet, rather than gay porn.

We have breaks for morning tea, afternoon tea, and lunch. I am endlessly thrilled by the idea of taking a break from sitting at my desk every two hours in order to go and sit somewhere else. There are unlimited free biscuits and crackers of many and varied flavours, and unlimited tea and coffee, which means I'm averaging five cups and at least three bikkies per day. There is a main kitchen, upstairs and across the breezeway from my cubicle, but there is also something called a Tea Point on my floor, which consists of a kitchenette with a boiling-and-chilled water tap and a fridge, and the ubiquitous ceramic jars of tea (three kinds) and instant coffee. On Friday, the boiling water tap in the Tea Point broke at around 10:50am. By noon, a temporary kettle had been installed, and on Monday it was fixed. Do not underestimate the importance of a functioning Tea Point.

There is no dress code, which of course means I am showing up to work in my fanciest and most put-together outfits while everyone else is wearing jeans and rugby shirts. But fuck that shit. Pearls! Sweater! CORPORATE MODE: ACTIVATE.

Perhaps the most exciting part of my new-found Bysiness Lyfe is the regularly and abundantly stocked full-length stationery cupboard in the copy room (As a side note, I would like to mention how much I love the copy room. I love waiting for the printer to spit out my crisply printed emails for me to staple to my image briefs. I love the hot smell of ink and paper in there, and how warm it always is. I love the recycle bin and the stamps and staplers on the production island. I love the copy room). Anyway: the contents of this cupboard are free and accessible to everyone. For free. Including me. As such, for someone who does all her writing on the computer, I have an absurd amount of stationery on and around my desk. You want a post-it note? Gotcha covered. Mechanical pencil? On it. Care for a fine- OR medium-nibbed pen in red, black, or blue?

And that's just the introduction to the Wonderful World of Corporate Life. UP NEXT: OFFYS POLITYX

ADVENTURES

2010-06-03T19:28:00.004+10:00

I live in the biggest room of an old Queenslander, and the door to my room locks automatically when it shuts. I am concerningly obsessive-compulsive about checking that I have my key with me before I leave the room, because I don't have a spare one and the very thought of being without my bed and my bike and all my STUFF is so awful I can't bear to look it in the face.

UNTIL NOW.

Yesterday, I locked my keys in my room. It was about 8:55am. I was sleepy and in a rush to get to uni and--look, don't judge me okay, the point is it happened. I realised as I was shutting the door, and almost as quickly realised that howling "fuuuuuuuuuuuck" wasn't going to open it for me.

So what did this genius do?

Actually, for the next part of the story, you need to hear about the layout of my house. It's built on a steep slope (thanks Paddington), and my window looks down onto the path that goes down this slope to the back yard. The window is maybe four metres off the ground.

Anyway: I once left my keys at a friend's house and managed to climb through my open window with the help of a rusty washing machine-shell (a harrowing experience)--I figured I could manage a repeat performance.

I dragged the first height-boosting apparatus I laid eyes on--our green wheelie-bin--down the path, parked it exceptionally unstably under the window, hoisted my self wobblily (a word) onto it, and looked up at my window. My really, really closed window. So closed. The most closed it has ever been.

That's okay! the plucky, resourceful part of my inner monologue piped up. It's a sash window! Maybe you can jimmy it up a little bit, with one hand on the bottom wooden cross-piece and the other on the glass pa-

CRACK. SMASH. "FUCK!"

You bet your butt-lovin' britches that window fucking broke. Considering it was made sometime during the Cretaceous period (we think) it's remarkable that it even had glass in it; less remarkable, however, that the glass broke into many large pieces, and many, many more microscopic razor-sharp invisible dermis-lacerating grains of what I like to fondly refer to as 'angry sand'.

No no, said the plucky voice - this is a blessing in disguise! You're only a little bit bleeding! And now you can get a good grip on that wooden cross-piece--this window will be up in no time!

Bear in mind that during all this the window-sill is at the level of my wheelie-bin-boosted collarbone. Foolishly giving that plucky little shit a second chance, I removed most of the glass shards and put one hand on this windowsill to steady myself while I tried to lift the (50 kilo) (at least) window-frame.

STAB. "FUCK!"

Of course the window was covered in angry sand. Of course I had to go back inside, remove the razor-dust from my palms, fetch the brush from the dustpan, grouchily re-position the wheelie bin, and sweep the sill of its spiteful, sparkly freeloaders. Of course things were about to get worse.

My house, being a Queenslander, has a semi-open basement in the area otherwise occupied by the stilts required to keep it steadfastly level on the wild slopes of Paddington. On my side of the house, this basement is enclosed by a sort of picket-fence-style set up: evenly-spaced slats of wood set against horizontal beams, and stopping just short of where the house itself starts. And a damn good job they do, because in that little space is where I wedged one sneakered foot to boost me a little higher as I gained purchase on the bottom of the now-empty window frame.

As I wriggled my grip, testing the weight of the window (still 50 kilos), my toes already being pinched numb in the picket-fence-gap, my original support, my companion from the start, my stalwart booster wheelie-bin, turned betrayer and fell the fuck over.

Maybe the pressure of supporting my in my struggle against injustice was too much for him. Maybe he was never suited for the treacherous terrain of the inner-Western suburbs. Maybe I'd just readjusted his position carelessly (unlikely). Whatever the reason, there I was, dangling from the bottom of an empty window-frame and one sneaker, a solid stream of swears issuing from my fear-distorted lips.

"aaaaaaaaaAAAAAHHH FUCKSHITTINGSHITBALLSARSEFUCKINGBITCHFUCK!"

Don't panic! yelled the plucky voice (that fucker). Don't panic! It's going to be fine! Just--get your other foot up on a foothold--okay--you're stable (all the while I'm thinking theframeisgoingtobreakthewindowframeisgoingtofuckingbreak)--now just, lift it up--

And I did. I like to think the same kind of survival mechanism that allows women to lift cars off their children allowed me to save my skinny arse from certain disfigurement and injury. I lifted that fucking window enough for me to fling myself forward through it in a maneouvre that even now I find difficult to comprehend. Even more impressive is that I managed to wriggle through, cursing at the top of my lungs the whole time ("MOTHERFUCKINGARSESHITCUNTPIECEOFCOCKSUCKINGCUNTSHITTER") as the window frame was attempting to crush me with its ever-increasing weight.

Nevertheless. I did. I She-Hulked-up and got myself through that colossal squeeze--I can only imagine how ridiculous it would have been from the street: a pair of legs flailing in a sort of buttefly/breaststroke hybrid, accompanied by muffled swearing--ending up on my glass-covered desk, triumphant, feet out the window, breathing heavily and still cussing at the top of my lungs. My housemate didn't even wake up.

Anyway, I got my fucking keys and got to uni and now my window has a massive hole in it and I'm cold.

THE END.

BRISBANE: A PHOTO DIARY

2010-06-03T18:37:00.003+10:00

Lolz not really. This is just some ridic shit I've been seeing around "the Bris" and meaning to sully the good name of the internet with for some time.

This was the emergency procedures sign in my friend's apartment block. More like emergency PARTY-cedures, am I right, guys?

WHOOP WHOOP

This dude held the toilet paper in the hideous filth-dungeon of a basement toilet at my previous place of employment. What has been seen, etc.

JUSTICE, ROBIN BOWLES! Justissssss

This was in the window of a beauty salon on Adelaide St.

Necessary.

DRUNK BUELLER'S NIGHT OFF or some shit I dunno

2010-05-28T03:49:00.001+10:00

So! Due to an exponentially growing laundry pile and a sense of self-esteem that plummets without company, I dressed like Ferris Bueller tonight and went out! Solo! To a "thing" called Lambda Lambda Lambda!

YOU GUYS. THIS FERRIS BUELLER THING IS FOR REAL.

Pegged high-waisted jeans + bomber jacket + 80s hair + sneakers = best night--or bestest night ever?! I am still drunk BUT I can remember the following which I pray to sweet Jebus Christmas I never forget:

Finding $50 on the dance floor while krumping to Salt n Pepa
Immediately making new friends and buying EEEEVERYONE DRINKS!
Ruling the d-floor (RULING IT)
Asking two (2) boys if they were straight (yes! on both accounts)
Telling one of them that "we should be making out"
Making out!!
Being asked if I was a lesbian
Getting 2 and a half slices of pizza for $7 of not-my-money
Did I mention the krumping to Salt n Pepa
I didn't smoke!!
A bottle fell out of a bin onto my head! I got bottled! By a held-aloft bin! (I didn't bleed, disappointingly.)
DID I MENTION I AM DRESSED LIKE FERRIS BUELLER

It is a charmed outfit. I am never getting out of it. So help my drunk ass I am sleeping showering and doing it in this outfit as long as I live because it is LUCKY and I am DRUNK and GOODNIGHT

P.S. Pics to come tomorrow when I can decipher this "bluetooth" thing oh jesus why is it so hard

P.P.S. PLEASE NOTE MY AMAZING SPELLING WHILE DRUNK (I shoulda breathalysed myself at New York Slice just to prove my point. Just take my word for it. My boozy, boozy word.)

ETA: Do you know how difficult it is to take a photo of everything you're wearing with your phone camera? THIS DIFFICULT:

Ahhhhh my fucking elbow what the what

MANA BAR

2010-04-12T16:20:00.005+10:00

My good friend Steven was in town this weekend for the Supanova pop culture convention, and as he is a fellow who appreciates a video game or two, I thought it the perfect opportunity to visit Brisbane's newest hippest acquisition in the form of Australia's first video game bar: Mana Bar.

You guys! It's really cool!

So yeah, maybe we had to wait in line for like half an hour to get in because it's so small (60 person capacity), but it's free entry AND free games! And sure, maybe we had to wait in line some MORE in order to get drinks - but - wait, in LINE? For drinks? Rather than in a beer-sweating scrum of handsy morons in scoop-neck t-shirts, a la the rest of the Valley?

YES, IT IS TRUE: Mana Bar has the best crowd to be found on a Saturday night. Bitches bein' all polite up in herr, bein' all "excuse me" and "please" and "thank you". We made friends in line with some rad cats (hi Jess and Jeremy et al!), one of whom had an E Cigarette that glowed blue on the end (I gasped "It's so future!"), and she even took it apart for us and showed it how it works! And then when we finally reached the front of the line, the security guy, Gabe, was dressed as Shaun of the Dead (complete with mini-cricket bat) and used the phrase "unknown variable" 30 seconds into conversation! A+++ WOULD CHAT AGAIN.

Inside is very small but not over-crowded, and when everyone's so nice to each other you don't really notice the squashiness anyway. And, of course, there are video games. I feel it would be prudent of me to put here a DISCLAIMER: I don't actually play video games. Thanks to my parents' cries of "READ A BOOK!" in response to my whining for a GameBoy, I completely missed out on that portion of popular culture and am only just begining to grasp some of the basic theories (thanks to Yahtzee, who is, incidentally, a part-owner of Mana Bar). Anyway, we managed to rock up on the Blade Kitten launch night (Steven played it and said it wasn't very good), but also in action was some weird sort of multi-player thing called Skull Rascals, systematic arse-kicking via Street Fighter 4, three dudes ripping it up on Guitar Hero, and me actually not coming last (!!) on Wii Mario Kart. There were concise "house rules" for the controllers up next to the games, and everyone seemed to be fine with following them. Unsurprising I guess, considering you could literally walk up to anyone, say hi, and be warmly included in the crowd around whatever bloody schoolgirl vs. Russian soldier street-fight was currently taking place on-screen.

The bar staff were also super-friendly, and maybe more importantly, talented! There's a short but diverse list of cocktails (the menus are in game-cases! hee!) with names like Mana Potion and Ocarina of Lime and they are delicious, and in some cases, sparkly! The music was fun and appropriate (MC Frontalot, anyone?) and not so loud that I couldn't yelp for help while trying to navigate a particularly tricky corner as I almost crushed the Wii-controller in my over-zealous claws. We drank. We played. We made friends. I Twittered about it (how appropriate). Everyone I talked to seemed thrilled with the novelty of "going out" and being able to "talk nerdy".

Like I said, I don't play video games. But I am kinda dorky (she types, from her bed-cave, on her "web log"), and I'm pretty sick of the bad taste in my mouth after your regular night in the Valley - literally and figuratively. Mana Bar is this exhilarating breath of fresh air - full of fun, attractive (yes!), friendly people who probably don't go out all that much and thus have a really rad time when they do. While it's a niche bar, I don't think it's exclusively so - video games obviously haven't been a fringe subculture for a while (please don't make me link to statistics). And according to the bar's Facebook page, people have been coming from all over to visit, and having a great time. Sounds like a success to me!

Nice work Yahtzee & co. I really can't recommend the place enough. I'll definitely head back, though probably on a weeknight when the line is less intimidating - I have a friend I feel would really appreciate Ocarina of Lime.

FUNNY JUNK

2010-04-08T00:58:00.001+10:00

It's nearly one in the morning on the Thursday of my mid-semester break! Let's look at some FUNNY SHIT! Da da-da-ra-da-da daaaaaa:

It's the Maria Bamford show!

Viral Video Film School!

I have such a crush on my professor you guys

Also from consistent funny-machine Infomania: Sergio's White Hot Top Five!

More music!

And Pomplamoose!

Okay Pomplamoose are more wow-awesome than straight-out funny per se but shut up whose blog is this anyway huh yeah that's right

COMIX

Of the Dinosaur kind!

Of the Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal kind!

Natalie Dee!

Married To The Sea!

WELL I FEEL BETTER NOW DON'T YOU

SVAVAR & CHARLIE MAYFAIR

2010-03-16T17:51:00.001+10:00

Like I said, I'm in a band. And, like I said, we recently had the very good fortune to play a show with the delightful, the charming, the effervescent & hilarious Svavar Knútur of Iceland.

(A side note: how fab is Iceland? Not only is it beautiful, they produce all the best musicians [Björk, Sigur Rós, Emilíana Torrini], their language is the closest modern relative of Old Norse [and is really pretty to look at], they have their own breed of horse [that has an extra two horse-speeds!], and all their inhabitants are super friendly and attractive.)

But Svavar in particular is a wonderful creature. We remain utterly charmed by him. And his music - oh, his music.

He calls it "songs of misery and redemption". It sounds like the breath you take at dawn after a night of crying your heart out.

ENLIGHTEN YOURSELF THUS:

I had the pleasure of [my bandmates forcibly coercing me into] singing a harmony with Svavar in his beautiful song Yfir Hola Og Yfir Haedir. Considering this song has been the soundtrack to my every early morning for the last six months, I can say with some certainty that it was the highlight of my Troubadour-based experiences.

Know him. Love him. Get him to tell you his German jokes. And by all means necessary, see him when he plays your town.

SAM 4 GARETH

2010-03-10T19:16:00.000+10:00

I write pop music reviews for an Australian magazine called Music Forum. I thought I'd share with you the review I wrote for them last May: Havilah, by the Drones, My Favourite Album Of 2009 And Possibly All Time. I like to think it was this review alone that scored them the cover (which is more likely due to their good-quality publicity shots).

I’ve loved the Drones since I first heard the superbly-named 2005 Wait Long By The River And The Bodies Of Your Enemies Will Float By. 2009’s Havilah is a glorious continuation of everything good they’ve got going on.

Be aware, however, that this is not a light album. Neither should you expect the fun clicks and beeps that have become standard for many of the now-synth-infused modern rockers. The Drones are steadfastly old-fashioned: four people on four instruments, playing the darkest kind of blues-rock, keeping the veil of production between the sound and the listeners whisper-thin.

The Drones’ sound is uniquely Australian in a way not widely recognised. It rings with discomfort and dissonance from the soulless small towns of Australia’s forgotten expanses, and the forgotten expanses inside people. It explores the dark corners and the uncomfortable truths of modern Australia, with all our history and secrets, and it’s as sophisticated and complex as the overseas giants we’ve always tried to emulate. While sometimes blackly humorous, the essence of Havilah lies on the edge of misery. There’s a beautiful bleakness about it.

Lead singer and songwriter Gareth Liddiard’s voice is arresting: righteously spitting and harsh, unaffected by an American accent. His spiteful growls and strangled yells are the perfect way to deliver his twisted lyrics. The blessedly-included lyric sheet reads like poetry on its own, and the tunes to which they’re set sound like Liddiard’s dark, angular words made musical.

The Minotaur is Havilah’s first single, a blistering tirade on waste and sloth. Underpinning Liddiard’s hoarse ranting—“he spends all day looking at porn or playing f—king Halo 2”—are driving, tom-centred rhythms and the relentless crashing of cymbals, twanging, circular riffs over sputtering and screeching rhythm guitar, and a fittingly bull-headed bassline. All combined, it’s a violent mess of noise that makes you want to shout along, fist-pounding, hair-tearing; angry-mob-raising stuff.

Then there are the valleys of Havilah to complement the peaks of pique, full of crooning, not-quite-right electrics and unsettling quietness, like the brief, pensive Penumbra. Written about the moon landing, it begins with the uncomfortable intimacy of Liddiard’s low, humming mumble and the spooky thrumming of a solitary guitar, and is then joined by an ethereal synth keening—it’s like listening to outer space in a seashell.

Album closer Your Acting’s Like The End Of The World is a lighter track, or as light as the Drones might get: an up-tempo jangling of chords and brushing snares, a rounder, kinder melody, and a more traditional blues style. The trailing, fading outro is a great finish to an album that flows like chapters in a novel.

The Drones are where it’s at in Australian contemporary music. For more than ten years they’ve been consistently delivering outstanding albums that tap into a truthfulness rarely seen in the genre, writing spin-free, unapologetic rock n’ roll, complete with loud guitars and a healthy political grounding. Havilah is the first album in some time that I’ve been compelled to put on repeat. Played back to back and over and over, these ten tracks only get better. I highly recommend you to get to know them.

Post Script: It's no secret to those close to me how much I love the Drones. Just to illustrate exactly how restrained I was being in this review: I once turned down an interview with Gareth Liddiard because I legitimately thought I would pass out if I was in the same room as him. This is love this is love this is love that I'm feelin'.

BACK FROM THE BRINK

2010-03-10T00:36:00.002+10:00

Things I Did In My Absence:

1. Discovered Chatroulette.
Wow. Just - wow. I have pretty lofty sexual aspirations, but I can honestly say I have never wanted to see as many dicks as I have seen in the past few weeks. HOWEVAH I am now Facebook friends with a Russian artist named Alex who paints the most beautiful watercolour landscapes, AND I had a lengthy discussion with a handsome Texan highschooler last night that did not include a SINGLE OCCURRENCE of him asking to see my boobs.

If you want more information on Chatroulette (yes you do), please to be reading this article and seeing these hilarious screencaps. Does this encapsulate everything it means to be 'Gen Y'? Discuss.

2. Played in my band a lot.
Did you even know I was in a band? I bet you didn't, you heartless wench. Well I AM, and things have been picking up for us and it's been great. We played shows with Skipping Girl Vinegar (you will remember my glowing review of their previous Brisbane show), local lads Montpelier and Tin Can Radio (who you must absolutely see, immediately, run-don't-walk), and most awesomely, the vivaciously talented and hilarious Svavar Knútur from Iceland--more on that gig to come. AND we were a featured artist on triple j Unearthed and NOW we're about to start recording our first EP. Respect this way, thanks.

3. Read 'The Road', by Cormac McCarthy. Saw Avatar. Saw Alice In Wonderland.
Read. Watch. Avoid.

4. Got really really drunk. A lot.
WHAT, I'M YOUNG OKAY, SO WHAT IF I WANT TO THROW A HAWAIIAN-THEMED PARTY AND DRINK MY BODYWEIGHT IN PUNCH AND CHOW DOWN ON JELLY SHOTS AND FORGET TELLING MY FRIEND KATINKA HOW I "JUST THINK YOU'RE REALLY GREAT". DON'T JUDGE.

But anyway, now I'm back! Back at uni. Back to work. Back from four months of delinquency and the brink of alchoholism and committing most of my Friday nights to the dusty halls of memories addled by substance abuse.

Responsibility! Steady income! Study routine! I LIIIIIIVE

HOUSE SHOW LOVE

2009-09-27T15:09:00.008+10:00

I'd just like to say how much love I am currently feeling towards my household. The house is an ancient dilapidated crate with pounded-flat carpet and one bajillion over-confident mice who don't pay rates, encrusted with the accumulated filth of six or more generations of sharehousers, but it has character. Everyone in the house is a musician, meaning that two out of three nights someone will be playing live music, and every second weekend or so we have a house show.

They are inevitably epic. About ten thousand disaffected youths who I don't know descend on our tiny living room to listen to the latest hippest underground band, including the superb residents Kitchen's Floor and Cured Pink Radio, make out, break our furniture, and spill beer everywhere. Once we found a squashed mouse the next morning. We think someone dropped an amp on it.

Last night was particularly good. This amazing punk group from Sydney called Royal Headache played and almost blew the windows out with awesome. It was a mosh in our living room: forty people packed into this little box, smashing into each other and crowd-surfing (yes), with me right in the thick of it, soaked in beer and other people's sweat and sporting a swelling headwound. Shogun, the singer, was almost engulfed by the crowd, yowling into this shitty mic and headbutting the people nearest to him. The songs were short, fast, catchy, and loud; it was outstanding. The crowd bayed for more every time they even hinted at finishing up. I bumped into one of the housies this morning as we were cleaning up and we both said the same thing: Man, what a good night.

Our place: great venue.

Edit: Footage from the night, thanks to ETERNAL SOUNDCHECK.

The Paper Scissors/The Cairos @ The Troubadour, 7 August 2009

2009-08-15T10:59:00.006+10:00

I headed out after work on Friday night not knowing what to expect. I got to the Troubadour - ah, the Troubadour - just as the Cairos were starting (sorry I missed you, Ernest Ellis). The Cairos are a local act that I've heard mentioned here and there over the past couple of years, but never had the opportunity to see. I was impressed. My overwhelming first impression was how young they are - they won the Brizband School Challenge in 2007, to give you an indication of age - but they're talented. Their songs are all energy: uptempo, punky alternative pop with a wicked rhythm section and some lovely melodies. A broodingly handsome lead guitarist tap-dancing on his pedal board gives what could be more of the same from this end of the 'alternative' spectrum a noisy edge. There were people dancing. These guys are one to watch.

I really had no preconceptions when it came to the Paper Scissors. I'd briefly listened to their MySpace, but hadn't come away awed. This show changed everything. I am not joking. I am a total convert and will be going to the next show I can make it to and all the ones after that. I learned after the show that the Paper Scissors have only recently become a three-piece. As far as I'm concerned, three is the perfect number. Jai Daniel Pyne, the lead singer and guitarist, is a towering, eye-rolling, shiny-headed monster, larger than life with one hand on the low ceiling as he bellows these anthemic tunes, the crowd bellowing along with him. I didn't even know the songs beforehand and I was bellowing along. We soon closed the polite gap between bodies and stage, knees knocking the raised floorboards and hands reaching. I'm not going to lie; I was right there, at the front, loving it. I guess that's one of the things that sets TPS apart from others of their ilk; these sweet indie songs are dance-tempo, insistent beats prodding at your feet (clopping blocks encouraging little-kid delight on my behalf), shouty singalong melodies sticking in your head.

We love the Paper Scissors. We howled for an encore, apparently the first genuine encore request of their Howl tour so far. Their set was so stripped back, they had to reprise a song they'd played earlier in the set; luckily it was the supremely infectious Yamanote Line, and with most of the members of Ernest Ellis and the Cairos on stage with them, was a roaring call-and-response wrap-up.

Please check these guys out. They are so choice.

Vanilla

2009-07-15T15:12:00.001+10:00

I'm at my parents' house at the moment, sitting at the table on the patio, gazing at the vista of cane paddocks and banana fields wound through with the Russell River and anchored by the dark green bulk of Bartle Frere. It's very quiet in Woopen Creek, four k off the stretch of highway running between Innisfail and Babinda. Sometimes the cattle on the property next door groan, and during the harvest season the cane trains rattle across the rail bridge - but today, it's just the sound of the wind and the distant grumble of tractors.

My parents grow vanilla. Tropical North Queensland's climate is perfect for it, a hot, humid nursery for rainforest plants. It's only year three of their going-bush venture, but piles of dark-brown, lustrous beans are already wizening in the sun. The house floods with the smell of them. These beans smell a bit like my father's pipe tobacco. Some of them smell like sultanas. All of them have the heady vanilla fragrance that now permeates my mother's clothes, something I'll never get sick of, something that invites, when no-one's watching, thrusting my face into the leathery mounds to inhale deeply and surface, giddy, covered in seed-specks.

The shadehouses where the vanilla grows are these lush, jungle-y, shadowed places. Thick vines heave in montrous bunches over support wires, the vinyl oblong leaves veiling hands of the long green beans.The still air is prehistoric with rotting mulch. Vanilla vines flower - it's an orchid - but each flower only opens once, and only in the early morning, and they have to be hand-pollinated. So every ripening bean on the vine, and every gorgeous-smelling bean in the heaps in the sun are the result of my mother and father's 7am pollinating. Every flower needs the match-making of a flattened toothpick to introduce the pollen to its stamen and start the fruit.

My folks are away at the moment, so I'm here, looking after my nine-year-old sister and tending to the fermenting beans. There's not a lot to do aside from that. It's 26 degrees. The sun is shining. The dog is licking my feet and antagonising the cat (who is firmly indoors). Soon it will be time to wrap up the beans and tuck them into bed.

It's so beautiful, there's not much I need to do, aside from appreciate it.

Dead Letter Chorus/Skipping Girl Vinegar/Skinny Jean @ The Troubadour, 15 May 2009

2009-05-17T16:45:00.006+10:00

Brisbane favourites Skinny Jean are in full swing when we arrive at the Troubadour, and I’m reminded again why I tell everyone about this band. Live, they possess the same shambling, anarchic feel as the Drones, raising a glorious cacophony of voices and a wall of sound so thick you could take a scoop out of the air. Skinny Jean give their audience credit, piling on modes, silences, and limping time signatures. Tonight’s show is all about inspiringly manic frontman and principle songwriter Shêm Allen, and captivating new vocalist and Lady of the Tuned Percussion, Jemma Hicks. She carries the heaving, grief-wracked Army Wife with verve and passion, and closes the set with a jaw-dropping vibraphone solo.

Next up are Melbourne quartet Skipping Girl Vinegar, sticking cut-outs of woodland critters on the mic stands and setting the stage with a lamp, side-table, phone, and alarm clock. I’m wondering what exactly they need the supporting cast of Bambi to compensate for—until they let rip with a chorus of luscious full-band harmonies. Lined up along the front of the stage amid the hedgehogs and owls, radiating feel-good country-tinged folk-rock, SGV turn the already cosy Troubadour into your best friend’s living room, and lead singer Mark Lang soon has the whole place fist-pumping and ba-da-da-ing along to standout single Sift The Noise. Melodica, electric organ and xylophone all make an appearance; from the dusty, Nashville-tinged Wandered to the foot-stomping Getting Wasted, SGV serve up a sweet slice of (Australian) southern-state summer.

Sydney outfit Dead Letter Chorus are last on stage. They have a sound full of lyricism, lush voices, and a kind of brooding grandeur. Ripples of admiration are palpable as Gabby Huber swaps places at the lead with Cameron Potts, and graces us with her thrilling voice. Single Down In Your Valley is verging on greatness, but Fathers and Daughters initially seems a poor choice for a closer, starting as it does with solo guitar picking and Potts’ mournful voice—but the end of the set explodes into a melee of crowd singalongs, wailing harmonica and flying streamers. An awesome wrap-up to an awesome night of sweet Aussie rock.

Skipping Girl Vinegar and Dead Letter Chorus are touring the east coast at the moment; see MySpace for details on their upcoming shows in Sydney.

Two vids in a row but heck, this is worth it

2009-05-17T15:13:00.000+10:00

Gospel truth

2009-05-02T15:38:00.002+10:00

via 24freedinners.

Pabst Blue Ribbon, fixed-gear bikes, and saving the universe

2009-04-13T19:40:00.014+10:00

When I lived in Richmond I once went to a friend of a friend's apartment in one of the cooler neighbourhoods of that crooked little place. There were shoes nailed to the walls, lines of crushed valium on the coffee table and a giant hookah taking pride of place, centre-living room floor. I exclaimed, "This apartment is the shit!" They laughed at my accent, offered me some shisha, and turned some music on. I watched as Joe, the friend-of-my-friend, flicked through his iTunes on shuffle: "Don't like this song... or this one... don't like this one..." It was the Dandy Warhols, the White Stripes, Death Cab, Interpol, etc. I laughed and said, "Did you take your music straight from the indie handbook?" He looked at me with a combination of disgust, shock and hurt that I have never seen replicated to this day.

That was 2005, and since then I've seen a lot of grungily cool apartments with shoes on the walls, powder on the surfaces and shish smoke clogging the ceilings, and I finally get why Joe took such offense: I called him a hipster.

Oh, hipsters. Those thick-rimmed-glasses-sporting, ash-flicking, slouching, skinny-jeaned creatures we all love to loathe. And loathe them we do. There is no neutral ground here. In fact the first thing you'll see on the Wikipedia page is a 'neutrality-disputed' banner, because, for some reason, hipster culture causes immediate fury so intense as to wipe out coherent thought in most people. There's something inherently offensive about so much pretentiousness being so vilified. But wait, wait - what is a hipster, exactly?

The word 'hip' comes from 'hep', a jive word from the start of the jazz era. People who dug hot jazz were 'hep' and 'hepsters', and jive talk was a way of distinguishing themselves from a mainstream culture that was, at times, hostile towards the jazz movement.

Now, evolved into 'hipster', the term applies, often in a derogatory sense, to young middle-class people who wouldn't touch the mainstream with a ten-foot pole. There's more to it, of course, mainly the appalling cultural appropriation - being the absorption of a cultural marker into a totally different context, thus stripping it of its meaning, diluting it, and generating a lot of resentment from a lot of different people (the keffiyeh is a good example of this). Hipsters are also famous for being self-absorbed, aloof and elitist - look, just watch the Hipster Olympics and get back to me.

Done? Awesome.

So it's easy to see why people call 'em leeches, posers, scum. But this article is what I really wanted to talk about. It's in a magazine called Adbusters, right? Do you know the biggest demographic that reads Adbusters? Alternative young middle-classers!

But this is the crazy thing about them: hipsters can read articles hating on hipsters and NOT GET IT because no self-respecting hipster will acknowledge being a hipster. They're the original, man. They've got ideas. Everyone else is the fucking hipster. It's some sort of self-perpetuating identity crisis based around a need to be the most unique, original, alternative. If that's what you're after, you can never pledge yourself to a single subculture. You'd be selling out!

Hipsters are emblematic of a generation that is hyper-self-aware, borrowing shamelessly from previous subcultures, documenting and self-deprecating their still-forming history with the ever-giving help of the Internet - so how can you possibly call them the dead end of an entire civilisation? Saying that kind of shit puts you in the same perspectiveless bubble as the rest of them. It's not a crime that our youth are disaffected; it's not even necessarily a bad thing. And pretentious or not, a ton of hipsters really do buy green, support local businesses, use energy-saving lightbulbs and eat vegetarian, as well us supporting gay rights, feminism, and all the minorities they shamelessly borrow from. As much as they might shit you, they're doing some stuff right.

And let's be as real as our rose-tinted re-released Wayfarers will allow us to be, people: the Adbusters article itself is a load of hysterical crap. I mean, sure, hate on them, but please don't give hipsters as much credit as to be the "dead end of Western civilisation". What nonsense.

The fact that there is such hysterical reaction to a hipster phenomenon says a lot about us, although what exactly it's saying, I'm not sure. Maybe we chafe under the scrutiny of those who proclaim themselves cooler than us without our approval. Maybe we're intimidated by the aggressive obscurity that's apparently necessary to be accepted into those circles. Maybe I'm projecting a tiny bit here. But look: historically, the subcultures with the greatest backlash have been the most influential. I'm not trying to suggest that hipsters are the new punks (nor will I agree that hobos are the new unicorns). I'm just saying, why don't we see how this whole hipster thing pans out before we go ahead and announce the end of Western civilisation at the hands of some skinny art history majors with nicotine-hands and an overdeveloped sense of self-importance.

Sorry guys!

2009-04-05T19:02:00.005+10:00

A whole month! I'm really sorry, the three people who read my blog. Life sort of caught up with me for a bit. At uni this year they're actually expecting me to make an effort or something? And saving for my Adventure in Nihon next year means working (sometimes) 40 hours a week on top of classes and "study" (a.k.a. looking at the cover of the textbook for a bit). So I've been busy.

It's not just being busy that's kept me from bloggin', I will be honest with you, Dear Reader. I've been suffering a major case of the unmotivateds. I'm sure you know the feeling. I'm inclined to blame Being Nineteen, because everything I want to do seems to have already been done or out of my talent's feeble reach or too much effort or too far away. I start things, wail WHY and stop. Honestly! Pathetic.

But don't fret (not that you were). I'm shaking it off (like a boss).

To come in the next week or so (I'm more likely to stick to something if I commit to it in writing and put it somewhere public - thanks, PSYC1030!):

hipsters! What's the deal there?
Living In The Future! Or, Where Is My Jet Pack?
vegetarians and vegans - those crazy cats!
interweb lingo!

And some other stuff, I hope! My lovely boyfriend gets back from his Magical Mystery Tour of the US on Tuesday so I hope I'll be able to relay you some of his adventures. Until then: thanks so much for reading this, you guys. Here's a picture of a fox in a helmet:

Awwwwwww.

On getting on

2009-03-03T15:19:00.000+10:00

It was my birthday yesterday. I wasn't even that excited leading up to it. I was excited about the hats-and-headwear party I was planning, but the actual birthday I could take or leave. Because I felt old. Do you know how old I am now? I'm nineteen. 19. NINETEEN.

How can I be turning 19 and feel past it? As in most cases, I will choose blame culture, and not my own crippling self-doubt, for my angst and woes. And in my own comfortable, Western-society existence, nineteen seems to be the most in-between of the ages: a tacked-on post-script of a year after the sudden flood of adulthood at 18 and the end of an era at 20. What do people even do when they're 19? Work. Study. NOTHING GOOD. You start to bid your childhood a final farewell, and begin to resign yourself to the pressures and responsibilities that come with Growing Up, and all the baggage that comes with Getting Old.

Yes, age is a weird thing in our culture. At one of my jobs, I'd say that almost half of the people who walk in are 60+. It's strange how, beyond a certain age, people become harmless and genderless, lisping around new teeth, struggling with purse clasps, talking and talking like they're reaching out for some sort of acknowledgement that they are still a real person, not a liability or a money-sucker or just Grandpa. You acknowledge them like you acknowledge children, and expect them to fade away eventually.

People freak out a bit when you don't follow that prescribed path into revisited infancy. Especially if you're a lady! People get all kinds of knickers in twists at Helen Mirren and Susan Sarandon looking like Hot Ladies at awards ceremonies, because once you're past A Certain Age you're not allowed to have obvious gender labels. Or something?

And then there's the opposite end, where young people are ungracefully lumped into that curse upon us all, Generation Y. Thanks a lot, you guys: because I'm under 25, everyone's gonna think I'm a commitment-phobic leech with no head for responsibility who spends thousands on drinking and hair products. Past 25 and it's smooth sailing, though, right? It bothers me when young people are ignored or patronisingly placated. Especially teens at high school. Jeez there are some smart kids around, kids who struggle and struggle to get their ideas out and their voices heard because no-one pays any attention to a kid with acne in Grade 11. God help you if you're a cute girl, too.

But at the same time, we're not encouraged to be young, certainly not by the media, certainly not young as in childish. I won't go into the tween phenomenon, it's terrifying and we all know about it, but there's a reason I'm feeling old at 19. We're all encouraged to act older quicker because it's cooler. Global communications is helping to homogenise the behaviour of certain peer groups, so you see the same behavioural trends in 14-year-olds as you do in 21-year-olds who are all connected to similar networking sites. The biggest audiences of magazines like Seventeen and Girlfriend, ostensibly marketed towards, well, seventeen-year-olds, are twelve- and thirteen-year-olds desperately wanting to grow up and be cool.

There's pressure on you to accomplish things before you're properly "old" as well, because, well, look at Brigitte Bardot: once you're old, you're nothing but a crazy racist cat-lady with handbag-skin. And "old" is getting younger and younger. Mid-twenties seems a death knell for some of my friends. Existential crises hit at 21. When I say I'm looking forward to being 30, people look at me like I've lost it. But shit, you know, I am looking forward to being 30 - if for no other reason than that I have never seen a gangly 30-year-old. No way am I still going to be gangly when I hit 30. It'll be just like that Jennifer Garner movie: a sudden transformation into a successful, goddess-like creature, sure of herself and her values, with a kickass job and maybe like, a beagle.

But until then, I'm not going to allow myself to feel old at 19. Ageism or no, I am lucky to be 19 now, here, in Australia. Where would I be 50 years ago? 100 years ago? Not at university, that's for sure. Maybe married. Maybe with BABIES. It's a luxury to even get to this age in some parts of the world, even now. Hell no I'm not going to whinge about it.

Instead I've been oscillating wildly between feeling like I've accomplished nothing in my near-fifth of a century, and feeling flushed, absolutely flushed with youth - potential - endless, untapped resources! But now, after it's happened, I feel older in a good way. More reponsible. More grown-up, but still young. More my own person. More independent. Like I can take myself seriously now.

And that's good. That's all I could ask for.

That, and creme brulee, of course.

Suburban bliss

2009-02-12T11:47:00.007+10:00

So I live in a part of Brisbane called Paddington. It's one of the inner west suburbs, about 15 minutes from the CBD. It has the most expensive Woolworths in the city, is 80% hills and populated mostly by that slightly less offensive creative-arts breed of yuppie and I AM IN LOVE WITH IT. Paddington is my favourite suburb.

So it has its downsides. It also has the most amazing strip of vintage and second-hand stores in Brisbane. The people who aren't arty yuppies are starving, angst-ridden musicians (like the ones I live with), black-clad hipsters, hippies (young and old) and bona fide crazy people. It's lush and leafy, and has all the good stuff - shopping, cafes, bars, the video store - sprinkled along the Latrobe Tce/Given Tce/Caxton St arterial line that runs along the ridge of a hill, with residential side streets dripping off it either side. The views of the city are marvellous. Even my house, which has no insulation, a Jungle Spider Kingdom for a backyard and is (I suspect) held together with dirt, has city views.

Across the road from me is Paddington Central, with Woollies, the chemist, a bottle shop, and a boy with a beautiful voice who plays acoustic guitar music every weekend morning. Buses to the city go every ten minutes. Sitting at the bus stop, I can watch the familiar characters go past: the impeccable young man, slender as a reed, always wearing suit trousers, a white shirt and a tie along with a resplendent blonde moustache, who cycles past every morning at ten without a helmet; the old man who puts a handkerchief on his head before he takes things out of bins; the two immensely fat Woolworths employees who lounge on the benches outside it eating icecream like a sideshow from the 30s.

Apparently Paddington used to be home solely to the starving artist/musician end of the population. My house is a throwback to that, I think (don't tell anyone but I think we have the cheapest rent in the suburb). Now the artists and musicians have grown up and found jobs designing advertising and producing jingles, and have brought their money and their adorable small dogs back to Paddo and mellowed it somewhat. The Paddington vibe is mellow.

What is it, do you think, that gives suburbs their vibe? A place like West End in Brisbane, the shaggier, hippier, more alternative cousin of Paddington feels remarkably different to the sleekness of the CBD, the moneyed middle-class studiousness of St Lucia or the vast grey expanses of Outer Bogansville.

Tell me about where you live. What do you love about it?

After all, what's the internet for?

2009-02-07T12:30:00.003+10:00

Surely, everyone has an opinion on pornography. The word 'porno' conjures images of blonde bouffants, cringe-inducingly long, fake fingernails inserted - no, not there! - and really tan dudes with no pubic hair. But porn in the 00s is making bold moves beyond the mainstream into territory that - I'm just going to say it - I really like.

The thing I never used to like about porn was the unreality of it. It's not a good unreal, either - it's the kind of unreal that encouraged a past boyfriend to think that coming on the boobs on a first sexual encounter was normal - nay, expected! Mainstream porn presents a fictionalised version of sex that intimidates members (haha) of both genders. Dudes are never going to come that much, on demand, or be that enthusiastic for that long. Ladies don't usually have spherical breasticals or love having those nasty nails in various orifices, and most don't have the vocal chords or stamina to make those noises. Then there are the serious ethical concerns about how women get into the industry and are treated once they are there. Guys are conditioned to like it, because that's all they're exposed to, but it contributes to warped ideas about sex, sexuality, and how each gender should be and interact.

Or should I say, it used to be all they're exposed to. Now, popular porn has progressed into the exciting realm of sites like YouPorn and RedTube, where a majority of material is user-created. That is, pornography, made for free, by real people, who enjoy being in porn. It's real people having real sex, with people they know and like. Ladies and gents, this is what porno should be about. Essentially: Here I am, having fun (on my own, with a gentleman/lady, etc.). Maybe you can have fun, too?

Then there are sites like AbbyWinters.com, a huge step in the direction of women-friendly porn. The ladies at AbbyWinters are there because they want to get nude in front of a camera. They are shot in their own homes, their own clothes and underwear, with no makeup, and their own boobs. They smile! They giggle and look nervous sometimes. They have fun. That is so hot. That is so great. That is so far from mainstream porno.

As someone of the female persuasion, it's really encouraging to see sites like AbbyWinters, and how popular they are. Not only does it provide real women for guys to sexually adore rather than articulated blow-up dolls, it allows girls and women to see other girls and women in a sexual way that is free from prejudice or guilt, and encourages them to see themselves the same way. They don't necessarily have to follow in the footsteps of the Abby models, but just seeing happy, healthy, naked girls who seem just like you does wonders for self-esteem and sexual confidence.

Because really, sex is universal. Everyone does it (except for the very small percentage of the population who are asexual, and that's a different story). Everyone thinks about it. Everyone's got preferences, kinks and desires they want fulfilled, but who talks about it? Now I feel like our generation, with the generous help of The Internet, is dragging Sex into the light and saying, Look, it's okay! We're blogging about it. We're discussing it in online communities, around cafe tables and in lectures. We're totally disregarding those god-awful Cosmo sex tips. Women especially are becoming more vocal about what they enjoy in porn (boys kissing!) and what they don't (stank-ass nails!), and finding participating in it exceptionally liberating. The 'niche' market of kink, amateur and fetish porn is becoming the mainstream. Though it might not feel like it, attitudes towards sex in general and porn in particular are relaxing. We're reinventing porn, from the shady misogynistic dealings of our parents' generation, into something friendly, feminist, and acceptable. Which is what it should be, shouldn't it?

Want more? (you naughty things, you):

Fleshbot.com - a dearly beloved news-style blog covering All Things Porno, amateur, pro, gay and straight, as well as this appropriate article;
MyBestFriendPorn.com - a guy and a girl reviewing everything sexy that comes their way;
Sex Tips - everyone needs 'em sometimes;
Literotica.com - for some good old fashioned erotic fiction;
Of course, The Internet Is For Porn;
BeautifulAgony.com - the hottest porn phenomenon ever?
I Shot Myself - sexy ladies photographing themselves;
For The Girls - hot boys? Yes please!

...And the amazing, inspiring Violet Blue. I cannot recommend her highly enough. Follow her links. Take her advice. Worship her like the goddess she is.

How crafty!

2009-01-23T21:22:00.010+10:00

There is something under my desk that I am superlatively proud of. It is a sewing machine. My boyfriend bought it for me for our anniversary in November and I am more in love with it than ever. She is a Bernina, her name is Bernette and she has already churned out a number of mangled calico monstrosities, some passably altered shirts and an extremely angry bear.

Not everyone shares my excitement about Bernette. When I bounced into work the day after receiving her, the response to my jubilant, "Andrew bought me a sewing machine!!" was mostly along the lines of, "Um, ok?"

But some people understood completely how thrilled I was. Both my mum and grandma gave cries of delight, but more importantly, so did some of my bestest friends.

It's true! Craft is no longer the sole domain of the elderly. Young, hip, cool people who appreciate the joy of hours spent in Lincraft and Spotlight poring over gaberdine and muslin, who knit beanies on the bus and sell bizarre stuffed toys from stalls at the Valley Markets are, increasingly, everywhere.

This young-person craftiness is driven, unsurprisingly, by a thriving online community. See ThreadBanger.com: an amazing, bespectacled bunch who recently hit 100 weeks of flourishing internet televisation, covering everything from crotcheted hats to spaceman hoodies, and once featuring long-time idol of mine, Leslie Hall (memo to me: make a gem sweater). There are also a number of outstanding DIY blogs: Wardrobe Refashion, DesignSponge, and Miss Malaprop, to name but a few, all contributing to the bajillion ideas currently orbiting Bernette. Magazines like Australian local Frankie also regularly run craft project ideas - in fact, the first thing I ever sewed (all by hand, too!) was the sock-cat from Frankie for my boyfriend, back when we were courting (ha!).

The Craft is gaining momentum outside the actual crafting population, too. The rise in popularity of websites like Etsy.com has put the spotlight of Cool on everything handmade. If you're selling on Etsy, it's a neat way to earn yourself some pocket money and praise for all your hard work, and for some, a step up to bigger things. And if you are an indie dude or chick looking for obscurity of apparel or accessories, what's better than having something handmade by a dude in Arkansas or a lady in Perth? Then there's the added bonus of ensured sweatshop-free labour, supporting small businesses and dealing directly with suppliers - no middle men to make the economic melt-down any worse. Handmade has an awful lot of appeal.

Because people - especially young people, despite what older generations might say about Gen Y - really are concerned about where they source their goods. This is part of the reason Americal Apparel is so vastly popular: despite multiple sexual harrassment suits against the CEO, AA guarantees the welfare of their staff, supplies health insurance even if they're only part time, and makes all of their stock on the West Coast of the USA - people love that. Angelina Jolie and the do-the-world-some-good public attitude of her and her ilk have influenced enough people that the boycotting of sweatshops, child labour and unethical treatment of animals is commonplace. The DIY movement is an extension of that.

And In These Times Of Economic Crisis, making things yourself is extremely cost-effective. Total cost of high-waisted pants whipped up on sewing machine: $30. Identical twins at Myer: $150+. There's also such a sense of satisfaction about making your own stuff, a self-sufficient, if superficial, feeling that immediately translates to smugness as soon as someone shrieks, "Omigah, where did you get your pants?!" For me, the guarantee of individuality is worth the swearing, yelling and stabbed fingers as I clumsily wrestle the ever-patient Bernette, as is finally being able to turn all those op-shop finds that Weren't Quite Right into something Simply Wonderful.

I'm on the tail end of the crafting movement, if I am to be entirely honest. While I absorb more than my brain can handle from the blogs and gawk longingly at my favourite Etsy shops (if anyone wants to buy me anything, anything at all, from these sweethearts, please feel free), I'm new to all of this. I can only knit in a straight line, inevitably smudge fabric paint and burn myself on hot glue guns, and I don't know what a zipper-foot looks like. But my gosh, I love it. DIY is practical, cheap, exciting, creative, and a fabulous community to be a part of, even from the edges. So don't raise your eyebrows when I wax lyrical about Bernette. She means a lot to me.

pendant picture from COGnitivecreations

Requiem: Lacrimosa

2009-01-16T12:54:00.010+10:00

I watched Requiem for a Dream last night. I think I have some issues with it.

This is not just because I was totally squicked out by everything I saw. It's because I felt like the whole point of the movie was to squick me out. The dark and dangerous tale of Drug Addiction in Our Society isn't a new one, and it's been done a whole lot better (coughTrainspottingcough).

All the review-snippets on the DVD case are all "oo it's such a masterpiece, one of the most disturbing films I've ever seen, ooo it's so brutal and brilliant, ooo." I'm not sure what exactly is so brilliant about depicting drug addiction, something that is a Real Problem affecting a bunch of Real People, in such a two-dimensional, worst-case-scenario way. There's no subtlety, just giant, clumsy sweeps of This Is What Happens If You Take Drugs: imprisoned/in a mental institution/selling her body for drugs/got no right arm no more. There's no redemption. Nothing is unexpected; everything is designed to elicit a visceral response from an audience without engaging their brains. The good reviews I've read seem to confuse being clubbed senseless for powerful film-making. It feels like 101 minutes of anti-drug Public Service Announcement.

The way Society At Large seems to deal with Drug Problems really bothers me. It's a Big Brother-state kind of deal, a We-Know-Best mentality that doesn't allow all the information to reach people who might be at risk of developing addiction, subsituting facts with scare tactics and bad ad campaigns.

Here's an idea: why not treat drug addicts like real people. Why not treat the young people you're Public Service Announcing to like real people. Why not give them the truth and the credit that they can make up their own minds, rather than trying to scare them shitless with completely unrealistic nonsense (the whole amputating part of the final montage of Requiem: bullshit. And young teens aren't stupid, they're going to call bullshit on that, and then you can say goodbye to credibility for the rest of your movie).

Anyway, it seems to me that Drug Addiction is not the real problem in the situation this movie depicts. I wish they had focused more on how useless and uncaring the authorities were, on the lack of support for addicts, on the dearth of options for young people who want to 'make it' in the big wide world - rather than perpetuating a hateful stereotype towards junkies. Dehumanising drug addicts doesn't make them not real.

P.S. Check this out for more (and funnier) commentary on drug campaigning, and see these guys for some sensible ideas about drug abuse.

On passion

2009-01-14T20:18:00.006+10:00

Not everyone is passionate, but it is a force that shapes us. Passion drives people throught outstanding odds towards the objects of their desire, be it money, success, or a stamp from Tristan da Cunha.

The word 'passion' seems to have strong connotations of sexy-times. It's linked almost inextricably to the idea of romantic love, but passion goes so far beyond loving someone intensely. Dictionary.com's first definition of passion is, "any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling." 'Powerful' being the operative word. People with passion have the power to keep themselves going long after the less dedicated have fallen by the wayside. Passion makes things happen.

But passion for me, as someone smack bang in the middle of infamous gonna-wreck-everything Generation Y, is something I have to keep reminding myself that is okay to have. Okay and necessary! You want to keep a blog going where you put in hours of effort and get diddly-squat in terms of monetary recompense, you have to be passionate about it.

And yet, for such a long time, passion has been uncool. Cool is measured in nonchalance, effortlessness - the total opposite of expressing enthusiasm. Kids who get excited about something are geeks. It's so hard to break away from this mindset when something comes up that excites you, with god damn indie kids lounging disinterestedly at every turn, flicking their cigarettes and going, "The Drones are okay, I guess, but not like, great."

But passion is an irresistible force. Even indie kids feel it. Exhibit A: Mr. President-Elect Barack Hussein 'Awesome' Obama. He connected with a Gen Y audience because of his passion. He ignited the desire to do something about the future of America in the young and apathetic who have sighed and rolled over in response to other presidential candidates' attempts to engage them. If you watch Obama - or, for that matter, anyone - talk passionately about something that means a lot to them, be it freedom or Haleem's Taj Restaurant's beef vindaloo, you want to keep watching. Passion resonates with people.

Maybe that's why some of us are so scared of it. Just like everything, we're afraid to commit, scared of being tied down to something we can't get out of. So we feign indifference, and miss out on the vividness and electricity that comes with being passionate. In this case, it is just like love. If you are scared of it, you miss out on so much.

So get passionate. The world needs you to. Remind yourself that it's okay to feel something about the things that matter to you. Be enthusiastic. Be aggressive about your ideals. Make a difference.

Country Road to joy

2009-01-10T18:07:00.006+10:00

You may be familiar with them: inexplicably bulging, weighing down the suffering shoulders of every second female between the ages of 14 and 25, the Country Road tote bag has become, to use my favourite abbreviation, ubiq.

The Country Road bag is a perfect example of a social meme uninfluenced - initially, at least - by advertising. The bag itself is a cylindrical canvas monstrosity of a 'sports' bag, the only adornment being 'COUNTRY ROAD' stamped on it lengthwise. What about this bag has caused its overwhelming popularity? Or perhaps a better question is: why this bag?

Country Road is not a label that carries the same kind of street-level heft as Juicy Couture, Guess, or even fake Louis Vuitton. The bag itself is certainly not alone in the market of massive canvas sports bags (Lonsdale do some nice ones). It usually retails for $59.95 - not really cheap, but within most young women's price range. The first models were navy with white straps, a plain canvas overnight bag, with a little class.

And I think that's what it is: the Country Road bag presents an accessible, if modest, status symbol - and more importantly, one that everyone knows and recognises. Carry a Country Road bag and you belong to a club. Carry a Country Road bag, and you're buying into a system of self-introduced cool. It's practical (those freakin' things can fit a tent, a change of clothes and your business/commerce textbook with room to spare), but it's trendy. It's acceptable utility, a relaxing of strict sartorial rules within a clearly-defined boundary of cool. It's the people's icon, not the fashion houses': someone, somwhere - someone cool - got an overnight bag instead of a Chloe tote for Christmas and decided to rock it. And my theory is, they rocked it SO HARD, everyone else started rocking it too.

The Country Road bag now comes in a plethora of colours, including the favoured stripe carried by a bulk of the young gay male population. Imitators have sprung up to be sneered at. There are purists who only want navy, and more importantly, the trend is popular enough to have those who loathe it. But Country Road never set out to create a social meme from their lame overnight bags. No-one put the Country Road bag on posters or in magazines. Fashionable young ladies prove once again to have more power within their demographic than all the slick advertising they are constantly bombarded with.

So, despite being a card-carrying Country Road bag abstainer: nice one, ladies. Nice.

Woodford

2008-12-25T23:57:00.001+10:00

The Woodford Folk Festival is a six-day-long jewel of an event. For the final days of every year since 1987, thousands upon thousands descend on a glorious tract of land between the Sunshine Coast and Brisbane Valley to suck in the luscious sounds of more than 2000 performers, soak up the sunshine and the perennial rain, and share the utopian peace and love that permeates the air, the people, the very mud beneath the stalls and gumboots.

Lucky, lucky me - I'm going again this year. I fell completely in love with the festival on my virgin visit this time last year, and in preparing for this year's six-day camping party, I've managed to score myself a media pass. Rest assured I will be scurrying about thrusting my Sony IC Recorder in any face I can distract for ten seconds. The Big Plan is an article, with pictures provided by the wonderful Chris Ahern, worthy of a Major Publication. And the blog, obvs!

Merry Christmas everyone. See you on the other side!

Hungry Kids of Hungary/The Bawdies/The Basics @ the Zoo, 26 November 2008

2008-12-25T23:32:00.013+10:00

So way too long ago – about three weeks – I scored myself a ticket to a show I’d been wanting to see since the duelling-guitars poster graced the bathrooms of the Zoo: the Basics, a trio of good-old-60s-rock-and-rollers from Sydney, versus – not featuring, VERSUS! – the Bawdies, Tokyo’s answer to the Beatles but with way, way cooler hair. Couple this with supporters Hungry Kids of Hungary, who have been on every single gig poster around Brisbane for the last six months but who I had never seen, and I was gnashing at the bit.

Oh my gosh you guys, I was not disappointed.

Hungry Kids deserve all the hype they’ve been getting – including winning the Triple J Unearthed competition’s QLD Big Day Out spot, go see ‘em! I will be honest: they are not the prettiest band I have ever seen. But holy hell can they write a good tune. Cheerful sixties-influenced tunes, tight little hooks and honest lyrics are just the start. Brisbane’s full of good musos – good songs, on the other hand, are hard to come by. Pick up a copy of Hungry Kids’ self titled EP if you can get your hands on it, it’s only five tracks, and in the words of Our Kylie, I can’t get ‘em out of my head.

Next up were the Bawdies. I knew next to nothing about these cats before they got on stage. I will proceed to tell you everything I have learned:
1. Frontman Ryo Watanabe (Roy) is a fox
2. Also has an intensely awesome voice - screamin', anyone?
3. Guitarist’s stage-name is Taxman!
4. Scientifically proven to be impossible not to dance to this awesome carbon-copy of Everything Hip about the 60s
5. Japanese dudes: they know how to Rock.
Shit in that club was jumpin’ jumpin’, y’all. I had more fun than I’d had at a gig all year, probably (that includes you, Splendour!), despite getting sweated on by aforementioned Joel. Roy has about 10000000 watts of energy, all projected through his sparkly, sparkly smile and rough n’ raw vox, and the Bawdies’ unapologetic 60s rock and roll translates almost as well onto CD (or record, if you want one). Highly recommended for a Good Time and Dancing.

After the non-stop energy of the Bawdies, the Basics were a welcome, if slight, deviation. Their kind of 60s-influenced sound is a sparser, more modern breed of Good Old Rock n’ Roll. Beautifully written homages to the greats of the early days of pop music, their songs are filled with tongue-in-cheek lyrics and gorgeous three-part harmonies executed to perfection. Lovely little in-jokey one-line riffs pepper their repertoire. Slow songs are elegantly paced and just heartfelt enough not to grate, and up-tempo songs like 'Rattle My Chain', with its doubled guitar/bass hook, echoey vocals and crisp percussion, get everyone dancing. The guys on stage seem completely in their element, responding effortlessly to some wanker (IT WAS JOEL) going, “Play Heart’s A Mess!” (Wally de Backer, aka Gotye, is the Basics’ drummer) and filling blessedly short gaps between songs with easy banter.

One of the reasons I really the Basics is that they are unashamedly Australian – and let me make myself very clear in saying this does not mean G’Day Mate Kangaroos You-Beaut True Blue Waltzing Matilda OR Barnsey OR Akka Dakka. I mean, their sound, demeanour, songwriting, on-stage vibe and tunes themselves are laid-back, self-deprecating, and well-done. They feel genuine, and people are picking up on it – I’ve heard tunes like ‘Three Cool Cats’, ‘Rattle My Chain’ and 'Just Hold On' played in Queen St mall, before other shows at the Zoo, and in boutiques.

Add to this the fact that bass player Kris Schroeder has something I call the Presence, meaning that he inexplicably looks famous, and you have a sharp little set-up there, boys. Complete with matchy-matchy – but relaxed! – slim trousers, shirt-sleeves and ties, the Basics are one to watch, In My Professional Opinion. Check ‘em out.

Thanks for the stress, Facebook

2008-12-07T20:47:00.004+10:00

Social networking angst, or SNA as it's known by me exclusively, is affecting every single one of us (that's on Facebook or MySpace, or, god help us, Bebo). There are multiple causes of SNA, and the effects of it can be debilitating: did you know that every person on Facebook spends, on average, ten hours a week angsting over whether they should add someone as a friend from the 'People You Might Know' sidebar?

Okay so that might not be true. But the fact remains that I spend at least some part of my precious (not really) time angsting over social networking sites. Along with the admitted thrill of stalking someone with the help of Internet Technology a la the CIA of the Sixties (espionage!), there come the unexpected strains on my conscience from such dilemmas as: Will My 'Religious Views' Alienate My Friends?, Do I Tag Or Don't I?, and Extremely Unflattering Photos from the Night Before! Stress from the internet: what next.

My least favourite SNA-inducing circumstance is when someone has added me as a friend, someone with whom I have about a bajillion friends in common, and I am certain I have never met them. This has almost caused me a facial-muscle strain from looking confused so hard. I mean, what is the correct protocol here? Do I message them going O HAI WHO R U NEWAY? Do I ignore the request and risk cutting off all contact with a long-forgotten primary school friend? Where are the RULES?

My strategy seems to consist entirely of leaving the friend request to languish in my notifications folder for about a week until a particularly decisive mood is upon me and I randomly click at the bars underneath the picture until it disappears. Sorry, Blake Denning - I don't really know who you are but I hope we can be friends anyway?

Another cause of SNA is the whole event-invitation debacle that strikes regularly. I have issues when people don't follow up on appointments they've said they'll keep. Facebook totally facilitates this! Here is the scenario: I invite people to a Facebook event. People respond to the Facebook event with a "yes". Then people don't show. Gen Y: you're not doing much for the stereotype!

This kind of SNA leaks over into real life, too. In My Experience, members of my generation are much more blase about keeping appointments than our older relatives. I'm not sure exactly what can be held accountable for this demographic-wide commitment-phobia (hint: it's probably the internet) but jeez it's annoying.

Popular culture: I love you but I blame you for the inadequacies of my friends and acquaintances.

P.S: A Facebook friend of mine posted this awesome article if you'd like to muse more on your hopeless addiction to social networking.

Live in Brisbane: The Grove EP Launch

2008-11-16T21:46:00.001+10:00

I really dig the Brisbane music scene, and I try to get to as many local gigs as I can. Hopefully the reviews of these will become a regular feature!

30 OCTOBER 2008: The Moderns/The Frets/The Grove

As we approach the Zoo – one of Brisbane’s foundation venues for local live music – the sound of slightly out-of-time cowbell drifts down to the street, and already I’m in love. It’s Gold Coast rock outfit The Moderns, and it just gets better once we’re inside. Frontman Samuel John Rees is the most underdressed person in the room, and his anarchic vibe doesn’t disappoint. Half-spoken vocals lend a folk-y feel to some tunes and wail impressively through others, while fully sick guitar solos, courtesy of Willi Hamilton and his awesome ‘tache, give an authentic 70’s vibe. Can’t say that there’s a sense of anything really new about the Moderns’ stoner-rock songwriting, but authenticity is the buzzword here: these guys feel like they’re for real. Their last song is a great catchy reggae-strummed number reminiscent of the early Clash that begs radio play. Thumbs up.

Next up are Brisbane scene darlings The Frets, who immediately earn cred by modifying the Moderns’ branded kick drum in a most cunning way:

Nice! Photos courtesy of kelh at http://www.fasterlouder.com.au/

I’m as sick of Australian guys who sing like American girls as anyone, but singer Conrad Sewell wins me over: dude’s got a fierce set of pipes, and more importantly, doesn’t take himself too seriously. The guys have got a dedicated fanbase of Brisbane post-private-school girls, and it’s not hard to see why: their slick brand of danceable guitar-driven pop is all the rage and easily consumable. A standout is ‘The Road’, a tom-heavy journey through some nice dynamic changes. Despite worrying about their success in a market that seems already saturated with emo-inspired poppery, fans of this kind of stuff shouldn’t take my word for it – the Frets serve up some of the best of what Brisbane’s got to offer in that arena.

Around 10:30, we get to the headliners, The Grove. I didn’t really know what to expect from these guys – their name kind of sounds like a mid-priced resort chain – but the EP they were launching is fresh from being produced by the dude responsible for the Fray, so it’s gotta be good, right? Right?

Turns out it’s actually not too bad (the show, anyway). The guys lack a bit of energy onstage, but maybe it’s just the contrast provided by the wired support acts. The 70s-influenced garage rock they start out with is a little flat, frontman Joel Chant’s retro mic seems more tacky than cool, and by now, I’m a bit tired of bands that sound just like other bands – but just as I’m starting to nod off, the boys bust out some of their newer stuff, and the difference is tangible. The further these guys depart from their self-described ‘Brit-pop’ influences (noooo) the better they get: excellent guitar solos, forays into psychadelia and upping the tempo go down well. Their last song is fast and big on the rhythm section, with blaring guitar right from the start and a touch of Jane’s Addiction about it that seals my approval. If the Grove keep up the no-bullshit honest-to-goodness rock n’ rolling, and maybe take themselves slightly less seriously, there’s a lot of hope for them yet.

In completely unrelated news (not really), see the guy with the guitar in that last photo? His name is Joel, and he sweated all over me at a Basics gig last week (the review of which is soon to come). Thanks for that, Joel. Thanks.

Life of Pop

2008-11-10T22:20:00.000+10:00

My anthropology textbook defines culture as "that complex whole which includes knowledge, belief, arts, morals, law, custom, and any other capabilities and habits acquired by man as a member of society."

Or, basically, everything. We're immersed in culture; we're drenched in it. And if you have the internet, if you're reading this, it's likely that you have the luxury of living in a culture broad enough to have sub-cultures and cult phenomena, entertainment and content that reaches mass amounts of people, and thanks to that, pop culture.

I love popular culture.

Pop culture is just that: aspects of our culture that are popular. Television is a big part of pop culture, as is music, art, fashion, modern science, politics - pretty much everything that's cool. Wikipedia reckons it's often determined by mass media, and I'm inclined to agree. Point being, if you like something, it's probably an aspect of pop culture. Pop culture connects us all through common belief. Better than religion: we've got Tina Fey!

This is my life in popular culture. Maybe it's yours, too?